#outlaws does not suck in any special way I CAN TELL YOU THAT BECAUSE I ACTUALLY READ IT INSTEAD OF BLINDLY REGURGITATING WHAT I SEE ONLINE

[helldritch6211]

If i re wrote red hood outlaws + arsenal n red would you want to see snippets of that or would you roast me on a pike?

[outlaw-apologist]

The Gang as Fathers (RDR2)

This was an anon request :D Characters: Arthur, Hosea, Dutch, Charles, Sean, Kieran, and Micah TW: Micah’s contains graphic/violent themes Requests are always welcome~ feel free to request anything hehe AO3 link here ___  Arthur - He always pretends to be stern with his child but gives in almost immediately. “You can’t have candy before bed….” He puts on his best mean face that only lasts a few seconds. “Fine, just one piece.” - His baby will learn how to ride a horse before learning how to walk. Arthur will hold his child while caring for the horses or will cradle them in his lap during trail rides. - “I heard a little alcohol was good for babies. Makes ‘em sleep better.” He’ll stick his pinkie finger in some whiskey and will let the baby suck on it to calm down, but only during fitful crying or when his baby won’t sleep.

- As his child grows older he’ll try hard to give them a good education. Not city folk education, but enough to know about the world. There’ve been many times Arthur wished he had gone to school as a kid. - When his child draws for the first time Arthur is SO proud! He shows EVERYONE and keeps the drawing tucked safely in his journal for many many years to come. It doesn’t matter how old his baby gets, he keeps every drawing no matter what. - If Arthur had a daughter I think he would try harder to learn more about women’s rights. He might even visit the protesting lady in Saint Denis and ask her a few questions. He’s seen how the world treats women and he wants to raise a strong woman of his own who will always believe in herself and love herself no matter what. - Also- Daddy daughter dates!!! He would go to all the nice little cafe’s and bakeries with his daughter or would take her on special little picnics. - Camping trips!!!! Every weekend Arthur is packing his kiddo(s) up to go camping. He doesn’t like fishing but he’ll take his kids forging and teach them how to live off the land. When they’re bigger Arthur teaches them how to hunt small animals, like squirrels, with a bow and arrow. At night he cooks dinner over an open fire and sings trail riding songs or tells stories of his days as an outlaw. - If his child ever goes through a tween or teen phase of hating him Arthur WILL cry himself to sleep every. damn. night. wondering what he did wrong. Even if he knows it’s just how kids are at times, it really hurts his feelings. That self loathing part of him mixed with old family wounds never leaves him. - Sorry to any wife or husband of Arthur’s out there – but Arthur would save his child before all else in ANY dangerous circumstance. He’ll save his spouse next but the kid(s) come first. - “When you’re older I’ll give you my hat. It was my daddy’s hat, and now it’s your daddy’s hat. One day it’ll be your hat.” “Hey! Stop playing with my hat!” “Di’ju take my hat to school?  Don’t do it again.” - Even if his children are around people he trusts he will still watch them like a hawk, almost afraid someone will snatch them away. - He really hates being away from his children so he sends letters about his great adventures to them until he can return. - Arthur really doesn’t want his children walking in his footsteps, BUT he does wish they could experience true adventure and freedom. Because of this he’ll plan elaborate activities. Sometimes he creates treasure maps and will take his children riding around the state to find a ‘hidden treasure’ Arthur himself buried. - When his child turns 13 he’ll take them out to find a wild horse of their choosing, then he’d teach them how to tame the horse as a right of passage. It’s an amazing bonding experience between the both of them, and he thinks horses are special animals. Growing up with your horse is a must. - “Seriously gimme my hat!” -- Hosea - Hosea’s always secretly wanted a little one of his own. It doesn’t matter if he has a daughter or a son, that baby will be in his arms 24/7 - Literally wants to raise his child as a mini him – in the most positive way possible. - Bedtime stories were chapter books and his children learn how to read fairly early-on in their childhood. - Every few years Hosea gifts his child a new fishing pole that matches how big they’ve grown. Fishing is very important to him and he makes a point to have a special spot where he camps with his kids and fishes for days. Playing in the rocks and trees, hiding in the fields around the camp when not catching fish. Instead of campfire stories he reads books out loud or retells old memories he finds amusing. - “I want you to understand, the outlaw life is not for everyone.” Hosea is torn. He doesn’t want his children to become outlaws like him… However there’s a part of him he can’t deny where he wishes his child would be there with him no matter where he was. If his child became an outlaw he wouldn’t fully protest it. He’d feel guilty, I think, but he doesn’t want to be away from his kid(s). -That being said, his kid is raised with the Van-Der-Linde gang. Whenever Dutch or Susan tries to parent his child Hosea will always stand up to them. He puts a lot of emphasis on Arthur and John to protect his babies; mostly because he views Arthur and John as his children too, so they should act like good brothers. - He would LOVE taking his kids out to see plays or to the circus whenever the circus is in town. He’ll take them to films too though he prefers the performing arts (theater) first. However, he loves exposing his children to any and all types of art. If his child ever expresses an interest in acting or writing he’d swell with pride and do anything to support them. - Hosea is a smart man. He know he’s living on borrowed time. Making it to your 50’s as an outlaw was no minor feat. There’s money no one knows about, not even Dutch. Money that can set his children for life. He makes sure to bury it carefully and made arrangements for his child to receive a map of its whereabouts in case of his death. - “And that is ursa major and ursa minor.” Star gazing with papa Hosea! - He is firm but empathetic. Hosea will uphold any punishments that he thinks fits the crime. However, he’s never spanked or laid a hand on his kids. He’s more interested in life lessons. If he catches his child stealing then he’ll force them to donate something of theirs to the poor, ect. - If his baby is sick he’ll stay up all night by their bedside checking their fever and making sure they’re okay. He refuses to leave their side and won’t sleep until he knows his baby is okay. - Hosea’s biggest fear is losing his child.   He’s big on teaching his kid safety from a young age, even if that means using a knife or a gun. - For their 18th birthday he’ll gift his child a very beautifully engraved pistol. The engraving will be a quote or a saying that is personal to him and that child. Something with meaning only they would understand. - Even if his child is a full grown adult, Hosea will come read with them at bedtime. It’s something that makes him feel loved and cherished and he hopes his child feels the same way. - You cannot convince me this man would not put on a play with his children. He encourages the gang to act excited or amazed while watching. He’ll shoot a glare at Dutch whenever Dutch acts a little too excited. --- Dutch - Let’s be honest, Hosea raises any and all of Dutch’s children. - No kid friendly books, his children learn how to read philosophy like men. -Will completely destroy his children in any and all board games. He’ll never let them win no matter how young they are. If his kid starts crying he’ll say something snarky like “Aww go cry to mommy/papa Hosea.” - He is definitely the fun parent though. (At least in his opinion). His 10 year old is robbing trains. He’ll rob a candy store too for shits and giggles, just so his little one thinks he’s cool. - He really does love when his child sits on his knee or rides on his shoulders. It makes his heart swell with happiness. - I don’t think Dutch really knows what to do with children. He just treats them as tiny adults. - He will ALWAYS introduce his children with pride. Because of that there’s this… unspoken pressure for his children to always be at their best. They always need to be well articulated or ready for action. Otherwise there might be a dreaded “I thought I taught you better.” speech. - Dutch really did try hard to make sure his children grew up smart and capable. However, if that ever turns them against him or if they question him he immediately gets upset/angry. - His children will grow up calling him daddy and Hosea papa. Dutch might try to correct them a few times. “It’s uncle Hosea-” But he gives up rather quickly. - Dutch does mean well. He tries to take his children on special or fun outings. Unfortunately it always ends up about him or the mood is ruined with a long philosophical rant/speech. - He is not a completely useless father though. If his child is hurt he’s the first one there to scoop them up and console them. He would bandage them up and kiss their boo-boo’s better…. Up until near the end when the gang starts splitting apart. Around this time it seems as if he’s not fully present and so it doesn’t register to him that his child is hurt or injured. He starts to see it as their own personal problem no matter what age they might be. - His children are brought up seeing him as this wise, smart, powerful figure. They view him more as a savior than a loving parent. Basically they’re brought up to view Dutch the same way as the rest of the gang sees him. He provides shelter, clothes, food, and safety. He is the reason they have a free life. And because of this I do think they would have a lot of love for their father, but, they’ll never feel like they’re good enough. - If anyone ever touched a hair on his child’s head… Without fail they’ll end up filled with bullet holes or burnt to a crisp. He’s not great at showing his love but his children are his everything. ----- Charles - Charles is the type of parent that loves his children SO much he doesn’t even need to say a word. His love is always shown through his actions. He’ll gently sweep their hair out of their face or he’ll rub their back. When they’re little kids Charles will always press a little kiss to the top of their heads. - He doesn’t give in as easy as Arthur does. No candy before bed. Eat your dinner before dessert, drink more water, don’t go off alone, ect. He’s never mean about it. Charles tries to make sure his children are as healthy and well looked after as possible. - What if he’s not here one day? What if his past catches up with him or something bad happens? This is always in the back of Charles’ mind. Because of this he teaches his children how to be self sufficient from a young age. He makes a game out of cleaning up and chores become a family activity. He tries to keep it fun for them since they’re still kids. - Children are the future in Charles’ eyes. He teaches his kids everything he knows. They’re taken on hunting trips and out forging or fishing. Charles teaches them how to make bows and arrows. He’ll tell stories about his mother or his experiences. Most of all he teaches his children respect. Respect for nature and all of the animals they may meet. - When Charles’ child is an infant or a baby he will ALWAYS be holding them. Doesn’t matter what he’s doing, that baby will be on his back or in his arms. He LOVES holding his children. It helps ground him and reminds him they’re really his and life can be good. - He won’t admit it but he loves dressing his children up. He likes to make or buy clothing and accessories he thinks would suit them. During winter his favorite part of the day is bundling them up in their coats and scarves. Charles thinks they look adorable toddling off to play in the snow. - HE WOULD BE SUCH A GOOD GIRL DAD! Charles goes out of his way to learn different hairstyles so he can do his daughter’s hair different every day. I think he’d make jewelry for his daughters and would always be singing with them or playing with them. Charles would be very protective yet respectful. He’d still teach his daughters how to track and hunt, ect. - Charles carries pictures of his children everywhere he goes. On the rare occasion he’s drunk he takes out the pictures to show everyone like “Look at my babies!” - He would be that annoying parent who’s children becomes their personality. He doesn’t talk much but if he’s with someone he’s friends with he’ll casually work his children into all of his small comments. “I need to get some fresh meat for my family.” “My children would love it here.” “I would never let a man like that around my children.” - Charles would totally call his child ‘baby’. “Hi baby!!!” “What do you need baby?” “Oh no, don’t cry baby.” He wouldn’t do it in public but in private???? He is soooo unbearably loving and mushy with his kids. It doesn’t matter how old they are, that’s his baby. - Charles didn’t really have parents while growing up. He wants to show his children as much love, kindness, and compassion as possible. The world is cold and cruel. If he can be the light and warmth for his kids then he’ll do it. - When his children grow up, if they decide to pursue goals/dreams Charles doesn’t fully understand, he will go out of his way to educate himself on that topic just to show them support. -Charles is one of those parents that really don’t want their children to move away from him. If they chose to he’ll respect their wishes but you bet that man will be crying DAILY because he misses his kids. - For the same reasons, Charles can’t be away from his kids more than two days without feeling heartbroken. - Charles would honestly do so well as a single father if he ever becomes one. - He’s a huge fan of gentle parenting. He keeps his voice calm and talks his children through anger/sadness with patience. It’s important for him that his children feel seen and heard. - Charles is the type of father that’ll beat the SHIT out of anyone who messes with his baby. - He’ll play dress-up with his kids. If his children want him to be a princes… he’ll be a mf princess! ------ Sean - God… Sean as a father? The house will be burnt down immediately the first time he watches his kid(s) alone. - He’s the fun parent. He’s also the unsafe parent. He really doesn’t see anything wrong with bringing his 3yo with him on a robbery. “They had a blast, it was great!” - Let’s be real, Sean is more of a friend to his child than an actual parent. He’ll never reinforce any rules. He’s always down to clown. He’ll be your best buddy but he won’t help you with your homework. - It’s fine to give kids alcohol sometimes in his eyes. “Go on, you can have a sip of my beer. It’ll put some hair on your chest.” - If his child isn’t as bubbly or loud as him he’ll be a bit disappointed. If his child matches his energy he’ll be 10x worse. They’ll be working off of the same brain-cell. - Sean loves to dress his children up to look like him. He thinks it’s hilarious. He even calls his baby ‘Baby MacGuire’. “Hello there baby MacGuire.” “D’ju have a good day today little baby MacGuire?” “This is my wee baby MacGuire.” - He has dropped his baby on the head, probably more than once. He felt really bad about it. - He will make his kids do the “two children in a trench coat” thing to rob a store. He literally pisses himself laughing when it actually works. - Half of the gang will end up raising his child while he pops in sometimes to have fun outings with them. -Is he a good parent? Fuck no. But his children will LOVE him and I think they’ll always have a good relationship with him. - Sean has tried to get John to teach his kids how to swim. He doesn’t understand John can’t swim…. - He never forgets a birthday because he loves eating sweets with his kiddos but he WILL forget every other important event. ------ Kieran - I think Kieran would be a really good father! He’d never raise his voice. His punishments are very light, yet he’d make sure his children would know what they did wasn’t right. - He’s not great at socializing with his children, but he LOVES to listen to them. It fills him with so much happiness when his children confide in him. He doesn’t always know what to say but he’ll be there whenever they need him. - If he has a baby he’ll be so afraid of making any noises while the baby is sleeping. If he’s holding his baby as they sleep, Kieran refuses to move in case it wakes them. - He writes the names of his children on the tags of their clothes so they don’t get lost. - Kieran is a doormat for any teenage children. He hates disappointing or upsetting his child, so if he has a teenager who tests his boundaries that teen will win every time. - However, I think his children would love him more than anything. Even if they did do bad things to Kieran I think they’d feel guilty and wouldn’t do it again. - Piggy backing off of that – The best ‘punishment’ Kieran could give his kids is disappointment. If daddy Kieran is disappointed in you then you KNOW you fucked up. Because of this his children end up pretty well behaved. - All Duffy’s grow up around horses. He loves bringing his kids to the stables. Letting them pet and brush the horses. He holds them up so they can feed the horses treats. - He likes fishing even if he isn’t the greatest at it. He’ll take his children fishing or would let them work on arts and crafts while he fishes. - While most kids walk home from school, Kieran always waits outside for his kiddos so he can walk with them. - He always wishes his children “sweet dreams” before going to bed. Every. Single. Night. He’s never missed a night EVER. - I think Kieran would take his children to visit Ireland. Maybe to see his father’s extended family. - Holidays are very special in the Duffy household. Even if Kieran and his kids have to hand-make decorations he’ll do it! Anything to make their childhood special. - He takes special walks with his kids. During the autumn he’ll make his children catch a falling leaf each before they can go home. He hopes it helps them feel the magic of childhood. - Kieran is terrified his children would be orphaned like he was. Because of this he works long hours when he can. He saves up a decent chunk of money and hides it. Only his children know where it’s at and understand it’s only for emergencies. ------ Micah - God forbid Micah ever has a daughter. There is a chance he would decide to raise her as a boy BUT I honestly think he’d either kill her, make her a dumpster baby, or would pawn the child off on someone else. In the even that the child is raised by someone else Micah would probably visit once every six months and probably stick around until that child is old enough to ‘work’ for him. - If he had a son tho…. Micah Bell the IV. - He’s a very cold father. Nothing his child does will ever be good enough for him. Because of that his child would probably try to win his favor until they’re old enough to realize they’ll never have it. - “One day this empire of mine will be yours.” and he owns NOTHING! - Micah definitely has shaken his baby. He probably spanks them or whips them with a belt whenever they’re bad. - His children grow up to take care of him and do things for him. They do all the chores. If Micah needs a beer one of them always has to go get it. - If one of his children ever becomes attached to an animal (cat, dog, horse) he would shoot that animal dead to teach them a lesson. And that lesson is to ‘not be soft’ and ‘attachments are useless’. - He doesn’t do anything to take care of them. Child rearing is a woman’s job. Micah makes the money. He comes home expecting a hot meal then he fucks off. His children are probably relieved that he’s gone so much. - Once his oldest is in their late teens Micah would gift them one of his guns. He doesn’t love anything more than those guns so it’s symbolic of how much he does care for his child. Micah can’t love normally, nor does he know how to show it. His oldest will understand the weight of the gesture and it may even make that child feel indebted to him. - He’s the very old fashioned type that thinks he automatically should have respect from his children. - If no one is willing to take care of his children, every night would be “fend for yourself night” in the Bell household. He’d never lift a finger to cook for or take care of them.

[syrupspinner]

i just completed Hypnospace Outlaw

i sincerely love how much the sci-fi genre is just explaining how much sci-fi stuff would suck if it was real

the reason you play hypnospace outlaw is the aesthetic and presentation, just so were all on the same page. the reason this game got your attention is because its a passionate parody of web 1.0, and it does an excellent job of that. i can tell this game was made with a deep nostalgia for what made the past special without being blinded from its flaws (like the viruses and general difficulty to navigate).

the only problem is that im 24

well i shouldnt say thats a problem. just because i dont have nostalgia for what theyre throwing back to doesnt mean the game doesnt stand on its own. i didnt grow up with a ps1 or n64 but i still enjoy that specific form of lowpoly modeling, for example. its just unfortunate that i cant have the same hit of nostalgia that people slightly older than me can, yknow? i wish i could enjoy this game as much as them

again, the game was still very enjoyable. the puzzles start out very grounded, introducing you the the world and how it functions very effectively, before ramping it up with more abstract mechanics and compounding techniques needed to find more results. the only problem i found myself stuck on in an unfun way was figuring out how to decrypt sandwich files. its one of those puzzles that make you feel silly for not getting it earlier, but in my defence... who the hell would program something that esoteric

as an aside, i saw people discussing what genre games like this would be. by "games like this" i mean hypnospace outlaw, outer wilds, rain world, animal well, that kinda thing. i dont think applying one genre is effective, but instead its about how they combine the genres of exploration and puzzle. instead of having all the tools to solve a puzzle when youre presented with it, you have to leave and seek out the solution elsewhere. notably, if the game isnt build to accommodate/encourage this, itd be pretty unfun. these games and their open-ended design manage to skillfully mesh both genres together: the exploration is the puzzle

so yeah, i really enjoyed the game! there arent a lot of games where its just fun to explore the world as its presented, and HO does a fantastic job of that even without considering the puzzle design. i love just reading about the characters and their lives in hypnospace. this games greatest strength is just how charming it is, theres really nothing that matches it in that regard

i also found it really inspiring. i love how much personality all the characters fit into their webpages. maybe someday ill move this blog to neocities just so i can evoke something half as impact

oh no this was all a secret advertisement for neocities wasnt it! well, it worked, im not even mad (yes i know about the page builder)

anyway! the game is worth it for the vibes alone, and the puzzles are a really solid foundation that everything is built on. totally worth buying! the only thing is if youre going for completion, please use a guide to find all the pages, some are hidden way too well. totally worth it, though. if you know what the "thanked" achievement is named after, you know it makes it worth it. also, buzz was hilarious, i love pranks on the player

now im going to spoil the ending, stop reading this is you want to not be spoiled about the ending, because im about to spoil it now. after sasuke

oh my GOD dylan merchant is such a schmuck. maybe ive just lost too much sympathy for venture capitalist techbros, but i cannot spare any positive regard for this guy. like, okay, i get hes the bad guy, but outlaw 1.0 tries sooo hard to make you feel bad for him it wraps back around to being infuriating. the thing is that i have no idea if this is intentional? like, was a guy who let a teenager go to jail and think about how his prank killed 5 innocent people plus his crush apologizing decades later (*after* being caught) with an unfinished video game supposed to be a sincere tug of the heartstrings? "sorry i killed zane before he could stop being an annoying twerp" "sorry i killed rodney, his family smelled like walmart" "sorry i killed mavis, i think that was her name. i got nothing else to say about her" "anyway thanks for playing the 'final' version of the game that killed everyone. you have successfully absolved me of my sins and sent me to heaven. remember to subscribe and hit that bell icon" DUDE how emotionally shallow and self aggrandizing do you have to be you are a child murderer my guy

[anam3ii]

-Stream Update-

Dec.2,2023,

First of all, thank you for the notes, follows and blazes? Incase you don't know. I'm pretty new here so I appreciate it. I'm not sure how everything works, yet, but I'm assuming it's all good things lol 😅

Moving on..

I ended up streaming Ken Follett's The Pillars of the Earth. I forgot that it has some mature content, like blood. It's not too graphic, so far. I have yet to finish the game, but the little that I did play, the game didn't show too much.

Haha. Yes, I suck at Ninja Gaiden. I streamed some of that, but that's not what I wanted to share about today. I'll be honest, I don't know anything about KF: Pillars of the Earth besides the little that I have experienced so far. Since, I had planned to post and update. I decided to do research and then share it with you.

The game is a point-and-click adventure developed and published by the German studio Daedalic Entertainment. It's based on Ken Follett's award-winning 1989 novel of the same name, which was adapted as a video game across 21 playable chapters. The story takes place in the 12th century in England: In a time of poverty and war. A small town begins the construction of a cathedral to claim wealth and safety for its people. In their struggle to survive, lives and destinies intertwine. Which tells me it's going to have some sad moments. It retells the story of the village Kingsbridge in a whole new interactive way. Play as Jack, Aliena and Philip and change the events of the book through exploration, decision-making and dialogues. Philip ,the monk, becomes prior of the small abbey of Kingsbridge. At the same time, a boy called Jack is raised in the woods by his outlawed mother. His apprenticeship as a stonemason paves his way to become a gifted master builder. Together with the disgraced noblewoman Aliena, Jack and Philip begin the construction of one of the greatest cathedrals England will ever see.

Now, I got this information from Wiki so I'm not sure how accurate it is. Book 1 of the game was released on August 2017, then Book 2 in Dec of that same year, after that was Book 3 on March 2018. The game has been around for a few years.

I also came across this website that talks about something I usually don't ever think about but will be keeping in mind next time I'm doing research. The link mentions that the game is about 14 1/2 hours in length when you focus on main objectives BUT if you're a gamer that strives to see all the aspects of the game then you'll spend about 19 hours to obtain 100% completion. Which ,to me, sounds like the game is very well worth what I paid. Although, the thing I noticed is that the website doesn't include are the stats for the switch version even though it says it was updated 1 day ago. Speaking of the switch version. You can get achievements and view them in the menu. Go to the menu you scroll down to Options->Extras->Achievements.

What drew me to this interesting medieval adventure story was the trailer itself. I think they did an awesome job. The game does have voice over with the special appearance by Ken. Which I think it's cool I'd love to do voice acting.

A story for another day...

I was able to immerse myself because it's such a beautiful game with an amazing story but it does seem like it is more of a visual novel than an adventure game. So far it doesn't have any puzzles which honestly I'm totally ok with. The voice acting was great! I do wonder how much of the story can be changed or if at all.

I'm sure the pc version is much better. Damn, I knew I should've waited and checked on steam first. Oh well, I got the game while it was on sale for like $2. I haven't had any issues per se but the one thing that has stood out to me,so far, is that their mouths at times move first before you hear the character talk or they continue to move after they are done talking. I'm not sure if it's on my end that the character's voice is out of sync or not.

I'm going to guess and say no only because I know via other reviews I've watched on youtube say that certain games are just not great on the switch. Mineko's Night Market game for example. The loading time was pretty bad. I'm not 100% sure if it still is or not, sorry. If you are thinking of getting the game, do what I should've done and do some research first and go from there.

Anyway, the out of sync is not a deal breaker for me but how do I describe this..it's a little annoying or weird? It's just hard to ignore at times, you now? lol In my research I found out that there is also a board game, and a 8 part miniseries that premiered back in 2011. It starred Eddie Redmayne, Hayley Attwell and Donald Sutherland.I wonder if it's good? Not going to lie,I am curious about the story. As you know, the books are usually different compared to their adaptations. We'll see once I'm done with the game.

I'll update this post once I have fully completed the game. Til next time! Happy gaming! <3

-A

[iwrestlenow]

Many More To Die, Chapter 8

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 8)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Roman and Logan reconnect. Remus and Virgil find some common ground. There are too many secrets--but the royals finally expose a big one to the Crofter brothers: the one that ultimately led to Logan's imprisonment and the destruction of their family.

Meanwhile, Janus is looking for some information from his treasure trove--and Patton is more than happy to provide it to him.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), Moceit (Patton/Janus) and future Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: I’m nervous about this one, ‘cause it sucks? But I also don’t care cause there are cuddles for my fave ships and I do what I want.

I am, however, SO SORRY FOR THIS TERRIBLE CLIFFHANGER, but the next chapter will come out much sooner. Promise. XD

Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1033, A.A.

Logan asked Virgil to leave. With murder in his eyes, Virgil acquiesced.

And when the door clicked shut...they were alone.

For long moments, the silence was deafening. They sat there, staring at each other—Logan seated on the edge of the bed, and the king with the blankets pooled around his waist, bare chested and staring at Logan as if...

Logan's mouth suddenly went dry as his heart seemed to grow in his chest, swelling to the point that it compressed his lungs against his ribcage, preventing him from drawing breath.

Silently, Roman extended his hand, palm up. It took Logan abruptly back to the visitations in his dreams, anchored by the feel of human contact he thought he had only before imagined. The reality of it was so much more, so intense—so necessary he could hardly stand to think about it.

And yet, with the king's silent offer, Logan was helpless to resist it, reaching out to slide his hand into Roman's. Their fingers meshed with the ease of experience—through dreams or through the history that had been stolen from him, Logan could not say, but that alien ecstasy of skin on skin felt so right it hurt.

“I have dreamed of this for so long.”

Logan looked up from where he'd been staring at their joined hands, spellbound. For a day now, he'd been in the presence of his Green Man, seen his true face, but this was the first time he'd actually been alone with him since...

“So have I.” he confessed. “Every time you came to me.”

Roman blinked, confused—then a light went on behind his eyes, making them snap with something electric and so alive it made Logan's chest tight.

“They...were real.” he realized. “I wasn't dreaming.”

“You were, but... we were inhabiting the same dream at the same time.” Logan explained softly. “Knowing who you are now, it's unsurprising. Conduits cannot use the magic within them, but it does make certain forms of involuntary magic possible—such as dream walking.”

“I've never done it with anyone else before.”

Logan frowned. “That is unusual. If that was the case, the ability would be consistent.”

He paused, then felt something in the core of him tremble with...a feeling he could not name, even reluctantly. It was light and fragile and enormously powerful—and Logan wasn't totally sure if it was good or bad.

“Did...did we share dreams...before?” he asked hesitantly.

Roman smiled, sad, tremulous, and hesitant in his own right.

“It's...a complicated thing to explain.” he confessed. “I don't have all the answers.”

“Do you have any?”

“I do. If you want them.”

“Why would I not want them?” Logan asked.

Something slid through Roman's eyes, dimming their light, and it ripped through Logan with a fury that had no root, no real cause.

Only that something dared to darken his demeanor, and with terrifying clarity Logan knew he would even destroy himself were he to discover that he was the cause of it.

“Because I'm a royal?” he pointed out. “Because my family did this to your people...because I did this to you?”

“Falsehood.”

Roman smiled, and Logan felt suddenly powerful. He felt...he felt, with no anchor for any of these feelings. It was deeply disconcerting—and it was also intoxicating.

“Hearing that again is almost as comforting as hearing you call me an idiot.” Roman laughed, squeezing his hand. “I missed it.”

Logan felt dizzy with the gaping hole in his chest, the warmth of Roman's touch—the world, every breath, every second that ticked by, it all suddenly felt like too much to hold inside of him. If he could remember, maybe he could bear it, maybe he could handle the things that his fingers and his heart seemed to know as he clung to the king's hand and stood on the edge of a chasm of years that stretched between them with no memory of how it got there.

“I do not remember,” he managed to choke out, “but...I think I did, too.”

“Oh, Starlight...”

Roman pulled him forward, and suddenly Logan was being held, cradled against acres of bare flesh and solid muscle. His lungs were filled with the scent of warm cotton and sweet skin, tinged with something that reminded him of fresh earth and damp stone—not the rank stone of the dungeons, but granite and petrichor, fresh from a gentle, cleansing rain.

Logan could not have stopped himself from clinging as Roman held him, not even if he wanted to—and he didn't want to stop.

“Tell me?” A question, whispered against his shoulder as he was held in strong arms and drowned in the warmth of safety and affection.

Roman did not hesitate to open his mouth and start talking—and he kept talking until there was nothing left.

Until Logan finally knew everything.

********** 1022, A.A.

“Okay, wait, so—familiars are human?”

Logan laughed—one of the greatest sounds in the world, as far as Roman was concerned. It was rare as diamonds, soft as a whisper, and always so filled with bright, gleaming emotion that it made him happy even if he was having the worst possible day.

Roman lived for his laugh—among other things. Logan's eyes, Logan's intelligence...Father called it that 'special age,' told him that he'd started noticing how certain boys made him feel when he was thirteen, but this wasn't just...

Logan was younger than him by two whole years—it might as well be decades. Besides, Logan probably liked girls, and oh yeah, he was a Weaver. Being one of the Necromata was one thing, but Weavers were revered among his people. Even if liking a necromancer wasn't a crime, Logan's family wouldn't want him to have anything to do with an outsider like Roman. He'd learned that much in two years of friendship with him.

Two years of hiding how he really spent his afternoons away from the tutors. Two years of learning the truth about how good and kind and generous the Necromata were...how good and kind and generous Logan was.

“Yes, familiars are human.” Logan replied, sweeping the flat stone marker of the grave they were tending. “Virgil—my little brother, the one I call Stormcloud—is my Spider, the keeper of the Loom of Memory.”

Roman risked peeking out from under the hood of the cloak hiding his face to follow the tilt of Logan's head to the eight year old boy on the other side of the open field. He was small and slight, with a shock of black hair like Logan's, save that his gleamed blue-black in the sun where Logan's shone with the most subtle red-brown hints of dark cherry wood. When he faced them, beaming up at the massive redhead that Logan had identified as their grandfather, Roman could see that Virgil's eyes were dark compared to Logan's startling blue.

Over the last couple of years, Logan had gradually shared the True Names of his whole family with Roman. Outlaw was his grandfather, Josiah. Rainbow was his pari, Talyn. Joan was his geni, Elliot. He'd trusted Roman with that knowledge...but Virgil, his little brother, the person Logan loved more than life itself (and possibly more than jam tarts), he'd protected.

Until now. Now, he'd let Roman in all the way—in more ways than one, given where they were.

While Logan finished sweeping the headstone clean, Roman watched the countless other families among Logan's tribe attending similar areas just like they were. Some were cleaning other graves, others were scouring the ground for signs of unmarked ones, others still were tending the trees in the open field that needed pruning or fertilization to grow healthy and strong over the graves they stood as markers for.

The Festival of the Forgotten that came every autumn was a day Roman had only ever known as one of solemn remembrance for those who had fallen to the Animator's slaughter a thousand years ago. He got dressed up in his formal attire, stood by Father's side while he gave speeches at the palace memorial, and basically spent the day being as quiet and unobtrusive as possible.

Logan had treated the whole thing with open disdain and offense when Roman explained it to him—then told him what the real Festival was all about.

The Festival wasn't happening for a week yet, but the Necromata were already preparing. For Logan's people, it was a week long celebration of the dead that involved hard work and loving attention. The field they were in had once been a graveyard in the time before the Animator, and many of the dead who lay in repose below the earth had been lost to time. Some had no names to be remembered, others had no lineage to go after them, still more were buried carelessly without even a marker to their name.

The Necromata took custody of these dead, trying to give them remembrance even if they couldn't give them names. All week, they carefully cleaned the field up, tended what few graves they could identify, looked for others—and at the end, had a giant party full of food, music, and drink. They decorated graves, left offerings for the departed, and kept the forgotten souls company with laughter and song. They would soak the earth and the air with enough joy and celebration to ensure that these lost ones would have comfort enough to take them through the year, when they would do it all over again.

Roman had been humbled by the true story of the Festival—and so Logan had invited him to attend. Both the party, and the stewardship of the dead.

“Familiars enhance the power of their necromancer in different ways.” Logan continued once Roman had given him his attention again. “A Black Dog has their Wolf, who acts as their spirit guide through their visions. A Reaper has their Raven, who helps them take the pain away from those they heal or release—and a Weaver has their Spider, who spins the fibers for the Loom of Memory. When a Weaver reaches the Loom, it's very much like the real thing: a visual representation, where a soul to be resurrected is mounted like a half finished tapestry, and the Weaver completes it with the connection he has to his Spider.”

“What does the fiber represent?” Roman asked as Logan stepped back, dropping his broom and moving to crouch before the worn headstone while Roman quickly followed suit. “The fiber your Spider spins?”

“Focus. Virgil gives me his focus to aid me in retrieving the memories I need to restore the soul to life. With his mind working in tandem with mine, it's like I'm weaving with a shuttle wound in spider silk, and it allows me to finish my work much more quickly. It ensures the tapestry lasts longer once it's taken off the loom before it unravels...before the soul I raise to life slips away again.”

Roman didn't like the way Logan's features fell a little at that. Ever since his Warping, Roman knew that Logan was troubled by the idea that there were people he couldn't fully resurrect—those not meant to die, he could save, but those whose soul had slipped through the opening in the Barrier carved for them at the moment of their death? Those were temporary—and the few times he'd half restored a soul like that as part of his training lingered with him.

Knowing he could say nothing to comfort him, instead Roman turned his attention to the smooth granite surface before them.

“You said this grave was new, right?”

Logan nodded, shifting to kneel while Roman remained in his crouch—and with hardly a care, rested an arm on Roman's knee so he could lean forward and peer at the gravestone. The touch made Roman's heart flip in his chest, but he tried to focus on the task at hand.

“Grandpap discovered it last year while they were digging out the roots of a dead tree. We replanted it over there to better mark the site because the stone's been worn so flat.”

Roman frowned, reaching down to run his fingers over the stone. “This poor person will never have a name now.”

“Sadly, no.” Logan agreed, reaching down to lay his hand against Roman's atop the stone. “Whatever epitaph was on this stone was worn away hundreds of years ago—“

“What's that?”

Roman, reluctantly, slid his hand out from under Logan's to run his fingers along the base of the stone.

“See this ridge? There's something beneath it...here, help me...”

The earth was damp, and for a moment Roman was left to dig on his own, fingers sinking into the loamy earth at the base of the stone. In truth, it was fun—feeling the grit under his fingernails, the ache of muscles as he clawed at the dirt.

Only when he started to uncover a broader base on the stone did Logan move to start helping him dig.

After about five minutes, they had exposed a second, broader slab beneath the stone. This one, heavily covered by dirt, seemed to be part of a larger piece that appeared to just...keep going.

“This isn't a headstone.” Logan realized. “It's a burial vault.”

Roman nodded. “I actually know what those are—big boxes for dead bodies, right? So they don't rot in the dirt. For the coffin to sit in!”

“Correct.” Logan murmured. “What's more, it's not buried all that deep. Perhaps, once upon a time, it wasn't buried at all.”

Roman thought about the last burial vault he'd seen—that of an adviser in his father's court council. He hadn't been buried in the royal mausoleum, being of common birth, but he'd been given a special place in the surrounding cemetery: an above ground burial vault, bearing the royal seal and just beneath it...

“This isn't a headstone.” he realized aloud, furiously going back to digging.

“That's what you said—”

“No, I mean this part! The crest of the royal family sits here, not the epitaph! We have burial vaults like these in the palace cemetery, and the name is always under this piece! Help me, Logan—we can find out who this is!”

Glancing to the side, he was pleased to see Logan adjusting his glasses, a restless sign of pleasure as he crowded closer to Roman's side.

“If the name was not exposed to the elements before it was buried, it might still be preserved.” he agreed.

“So we can help them?”

Logan nodded eagerly, making Roman grin. He was so happy, and it warmed Roman's heart—but so did the fact that they might actually be able to give some poor, forgotten dead necromancer back their name. The fact that Roman, himself, was helping to do this thing for one of the Necromata, an heir to the throne helping these good and caring and generous people that just wanted to make sure that the dead were remembered...

It gave him so much hope for the future. Logan gave him this hope by letting him in.

That was the moment Roman knew...

Refocusing on their new task, Roman began to dig in earnest. Logan shifted to reach for the broom, trying to scrape away the earth from the stone vault with the end of its handle. Gradually, they worked down a couple of inches until the edges of a very clear engraving became visible. First the frame, then what looked like...

“Numbers. These may be the dates of birth and death, if this person died Before Animator.” Logan murmured, jostling Roman in encouragement. “Keep going.”

Voices buzzed around them. The cool autumn air stung Roman's nose. His fingers were sore, cuticles caked with dirt. Logan was pressed securely to his side, digging tirelessly alongside him.

Time stopped. Nothing existed but the two of them, crowded close and digging, all heavy breath and exertion and movement, bumping and jostling in a strange rhythm that blurred the line between where one ended and the other began...

“...Roman.”

Roman blinked, shaking his head. He glanced at Logan, who'd gone ashen as he stared down at the inches of earth they had uncovered.

With a start, he realized they had finished. There, in worn but very clear lettering, was the epitaph of a forgotten corpse. Beneath the confusing dates of birth and death, there was a name.

Reading it, Roman could feel the blood leaving his face just as it had left Logan's.

“This...cannot be right.” Logan murmured.

“No, it can't.” Roman agreed softly, flopping artlessly back on his behind. Logan collapsed with him, half across Roman's lap, with Roman too stunned to fully take it in. “You said this was a burial ground for the Necromata.”

“It is.”

Roman met Logan's gaze, something sick and panicky forming a lump of ice in his throat.

“Then why, in the Seven Hells, is one of my ancestors buried here?”

**********

1033, A.A.

Few things in the world scared Remus—but that scrawny little necromancer fucking terrified him. The cadet wasn't much better, mostly because they were brothers.

Remus was smart. It was a problem, had been his whole life. For all that he knew, easily and quickly, there were few things he really understood, important things like personal boundaries and courtesy and the difference between things that were fascinating and things that were disturbing.

Brothers, however, he understood. Which was why the cadet was so fucking scary: look at either one of them wrong, and the other would take your fucking head off to defend them.

So Remus stayed in the shadows, watching the pipsqueak stomp around outside Roman's suite like he wanted to get caught by some other member of the palace guard, cursing just loud enough to be heard but not understood, vibrating with tension and so furious the air seemed to ripple around him with heat waves rising from his skin.

“Why is your brother alone with mine?”

Scary as the situation was, Remus found some deeply satisfying pleasure in watching Virgil Storm leap about six feet into the air with fright, choking on the scream he fought to stifle.

“Shadow's Balls, you miserable son of a bitch, what the hell are you trying to do? Give me a heart attack?” he spat, clutching his chest with both hands.

Remus shrugged. “Hey, not my fault if you don't have the nerves for guard duty, toy soldier. Should've tried hiding in the kitchens instead. The wash boys bring the dungeon prisoners their daily meal.”

“I'm not guarding anything.” Virgil shot back, turning to glare at the closed door of Roman's suite. “I was sent away. By my own damn brother—doesn't remember shit, and he's still treating me like a little kid.”

“He's your big brother—that shit doesn't change with age.” Remus huffed. “Ro Ro's got a half life on me, and he makes use of ever second of it.”

Virgil looked at him strangely. “A half life? I thought you were twins.”

Remus shrugged. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

“Can you speak in anything but sarcasm?”

“Can you address the crown prince with a little respect?”

“Not when I've seen the kind of people you sneak around with. Cadets pull a lot of graveyard shifts.”

Damn—the game of questions was just starting to get fun. The toy soldier wasn't just cute, he was feisty and totally lacked any fear of the throne. That was a problem, because Remus was actually starting to like the little shit.

“You're lucky I'm into that.” Remus quipped, but finally rolled his eyes and leaned back against the opposite wall of the corridor. “Fine: we're half-twins: identical, born one hour apart on the cusp. Roman came at eleven and I came at midnight. We celebrate our birthdays on the same day to hide that fact.”

Virgil went eerily still—and Remus's estimation of the kid went up a couple notches because of it.

“You do remember I'm Necromata, right?” he asked slowly. “Everyone in this castle knows you and your brother are both well versed in the ways of necromancy. You know what we can do with half-twins.”

Remus sobered, wondering for one irrational second if he'd been wrong. Wrong about the scrawny necromancer, wrong about the toy soldier, wrong about the limited amount of sense Roman had in his thick skull...

“Does anyone else know?” Virgil asked in the silence of Remus's brain spinning away from him.

Remus shook his head. “No, and I intend to keep it that way.”

“...you gonna kill me, Highness?”

Remus rushed him then, pinning Virgil to the wall with a hand wrapped around his throat.

“Only if I have to.” he warned quietly. He could hear his own heart beating in his ears, but it was slow, steady, far too calm. He could already imagine those gleaming dark eyes going flat and dead, that lovely pale skin going ashen as he choked the life from him, hear the bubble from his lungs as they gave up their last breath...

He'd do it. He'd sleep easy. He wouldn't regret a thing.

Not for Roman.

“I'm a little brother, too.” Virgil reminded him quietly, breathlessly—and for one split second, as Virgil reached up to wrap his hand around Remus's wrist, gentle but firm, he was kind of breathtaking. His pulse was jumping in his throat, every exhale was shaky and his lips were parted as he sucked down oxygen...

Remus let him go, but he didn't move away. He couldn't quite make himself, not when he suddenly felt like swallowing the terrified little spider whole.

“No one can know what Roman really is.” he whispered. “No one.”

“Make you a deal,” Virgil shot back, “you protect my big brother, and I'll protect yours.”

Remus narrowed his eyes...but it was what he wanted, after all, so he offered Virgil his hand to shake.

“Mutually assured destruction it is.” Remus agreed. “Can't trust a royal and all.”

Virgil had just wrapped his hand around Remus's when he blinked, startled. “I...yeah?”

Laughing, Remus shook his hand firmly, and let the world fall away for just a moment. His grip made it easy: firm, warm, strong.

“You're right about us, toy soldier: Roman and I? We're both pretty into necromancy. That means we know more than most about the royal family—at least I do. Roman...I'm not quite sure what he remembers anymore.”

“About what?” Virgil asked.

Remus released Virgil's hand, then sighed and shifted to press his back against the wall, sliding down to sit on the ground.

“Park it, Storm. There's a few things you need to know about my brother...and yours.”

**********

1022, A.A.

“It has to be a mistake.”

“It's not.” Logan insisted, reaching up to tug at his mask—he would have adjusted his glasses if he'd been wearing them, but he couldn't with the domino that covered his features, heavily adored with thick black feathers. Roman reached up to stop him before he could remove it.

“Can't be rude to the dead, can we?” Roman chided gently.

That got a smile out of Logan, despite the circumstances—almost as good as his laughter, and once again the spirit of the evening swept over him.

Five days had passed since the discovery in the graveyard. Earlier in the day, this day, he'd done his duty: donned his formal dress, stood beside his father, pretended to be solemn and respectful while, all the while, he'd been vibrating with excitement for this.

The final day of the Festival—the final night.

The real Festival, an actual festival with music and food and costumes. The Field of the Forgotten was now clean and well cared for, lit up with torches and free floating luminaries. There were tables laden with food and drink and plates and cups—large for the living, smaller ones for graveside offerings. It was a celebration of life lost, a gift to the dead.

And the costumes—they were so much fun, and yet even these carried meaning. Roman hid his face behind a domino adorned with white feathers to Logan's black, and rejected his name to call himself Muse for the evening. Because these souls they honored no longer had names or faces, forever lost to time, the living hid their own with masks and costumes, gave up their true names and identities for the night out of respect.

It was magical, all of it. He enjoyed himself, drinking sparkling cider and eating meat skewers, burning his mouth on sweet-searing phoenix taffy, wrapped in wax paper printed with tiny black skulls. He even pocketed some for later, vowing to enjoy them slowly and remember the forgotten as he let the cinnamon tingle sting his tongue.

He celebrated instead of mourning, gave his own joy to the forgotten dead for a year, and for the first time dreamed of being king one day instead of crown prince so he could show this to the citizens. After all, they would understand if they knew—how much the Necromata cared about the dead, how hard they worked for those who were gone because it made things so much better for the people that were still here.

They weren't messengers of death, they were guardians of life, and one day Roman would set them free. He'd show everyone...he'd watch Logan stand beside him before the whole kingdom and smile when he realized that he was no longer feared, but loved. Just as he deserved to be.

Smile like he was smiling now. At Roman, because he stopped him from removing his mask, and for one really stupid second, Roman almost hoped Logan would...maybe reach for his hand or press against his side like he had earlier in the week, huddled before the final resting place of Thomas Roman I.

Roman's namesake. Roman's ancestor.

“Can we be sure?” Roman asked, the brief euphoria stolen from him as they walked side by side, trying to be discreet about returning to the grave in question. “I mean...what's the likelihood that a necromancer would name their child after a king? It's done, you know.”

“Not among our people.” Logan insisted with a shake of his head. “The royal family are our oppressors, have been for generations. As much as it pains me to say it, my people view the royal bloodline much as the population at large view necromancers. They are cutthroat, bloodthirsty, power hungry demons that will stop at nothing to see every single one of us destroyed. No parent would ever do that to a child.”

Roman felt a little like he'd been punched in the gut, but he said nothing. Logan wasn't great with feelings—better, a little, since his Warping, but it always made him squirmy to try and confront them, in himself or in anyone else.

“I want to change that.” Roman replied quietly, vowing he'd say no more on it.

“Falsehood.”

“What?”

“Falsehood.” Logan repeated, as if he hadn't just called Roman a liar. For a second, Roman wondered if he'd done or said something that...oh, gods, did Logan know how Roman felt? Was it bothering him that badly? Were they—

“You will change that.” Logan pressed on before Roman's thoughts could spiral any further. “This is simple fact.”

“Lo—er, Starlight, I appreciate that you have so much faith in me—“

“It's not faith, Muse. It's fact.” Logan insisted, stopping in his tracks. “This revelation is confusing, life changing...dangerous for what it could represent, but the facts are thus: your ancestor is buried on sacred Necromata ground. For generations beyond the Animator, we have taken great pains to ensure that no outsider has ever been interred among us for the simple reason that necromancers cannot be resurrected because we have no souls—it would be sacrilege to allow a resurrection to disturb the rest of our dead. This can mean only one thing: the royal family is either of our tribe, or of theirs.”

“Whose?”

“The Lazari.”

Roman's stomach dropped clear through his shoes and into the sacred ground of the Necromata. “Seven Hells, do you think that's truly possible? W-w-what about the Animata?”

Logan shook his head, then turned to keep walking. They were nearly at the grave—the pair of them had hastily covered up the name they had unearthed, pressing the dirt flat and scattering some leaves to make it look like nothing had been disturbed.

“The Animata are not necromancers—not all of them were even fully human, given their twin souls. It would be easy to resurrect one of them. No, the only other creature it could possibly be is a Lazari.”

“But they're a myth—they're not even real.”

“Myth to you, theoretical to us.” Logan replied as they reached the grave. Sitting in front of the tombstone, he beckoned Roman to join him. “The Lazari are, essentially, an evolution of Weavers. They cannot merely recall the dead to life, they can change the fate of the dead. Their power is such that they can weave a soul not from memory, but from the Spider's Thread. They can change fate.”

Roman fell silent, staring down at the careworn tombstone before them. Reaching out, he ran his hands over the smooth stone that once likely bore a royal crest—the crest of his family, above the name of his ancestor.

“How can you change fate?” he asked softly, forcing himself not to look at the boy beside him. Not when he felt so...weird. So full, like his lungs were being crushed against the inside of his ribcage by his heart and his soul, and everything he was feeling.

He wanted to not be of the house of Sanders. He wanted Logan to not be of the Necromata. He wanted to live in a world where nothing separated them, where one day he could court Logan as proudly as his own father had courted his dad, as proudly as his dad had courted his mother...

Roman wanted, wanted, wanted in that moment, and he was afraid to look at Logan...suddenly afraid of what would happen if he did.

“Knowledge.”

Logan's quiet utterance nearly stole his resolve, his head twitching, but remaining down as Logan continued.

“Knowledge is how. It is an incomparably valuable, multi-purpose tool that is instrumental in identifying and solving any problem.”

He paused—then Roman felt his hand on his shoulder.

Don't don't don't don't don't...

Roman looked up, and found Logan meeting his gaze with a look that briefly stole his breath.

“If you're worried about getting hurt? Then seek knowledge. It is our greatest weapon...and our greatest defense.”

The words felt oddly weighty, like he was trying to make Roman remember something for later. That, or...

He couldn't give the feeling words, and so he didn't. He held it inside himself, embraced the crushing weight against his lungs and the way his entire body felt too small for his bones.

“And the Lazari would be a pretty powerful weapon—especially if they were members of the royal family.” Roman mused softly.

A necromancer on the throne—if it was true, it could destroy his family. However...

It could save Logan's people. If the world knew that one of the royal family had been a member of his tribe? Maybe the Necromata could finally be free to live in the open, free and unafraid.

Looking into Logan's face, Roman realized there was no decision to make.

“Where will we find it?” he asked finally. “This knowledge...the knowledge we need to prove it, one way or the other?”

Logan fell silent at that. He still had that strangely intense look in his eyes, high color in his cheeks—and at some point, his hand had found its way off Roman's shoulder and down to mesh with Roman's fingers.

Roman's face felt warm, and the world felt kind of spinny.

“We start with the king.”

**********

1033, A.A.

“What're you thinkin' about, Janny?”

Janus drew a deep breath—not quite a sigh, but very close to it, not over Patton's question but his own inability to function properly.

He should be looking over the shoulders of his lieutenants, currently investigating the king's death. What he was doing was walking through the North Gardens in the dark with Patton, their hands firmly linked together between them. Patton even went so far as to swing them occasionally, making something deep in Janus's core twist in a manner that made his baser impulses nearly impossible to control.

“Nothing I can discuss with you.” he replied.

“Oh, wow. You're telling the truth—it must be bad.” Patton breathed.

Janus squeezed Patton's fingers, uncertain if he was trying to reassure Patton or himself.

“You have no idea,” he admitted softly, “and if I get my way? You never will.”

There was no immediate answer as Janus scanned their surroundings, double and triple checking to make sure they weren't being spied on. He was well aware of the fact that Logan had already absconded with the cadet—his brother, now that was never going to stop being funny to Janus—and could give a damn. He knew Logan well enough to know he'd be careful...he had to admit, reluctantly, that Storm was a damn capable soldier...and by holding up the pretext that the prisoners were safely ensconced in their quarters...

He could steal this time with Patton. Stealing, sneaking, taking things he had no right to, things that didn't belong to him.

“You're gonna ask me things again, huh?”

Janus stopped dead in his tracks, looking at Patton sharply. Patton, the gods love him, was just smiling that smile he always had when he told Janus things that Janus didn't ask for, much less the things Janus did make a point of requesting.

“That's not why we're out here.” he replied instead of rebuffing Patton's assertion. It felt more important, even if it wasn't...

It wasn't.

Patton giggled—actually giggled at that—and wrapped Janus's hand in both of his.

“Janny, I asked you to spend some time with me, remember?”

How could Janus forget that desperate plea, wide eyed and beaming through the tear tracks that lingered on his cheeks after he was done crying in Janus's arms earlier, done warning Janus about what was happening to Logan in another part of the castle? How could Janus have ever said no?

How could Janus admit that, even if Patton hadn't asked, Janus would have come anyway—just because he couldn't stay away?

“You couldn't possibly know I wanted to...ask you things, as you put it.” Janus pointed out.

Patton stepped closer, looking up into Janus's face from his diminutive height. The moon was nearly gone, but its few stray rays caught his mop of curls, forcing Janus to ball his hands into fists to resist the urge to touch one.

But, of course, because Patton still held one of his hands, he only succeeded in holding on tighter, sending a ripple of warmth and softness through Janus that ought to be more troubling than it was.

“I always know.” Patton pointed out gently. His dark blue eyes were black in the low light, his face shining and open and so dazzling it made his very bones hurt with the primal dragon's urge to grab him and hide him and claim claim claim mine mine mine...

Patton sank to the ground, tugging gently on Janus's captive hand. Janus followed—but rather than sit on the ground as Janus did, Patton got to his knees and immediately deposited himself in Janus's lap with a merry giggle that Janus swore lit up the garden if only for a heartbeat.

Janus let go Patton's hand, wrapped his arms around his waist instead, and felt the dragon in his bones settle back to sleep.

“You always know.” he finally echoed with a sigh and narrowed eyes that did nothing to taint Patton's bright smile. “Fine, I want to ask you things.”

Visibly pleased with himself, Patton rested his hands on Janus's shoulders, shut his eyes, and took a slow, deep breath.

“Okay. I'm ready.”

Janus gave Patton a gentle squeeze, taking a deep breath of his own.

“I need to know how to kill the necromancer.”

Patton didn't move or speak for a long time. Janus just held on, waiting.

His eyes slammed open—solid, pale sky blue and glowing faintly in the dark instead of the impossibly dark shade Janus knew so well.

In hushed, faraway tones, Patton spoke...and Janus listened closely.

[unofficialkfamtranscripts]

King Falls AM - Episode 10: Medium Rare

View on Google Docs

Summary: September 15, 2015 - Sammy & Ben welcome in studio guest, medium Miss Olivia DuPont, however a miscommunication of her talents brings up some painful memories that both Ben & Deputy Troy wish to forget.

[podcast intro music]

Sammy [agitated] I’m not gonna debate you ma’am, I’m just trying to say that gravity really isn’t something that’s up for discussion, sheesh.

Ben [amused] Don’t take it personally. Mrs. Bodenheimer told me in third grade that she didn’t believe in air.

Sammy …conditioning?

Ben Oh, no! Air. In general. She thought oxygen was a satanic fairy tale concocted by God-hating scientists.

Sammy [disbelieving] Yet she was in charge of educating you and hundreds of other youngsters.

Ben College diploma goes a long way in a little town, buddy.

Sammy Alright, well up next we’ve got a pretty interesting visitor coming in studio with us.

Ben Hopefully so!

Sammy O— you don’t know her?

Ben I do not, but she sent us a ton of emails during the electrolocaust and said she was a big fan.

Sammy All of them say she has a special talent she’d like to share with us and the listeners

Ben Absolutely, and she’ll be coming up after a word from our sponsors.

[dramatic eerie music]

Announcer On the season premier of the nation’s number one paranormal investigation show: Mission Apparition. [theatrical crash] Dan and the team find themselves in a sticky situation. [static]

Dan [echoing] They had to shut this place down after all the accidents. This is Tanner’s Taffy factory and it’s been abandoned since 1991. [static]

Announcer …or has it?

Dan There’s, uh— God there’s a lot of EVP activity around [walkie talkie sound] Larry, Larry I’d think you better go.

[theatrical crash]

Dan [walkie click] [hushed] Larry? Larry! [walkie click] Larry go!

Larry [creepy, ascending, violin-screech sound effects] [through walkie] I see the lights, man, I see it

Dan Larry move your ass!

Announcer It’s another can’t-miss episode from the show that doesn’t miss a thing when it comes to the extraordinary: Mission Apparition

[News music]

NEWS ANCHOR Season premier, tonight at 9pm on King Falls Channel 13.

[KFAM theme]

Ben That is- ridiculous.

Sammy We’re live, Ben.

Ben I know! It doesn’t change the fact that “Mission Apparition” sucks as much as the channel that shows it.

Sammy It sounded pretty interesting to me.

Ben Dan and Larry from that show? wouldn’t know what to do in a haunted situation to save their lives. Stupid meters and light particles, [“stupid voice” imitation] “oh hey I know! let’s shoot some night vision so everything looks pretty scary and suspect!” Idiots.

Sammy You don’t have to get hot about it.

Ben Oh, I’m just fine, Sammy. I’m simply saying, Mission Apparition is a dumb show Made by dummies For dummies.

Sammy Ladies and gentlemen, please be sure to direct all your hateful tweets to @kingfallsam and we’ll make sure Ben answers each and every one.

Ben Get at me twitter! #bringit

Sammy *laughs* On a different note, we have a guest in studio with us tonight. She is a self-professed medium—

Olivia [slight South African accent] Miss Olivia DuPont. Heh, see I knew it was coming.

Sammy [laughing] You’re good Miss DuPont. So Ben tells me you emailed us in hopes of coming on the show?

Olivia I was very eager to come visit my favourite late-night AM talk show and maybe help some people with some closure along the way.

Ben Thanks Miss DuPont, we are happy to have you.

Olivia Oh, please call me Golden Owl. *Who-whoo who-whoo!*

Sammy Ummm…

Olivia *Laughs* What a hoot and riot, you should have seen your face Sammy. Please, call me Olivia.

Ben Ha. S- soo… um, you aren’t from King Falls, is that correct?

Olivia That is, I live a few towns over. Up in Big Pine. That’s where my shop is as well.

Ben I love Big Pine! I- I used to go camping there as a kid! It’s beautiful and so laid-back.

Sammy Laid-back? I didn’t know it got slower then King Falls!

Ben You’ll have to excuse Shotgun Sammy here, he’s a Big City guy.

Sammy Anyway, so how did you find out that you had this talent, Olivia? That you were a medium.

Olivia Oh, from a very young age. My parents were veterinarians and we lived in an apartment above their office, so I used to hear- so many lost souls. Day in and day out.

Ben Lost souls? Wh-why were these people hanging out at the vets?

Olivia [confused] People?

Sammy I’m sorry, Olivia. Maybe we’ve got our wires crossed here. We were under the impression that you were a psychic.

Olivia [firmly] Medium. Psychics are low life charlatans.

Sammy I’m sorry, a medium.

Olivia A medium is someone whose 6th sense is so in tune, so aware, that a bridge is made to the other side, in which we can communicate with our loved ones.

Ben Uh, but- but again why were the souls of people hanging out at your parents’ vet office?

Olivia *scoffs* What does this have to do with people, Ben?

Sammy Okay, this bridge that you’ve-you’ve built to the other side. Is it not for people?

Olivia [laughing] Heaven’s no!

Ben I’m lost.

Olivia Well I’m- one of a kind, I get human interference from- time to time, you know [long-suffering] a mother looking to reconnect with her kids, a brother that died in the war. Ugh. I ignore that. This is about our deceased loved ones. The furry kind, or feathered! or what-have-you.

Ben Wait. You talk to dead pets?

Olivia Harsh, but not incorrect Ben.

Ben [growing slightly frantic]Oh, no, see I-I-I booked you so we could talk about your gift and take some calls from the listeners, but—

Olivia We can take calls Ben.

Sammy So, to be clear, you have contact with human spirits and you just toss them to the wayside to talk to Fido.

Olivia *laughs* Anyone can talk to deceased humans, Sammy, especially here in King Falls. This place is beaming with activity- even the two of you could do it if you tried. But nobody talks to our long-lost pets.

Ben I’m sorry, this isn’t what we were looking for Miss DuPont.

Olivia Golden Owl. Hoh, excuse me boys *loud sigh* this one is coming on strong! MMMOOooo MMMrrrr… Moo. *loud sigh* Sorry boys,[solemnly] that was- that was a rough one. Cassie the Cow was crying out. She lived in one of those factory farms and she- *deep breath* was using me to tell the world about her last days in the Cowschwitz[sic].

Sammy Okay folks, we’re sorry. Just give us a minute or two so we can uh… So we can get this—

Olivia I seeee… a dog? forgive me- AAAOOOoo AWAWWOOooo ARAwwo *growls*

Ben [Irritated] Okay, I think we’ve heard enough.

Olivia Wolfington?

Ben This is insane.

Sammy [seriously] Wait. What color is the dog?

Olivia Black— oh a little-bit of brown. He looks like— a lap dog perhaps? Uhh…

Sammy A terrier!

Olivia Oh, of course, I can see it nowww. He’s just wagging his tail, so happy, chasing his ball- Oh! Ooh, he’s mounting your Teddy Ruxpin bear[1].

Sammy That’s him! Oh my gosh!

Ben [incredulous] Wolfington the terrier? Come oonnn.

Sammy That’s my dog, Ben! He ran away when I was in grade school.

Olivia Woof! RUFF! Ruff-ruff-rUFF! Oh. He wants you to know that he’s fine Sammy, Wolfington had a good life. He isn’t mad that you only ever shared your veggies at the dinner table.

Sammy [entreating] Heh, it’s all I could do little buddy! my mom was always watchin’!

Ben Sammy?

Sammy Uh, *clears throat* I mean, y-you know that’s- that’s good, that’s real good Olivia. Uh, thank you.

Ben What is going on here?! Snap out if it, Sammy, this is obviously a con. Facebook info- or something.

Olivia I seee—  [whispered] what is it? Is it a bird?

Ben [mocking]Cuckoo. Cuckoo.

Olivia Is it a tiny… monkey? No— no no, dig deeper. Marsupial!

Ben You aren’t buying this, right?

Olivia I feeel a- a naame… Serendipity?

Ben [shocked] What the Hell?

Sammy Ben, you alright over there?

Ben I’m- fine. Um. Go on, Golden Owl?

Olivia Is it a… sugar glider!

Ben It is! Serendipity the sugar glider! Oh man.

Sammy You can’t be serious, Ben. Your parents bought you an exotic animal and the best name you can come up with is “Serendipity”?

Ben [defensive] It came already named, man, and No, for the record? we found it. There was a travelling zoo that came through the Falls. And the day after, my friends and I found a box, down at the fairgrounds, and inside? there was little Serendipity, looking back up at us.

Olivia He said he’s sorry that he couldn’t stay. He wishes he did, that mean man with the badge- well, [softly] and you know how that goes.

Sammy Uh, how what goes? What happened?

Ben [upset] I don’t want to talk about it.

Olivia He forgives you Ben.

Ben [forcefully] Golden Owl I said I’m done! Let’s Take some callers.

Sammy Ben, I’m sorry, but this seems like—

Ben [distressed] Why don’t you pry your fingers- into the open wound- of my heart, and dig it all out, Sammy? Sweet Jack in the Box Jesus.

Sammy … You’re right, I-I’m sorry Ben. Well, King Falls you’ve heard Serendipity’s story, now let’s hear yours. 424-279-3858. We are live with pet medium, Olivia DuPont a—

Ben Did he live a good life? Olivia? W-was he happy, like Sammy’s puppy?

Olivia Do you not know?

Ben Know what?

Sammy I’m so confused here.

Olivia Serendipity was a bit of an outlaw. Sugar Gliders are illegal to posses in the tri-state region because of the ’72 Sugar Flu outbreak.

Sammy Seriously, okay guys, I just pulled up Sugar Gliders on the googs, adorable!

Ben They were still illegal. My mom tried calling the travelling zoo but to no avail. And it wasn’t like I didn’t want to keep Serendipity, I loved the little guy but, one of my backstabbing “friends” from school said something to Bodenheimer … I-I don’t want to talk about this.

Sammy They took him away?

Ben Mrs. Bodenheimer did. She took him to the office, and I never saw him again. She said she was going to make sure he got back to the zoo, di-di-did he, Golden Owl?

Olivia MMEEEEOOOOOWWW MEOOOWWW *hisses* Sorry, a calico is summoning me.

Ben Cut the crap! What’s this about the man with the badge?

Olivia [nervously] O- of course I’ve just heard this second-hand. Ben— I mean who’s to say exactly- what happened? It- you know, it’s from a different perspective then we can understand.

Ben What happened?

Olivia Serendipity- bit the man with the badge on the drive and- was tossed out the window. Into the river. Then- eventually down the falls. *chitters and hisses*

Ben That son of a bitch, w-wha-who’s name was on that badge?

Olivia It’s murky. Hard to grasp. Serendipity is jumping from nether tree to nether tree- Oh! Oh! I think I have it. [straining] G. U. N. Oh, I can’t see- D?

Ben [angrily] I knnnew it.

Olivia Take it with a grain of salt Ben- I mean, it’s just one version, from [laughingly] a marsupial no less.

Ben He was an awesome. possum. I-I gotta step outside for a minute [chair squeak].

Sammy While Ben takes a little break, let’s take a few callers.[door closing] Give us a call King Falls. Let’s talk about your dearly departed, uh, pets.

Olivia I’m ready.

Sammy Line 4, you’re live with Sammy and Miss Olivia DuPont.

Troy Gosh darn it, Sammy, I’m really sorry to hear about Ben’s little buddy.

Sammy I’m sure he’ll appreciate the kind words Troy, I’ll be sure to pass them on buddy .

[police radio can be heard faintly in bg]

Troy [solemn] I’ve got a confession to make that I ain’t proud of. I… I was the reason for the demise of little Serendipity. Such a sweet little fella. I just didn’t know he get taken away, y’know? For good.

Sammy Wait. You’re the reason Serendipity was taken away?

Troy Ah hells bells Sammy, I was the one that rolled over on Ben but— I didn’t mean for the little furry guy to get taken away! It was just a real kerfuffle on this end.

Sammy This explains so much.

Troy Me and Ben was best buddies coming up, Sammy. I didn’t want to tell on him, but little Serendipity got frisky one day at lunch and sh[bleep] on one of the teacher’s Mexican pizza. Tough ol’ Bodenheimer cornered me ‘cause she thought he was mine. Ben ain’t never gonna forgive me and that’s deserved.

[door closing]

Sammy That’s all in the past Troy. I’m sure- someday –

Ben Sorry about that guys. Some-someday what?

Sammy Oh, uh- y-you know- we-we’re just taking calls from listeners right now Ben. On the line we’ve got- Troy.

Troy [mournful] Hey Ben. Man I was listening to the program tonight, when I heard Miss DuPont pontificatin’ about the dead animals and su—

Ben [Hastily] Now’s not the time Troy, especially from you!

Troy I’m hurtin’ something awful about Serendipity, buddy. How many times do I have to apologize to make it right?

Ben Loose Lips Sink Ships, Troy, the ship of friendship. Have fun on the SS Backstabber. [click, dial tone] Line 1, you’re live on King Falls AM. Prepare your tissues.

Ron Boys, I won’t keep you long. This question is for, Golden Owl? is that right?

Olivia Yes.

Ron Before my question ma’am, you might want to work on that name. It might just be me, but it sounds like a sophisticated lemon party for birds.Not that I’m against that sort of thing. Sh[bleep] even last night—

Sammy Ron Begley, ladies and gents.

Ron Alright I get it, enough foreplay. Brass tacks Miss Owl, how does it work if you didn’t particularly own the pet, but you saw it as a kid, grew up near it, fed it, maybe had a puff the magic dragon relationship with it.

Ben He wants to know if you can tap into your unending source of pain and find Kingsie’s parents. Maybe tell us how they were, harpooned by Japanese tourists in front of Kingsie as a baby and made into sashimi.

Olivia Mr. Begley I’m not sure if that’s really in my wheelhouse, but perhaps if you introduce me to this Kingsie you’re referencing?

Ron Well hell yeah! How can I get a hold of you to make an appointment?

Sammy All of Miss DuPont’s information is on our website Ron, or you can check it out on twitter at—

Ron Yeah yeah, @, ampersand, hashtag, underscore, exclamation mark dot dot dot King Falls dot net. Shut your sweet little trap Sammy! I got it! I’ll be in touch soon Golden Owl. [mildly exasperated] But seriously, work on that name

[click, dial tone]

Ben Other than, re-breaking everyone’s hearts, Olivia— what do you get out of this?

Olivia I’m sorry for the troublesome story, Ben. Not all of them -hardly any of them- end so badly.

Ben So I’m just the lucky one.

Sammy Ben—

Ben I’m so glad to hear that not everyone’s pet got thrown out of a moving car and into Peace river and down the falls by Sheriff damn Gunderson. That’s the silver lining, right?

Olivia If it’s true.

Ben [skeptical] You get a lot of lying cats and dogs in your line of work, Olivia?

Olivia [awkwardly] Not— to my knowledge.

Ben He did it.

Sammy Okay, let’s not go making accusations it could have been any number of deputies, maybe even from a different county, I mean who can say?

Ben [insistent] It was Gunderson, I just know it. He literally damn near spelled it out! Ask him to spell out the rest, Olivia.

Olivia He saysss, *sigh* Golden Owl, your business license is up for renewal, so don’t rock the boat?

Ben BULL!

Sammy *clears throat* Olivia, we’re gonna take another phone call here in a minute. Perhaps, uh, before that you could give us a light-hearted example of a run in with someone’s, uh, expired creature.

Olivia Well, there was this one encounter with Bruce the Stingray.

Sammy [incredulously] A stingray. Now, what’s a dead stingray got to talk about?

Olivia Well, Steve Irwin[2] for one.

[KFAM outro]

[Credits]

REFERENCES:

[1] Teddy Ruxpin - Teddy Ruxpin is an animatronic children's toy in the form of a talking 'Illiop', a creature which looks like a bear. The creature's mouth and eyes move while "reading" stories played on an audio tape cassette deck built into its back.

[2] Steve Irwin - “The Crocodile Hunter” was an Australian zookeeper, television personality, wildlife expert, environmentalist and conservationist. Possibly best known for the show “The Crocodile Hunter” (1996–2007), an internationally broadcast wildlife documentary series, which he co-hosted with his wife Terri. They also co-owned and operated Australia Zoo, about 80 kilometres (50 mi) north of the Queensland state capital city of Brisbane. Steve died on September 4, 2006, after being pierced in the chest by a stingray barb while filming in Australia's Great Barrier Reef.

[mst3kproject]

802: The Leech Woman – Part III

I’ve devoted a review to the terrible characters in The Leech Woman and another to its nasty misogynistic ‘message’, what’s left?  As it turns out, plenty.  The next layer down in our Leech Woman Tira Misu of badness has several ingredients that just wouldn’t fit with the themes of either of the previous installments.

The script frequently feels a need to explain what’s happening on screen, which is sometimes helpful but equally often kind of insulting, since characters are telling us things we can clearly see for ourselves.  A Nando dude has his face pushed into a pot of misty stuff and is then dragged stumbling over to the sacrificial block, and David declares “he’s drugged!” as if we wouldn’t be able to tell.  Moments later, the man’s pineal gland is carved out – this does require some narration, since the visuals aren’t self-explanatory, but the “he’s adding the pineal hormone to the Naipi” a moment later really doesn’t need to be there.

The intense use of stock footage is also a form of this.  We know that the characters are going to Africa, and we see them hiring a guide and tramping through a jungly-looking set, only to also be shown reams of animal stock footage that has basically nothing to do with the story.  The only time it has any bearing on the plot is with the leopard that supposedly follows June.  The rest is padding, there to emphasize (as Crow observes) that we are definitely in Africa, as if the audience couldn’t already tell.

A few bits in this part of the movie are shot outside, pretty clearly in California rather than anywhere near Africa.  Others are obviously in ‘jungle’ studio sets, and you can really feel how closed-in and artificial these spaces are, especially when contrasted with the wide-open savannahs and broad skies in the stock footage.  I guess I can say in the movie’s favour that it looks more jungle-ish than Jungle Moon Men did, but there are places in Canada that look more jungle-ish than that, so it’s not really saying very much.

The most egregious use of stock footage in The Leech Woman is in the Nando village, where we see some shots of people dancing in Real Africa before cutting back to extras in Hollywood Africa.  The two sets of footage look nothing alike.  The people in the documentary shots are dancing in a practiced, purposeful fashion.  The ones in the stuff filmed for The Leech Woman are just kind of flailing and bouncing.  The juxtaposition is kind of like splicing shots of trained ballroom dancers in with video of the junior prom and pretending it was all part of the same scene. This extends to the costumes, with the ‘real’ dancers wearing elaborate ceremonial beadwork and the actors in crummy kilts and geographically inappropriate tiger skins.  The latter still look nothing like the shower curtain Malla’s wearing when she reappears.  The only costume that had effort put into it is that ridiculous tusk headdress the high priest wears.

The Nando themselves are a plot device, rather than a people. They are Privy To Wisdom the White Man Hath Forgotten, but they’re also very much superstitious savages, with their regular human sacrifices and habit of killing anybody who tries to talk to them. None of them have lines and except for Malla and the high priest they are basically indistinguishable from each other – this keeps us from feeling sorry for them when their village gets blown up.  The only ones we see up very close are Malla, whom we will soon learn is planning to kill the heroes, and the priest, whose face is hidden.  They are dehumanized and, with their job of introducing June to the Cure for Old done, they are dismissed.

That would be pretty standard for a fifties jungle movie, but there’s one rather out-of-place bit that seems to be there just as gratuitous racism.  When David goes back for the dynamite, under the pretense of giving Malla a necklace, one of his guards takes a moment to steal some of June’s other jewelry from the luggage.  Why?  What value does it have to these people who live in the middle of nowhere and don’t appear to trade with the outside world? The event never has any impact on the plot, even though June later uses jewelry to entice her victims… come to think of it, why did she have that stuff with her on a safari anyway?  If this isn’t just a throwaway moment of lol, black people are thieves, it seems to just be a little reminder that the Nando cannot be trusted and that we shouldn’t worry about David blowing them up. Doesn’t quite work when he also steals their stuff on the way out, does it?

And of course, the ending sucks.  Rather than facing any sort of consequences for her crimes, June simply throws herself out the window, leaving Sally dead in the closet and Neil and the police wondering what the hell just happened.  The withered corpse we see under the window is obviously a mannequin, and doesn’t even look like June.  And as with far too many movies of this vintage, there is no denouement. We don’t know if Neil ever understands that June and ‘Terri’ were the same person, or why Sally was killed.  We don’t see him realize what he’s lost by allowing himself to be dragged around by the dick.  The movie just ends.  They couldn’t have spent two minutes on that instead of on random animal footage?

After going through all the many ways in which The Leech Woman is a terrible and frequently offensive movie, how it hates men, women, black people, white people, and anybody stupid enough to watch it, I guess it needs to be asked: why do I enjoy it so much?  I think partly it is because it’s so non-denominationally misanthropic – it hates everybody, and while it saves special venom for unattractive women, nobody else comes off well, either. Another, as previously mentioned, is how it doesn’t bother to have any ‘good’ characters.  The protagonist of the movie, as in the person through whose eyes we watch it and whose arc we follow, is June – and she’s an insane, selfish murderess!

I do tend to like movies that focus on a villain’s journey.  There’s Lady Frankenstein, for example, in which Tanya Frankenstein carries the whole movie despite the fact that she’s evil to the core, and in the end is destroyed by her own creature as he realizes that he, like everything else around her, is just a tool she’s using to further her own sense of self-importance.  There’s the similarly-titled Countess Dracula, which is what you might get if you imagine a version of The Leech Woman that actually tries to convince you Neil is the hero but still doesn’t have him actually do anything. And there are Hammer’s Frankenstein movies, which are all about Peter Cushing’s Victor Frankenstein with the inconsequential ‘heroes’ simply revolving around him.

Why are these characters so much more interesting than the heroes who are trying to defeat them?  I think it has to do with the fact that these villains are proactive – they are taking steps to go out and get what they want.  Victor Frankenstein wants to prove his latest theory, June wants to watch men fall at her feet when she smiles at them, and they both believe the means justify the ends.  The ‘good guys’ of the movie, on the other hand, are merely reacting to the evil plot they’ve discovered.  In light of that, it’s also interesting to ask why it’s so often women who take center stage in this kind of movie: as well as June, I’ve mentioned two examples in the previous paragraph, with Tanya Frankenstein and Countess Elizabeth. This is probably because women in movies of this era are not supposed to be proactive in getting what they want, or even to have wants at all besides to kiss the guy at the end.

This type of movie also suggests that evil, being intrinsically selfish, will ultimately destroy itself.  The good characters, where they exist, are victims or completely irrelevant – the closest things The Leech Woman has to ‘good guys’ are Neil and the detective, the former being helplessly in June’s thrall and the latter not even showing up until the movie’s almost over and then having his job done for him by her suicide.  Since these characters don’t try to do anything about their situations (Neil doesn’t even realize he’s in one), they’re not at all interesting, and the villains command the movie all the more.  This would lead one to think that the ‘message’ of the movie is the same as the one I pulled out of Outlaw, that bad things will just go away if you wait long enough.

In some cases that’s probably true (it’s going to work for the Earth – us humans will kill ourselves off soon and the rest of the biosphere can get back to business), but The Leech Woman also serves to emphasize that letting evil destroy itself will cause far more damage than if somebody tackled the problem before it got that far.  If Neil had actually cared that ‘Terri’ was destroying his relationship with Sally and tried to leave her, he might have saved himself a lot of trouble.  In fact, what would have happened then?  Would June have gone off to find another victim, or would she have become more aggressive in her pursuit of him in particular?  Would he have maybe cottoned on to what was happening and come back to save her next boyfriend from suffering a terrible fate? Oh, hey, look – I just wrote a better movie in three sentences, again.

I think that’s about as much Leech Woman as I can take.  See you next week – I don’t actually have that many more of these to do, do I? Thank you all for hanging in there with me.  We’re on the home stretch now!

[chasholidays]

Hello and Happy Holidays! Would love to see an Alternate POV from Monty or Miller for "though it's always pricking me."

Original fic here!

When Monty heard that Dropship was going to be in town over the summer, he was not expecting that he, personally, would have much interaction with them. Everyone knows why they’re coming back, knows how Aurora Blake is doing (not well) and how much Bellamy cares about his family (a lot). The whole town is abuzz with the news in the way only small towns can be, and people who know that Bellamy was in school with Monty are definitely eager to hear all about him, but Monty knows he’s not going to be at the top of Bellamy’s list of people to see, nor should he be. If not for the band, Monty probably would have largely forgotten Bellamy existed. Bellamy might not have ever known Monty existed. Monty wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.

Still, the whole thing is kind of exciting, in a silly way. Everyone at school who knows where he lives now also knows that he’s going to be in the same geographic location as Dropship, and odds aren’t bad that he’ll run into at least one of them. If it’s Bellamy, he’ll maybe have a conversation, and then he can ride that wave of coolness for at least a week and possibly longer.

It would be a pretty great way to start off senior year, and he sees no reason to set his expectations higher than that. Even that’s pretty optimistic.

Jasper, of course, is more optimistic.

“He’s going to be bored! You know he wants to hang out with us. We’re very lovable.”

“Speak for yourself,” Monroe says, and Monty frowns.

“Sorry, are you saying you’re not lovable? Are you negging yourself?”

She pauses, frowns at her beer. “Yeah, that didn’t really work. I’m just saying, the odds of Bellamy Blake even getting a Facebook invite, let alone responding to one, seem really low. Does he even have his own Facebook? Isn’t it just one of those celebrity profiles?”

“It probably couldn’t hurt,” Wells says, the voice of reason as always. “But if you send it and he doesn’t respond and doesn’t show up, you’ll never know if he saw it and decided not to come or never saw it or saw it and hates you and–”

Jasper holds up his hand. “Okay, okay. I get it. I will not invite Bellamy Blake to our weekly drinks, and none of us will ever be discovered as secret rock geniuses–”

“You definitely wouldn’t be,” Monty puts in.

“Just let the record show that I tried to make us rich and famous, and you guys were like, fuck that.”

“That’s exactly what happened,” says Harper, dry.

“It’s on the record,” Clarke adds. She’s been quiet, but she definitely had a crush on Bellamy back in high school, so she’s probably stressing more than the rest of them. If Monty’s high-school crush had disappeared off the face of the earth and then reemerged as the lead singer of a hit band, he’d also probably feel kind of weird about it. “This is the only bar in town, if they want to drink, this is it.”

Jasper raises his own glass. “Here’s hoping.”

Clarke smiles a small, private smile. “Yeah, here’s hoping.”

*

“Wouldn’t it make more sense if I didn’t come to this?” Nate asks. He’s not actually that opposed to going to the bar–Arcadia is not an exciting place, and anything that breaks up the monotony is good by him–but if he doesn’t put in at least a token protest, they’ll just assume he always wants to be sociable, and he’s got a reputation to maintain. If people start thinking he just enjoys doing things, he’s going to be on the hook to do things all the time.

“Why, because you suddenly don’t like drinking?” Bellamy asks. He’s been doing minute adjustments to his hairstyle for what feels like an hour, and Nate can admit he is curious about that one. Bellamy with an actual crush is new and different.

Or old and different, really. Apparently Bellamy’s been nursing this one for a long time.

“I can drink here, I don’t have to go to your shitty hometown bar.”

“You get to go to his shitty hometown bar,” Raven says. “How do you not see this for the opportunity it is? All of Bellamy’s high-school friends telling m us all the dirt they can remember? You know you want in on that.”

Nate sighs theatrically. “Fine. But if it sucks, I’m taking a taxi back and leaving you assholes.”

“You say that every time we go anywhere,” Bellamy says, finally finishing with his hair. “And you’ve never actually left us.”

“So far. There’s a first time for everything.”

The bar itself is nothing special, larger than their usual hangout in the city but otherwise unremarkable. Standard bar stuff, as far as Nate is concerned. It’s decently busy for a Friday night, but not packed, and it feels a little like a scene in a Western, when the outlaw walks into the saloon and and everyone stops talking and the piano stops playing. He doesn’t think everyone looks at them, but he feels conspicuous even before some scrawny white kid in goggles starts to call Bellamy.

Another kid, Asian and cute with short black hair and a stoner vibe, shuts him up before he gets it out, and Bellamy snorts, shakes his head.

“More friends?” Raven murmurs.

“Monty and Jasper. They’re probably about your speed, Miller.”

“Where’s your girl?”

“She’s not my–” Bellamy protests, but Raven takes over. “Cute blonde at the bar,” she says. “The one pretending not to look at us.”

“Cool.” He gives Bellamy a thump on the shoulder. “Good luck with that.”

The goggles kid–either Jasper or Monty–has calmed down by the time Nate makes it over to his table, and he manages a friendly, pretty normal smile. “Hi! We have a pitcher, want beer?”

The other kid, the cute stoner, adds, “It’s very shitty beer.”

“How old are you guys?” he asks, frowning. “There’s no way you get away with a fake ID in a town this small.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” says the goggles kid. “We’ve been successfully buying illegal booze since high school.”

“We’re twenty-one,” the other one supplies. He seems to be the straight man to his friend’s goofball, a dynamic Nate is used to. He doesn’t know a lot of goofballs, but for a gay guy he makes a pretty great straight man. “Two grades lower than Bellamy in high school. I’m Monty, and this is Jasper.”

“Nice to meet you guys. I’m Nate.”

Jasper frowns. “Everyone always calls you Miller.”

“Yeah, but it’s weird introducing yourself by last name.”

“Fair enough. You want our cheap beer or not?”

“Love some, thanks.” Monty pours and slides him one, and Nate takes a drink, making a face. “You weren’t kidding.”

“Of course we weren’t. Who lies about buying cheap beer?” Monty asks. “It’s Bud Lite, there’s a special for pitchers, and not all of us are famous rock stars. But if you want to get something better for the next round, we won’t say no.”

“How generous of you.” He takes a chug of the beer; the faster he drinks it, the less he has to taste. “So you’re in college, right?”

They are, rising seniors–Jasper at Oberlin and Monty at Cornell, which actually throws him a little. He knows most people don’t go to college with their high school friends, but something about how the two of them are together made him think they were always this joined at the hip.

“We’re planning to go to the same place once we graduate,” Jasper says, so at least there’s that. “Maybe move in together.”

“Jasper is hoping he’s going to have a serious girlfriend by then and he can move in with her instead of me.”

“The power of positive thinking, Monty! If I believe, it will happen. You should try it, you could get a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend!”

The addition comes in a hurried way that makes Nate assume it’s new and still not totally natural, but without any kind of judgement. Monty is newly out as queer and Jasper is still updating his perceptions, but he’s trying. That’s always nice.

And, well, interesting. Monty started off cute and keeps getting cuter.

“I think I’d have to do more than just believe to find a significant other,” Monty says, dry. “I’ve heard that it requires some bare minimum of effort.”

“Yeah, but believing is easy and it can’t hurt to try.” He turns his attention back to Nate, his gaze surprisingly sharp for how drunk he seems. “How’s dating as a celebrity? Weird?”

“I dont date much, but it probably would be weird. It’s always kind of–” He pauses, trying to figure out the right words. “I had a boyfriend when the band got big, and we tried to stay together, but it was just too complicated, you know? He was always kind of worried I was cheating on him when I was out of town.”

“That sucks,” says Monty.

“Were you cheating on him?” Jasper asks, and Monty elbows him. “What, I’m curious! He can tell us, we don’t know his ex.”

“If you cheated on your ex would you want to tell two random strangers in a bar?”

“It sounds better than telling friends or family.”

Nate has to smile. “I didn’t cheat on him. Bellamy’s really paranoid about this stuff, it rubs off. Not that I was ever tempted, but even after we broke up, he got in my head about people I slept with bragging to the Internet or something.”

“So you’re a rock star who doesn’t get laid?” Jasper asks, in the tones of a kid who just learned Santa isn’t real.

“I don’t usually hook up with civilians. Industry people, the ones who are more used to the lifestyle, that’s usually easier.” He shrugs. “I don’t worry they’re just doing it for a story to tell.”

“So you aren’t interested in sleeping with Jasper,” Monty supplies.

Nate snorts into his beer. “I didn’t think I was the uninterested party there.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m interested, but I’d definitely do it just so I could say I fucked a famous person. Honestly, I’d probably be over there trying to flirt with your drummer except that Wells already is and I’d feel like a terrible person.”

“You could go for Bellamy.”

“I don’t ever want to get on Clarke’s bad side. Wells I’d feel guilty, but Clarke would actually destroy my life.”

No wonder Bellamy likes her so much. “So I’m at the bottom of your Dropship hookup chart?” he asks Jasper. “Dude, come on.”

“Just practically speaking. I’m pretty straight, so Raven’s first, and I figure Bellamy and I have history, so–”

Monty snorts. “You barely talked to him in high school. Also I remember you in high school, I don’t think that’s really working in your favor. Jasper didn’t start developing muscle mass until college,” he adds, to Nate.

“This is Jasper with muscle mass?”

For a second, he’s worried he went too far, that the thoughtless quip actually hurt Jasper’s feelings and there will be a “Nathan Miller was super mean to me in a small-town dive bar” post doing the rounds on social media tomorrow, but then they both crack up.

“I’m secretly ripped!”

“You’re secretly less scrawny than you look,” says Monty. “Which is definitely an accomplishment, but less of one.”

“Screw you both,” he says, cheerful. His phone buzzes, and he checks it. “Literally screw you both, I’m leaving.”

“Did that girl text you back?”

“The power of positive thinking!”

“You’re going to miss out on the fancy beer Miller’s buying us,” says Monty.

“You can drink mine and tell me about it later.” He flashes Nate a smile. “Nice to meet you, hope we see you again, sorry not sorry I’m going on a date.”

Nate can’t argue with that. “Fair enough, have fun.”

“Thanks, you too!” He salutes, and then he’s gone, and Nate and Monty look at each other for an awkward second.

Nate breaks it. “So, next round. Is there an expensive beer you like?”

Monty’s face relaxes into a smile. “I think I can come up with something.”

*

I can’t believe you left me ALONE with NATHAN MILLER.

Monty sends the text while Miller–Nate, he can call Nathan Miller Nate–is in the bathroom, about an hour after Jasper leaves. Clarke is still talking to Bellamy and Wells is still talking to Raven, and it makes Monty feel weirdly paired off, even though he wasn’t trying and was definitely not prepared. He didn’t even do shots with Wells to get ready. He’s a little stoned and a little buzzed, but not enough of either and paranoid about getting worse. If he was drunk, he wouldn’t be thinking about it at all, but since he’s not drunk enough yet, he’s self-conscious about getting sloppy. It’s the actual worst.

yes it is amazing how good a friend I am, Jasper texts back. have fun!!!

If Monty had thought it was unlikely he’d see Bellamy, he had been unable to even comprehend seeing Nathan Miller. It was so outside of the realm of possibility that it wasn’t even worth thinking about, beyond unrealistic. If he had seen Miller, he’d thought that was all it would be, just admiring him from afar. He wasn’t supposed to be talking to him, getting a drink with him, hanging out with him like a normal person. Like those pictures of him in a mesh vest from some weird photoshoot last year hadn’t been the final straw that tipped Monty into identifying as bisexual.

The good news is that it’s not going that badly, but that’s bad news, at the same time. If he was an asshole who wasn’t giving Monty the time of day, it would be easy, one of those never-meet-your-heroes moments. Even if he’d just been friendly, it might not have been that bad. He could have been a perfectly nice guy with whom Monty had nothing in common, and they would have spent the evening making slightly stilted conversation before parting ways.

Instead, they’d gotten another round of drinks and Miller had asked if he was into video games and that was it. Monty had hesitantly offered that he was really into Fire Emblem right now, and Miller had apparently been playing it on the tour bus, and from there they branched out into favorite games, first gaming systems, upcoming releases they’re excited about. If Miller was just a guy he’d met here by chance–deeply unrealistic, as Monty is not the kind of person who meets new people at bars–he’d say they were hitting it off. He might be trying to flirt.

But Miller is Nate is Nathan Miller. He’s been profiled in Rolling Stone. He’s not quite a household name–that’s Bellamy, as the band’s front man–but if he said “I had drinks with the bass player for Dropship,” everyone would know what he was talking about, even his coding professor, who brags about not having learned anything about pop culture since 1989. People hear about Dropship just by being alive, and Monty doesn’t care that much about prestige, but this is going to be one hell of a what I did over the summer.

Assuming he tells anyone. Does bragging about getting drinks and talking about video games count as scuzzy? He doesn’t want to be one of those guys who takes advantage, who makes Miller feel like he can’t talk to civilians.

So when he gets back, Monty just asks. “So, can I tell my friends about this?”

“About what, exactly?”

“How Nathan Miller likes video games and drinks pretentious local IPAs.”

He snorts. “I talk about video games in like all my interviews, it’s not exactly a scoop.”

“You know what I mean.” But he raises his eyebrows like he doesn’t, forcing Monty to clarify, “I don’t want to be one of those people who just brags about–talking to you.”

It’s slightly awkward, both because it feels like he’s using “talking” as a euphemism and because he feels like he’s always slightly awkward, especially without Jasper, who tends to give him easy things to play off of. It had worried him, when he went off to college, that he’d never survive on his own, and he’s fine, has made plenty of friends, but then he’ll be back with Jasper and remember how much easier it feels, to be social with him.

Miller doesn’t seem to notice; he just smirks. “Nah, I love when people brag about talking to me. We can take some selfies if you want.”

“So when does it cross the line into bothering you?”

He drums his fingers on the table. “Good question. I think it’s more–just a vibe. It’s not hard to figure out the people who are just sucking up. Most people–even most super fans–are fine. Kind of nervous at first, but they just want to talk. I never mind people saying they met me. Except that it’s fucking surreal.”

Monty has to laugh. “Yeah, I bet.”

“You didn’t really seem that excited,” he observes, casual.

“I never seem like I’m showing that much emotion compared to Jasper. It’s kind of nice. Takes the pressure off.”

“You always get to be the cool one.”

“Or at least the calm one. It is pretty exciting,” he adds. “Meeting a celebrity.”

“You know Bellamy.”

“Not that well, like I said. And it’s not–” He glances towards the bar, Bellamy leaning into Clarke, the two of them in a world of their own, just like the old days. “I didn’t get to vote on his senior superlatives, but I would have said he was most likely to make it in show business. He’s got charisma. So it’s cool, but not much of a surprise.”

Nate nods. “Yeah, I remember when I first met him. I knew he was going to take me places.”

“You’re twenty-three, right?” he asks. “His age?”

“Yeah.”

He shakes his head. “I feel like you’re too young to be famous. I’m still worried about having a real job, and you’ve been making a living for years.”

“We got lucky,” says Nate. “Shit, so fucking lucky. We only had a few months of shitty gigs before someone decided we were the real deal. And it still took time for us to be able to quit our day jobs.”

“So your life is weird.”

“So weird.”

“Is it better or worse being way out here?”

He shrugs. “It’s different. Our profile is a lot higher. In New York, if someone sees me, they’re not sure it’s me. But everyone knows we’re here, everyone knows Bellamy, so there’s no question. But you’re also really paranoid about coming off weirdly, so–”

“So everyone’s like me.”

That makes him think. “Nah, not everyone is as cool as you are.”

The bar’s lighting is low enough that Monty doesn’t think the flush will be obvious. At least his voice is steady. “I didn’t think cool for rock stars involved playing a ton of video games.”

“You play good video games, so yeah. You’re cool.” He considers. “You said you didn’t have a PS4 yet, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You should stop by sometime and play,” he says. “Bellamy’s too bad at video games and Raven’s too good.”

Monty’s jaw doesn’t drop, but it’s close. “You want to play video games with me?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Because you must have better people to play video games with?”

“What’s wrong with you?” He clucks his tongue. “Full disclosure? You’re cute and chill and I want to hang out with you more. You want to tell all your friends that you spent part of your summer vacation playing games and flirting with a guy in a band, I’m cool with that.”

The words come out easily, somehow. It doesn’t even make sense, he’s never smooth, but talking to Miller–to Nate, to this guy, who’s chill and down-to-earth and nice–is natural. They get along. “I don’t kiss and tell,” he says. “So if you ever want me to keep quiet, all you have to do is kiss me.”

Nate laughs. “Yeah? That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“I hope it’s not.”

“I hope so too. So, what are you doing tomorrow?”

Jasper is going to be the worst possible combination of smug and jealous, but he’ll live. He’s flirting with a cute boy who likes video games; it’s awesome. “Nothing so far.”

“Cool. I’ll figure out when my asshole bandmates aren’t around and give you a call.”

“You don’t have my number.”

“Not yet. But we’re not even done with our drinks. I’m not going anywhere yet.”

They have two more rounds and take the same taxi back. Nate gets dropped off first, takes a minute to study Monty’s face, lingering on his lips, before he says, “I’m not kissing you tonight.”

“No?”

“I want you to have a couple stories you can share.” But he does peck him on the cheek. “Night, Monty.”

He texts Jasper immediately. You’re never going to believe what happened.

The response takes a little longer; hopefully his night was good too. I’m the best friend in the entire universe?????

Honestly, Monty replies, smiling in the dark of the backseat, you just might be.

*

“So, it sounds like both your bandmates did pretty well for themselves in Arcadia,” the interviewer tells Nate, like he doesn’t know Bellamy and Raven have significant others now. He found out way before the media did. “Are you jealous?”

“Jealous of what, exactly?” he asks, with a shrug. “Wells isn’t my type. Clarke is even less my type. And don’t even start with Bellamy being my type.”

She laughs, apparently genuinely amused, which makes Nate like her more. Most of the questions reporters ask aren’t really their own fault, especially for shit like this. They’re doing rapid-fire press for a new single and everyone only has a few minutes. This website likes gossip, so the interviewer wants gossip. Nate doesn’t blame her.

“Trust me, even I’m getting tired of asking if you and Bellamy are secretly sleeping together. I was relieved I could stop asking about Bellamy and Raven. But is it tough? Being the last single member of the band? Does it get lonely?”

On the surface, the question is absurd. Bellamy and Raven are dating people, not off to war. He’s not alone. He’s not even single, although he hasn’t told anyone about Monty yet, not even his bandmates. They were fairly casual over the summer in Arcadia, didn’t even hook up very much. It was like having a friend with benefits, except the benefit rarely went farther than kissing. Nate didn’t mind, he liked the closeness of it, the intimacy, like getting close to Monty, but the last few months have been a weird sort of limbo, Monty at school, applying for jobs, figuring things out.

He is lonely, but not because he’s single and his friends aren’t. And Monty’s graduating next month, already has an apartment lined up in the city. Him and Jasper together, despite Monty having a boyfriend–they agreed they can work on cohabitation once they’ve been in the same place a little longer.

“I guess that’s not how it is for me. I don’t feel worse about being single when my friends aren’t? Maybe I will, I get why people do. But I like Clarke and Wells, so mostly I’ve got more friends. And they help out keeping an eye on Bellamy’s sister when we’re busy. Not to get too sappy, but mostly being in Arcadia means my family grew. Hard to be lonely when that happens.”

She looks dubious, for which Nate can’t blame her. If he didn’t have Monty, he doesn’t know what he’d say, but as it is, it’s pretty easy. Arcadia was good to him too, and his life is about to get better. Maybe he’ll do another interview with her, when everything is said and done and he and Monty have decided to go public. Let her know how he was really feeling.

For now, though, it’s just for him. Him and Monty, Jasper, the rest of the band. All the people who really matter.

“So, nothing big to report? No one special in your life?”

“Everyone in my life is special,” he says, with a shit-eating grin, and she laughs again.

“Of course, sorry. Anything else you’d like our readers to know?”

“I’m good,” he says, meaning it. “Great, even. No one has to worry about me.”

Once he’s out, he texts Monty: Ngl, I’m looking forward to telling people I’m kissing you.

I’m ready to brag whenever, Monty shoots back. Can’t wait to get all those dating a rockstar points. Finally, I’ll be cool.

Nate smiles. You’re the coolest, he says, and puts his phone in his pocket as he waits for Bellamy and Raven to finish up so they can leave. It’s not exactly the life he was expecting, not this time last year, not when he was in high school, not when he was a kid, deciding what he wanted to be when he grew up.

He never thought it could be this good, and in another month, it will be even better.

He’s got no complaints.

[batwake]

Come in From the Cold - chapter one

I realized today that I never posted the full first chapter on here so I figured while I work on chapter two I might as well post it! You can read it here on ao3.

pairing: Clint Barton/Bucky Barnes

tags: fight club au, canon typical violence, deaf clint barton

description: Years ago, the United States government passed a law banning enhanced people, mutants, and superheroes, forcing them into prisons and graves. Newly reformed and no-longer brainwashed Bucky Barnes heads underground, into a fighting ring called The Avengers Initiative, and learns to make a living there using his specialized skills. Clint Barton isn't an enhanced person, per se, but hung up his bow and arrow for good with the passing of the accords. It’s only when his best friend introduces him to the world of The Avengers Initiative does he start to get sucked back in.

“We are not special.

We are not crap or trash, either.

We just are.

We just are, and what happens just happens.”

—Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

Dodge. Dodge. Punch, miss. Dive, go for the legs. Go for my legs , he said. Jump back up, punch when he isn’t expecting-

Clang!

Metal fist connects with shield. Backpedal, recalibrate. Push the shield away, kick at the chest. He throws the shield— dumb move — catch it. Throw it, don’t bother looking as it cracks the closest wall and stays there.

Punch, punch, punch.

He goes down, does not get back up.

The lights go up, people cheering, some booing, but hardly audible over the clear and crisp announcement:

“The Winter Soldier wins!”

-

Clint doesn’t remember when the news broke.

Lots of people will tell you that they remember exactly where they were: drinking coffee on their balcony, listening to the radio. Or in the waiting room of a hospital, nervously watching the tv while their wife gives birth. A high school soccer game, where the announcer told everyone during halftime. Kate swears up and down that she heard it from a random twitter account before the story had even broke.

All Clint knows is that one day, enhanced individuals were outlawed, and he put he and Kate’s bows and arrows in the back of his closet, hidden behind boxes of Christmas decorations and clothes he refused to get rid of. It must’ve started as a normal day; put hearing aids in, drink an entire pot of coffee, take Lucky for a walk, go to the roof and shoot some arrows. Text Katie funny pictures of pigeons on the street and maybe call his therapist, if he’s feeling up to it. But by the end of the day, the world had practically ascended into chaos. People arrested, some killed in their homes, or in the street. Kate said that two kids at school were picked up and never seen again.

The accords, they’re called. Clint didn’t, and doesn’t, keep up with politics. But even he understands just what they meant. No mutants, enhanced persons, superheroes . At best, you’re put on a watchlist and have to swear to never use your powers. At worst, jailed or sentenced to death, if you’re considered especially dangerous.

And as for why these accords were introduced?

No one really knows.

But Clint often wonders.

~

“If you were really my friend you’d go with me,” Kate is saying. Clint is busy pretending he’s busy, the most of his torso hidden underneath his sink. It’s been leaking for months now. Today seemed like as good a day as any to fix it. She continues, “Darcy’s taken me a few times.”

“How did Darcy know how to get in?” The pipe is giving Clint just as hard of a time as Katie is. It won’t go any tighter, but maybe if he had a different tool…

“Someone she knows, knows someone, I guess. I don’t know.” He can practically hear the shrug and eye roll in her voice. “Can’t we just go together, this once? If you hate it you never have to go again.”

Clint hauls himself out from underneath the sink, starting to dig through drawers in pursuit of something he can better fix his sink with. He spares Kate a look, which is returned by an expression Clint can only describe as cross . “Why can’t you just go with your friends again if you’re so eager?”

The smile that Kate probably uses on her father to get more money is slapped onto her face. “Because you, Clint Barton, are my best friend. The peanut butter to my jelly, the apple to my eye. The Romeo to my Juliet, but without the romance and the death-”

“I think I get your point.”

Kate circles around the counter that had been separating them and steps in front of him. “Come on, Clint. We have fun, they get paid. It’s a win-win for everyone.”

Sure, Clint thinks, these people get the shit kicked outta them every night and we get to sit back and watch, hell of a lot of fun . He buries his face into his hands and leans against the counter, momentarily forgetting about his shitty sink. “Fine.”

Kate thumps her fist gently against his face, nudging his hands away until they’re resting at his sides. The expression on her face is telling, her eyebrows raised and lips pressed firmly together. Clint can see his reflection in the purple sunglasses that sit on the top of her head, so he pushes them down and over her eyes. Her stony expression doesn’t falter, even as Clint feels Lucky forcing his way between their legs as if sensing trouble. Kate’s hand moves from his face to his bicep. “You worry me sometimes, Barton.”

Clint rolls his eyes and moves away, pulling a wrench out of the drawer he was digging through and getting back onto the floor, rubbing Lucky behind the ear as he makes his way back under the sink. “Changing the subject won’t get you anywhere.”

The last thing Clint sees of Kate before he’s back under the sink is her arms thrown up exasperatedly. “I’ll be back at ten, bring cash.”

He barely gets the word “okay” out before the sound of the front door opening and closing echoes through his apartment.

~

Once the accords were put in place, enhanced people were out of jobs and essentially forced into hiding, assuming you hadn’t been arrested or killed. Some went to trial, but they were fruitless efforts. You stopped seeing the announcements of verdicts, always guilty , on the news after a couple months.

Around this time, a wise guy named Nick Fury had the brilliant idea to put these enhanced people to work, with the help of genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist Tony Stark, allowing them to use their powers, let off some steam, and get paid while they’re at it. This was the birth of an underground fighting ring called The Avengers Initiative . Stark buys the building, and all surrounding ones, builds a pseudo-arena in the basement and keeps them out of the eye of the public. Fury finds the people; fighters and workers and people in police forces and governments with grey morals. Together they built what has essentially become an empire , with fans and gamblers keeping the place in business.

Clint’s never been, but it’s been sitting in the back of his mind for months, ever since Kate first mentioned that she knew someone who knew someone who knows a place— whatever that really means. But now that he’s really going , he realizes that he’s never really considered what it all meant. They’re betting on real people .

Kate tells him not to think too hard about it.

They enter a tall building, clearly abandoned with the windows boarded up, grimy furniture left behind to rot. It looks like it was once a hotel, with a front desk sitting in front of little compartments which may have once held room keys. A large mouse-bitten rug covers most of the floor, swirls of deep red and gold starting to fade as dust gathers. Directly across from the door is an elevator, covered in graffiti. As they get closer, Kate leading the way, Clint can get a better look at the actual art, things like a spray-painted red spider outlined by a circle, red and white O ’s with a star in the middle like a target, a bright purple A with an arrow through the middle, among others. Clint says nothing as Kate steps up to the elevator and holds down the up arrow.

A few moments pass, and nothing happens. Clint opens his mouth to say something like seems like no one is home when there is a light-heartedping! and the elevator doors open to a high-tech, seemingly new elevator, the bright lights making Clint squint for a second. Kate steps in without a second thought, turning and crossing her arms, a smirk on her lips. “You coming or what?”

Clint promptly snaps his mouth shut, scrambling to get into the elevator before it closes.

The doors shut behind him, but it doesn’t move yet. On the wall are upwards of fifty buttons, all with various symbols and numbers that don’t appear to have any meaning.

To Kate they apparently do, reaching forward and pressing a series of buttons in a particular order, the buttons lighting up after each press. Clint counts thirteen buttons pressed when she finally stops, stepping back and standing next to him. He gives her a long look, only met with a half-hearted shrug as the elevator finally starts to move.

Clint stares at their reflections as the elevator descends. They tend to match, most of the time on accident , and tonight is no exception. Their purples stand out in the stark grey elevator, like Kate’s headband and pants, or Clint’s shoes and hearing-aids. It had always been their color.

His pointer finger twitches at his side. He balls his hand into a fist, trying to push that thought away. They know better.

The elevator stops, another lighthearted noise announcing their arrival. A few seconds pass and then the door opens, revealing them to the underground world of The Avengers Initiative .

The first thing Clint notices as they step out of the elevator is the giant hole in the floor.

It’s surrounded by bleachers filled with people, yelling at the fighters below. They’re too far away to be able to see down into the ring, but whatever is happening is clearly causing an upset. Clint takes a step forward to get a closer look but is stopped by Katie grabbing his arm. “Easy tiger, we gotta go over here first.”

They move towards a booth of sorts, where a man sits behind a counter covered in various papers and underneath a giant screen that almost resembles a chalkboard, titled “BETTING POOL”, listing names and figures in neat penmanship that Clint can’t make sense of. The man is busy counting something that Clint and Kate can’t see, and doesn’t look up when they approach. Behind him are several safes, whatever they’re holding is anybody’s guess.

“Hi,” Katie announces, slapping a hand onto the table, “We’d like two please.”

Two pamphlets are slid towards them. Clint takes the one Kate hands him, glancing down at it, then back at her. “What is this?”

Kate is too busy opening the trifold to answer. The cover reads The Avengers Initiative in big font, followed by the same purple A that is graffitied on the elevator. Clint cautiously opens it all the way, glancing between the new information that each page has to offer.

The first page appears to be a schedule of the night, starting with Black Widow vs. Madame Mask and ending with Thor vs The Hulk , listing fifteen fights in total. The middle is a description of the rules of the fights and how the betting works, and the third is the top ten fighters, reading:

Winter Soldier

Captain America

Thor

Scarlet Witch

Captain Marvel

Black Widow

Miss America

Ms. Marvel

Quicksilver

Black Panther

Clint reads through the rules a few times, glancing up at Kate every few seconds as she talks to the guy running the thing, counting her cash. The names are a bit ridiculous, he thinks, then remembers that he and Katie didn’t exactly have the best “code names” either. He flips to the back, frowning at the large black text.

BURN WHEN DONE.

Kate, pausing to turn and look at him expectantly. “You gonna bet anything?”

Clint glances at the list of names and the upcoming fights. Winter Soldier vs. Captain America is set for tonight, the top two names on the leaderboard. “Sure,” Clint decides in a split second decision, “why not.”

He fills out a sheet of paper while Kate finishes hers, filling in the blanks, such as the date of the fight, how much he’s betting, his contact information. (Kate says this is so if any info leaks they know who was betting that night)

Who are you betting on? asks the paper. Clint writes, The Winter Soldier.

“Good choice,” comments the man as he takes Clint’s papers and money, writing on something and putting the money somewhere they can’t see it. He does the same for Kate. “ Safe choice.”

Clint wonders if that’s an insult.

They move away from the booth after that, towards the bleachers at last.

They’re not completely full, people scattered among the three structures, some in groups and some by themselves. They sit at the bottom of the second bleacher, directly across from the elevator they came from, able to overlook the fighting ring below without anyone blocking their view. The ring is about two stories below them, and there’s a huge gap between the ring and the walls. “They can expand the ring for bigger, more powerful fighters,” Kate explains, pointing to the empty space between the walls and the ring. “They don’t have too many, but if you get a fight like…” she glances at her pamphlet as she crosses one leg over the other, “Thor versus Hulk, they’re gonna need a big space.”

Clint nods, glancing over her shoulder at her open trifold. No one is fighting currently, and there was a fight that was going on when they came in. “How many d’ya think we’ve missed?”

“That upset we heard coming in was probably Scarlet Witch related. From what Darcy told me, magic users don’t get a lot of respect from the crowd. Well, her type of magic, anyway. Telekinesis.”

“Ah.”

Kate nods, running her finger down the list. “Scarlet Witch versus Shocker is tricky because he would usually be a pretty good match for, like, Black Panther or someone, because they’re combat fighters. She can just pick you up and throw you somewhere.”

“There’s a reason she’s ranked number four.”

She throws her hands up. “I know right!”

Clint leans back and surveys the people around them, who are either talking amongst themselves, digging through their wallets, or furiously making notes in their pamphlets. “So, Katie-Kate, who’d you bet on?”

He almost misses it, as she covers her mouth with her hand. Kate is blushing . Clint stares at her, then prods at her shoulder. “What have you been hiding from me!”

Kate covers her face with her hands, uncrossing her legs and leaning on on his shoulder. “Miss America.”

“And?”

“She’s so fucking hot, Clint.”

The gears turn in Clint’s head. “Katie, you’ve only seen this girl fight in a fight club .”

“She’s still hot!”

She’s about to say something else, but the lights dim and a voice cuts her off, loud and booming throughout the makeshift arena, but oddly robotic and calm, and British?

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen. The eighth fight of the night is one of the most anticipated ones of the week, with our top two seeds, The Winter Soldier versus Captain America.” Two people enter the ring from the entrance, walking up the steps to the slightly elevated ring. One is clad in red, white, and blue, Captain America , Clint thinks, and carrying a shield. The other, the Winter Soldier, is dressed head to toe in black except for his left arm, which is entirely silver, and his dark brown hair is long. It’s hard to make out any more features than that. “As always, the rules of the ring are as follows: No leaving the ring, no guns or knives, and finally, the fight continues until one person says the codeword or is knocked unconscious.”

Captain America and the Winter Soldier walk to opposite sides of the ring and step into what can best be described as a battle stance , staring each other down. The Soldier’s left side is facing them, and only then does Clint realize that the silver is his arm .

“You may begin,” chimes the voice, followed by a buzzer sound, signalling the beginning of the fight. Immediately the two fighters are lunging at each other, Captain America punching with the shield, the Winter Soldier blocking with that metal arm, occasionally managing to get a punch or a dodge in.

People are yelling, no surprise there really, mostly encouragement to their preferred fighter or anger about a missed punch or failed dodge. The guy a few seats above them is up on his feet and gesturing wildly, screaming something about his kids’ lunch money and grandmas.

They’re nearly an even match for each other, Clint thinks as another punch is blocked. They carry on for a few minutes like this. It’s an entertaining fight, he must admit. Clint is nearly on the edge of his seat, and Kate is biting her thumbnail. The Winter Soldier dives to the side to avoid a shot with the shield, and punches, his metal fist colliding with the shield and producing a clang! noise so loud that some people cover their ears. Clint isdeaf and he almost felt the reverb.

“Jesus,” Kate mutters. Clint is inclined to agree.

There’s some distance between them, now. Captain America throws the shield, bad move , Clint thinks as the Soldier catches it and throws it, almost recklessly . It connects with the wall across from where Kate and Clint are sitting, and stays there, cracks webbing from the incision.

They’re at it hand-to-hand now, and it’s clear who’s winning. The audience grows even louder as the Soldier lays down relentless punches, to the stomach and to the face.

Clint’s stomach twists.

Captain America falls to the ground after one final punch, and does not get back up.

The lights go up, people cheering, some booing, so Clint can hardly hear the announcement:

“The Winter Soldier wins!”

-

“I told you to go for my legs,” Steve is saying.

Bucky wants to bash Steve’s face in for a second time that night. He won’t stop talking, even after Dr. Cho asked him to while she gave him stitches on his lower lip. She pokes his forehead to shut him up again, gently applying some sort of ointment to his shoulder. Bucky’s already gotten the Doc’s five star treatment, now trying to fix one of the plates on his hand by himself. He’d rather not visit Stark this week, not after last time when he had all but removed the damn thing after an interesting fight with Scarlet Witch when she had fucked up all of his inner wirings.

“Too easy,” Bucky says around the flashlight he’s holding in his mouth, “if I wanted the fight to end in a minute and successfully half our pay, thenI’d go for your legs.”

Cho gives Steve the go-ahead to jump off her table, moving back to her equipment and beginning to sterilize, getting ready for whoever will come after their fight next. He approaches Bucky, taking the flashlight from his mouth so he can dig into his hand with the screwdriver more easily. It doesn’t seem to be doing much. “Besides,” Bucky continues, refusing to look up at his best friend, who is surely smirking despite that fat lip, “maybe you oughta learn not to throw that shield at me. You know what I’m gonna do with it.”

“Too easy,” is all Steve has to say on that particular matter.

They walk through the winding halls of the Facility together until they get to the locker room, where only Black Widow remains from the previous fights. A few others preparing for their upcoming fights linger. She greets them with just a raise of her eyebrows, likely because of the cut on her lip.

“We’re matching,” Steve fumbles. Bucky tries to hide his snort in the sound of the locker opening, but probably fails. The Widow doesn’t point it out, but Steve is already turning pink. Flirting has never been his forte.

“So we are,” she says. “How was the fight?”

“Good,” Bucky shrugs at the same time Steve says, “he won.”

“What about you?”

Black Widow waves a hand in a so-so motion. “I won. I don’t think that Madame Mask will be around for much longer.”

“That was what, her third fight?”

“Something like that.” She stands and pulls on the sweatshirt that had been sitting on her lap, covering the bruises and cuts that are exposed in the tank-top. The hood covers her red hair, and her hands are shoved into the pockets. “See ya around, boys.”

Bucky waves without looking as Steve stammers his way through a goodbye.

“You gotta get better at that, man. It’s been years.” Bucky shrugs on a t-shirt, then a sweatshirt. He digs around in his backpack for a few seconds before he can find what he’s looking for, a glove that looks like a hand, nearly identical to his right one. You can’t tell its fake, unless you’re actively looking at it like it is. He slips it on as Steve sits down to start putting shoes on, wincing as it nudges the plate he just fixed.

“She’s just so…” Steve trails off.

The hand settles into place as he wiggles his fingers. “Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “She is.”

They say hello to a few others as they leave, to Ms. Marvel braiding Miss America’s hair, and to Thor swinging his hammer in the hallway, and to Bruce, carrying a huge stack of papers into Fury’s office.

Hugging each other tightly despite the injuries they themselves caused, they split and go down different hallways, towards different exits. Bucky knows Steve will go home and nurse his injuries some more and drink tea and maybe sketch something, whatever it is Steve does when Bucky isn’t around.

Bucky leaves and takes the long way home, down streets he doesn’t have to and on subways he wouldn’t normally, losing the tail he is always worried will some day follow him home. It’s unlikely, Stark and Fury have a pretty foolproof security system, but…

He locks the door behind him, and begins the long and complicated process of checking every door and window, all the light fixtures, underneath cushions and inside cupboards. He finally collapses onto his uncomfortable mattress and sleeps a light and unsound sleep, the sun only just beginning to rise.

~

If Bucky could go back and do one thing in his life differently, he never would’ve joined the army.

It was the catalyst for what would become his life. Join the army, get captured by some Nazis, pumped full of steroids, get rescued by your best friend, coincidentally also pumped full of steroids but by some secret branch of government rather than Nazis, join his band of merry men, fall off a train, become a brainwashed assassin with a metal arm, get saved by your best friend, again. All in the span of a few years.

Then the accords happened and SHIELD got shut down, leaving Bucky in a state of limbo.

James Buchanan Barnes was legally dead to most people. So Bucky holed up in a shitty apartment in Brooklyn, near where he and Steve grew up, with a fake name and a new backstory, effectively going under the radar of the government. Steve wasn’t so lucky, having been SHIELD’s golden boy for years before the accords. He was arrested but released soon after, having been deemed unlethal and his name added to the watchlist.

They managed fine by themselves for a few weeks. Bucky did things for money that he’s not exactly proud of, but that’s not new. Steve tried to remain God’s righteous man, attempting to speak out against the accords but just getting himself into more trouble.

And then Nicky Fury showed up at Bucky’s door.

No one except for Steve knew where Bucky lived— yet there he was, with his dumbass eye patch and a job offer.

So now Bucky and Steve get beat up four out of seven days of the week, earning barely enough money to cover the bills and working the only job that people of their kind could ever hope to get in this political climate.

Bucky’s had worse jobs, he supposes.

~

It’s a rough few weeks, after the fight with Steve.

The decline starts with a match against Quicksilver, who he barely beats, managing to trip him as he passes. Captain Marvel catches one of his punches and essentially melts the metal of his left arm, calling for the end of the fight and a trip to Stark’s workshop. Scarlet Witch destroys him in an embarrassing fight, twisting his arms until he can’t move and essentially forcing him to call uncle.

He doesn’t bother going to see Dr. Cho or Stark, grabbing his bag and leaving behind a confused Steve and Black Widow in the hallway.

The exit that leads to the alley behind the building is the one Bucky chooses that night, climbing up the ladder and exiting through a small panel in the floor, closing it behind him and walking onto the alley as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

He shoulder checks someone and winces as his left shoulder lets out a mechanical whine. The guy stops and turns to stare at him, frowning. “What was that?”

Bucky protectively holds his left arm against his chest, and clears his throat. “Bad cough.”

The guy steps forward. “That sounded like-”

Bucky turns and sprints in the other direction, not listening to whatever the guy is yelling after him, or looking back to see if anyone is following.

It’s nearly three am by the time he gets into his apartment, having crossed more streets than usual and ridden more buses and subways than he can count on both hands. A paper is taped to his front door, asking for rent ASAP. Crumpling it up in his hand, Bucky slips inside.

He locks his door with a shaking hand, his metal one still tucked close to his chest. The series of locks all click into place with a finalizing snap . Bucky leans against the door, allowing himself to loosen his shoulders and breathe for a moment. Maybe he overreacted— but getting arrested wouldn’t have been a good end to what has already been a shitty few weeks. He checks the windows and the cupboards like he usually does, and only then does he let himself completely calm down, collapsing onto the dingy old mattress that sits in the corner of the room. On the floor next to it is a record player and a cardboard box full of miscellaneous tools, which Bucky stares at, then reluctantly sits up. He puts a record on first, grabbing one from the stack at the foot of the bed at random, then sheds his shirt and sets to work at his arm.

The Andrews Sisters sing cheerily about a famous musician going to war. Bucky’s head already hurts from the Witch’s magic, but he rolls his eyes and almost makes it worse.

“But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft, he's in the army now blowing reveille.”

The music is turned up as loud as the old record player will go in an attempt to force Bucky to listen to it instead of his own thoughts, whether or not it really works is to be decided.

Bucky flips open a few panels on his bicep, shining a flashlight on the inner wires and craning his neck so he can get a good look inside. A few are disconnected and tangled, explaining the pain, but others are completely fried. Which means Bucky has to see Stark, again .

“Dammit,” he mutters, snapping the panel shut and tossing the flashlight and screwdriver back into the box. No other fighter saw Tony Stark as much as Bucky did— in the few years he’d been fighting, Bucky was getting tired of the guy.

The bathroom is the only part of the apartment that is in a seperate room from the rest, but is barely big enough to fit a shower, sink, and toilet. Bucky showers in the cold water, letting blood and grime wash away from his skin. With only one arm, the shower lasts longer than it needs to, but he relishes in it, for the time being.

The bed isn’t comfortable by any means, nothing more than a lumpy mattress with some threadbare blankets thrown on top, but to Bucky’s tired and worn body, it feels like the softest bed in the world.

-

There are three hundred and twenty-seven arrow holes in Clint’s apartment.

A hundred and two are in Clint’s bedroom, sixteen of those are on the ceiling, seventy-five are in the kitchen, one hundred and thirty-nine are scattered around the living room walls, ten are in the various furniture around the house, and one is in the bathroom. (that one had been an accident)

None had been added to the collection since the accords broke the news.

Clint stands in front of his closet, hands on his hips. Lucky sits next to him, head cocked to the side and tongue hanging out, his tail thumping happily on the floor. Clint doesn’t dare open the closet, has barely touched it in years, but now feels strangely drawn to it. He’s been frequenting the Facility , as Kate calls it, over the last few weeks. He doesn’t have a ton of money to gamble, but he’s fascinated by the process, and knows that it helps the fighters get paid. It’s a whole new world, seeing these people in action. Magic users, and super soldiers, and demigods . Kate’s still obsessed with that girl, bets all of her money away no matter the odds.

And of course, there’s the Winter Soldier.

Dressed in black, with that lethal silver arm. He seems to be wearing thin, is what Kate had said, the more fights they watched of his. He went from the top seed to barely staying in the top ten, now ranked number nine.

The bow and arrow in the closet feel like they’re yelling his name. Take us to the roof, Clint. No one can see you from up there.

Instead, he leaves his apartment and makes his way to the abandoned building by himself, punching in the code to the elevator and entering the code he now knows. He descends into the facility, his heart hammering loudly in his chest.

Coulson is running the info booth like he usually is, typing something on a laptop. There are a few people lined up, so Clint grabs a pamphlet and waits in the queue, scanning the lineups for the night.

The eighth fight of the night. Iron Fist vs. Winter Soldier.

Clint steps up in front of Coulson when it’s his turn. He passes over the papers without a word, which Clint fills out quickly. He’s starting to have the pages memorized, able to fill them out without much thought.

Who are you betting on? asks the paper. Clint writes, The Winter Soldier, and hands the paper back over to Coulson. His eyes skim it, then his eyebrows raise.

“That’s a lot of money. You’re betting on losing dogs, Barton.”

“Just take the damn money.”

Coulson does without another word, letting Clint walk to his normal spot on the bleachers.

There’s a fight already in progress. Black Widow has her thighs locked around Captain America’s head, and sends both them topping to the ground. The shield rolls sideways and lands a few feet away. Captain America shoves Black Widow off of him roughly, diving after the shield and attaching it to his arm, jumping towards the Widow once more to knock her down.

He misses, the shield cracking the floor of the ring. Black Widow kicks at Captain America’s legs, sending him to the floor on his back. She straddles his chest, lifting a fist to punch—

Something must happen, because her hand lowers and she crawls off him, that British voice coming over the speakers to announce:

“The Black Widow wins!”

She holds out a hand to help him up, which he accepts. The man next to Clint isn’t yelling very nice things, but Clint refrains himself from saying anything. The dude looks like he could hold his own in the ring.

Several fights go by after that, Clint unable to pay much attention to them, his mind elsewhere. Miss America wins her fight against Black Panther, Clint tells himself that he’ll have to tell Kate about it later.

Finally the voice announces that it’s time for Winter Soldier versus Iron Fist, the two fighters stepping out of the entryway and into the ring. The Soldier is dressed in his usual getup, all black with the arm exposed, while the Iron Fist stands out in greens and yellows. While the announcer drones through his usual speech, the Winter Soldier spins his metal arm to stretch it a few times, then flexes his metal fingers, as if unsure of himself.

There’s the buzzer, and the two men go for each other—

It’s a brutal loss, for the Winter Soldier.

Clint has to give him credit, the guy didn’t tap out even when people were yelling at him to. He goes down and stays down with a final glowing fist, hitting the ground with the painful sound of his metal arm hitting the floor.

“The Iron Fist wins!”

A few people come out of the doors as the Iron fist exits, laying the Soldier on a stretcher and exiting unceremoniously.

Clint stands just as the same guy says to his friend, “what a pussy. Can’t even handle Iron Fist .”

Turning away from him, Clint balls his hands into fists, the temptation to punch the guy getting stronger the more he hears. Still, he forces himself to step away, moving towards the elevator and waving at Coulson as he passes. He doesn’t get any response except for a look that feels something like I told you so .

Once on the ground floor, Clint glances around the sparse room. The fighters must exit from somewhere, right? Kate had mentioned that Stark owns this building and all surrounding ones…

The street outside is mostly empty, no one to watch as Clint slips into an alleyway next to one of the buildings. There isn’t much— a few trash cans, a pile of blankets and clothes that Clint figures is from a homeless person, and a doorway to the adjacent building. First Clint moves to the door, prodding it, then moving to the handle. It doesn’t budge.

No surprise there— Clint moves to the trash cans, lifting the lids and finding nothing but garbage, rotting food and wrappers and probably drugs, knowing New York. Nothing there.

He moves to the blankets, toeing them away with his foot to avoid touching them. Clint frowns, crouching down and running his fingers along the crack in the ground, a faint light coming from beneath the surface.

“What are you doing?”

Clint spins around, half expecting to see a police officer. Then he’d be really and truly screwed . But it’s just a guy, with a grey sweatshirt and a backpack and long hair and holy shit .

It’s him.

Clint splutters, which seems to annoy the Winter Soldier. He takes a step forward, clearly threatening. Clint finally gets a good look at his face, which is battered and bruised from his fight twenty minutes previous. Stony grey-blue eyes, a cleft chin covered with stubble. Both cheekbones bruised, and a split lip. Clint witnessed the fight— it doesn’t take a genius to picture what the rest of his body must look like.

Thinking quickly, Clint throws his hands up in surrender. “It’s not what it looks like.”

The Soldier glances between Clint and the pile of dirty fabric behind him, unwavering.

“Okay, maybe it’s exactly what it looks like.” The Winter Soldier takes another step forward. “But I can explain!”

“You should probably start.” His voice is low and gravelly, but Clint wonders if that’s circumstantial.

Clint isn’t sure what to say for a moment. “I’m a big fan of your work,” is what comes out of his mouth when his mouth catches up with his brain.Jesus Christ , Clint can practically hear Katie saying.

“You’re what? ” The Soldier is suddenly in Clint’s space with his fist in his shirt, lifting Clint up until they’re nearly nose to nose, even though Clint is taller than the other man. Clint blinks rapidly, his hands going to the Soldier’s wrists. Right hand, he notes.

“I should’ve worded that differently,” he manages. “I’ve seen you fight. I’m into it.” Clint winces and wonders if he imagined the Soldier’s grip loosening. “I mean— I want to buy you a drink, or something.”

Jesus Christ, what is he doing? Kate’s gonna kill him.

Clint stumbles as the Winter Soldier drops him and steps back. He keeps talking, even as the Soldier walks to the edge of the alley and looks out, left and right, as if about to cross the street, but doesn’t leave yet. “I know that’s weird but…” You fascinate me, is what he wants to say. Instead, he whispers, “you seem like you need one.”

The Soldier slowly turns back towards Clint, holding his gaze. Something passes between them, Clint can’t quite say what, but it breaks when the Soldier looks away again. “No,” he mutters, then repeats it again, louder. “No.”

Then, he steps into the street, leaving Clint in the dust, left to wonder what just happened.

-

Bucky thinks of the guy who confronted him in the alleyway three nights previous.

He thinks of his shaggy blonde hair, and the silly purple hearing-aids. The purple band-aid that was on his nose, and the feeling of his hands on Bucky’s arm as he said I’m into it .

Bucky lands another punch to Drax’s face, but is roughly shoved to the ground again. The shouting of the crowd rings loudly in Bucky’s ears as Drax kicks his stomach. And then the man’s voice again, offering to buy him a drink. He forces himself up, can feel the metal creak of his arm throughout his body, and grabs at Drax’s body, slamming his head down onto his knee. Drax’s body crashes to the ground, as Bucky’s had done just seconds ago.

The man in the alley’s face sticks in Bucky’s mind as he punches one last time, and stays there as JARVIS announces:

“The Winter Soldier wins!”

Remorsefully, Bucky thinks it feels good to win again.

~

It doesn’t surprise Bucky when he goes back to that alley and find the man crouched over one of the facility exits. He’s feeling better than he has in weeks, even fresh out of a brutal fight. He needed the win, and the cash.

“Thats a bad idea,” calls Bucky, causing the man to spin around and stand abruptly. He’s disheveled, his blonde hair flying in every direction and shirt wrinkled. “It can only be exited from. Try to enter and you’ll get yourself killed.”

The guy’s eyes flick around Bucky’s person, from his hood, to his hands, to the backpack, and to his face again. “Noted,” he says cautiously.

Bucky shifts from foot to foot, and sniffs awkwardly. “I’ll take you up on that drink.”

-

The Winter Soldier is… odd.

He nurses cheap whiskey, and his eyes are constantly moving, sweeping around the bar, constantly on guard. His left hand, the one that Clint knows is metal but is currently masked with a glove that resembles a flesh hand, taps nervously on the table.

Clint stares at him, studying his features and trying to get a read on him. Tonight he sports a black eye with a heavy gash over the eyebrow, clean and stitched up already. The bruise from a few nights ago is almost faded on his cheekbone, and the gash that was on his lip is scabbed over. Every second that passes Clint thinks of another question— but keeps his mouth shut. He’s finally got the guy here, he doesn’t want to fuck it up.

Finally, half way through his own drink, he says, “I’m Clint Barton.”

The Soldier’s blank expression does not falter, but his eyes stop their sweep and land on Clint.

When he doesn’t say anything, Clint clears his throat. “This is when you tell me your name.”

The Soldier snorts as he lifts his drink to his mouth. There is a ghost of a smile on his features, and Clint realizes that he is handsome . The thought is gone before Clint can really focus on it, because the Soldier is talking.

“Not many people know my real name.”

“Awfully cryptic of you.”

He huffs something out that sounds close to a laugh, and moves to stand. “Thanks for the drink, but you’re going to have to try harder than that.”

“Wait!” Clint all but yells. The Soldier looks at him, tilting his head slightly. “Come on, man. I’ll do all the talking, how about that? I have nothing better to do.” The I’m sure you don’t, either is left unsaid.

The Soldier sits back down, raising his eyebrows and leaning back in his seat.

Clint takes that as the go ahead, and launches into the story of when he picked up Kate from school a few years ago and they ended up on a roadtrip to Orlando, Florida.

“You’re friends with a high schooler?”

“I used to be friends with a high schooler. Now she’s in college.” Clint wrinkles his nose. “Or so she claims.”

“How did that happen?”

Clint often wonders the same thing: how did he and Kate become friends? She was sixteen and good with a bow and arrow, Clint’s brother had just died and he was great with a bow and arrow. He had been in a bad place, Katie had been in a bad place, high school . They had just seemed to fit. The two of them and Lucky were their own little family.

“I crashed into her living room.” The sound of the Soldier putting his glass on the table signifies his surprise. “It’s kind of a long story.”

The story of running away from the mafia that killed your brother is a third or fourth date kind of story, anyway. It ends like how most of Clint’s stories end, with Kate saving his ass. The Soldier didn’t need to know that quite yet.

The front door of the bar opens and closes. Clint hears it rather than sees it, but the Winter Soldier tenses up, removing his arms from the table and shoving them into the pockets of his sweatshirt, forcing his shoulders down in a way that doesn’t look incredibly inconspicuous. Clint glances over his shoulder at whoever just walked in.

A police officer is moving to sit at the bar, holding a hand up to signal the bartender. Clint glances back to the Soldier, who looks two seconds from bolting out the door.

“Hey, my apartment isn’t too far from here.”

The Soldier is up and moving towards the door, apparently not needing any more convincing. Clint scrambles after him, leaving some bills on the table. The Soldier pushes the door open, Clint close behind him, sparing a glance at the cop. He’s watching them, but it’s not the kind of I know you’re secretly enhanced persons look, it’s more like, I sure hope these drunk idiots don’t become a problem. At least, Clint thinks it is. He’s never liked cops.

~

“Make yourself at home,” Clint announces. Lucky is happy to see them, his tongue rolling out of his mouth. The Soldier slips in and snaps the door shut quickly, as if afraid that the police officer had followed them to Bed Stuy and would be able to sneak in through the crack of the door. Lucky noses at the Soldier’s left hand.

“You didn’t mention a dog,” he says, pulling his hand away protectively, but allowing his right one to gently scratch Lucky behind the ear.

Clint shoves his shoes off and moves to the kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee. “What, you allergic?”

The Soldier follows, notably not removing his shoes (rude), trailed by Lucky. “No.” He glances around the kitchen, at the seventy-five arrow holes, frowning.

“Arrows,” explains Clint, hopping up onto the counter. He watches the Soldier poke at the holes with an odd feeling settling in his stomach.

“Arrows?”

Humming, Clint looks at the contents of the kitchen counter. He spots a bottle, grabs the cap, contemplates his surroundings for a moment, then flicks it. It bounces off the bubbling coffee pot, the fridge, and into the trash. The Soldier’s eyebrows shoot up in question. Clint shrugs. “Just can’t seem to miss.”

The Soldier leans back. “You’re enhanced?”

Clint waves his hand in a so-so gesture. “I’m deaf,” he taps his hearing-aids, “working theory is that my senses are heightened. But I like to think that I’m just really cool.” Kate’s aim is just as good as his and she’s not deaf.

“And that explains the arrow holes how?”

“Bow and arrow is kinda my thing. Was my thing.” Clint winces. “I’m not on an enhanced list, but…”

The Soldier sits down at the kitchen table, his shoulders loosening. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “I don’t know if you can even call a deaf guy with a penchant for pointy sticks enhanced, but me and my sidekick hung up our bows for good when the accords happened anyway.”

“Sidekick?” The Soldier asks, the barest hint of a smirk in his voice. The corner of his mouth is slightly upturned, Clint notices. “You seem more like the sidekick-type than this Kate.”

Rolling his eyes, Clint hops off the counter to pour them two mugs of coffee. “Partners in heroism, whatever you want to call us.”

Two steaming cups of coffee are placed on the table. The Soldier drinks his quickly, while Clint nurses his own.

“So,” Clint starts after a few minutes of silence and coffee drinking, “if I can’t ask for your name, can I ask for your phone number?”

“Real smooth, Barton.”

Clint stands and digs through one of the drawers, pulling out a pen and notepad.

To his surprise, the Soldier takes it, and slides the notepad towards himself, looking contemplative. A brief moment passes, followed by the faint sound of pen on paper. “I don’t have a cell,” the Soldier explains, “so you’ll just have to stick with calling the landline that came with the apartment.”

Clint is tempted to make a joke about this being the 21st century, but refrains, just watches the Soldier’s neat numbers as they appear on the page.

The Soldier stands after leaving his final mark on the page. “Thanks for the drinks, Barton. And for paying me.”

Following him to the entryway, Clint watches the Soldier crouch and pet Lucky a few more times. “No problem man.” After a second, Clint adds, “I promise to call.”

The Soldier opens the door and looks at Clint with soft eyes. “Don’t bother,” he says, but it lacks venom, and comes across as a joke more than anything, promptly shutting the door.

When he returns to the kitchen, Clint picks up the notebook, running his fingers over the numbers, and the letters underneath them. My friends call me Bucky, is written in the neat handwriting.

Bucky.

Before he goes to bed that night, Clint programs the number into his phone under that name, and burns the trifold that had been folded and stuffed in his back pocket. He crawls into bed, running the events of the night through his mind. As he falls asleep, Lucky at his feet, Clint makes a mental note to call Kate in the morning. She’s going to hit him so hard.

-

Bucky feels like he’s about to fall over.

Tony Stark has him propped up on a table, left arm supported by some sort of stirrup, keeping it in place while Stark delicately takes it apart. Every panel is open, exposing the skeletal wires and inner workings. Bucky averts his eyes, not comforted by the fact that his left arm can so easily be taken apart and put back together again.

“This is what, the fourth time you’ve broken the thing this month?”

“ I didn’t break it.” Bucky shrugs his right shoulder, closing his eyes and trying to force the incoming headache away.

“Coulda fooled me,” remarks Stark, pulling out what looks like a fried microchip, connected to a coil of tangled wires. “How does this even happen?”

The fingers of the arm twitch violently as Stark disconnects the chip, letting out one sad whine before the arm totally loses power. Bucky can feel the weight sagging and pulling down the left side of his body. If he wasn’t already close to exhaustion, working to keep himself straight is going to become a chore. “Ask Thor,” he groans, digging his right hand into the edge of the table. “There isn’t a better way you can do this?”

“Unfortunately not. You ask Thor to stop frying all your systems.”

Bucky winces as he remembers the fight that occurred an hour ago. He won, of course, he was finally starting to get his mojo back, but his arm suffered a fatal thunderous blow, barely able to wiggle the fingers. So here Bucky sat, in the company of Tony Stark, for the last thirty minutes. His whole body was tingling from the lightning, and a cut that had only just begun to heal had been reopened on the side of his face.

Stark glances between whatever he’s doing and Bucky’s face. “You want someone to fix that?”

“No.”

He shrugs, going back to the arm. “Your loss.”

Bucky just closes his eyes and tries not to pass out, listening to the whirring of Stark’s machines and his occasional mumbling to himself. An indefinite amount of time passes until the door whirs open, making Bucky snap his eyes open. Stark is still sitting next to him, but now wears a mask over his face while he blow-torches something. Bucky tries to wiggle his fingers, feels nothing. So they’re not done yet.

Steve approaches, glancing between Stark and Bucky and Bucky’s arm, raising an eyebrow.

“Thor,” is all he can say. Stark flips his mask up and leans back, looking at him.

“He awakens!”

Ignoring him, Steve leans against a table nearby. There’s a freshly sewn gash that extends from the center of his forehead, moves over his eyebrow, and disappears into his hairline. Bucky reaches over to touch the dried blood where the cut stops. “Black Panther?”

Steve shrugs. “He’s got some mean claws.”

Bucky is well aware of how those claws feel on skin. He drops his hand back to the table, looking over at Stark. “How much longer?”

“Depends on if this works.” Stark lifts the chip that he had been working on with a pair of tweezers. “Hey, Cap, where’s the Widow? Aren’t you usually on her tail?”

The look on Steve’s face is funny enough to make Bucky huff a soft laugh. Stark isn’t exactly wrong— Steve’s been smitten with the woman since she first joined the Initiative. If he’s not with Bucky, he’s probably hanging around Black Widow. Their last fight ended with Steve tapping out and letting her win. Bucky can’t imagine she took that too well.

Steve chooses to ignore Stark’s comment. “How are you, Buck?”

“Peachy.” Stark places the new and improves chip wherever it’s supposed to go. It feels like a needle is poked into Bucky’s nonexistent skin, causing him to grit his teeth and inhale sharply. “Never been better.”

A hand is placed on Bucky’s right shoulder, a steadying force.

Stark finishes up, placing wires where they need to be and chips back into their panels. Bucky regains feeling in the arm slowly, like cold water trickling up the fingers, through the faux veins, and into the bicep until it feels like it’s a part of Bucky again. He can flex the fingers, and move the wrist, lift the arm out of the stirrup and stretch it, just as he had been able to do before Thor wrecked it. “Thanks, Stark,” Bucky says, as genuinely as he can as he jumps off the table.

He has already flipped the mask back down and has moved on to a different project, waving a hand absently. “Just tell Point-Break to be careful with my things, next time.”

When Bucky gets home nearly two hours later, his wallet barely any more full than it had been when he walked into the facility earlier in the night, he goes immediately to the phone on the wall after locking the door, instead of to the windows and cupboards like he usually would. Clint has left two more messages since Bucky checked that morning.

He holds the phone to his ear with his newly fixed hand, closing his eyes as he listens to the message.

“Hey, Bucky, it’s Clint. You probably knew that already. I just got home from lunch with Katie. She’s good, thank you for asking.” Bucky laughs. “I’ll tell her you say hello. I took Lucky to a dog park today but he refused to play with any of the other dogs, just laid at my feet and slept. Dumb dog, probably dreaming of pizza. It made me feel nice, though. Apparently he prefers my company to other dogs. What does that say about me? Anyway, I’m planning on going tonight. Just thought you’d like to know. Call me back whenever you feel like it— or not, if. You know. You don’t.”

The second one is shorter, and probably left not too long ago.

“Good job, tonight. Hope you get that checked out.” It takes Bucky a moment to realize that Clint is referencing the arm. “You should take a break. Seems like you need it.” There’s a pause so long that Bucky wonders if something is wrong with his phone. Then, Clint continues, “I’ll call you tomorrow. And the day after that. You can’t ignore me forever.” The line clicks when he hangs up.

Bucky doesn’t really know why he hasn’t called Clint back. Clint clearly seems interested in him. Every night he promises himself that he’ll call back, but he never does.

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Bucky realizes that half of it is covered in blood from the side of his face. “Shit,” he mutters, dropping it and letting it hang on the line. Bucky wanders to the bathroom to clean himself up, telling himself that he’ll call Clint back. As soon as he’s clean. Maybe.

-

Kate throws herself through the door, scaring Lucky out of the room and Clint off the couch he was peacefully asleep on.

He doesn’t have his hearing-aids in, but the sound of the door hitting the wall was just loud enough to startle him. Kate hovers over his body, saying something he can’t make out.

“I can’t hear you,” he says, groaning as he hauls himself from the floor back onto the couch. He keeps his eyes on her, even as she rolls her eyes and signs, get your aids then, this is too important.

Clint sighs. He forces his body off of the couch and into the bedroom, grabbing the hearing aids from the nightstand, putting them in his ears and turning them on. He walks back into the living area where Kate is now sitting on the couch with Lucky on the couch and half in her lap. “What could possibly be so important?” He glances at the time on his phone. “Don’t you have class?”

She waves a hand. “Not important.” Clint sits on the other side of the couch as Kate continues, “The Winter Soldier and Miss America are fighting tonight.”

Clint raises his eyebrows. “How do you know that?”

“Darcy told me.”

“How does Darcy know that?”

“Do you ever listen to me? Darcy has a friend who knows a fighter.” Kate kicks her feet up on the coffee table an throws her arms out. “We’re going tonight.”

Kate has been oddly fixated on Bucky ever since Clint told her about the evening they spent together. He left out most of the details, like his name and fascinating mannerisms. She had her crush on Miss America, too, and was adamant that Clint could hook them up somehow. Clint hasn’t even been able to talk to Bucky since that night. Still, Clint had promised that some day he’d mention it, just to make her feel better. He already talks endlessly about Katie in the messages he leaves. He would never tell her that, though.

She nudges his foot with her own. “My girl’s gonna destroy your guy.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

“Not a chance,” Clint says, his lips spreading into a smile and then a laugh. Kate laughs too, one of her hands falling on top of Lucky’s head and the other on Clint’s shoulder, a steadying force that reminds Clint why he loves her so much.

~

They place their bets with Coulson and make it into their seats just as the usual announcement is starting.

Bucky and Miss America walk out and go to opposite ends to the ring, which is pretty standard. Kate cheers as America steps to their side, Bucky across from her. The rules are announced, the buzzer plays, and the fighters go straight for each other.

Miss America hits the ground first, Bucky landing a solid push at her chest. She takes advantage of being on the ground to grab at Bucky’s legs, sending him toppling after her. His left hand grabs for her wrist but she gets to him first, grabbing ahold of it and twisting it behind his back.

America’s advantage doesn’t last too long as Bucky throws his head back, knocking their skulls together and pushing himself free from her grasp. He throws a punch that hits Miss America in the chin.

“Here we go,” mutters Kate from beside Clint, leaning forward in her seat.

Miss America gets some punches in as well, literal stars flying, like sparks from metal, as they connect with Bucky’s head and stomach. A glowing white star starts to appear around America’s head, resembling a halo. Clint’s seen the girl fight enough to know what’s about to happen.

Just as it seems like America’s going to deal the final blow of the fight with her star-power, Bucky grabs her roughly by the hair, the star fading away instantaneously as she hits the ground. Kate yells something, as do a number of other people in the crowd. Bucky plants his knee to her chest and punches straight across the face, lifting his fist once more, but going no further when America finally taps out.

“Dammit!” Kate shouts, shoving Clint’s shoulder.

“The Winter Soldier wins!” announces the voice as Bucky extends a hand to help the girl up, which she accepts. It’s a little hard to see from so far away, but Clint thinks they’re both smiling, despite the blood running down their faces.

“I told you,” Clint boasts, smiling from ear to ear. Kate shoves him again.

~

Kate passes out on Clint’s bed when they get back to his apartment, Lucky following suit. Clint stays up, not tired yet because of his nap from earlier, staring at his phone.

Is he going crazy? He feels like he’s going crazy.

The phone rings five times, as per usual, before the automated voice tells Clint that he can leave a message after the tone.

He’s quiet for a moment, trying to decide what to say, then, “I sure hope you’re actually listening to these. Kate would be so disappointed to find out you haven’t really been saying hi.” Clint taps his hand absently on the table, thinking about how Bucky does that, too. “Maybe I’d be a little disappointed, too. We came and visited you at work. Oh, Kate really likes your coworker, is there any way we— you , could get her number, or something? She’s been bugging me about it but I didn’t want to bother you— although I guess I should’ve thought about that before I started leaving you multiple voicemails a day.”

Clint leans back in his chair, staring at the few arrow holes above the fridge, forming a perfect circle. “I wish I could get back to work,” he mutters. “I miss it so much. Kate is always saying that we could but— it scares me. You know that.”

Clearing his throat, Clint continues, “anyway. You should call me back. Sometime. I’ll make you more horrible coffee and you can pet my dog some more. And meet Katie, you’d like her, I think. She’s a bitch and I like her so much. Okay. I’ll let you go now. Goodnight.”

When he finally crawls into bed next to Kate, she mutters, “you make me depressed.”

Clint huffs a laugh, taking out his hearing-aids and pulling the covers up and over the head. If she says anything else, he doesn’t hear.

~

The only reason Clint realizes his phone is ringing is Lucky nudging him in the face, his wet nose prodding Clint’s eye. He groans, rolling onto his side, pausing when he sees the light on his phone flashing. It’s still dark in the room, no sunlight pouring through the curtains or annoying birds outside. Sighing, Clint grabs his hearing aids and picks up the phone. “This better be good, Katie.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” says a man’s voice.

Clint sits up so fast his head spins. “Bucky?” Lucky looks at him quizzically. “Took you long enough, asshole.”

Bucky’s end of the call is staticy and hard to hear, but Clint can barely make out, “sorry. Can I come over to your apartment?”

Something is up. “What’s wrong?” Clint asks, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and standing up. The hardwood floor is cold against his bare feet as he leaves his room and goes to the kitchen, Lucky following close behind.

“I’ll explain later. Can I come or not?”

“Yes, yes of course you can.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything else, just hangs up. Clint stops in his tracks, staring at the screen. The number Bucky just called from wasn’t his home one, which Clint has programmed into his phone. Lucky whines at his feet, looking up at Clint with his one eye like he’s pissed they’re not in bed.

“Me too, bud,” Clint mutters, patting the dog affectionately on the head and continuing into the kitchen.

Clint has barely turned on the coffee pot when there’s a knock at the door. Looking through the peephole shows that it’s Bucky, standing stock still.

“You look like shit,” says Clint as he opens the door. Bucky pushes himself between Clint and the door, shutting and locking it himself. Clint takes a long stride back, looking his new visitor up and down. He’s wearing the same thing he wore the two times Clint has seen him outside of the ring, a baggy grey sweatshirt, worn black jeans, a backpack, and that fake hand. His face and hair is bloody, clearly fresh from a fight.

Bucky turns and looks Clint up and down, humming. Clint blinks, looking down at himself in his purple pajama pants and white t-shirt. “I have… coffee,” he mutters, making his escape to the kitchen.

It takes a few minutes for Bucky to make his way into the kitchen after Clint, apparently wandering the apartment. Clint hardly notices him when he does, turning and nearly dropping the coffee pot to find him sitting at the table. He’s washed the blood off his face, and is digging through a first-aid kit with his right hand. “You know how to sneak up on people,” Clint comments, sitting down and pouring two mugs of coffee. Bucky has discarded the fake hand and shrugged off the sweatshirt, leaving him shirtless in Clint’s kitchen.

“Don’t you guys have an infirmary, or something?” Clint asks, gesturing vaguely to Bucky. He’s covered in bruises and scars and cuts, especially around his arm, where the scar tissue is thick and red, extending from his shoulder across his pec.

Bucky pushes the kit away from himself, exhaling through his nose and speaking up for the first time. “We have a doctor. And a glorified mechanic. Speaking of which,” he holds up his left arm. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to fix a cybernetic arm, would you?”

“Unfortunately no.”

Wrinkling his nose, Bucky flips open a panel on his wrist and digs around in it. “My  hand isn’t working, but luckily I can move the arm.” He rubs the stubble around his mouth with his right hand, closing his eyes. “The mechanic, Tony, he’s not in New York for a little while.”

“So he can’t fix it.”

“No,” Bucky confirms. He opens his eyes, looking at Clint for a moment, then flipping the panel closed. He takes a long drink of his coffee before saying anything else. “I won’t be able to fight until he can get back.”

Clint mulls this information over, running his finger around the rim of the steaming mug. “No fighting, no money.”

Nodding, his gaze far away, Bucky purses his lips and doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t know much about Bucky’s personal life, but Clint can imagine. He moves closer, scooching his chair until they’re practically side by side, their knees brushing. Clint grabs the first-aid kit, pulling out the disinfecting wipes and opening the package. Bucky doesn’t say anything as Clint brushes it across his face, over the cut on the cheek, and the one on the eyebrow, on the hairline, and so on. His right eye is black and almost swelling, both eyes closing when Clint gently runs his finger over the bruise.

“I’m no doctor,” Clint whispers.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky breathes.

The cuts are bandaged with whatever Clint has in the first-aid kit, including a purple band-aid over the eyebrow.

“We match,” Clint teases, gesturing to the various purple bandages covering his arms and fingers.

Bucky looks at them, raising his eyebrows in a fond expression. “What’s with you and purple?”

The best thing Clint can do is shrug. “It’s just always been… our thing. Kate and I.” He rubs awkwardly at his face. “It’s a little leftover. From before.”

They sit in silence, after that, drinking their coffee and sneaking glances at each other.

“You know,” Clint finally says. "You can stay here.” Bucky stares at him, his face blank. Quickly, Clint adds, “just for a few days. If you need it—”

“No, I. Thank you, Clint.” Bucky sniffs, looking down awkwardly. “Steve offered, too, but I. He can’t be keeping me at his place.”

Clint doesn’t ask who Steve is, or what the situation is there, but can feel the sincerity in his voice. “As long as you need it,” he says softly. “Seriously.”

A soft smile sits on Bucky’s face, the corners of his mouth slightly turned up. Clint is reminded again how handsome he is, his long hair hanging around his face and his stubble accenting his chin. When he isn’t frowning or keeping his expression blank, Clint would go as far as to say beautiful . He can’t even imagine Bucky unscarred and bruised, or what he looks like under all the wounds.

Lucky breaks the moment, nudging Bucky with his nose and barking.

Bucky looks down at him, raising his brows. His voice gets higher when he talks to lucky, saying, “hello again.”

“His name is Lucky.” Clint leans his hand on his fist, watching them. “He likes you.”

Bucky runs his hand along Lucky’s head, scratching behind his ears and at his nape. “I bet he likes most people.”

“Maybe. But that’s kind of what dogs are for.” Lucky tips his head back and looks at Clint, his tongue rolling out the side of his mouth in a goofy grin. “Yeah, you know we’re talking about you.”

More silence passes as Clint stands, putting their now empty mugs in the sink. “You can have the bed.” Bucky starts to argue, but Clint cuts him off, “at least for tonight. Rest those bones.”

He accepts reluctantly, letting Clint lead him to the bedroom. “I listened to all your messages, you know.”

Clint tries to hide whatever emotion is boiling in his stomach at that moment, pushing the door to his bedroom open. “Really?” he asks, feeling like his voice has gone up a few octaves.

Bucky seems to take in the sight of the bedroom, disheveled sheets and rumpled clothes on the floor. Lucky has followed them and has already jumped back up into his spot on the bed. “Yes. They were.. A nice thing to come home to.” Bucky shrugs his sweatshirt back on, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaving Clint standing in the doorway. “Your coffee isn’t shitty.”

That wasn’t what Clint was expecting— but takes it anyway. “Thanks.” He turns to go, then, “oh, by the way. That girl you fought—”

Maybe Clint’s imagining it, but it looks like Bucky is smiling. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Something boils over, a sudden rush of emotions. He covers it by letting out a low, quiet, “goodnight, Bucky,” and shutting the door.

-

Soft sheets, warm blankets. There’s a long, blissful moment where Bucky doesn’t realize where he is, just keeps his eyes closed and his breathing slow and deep, embracing the warmth and the sunlight on his skin. It doesn’t last long, the unfamiliar feelings settling in his skin soon after waking.

He sits up quickly, blinking hard and fast as his body shifts into defense mode, analyzing his surroundings. Clothes that aren’t his own on the floor, a window letting in sunlight across the bed, holes in the walls, a nightstand covered in sticky notes, wrappers, and plastic bottles, and a yellow dog at his feet.

Right. He’s at Clint’s.

Upon closer inspection, the sticky notes are all from Kate, all addressed to Clint, saying things like “took lucky for a walk before i left, dont forget to text me when you wake up” and “get new batteries for hearing aids” . There are hundreds of them all over the table and on the wall above it and in the drawer. Some are simple, just some numbers and dates, while others take up four notes attached to each other. All signed xoxo Kate .

It’s cute.

Clint isn’t on the couch when Bucky exits the bedroom, or in the kitchen or bathroom. In fact, A sticky note is left on the fridge that wasn’t there the previous night.

Bucky—

Will be back soon

Kate will come to take Lucky out at some point, because I have no idea what you get up to while the sun is up

Be good

Clint

His handwriting is small and curly, the letters pushed tightly together like they might fall off the page. Bucky takes the note and sticks it into his sweatshirt pocket, moving away from the kitchen to wander around the rest of the apartment. It’s different in the sunlight, from when Bucky had arrived last night and had checked all the windows and doors while Clint was making coffee. There’s a pizza box on the coffee table, and a crack running through a tv screen. Dog food bowl on the floor next to a leash. Two toothbrushes on the sink next to an empty orange pill bottle. The whole apartment is quaint , Bucky decides, noting the blankets thrown everywhere and the silly mugs in the cupboards and some pictures on the walls or on tables. Photos of Clint and a dark haired girl who must be Kate, or of the two of them and Lucky. There’s one of Clint and a man that somehow looks more put together when side by side with Clint, his auburn hair hanging over his forehead and his green suit ill-fitting. They must be related , Bucky thinks, looking between their scruffy square jaws and the way their matching crooked smiles don’t really meet their eyes.

Bucky sets the photo back down on the windowsill, looking down at Lucky from where he has emerged from the bedroom. He stretches, the front of his body getting close to the floor and his tail up in the air, then straightens and looks at Bucky. “Good morning,” Bucky says to him, even though it’s more likely well into the afternoon. He doesn’t usually sleep this late, especially not in a place he’s unfamiliar with, but maybe being in an actual, comfortable bed for once forced his body to succumb to sleep. It also helps that Clint, apparently a retired superhero, was asleep just outside the door. A deaf, clumsy superhero who only uses bows and arrows, but a superhero nonetheless.

Lucky jumps up onto the couch and goes right back to sleep, apparently content to wait for Kate to arrive.

The thought of Kate reminds him of Steve— he should probably go to his apartment. Brooklyn Heights isn’t too far away from Bed Stuy. He could catch the C train.

That’s the plan Bucky comes up with, heading to the bedroom to grab his things, shrugging on his shoes and jeans, followed by the stiff fake hand over the fingers that don’t work. It’s uncomfortable, feels like something is freezing his fingers in place while also wrapping them in a hundred layers of saran-wrap. He can hardly use the hand with the glove when his fingers are working , but now that they’re not it looks even faker than usual.

He keeps his hands tucked in his pocket as he walks to the subway and all the way to Steve’s apartment building, until he is knocking on the door. He knocks rhymically; three knocks, a pause, one knock, pause, then two more.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says as he opens the door not long after Bucky knocks. “Did you—”

“Yes,” Bucky cuts him off, shutting the door behind himself and pulling the hand off, immediately breathing a sigh of relief. “I stayed there last night.” He doesn’t have to look at Steve to know what his face looks like, his eyebrows raised high and his jaw loose in a smirk. “Don’t even start with me.” Bucky holds up a hand as he moves up the stairs to Steve’s kitchen.

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“Your silence speaks a thousand words.” Bucky tells him, opening the fridge and grabbing his orange juice, pulling off the cap and drinking straight from the jug.

“Why’d you come here instead of hanging around your new bff’s house then?” Steve grabs the juice from him. “He doesn’t have juice you can steal?”

“Can’t I enjoy the company of my best friend?” Bucky turns to get a good look at him finally. His blond hair is damp from a shower, and a fresh bandage sits over his nose. “Did you break your nose again last night? Maybe it’ll get smaller this time around.”

Steve rolls his eyes, touching the bandage gently. “Stop changing the subject. How’s your guy?”

“You know, for a long time if someone asked me that question I’d assume they were asking about you.”

He gives Bucky a flat look.

Bucky throws his arms up, his left hand hanging limply at the wrist. “I don’t know what to say, okay! He went somewhere this morning and wasn’t back by the time I woke up. His friend was coming to take out their dog and I’m not exactly ready to meet her—”

“Girlfriend?”

“More like a sister, I think.” Bucky continues, “and I hadn’t seen you since before you went on last night, so.”

Steve reaches over and thumps Bucky on the shoulder. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

Bucky looks at Steve’s hand where it now rests on his shoulder. There’s a nasty bite mark on the webbing between the thumb and pointer finger. “Who almost took your finger off?

“Bucky.”

“Was it Drax? No, Hulk.”

“ Bucky .”

“It wouldn’t be safe here, you know that. You’d get arrested, I’d probably be killed. It’s a miracle I’m even able to visit once or twice a week without a SWAT team storming the place,” Bucky stammers, shrugging Steve’s hand off his shoulder.

Something odd passes Steve’s face, but it passes soon enough. He looks at Bucky softly, maybe fondly. He notices just then that the purple under Steve’s eyes aren’t fading black eyes, like they’re both used to, but just bags. Fatigue. Bucky runs his fingers over them, like Clint had done the previous night, but it’s less intimate. More… familiar. Tracing what’s already known. Reminds Bucky of when they were kids and he was saving scrawny little Steve from bullies on the playground. Who knew one day it’d be the other way around. Except the bullies were Nazis and the playground is a highway in Washington DC. And maybe Bucky was the bully a little bit in that situation.

Still.

Steve throws an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, and this time Bucky lets him hover close.

“So, this guy …”

Bucky groans, lifting his hands to cover his face, hardly managing to shield anything when his left refuses to comply. “He’s nice , Steve.”

“What, and I’m not?”

“Not nice like you, Captain America. He’s nice like…” Bucky thinks for a moment. “He and his best friend used to be some crime fighting duo who fought enemies with their bows and arrows. And he bought me a drink after I won my first fight in a while, and is letting me stay at his place even though he doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know about the shit I’ve done.”

Steve knocks the sides of their heads together affectionately. “If he can get past the underground fighting ring I think he might be okay with the brain washing thing.”

Bucky pulls away, just slightly, enough to raise his eyebrows at his best friend. “Not exactly the same thing.”

~

When Bucky gets back to Clint’s apartment, its nearly evening, the sun setting on the New York skyline. Clint is sitting on the couch eating pizza, Lucky at his side eating his own slice. Bucky stares at them, frowning.

“Should a dog be eating pizza?”

Clint shrugs, not looking up from whatever he’s looking at on his phone. Bucky rounds the couch, sitting on the chair beside the couch to avoid sitting next to Clint. “It’s his favorite food. What did you get up to today?”

“Visited Steve.”

Around a mouthful of pizza, Clint asks, “who’s Steve?”

That’s a great question. “Captain America.” Clint chokes and drops his phone. “My best friend.”

“Your best friend is someone you beat the shit out of on a regular basis?”

Bucky waves a hand. “Our relationship seemed to dwindle down to that even before the accords. Now we just get paid for it.”

The frown on Clint’s face is unpleasant to look at. “What do you mean?”

“Doesn’t matter. Pass me a slice.” Clint complies, and seems to accept that Bucky doesn’t want to talk about it.

They eat their pizza in relative silence, the only thing breaking it being the sounds of Lucky’s slobbery munching. Clint eats most of the box by himself, leaving it on top of the one that was already discarded on the table when it’s empty.

“You can have your bed back,” Bucky says eventually. “I needed that sleep last night, thank you.”

“No need to thank me.”

“I have every reason to.” Bucky plays absently with his limp metal hand, running his fingers along the panels that he can’t feel as he talks, avoiding looking at Clint, who surely is looking at him. “Steve’s on the enhanced person list, so I can’t stay with him ‘cause he could get arrested. And, well, lets just say that I’m not the safest person for an enhanced person to be harbouring.”

Clint reaches forward suddenly, wrapping his hands around Bucky’s, both metal and flesh. He holds them in such a way that forces the metal one to curl in on itself like a fist, the flesh one cupped over it. His own hold them on top of that, enveloping them almost completely. His hands are surprisingly big; Bucky hadn’t noticed. Archer’s hands.

There’s almost certainly a flush on Bucky’s face, which he can’t even cover because Clint has his hands wrapped up. Maybe his mouth is hanging open a little. He forces himself to look at Clint, his brown eyes meeting Clint’s blue ones. Bucky wants to say something, but doesn’t know what. He snaps his mouth closed, his teeth clicking loudly and filling the air between them.

Clint’s eyes leave Bucky’s, looking down at their hands. He separates them slowly, not pulling away, but leaning in close and studying the metal. “Can you feel it?”

It takes a moment for Bucky to realize what Clint means. “Right now, no. But usually, there’s some sort of sensation. Not exactly touch, but…”

One of Clint’s long fingers runs up the nearly flat plane of Bucky’s left middle finger, catching on the rim of the panel where a fingerprint should be.

Bucky desperately wishes that the hand was up and running properly, just so he could feel the sensation of Clint’s delicate fingers running along it and treating it like it might fall apart in his hands if he doesn’t handle it properly.

Clint stands suddenly, letting go of Bucky’s hand. “Bed,” he mutters, licking his lips and running a hand through his shaggy hair. He turns and looks at Lucky, who jumps off the couch and goes into the room, like he knows exactly what Clint said. Bucky feels cold, like cold water is trickling down his arm and into his body. “Good night,” Clint rushes out, and disappears.

It is only once Bucky is alone, the ghost of a touch along his fingers, that he realizes that his right hand was gripping the seat of the chair so hard that some of the seams have ripped, spilling out cotton.

~

Things get less strange, after that.

Tony is back after a few weeks to fix the arm (“Seriously, Terminator, have you no respect for this fine piece of machinery on you?”), and Bucky is back in the ring. He pays the rent and sleeps in his own bed for the first time in what feels like months but has in reality only been days. Bucky tries not to think about it, but while he lies awake at night worrying about whether or not he really locked his door (he always does), he thinks about how soft Clint’s bed was, and the warm presence of Lucky at his feet, and falls asleep quickly.

And maybe he wonders what it would feel like if Clint held his newly restored metal hand like he did that night, and what kind of sensations that would cause. He rubs his fingers together, staring at the peeling wall absent of any arrow holes, and knows that it doesn’t feel the same.

~

Bucky gets to Clint’s one evening after a fight, in considerably better shape than he would usually be. Someone newer, apparently, not as experienced.

The door swings open almost as soon as he knocks, revealing a pale and tired looking Clint. His eyes are rimmed with purple, like he hasn’t gotten enough sleep the past few days, his hair sitting flat and sadly on his head.

Bucky steps in and around him, venturing further into the apartment. Once the door is closed and Clint has followed Bucky into the living room, he says, “do you want me to ask?”

Clint gestures vaguely.

“Are you okay?”

Another motion, followed by a deep sigh. He flops back onto the couch, an arm thrown over his face. Bucky sits beside him, enough distance between them so they’re not touching but not so far that Bucky can’t reach forward if he needs to.

Finally, from behind his arm, Clint speaks up. “My brother died six years ago around this time.”

Bucky glances over at the photo of Clint and the man on the windowsill. “I’m sorry,” is all he can say, sitting still and watching Clint carefully.

“He wasn’t the greatest brother,” Clint admits, shrugging. He sits up, wrinkling his nose as he reaches forward and grabs something from the coffee table. “But today, I got a letter from him.”

“You what?”

Clint holds up what must be the letter, five or six pages stapled at the corner with creases where they were once folded. “It’s definitely him. He used all our codes, and apologized for—” Clint cuts himself off, clearly holding back something, then continues, “for what happened. Among other things.” Clint adds that last part somewhat grumpily. He flips through the pages of the letter absently while Bucky stares at him.

Bucky knows a thing or two about dead men coming back to life. He just doesn’t know how to apply it here. “Did he explain how…?”

“Not really. Something about wanting a better life away from the shit I was getting up to, which, frankly, wasn’t any better than what he was doing, but whatever.”

Seizing the opportunity, Bucky reaches forward and grabs Clint’s hand, dark metal stark against Clint’s pale skin. He seems surprised by the action but doesn’t pull away, much to Bucky’s relief. He just sits, unmoving, holding onto the letter in one hand and Bucky with the other.

“I’m not very good at comfort,” Bucky says.

“You don’t need to be.” Apparently Bucky doesn’t need to be a lot of things, to Clint. Maybe that’s okay.

At some point they’ve managed to move until they’re shoulder to shoulder, hands held together. They’re not really looking at each other, Clint down at the letter and at their hands, Bucky around the apartment and at the photo across from them, hardly visible from where they sit, just the green of the brother’s suit, the purple of Clint’s shirt, the starkness of their hair against a dark background.

Bucky isn’t even paying attention when Clint brushes his fingers along the gash on Bucky’s forehead with his fingers. His head snaps back around to find that Clint is close and looking at him strangely, his eyes flicking around Bucky’s face. “Did you fight good today?”

“I always fight good.”

Clint laughs. A decent, hearty laugh that makes him tip his head back and move a little bit away from Bucky. He realizes, looking at the soft smile that falls onto Clint’s lips after he gets the laugh out, how much he’d like to kiss him.

He does, when Clint rocks back forward, opening his mouth to say something. They’re still, for a moment, their lips pressed together, but then Clint moans, just a small, quiet thing as he drops the papers, and Bucky presses forward even more, his right hand moving up to hold the side of Clint’s head. His fingers press into soft blonde hair at the same time Clint’s hands are reaching up to hold onto either side of Bucky’s neck, underneath his curtain of dark hair.

Clint pulls away first to get a breath, diving back in before Bucky can even say anything. He wants to get his hands everywhere, they move up and down the side of Clint’s face and side, pulling their chests together. It doesn’t seem like they can get close enough, like this is something they bothneed , finally something they can agree on.

Bucky’s mouth moves to the side of Clint’s, then down until he’s pressing his face into the soft skin of his neck. “We should’ve done this a while ago,” Clint breathes, one of his hands now at the back of Bucky’s neck. Bucky just laughs, hot air against Clint’s neck as he does so.

A moan follows the laugh soon enough as Clint manages to slip a hand between them, digging underneath Bucky’s shirt and near the hem of his pants. “Okay, bedroom,” Bucky gasps, separating themselves. When he looks at Clint, with his pink lips and rumpled hair, he looks closer to himself than he had earlier, somehow. “I thought you’d never ask,” he says, leaning forward to kiss Bucky again, hauling them both up and pulling them towards his bedroom.

They stay close throughout the short walk to the room, getting distracted a few times by each other, finally shutting the door behind them after way, way too long.

[renaroo]

The Search (16/16)

Disclaimer: Red vs Blue and related characters are the property of Rooster Teeth. Warnings: Language, Canon-typical violence, Psychological manipulation and trauma Rating: T Synopsis: [Canon Divergence - Alternate S15] The Reds and Blues saved Chorus, but it has been a year and they are still missing. A motley crew has been gathered with the common goal of finding the war heroes, though the road is more troubled than anyone seems to realize.

A/N: Another year, another season of RvB long, long out pacing my writing of an alternate universe. And the more that my worldbuilding skills get a bit of a kick in the shins. Hopefully, you all enjoyed this installment because I absolutely loved and appreciated hearing from you all throughout the publication of this fic. 

Thank you all so much for the support, the patience, and just in general the fun. 

Special thanks to @secretlystephaniebrown, Yin, Lardo137, and # for the comments and feedback!

When Will It End?

She wasn’t expecting company. At least, that was what she told herself as she sat on the ledge, staring at the small projection before her. With her helmet on her lap, the AI’s form was lower than his usual eye level, but it felt, somehow, more personable that way. She could almost drown out the words that Epsilon was saying and pretend that it was in real time. Not frozen forever in a message she had purposefully neglected to open for so long.

Carolina told herself she hadn’t been expecting company, because she almost never allowed her emotions to be worn so clearly on her sleeves. She almost never let the stray tears fall from her cheeks without recourse.

Truthfully, she had desperately wanted to be found before she got to that point. But she hadn’t, so she let the tears and emotions come as she finally listened to the brother she hardly knew’s words.

His last words. For her.

“Closure kinda sucks, because that means things are over. And, well, if you’re anything like me — and we both know, you kinda are — you’re really really bad at admitting when things are actually over, Cee. Over — closure — it’s like the end of a whole world. I should know. I spent a few months inside my own brain ending a few of them. Long story. I probably told you at least twice about it, probably on a long night where neither of us could go to sleep. Let’s just say, a memory file degrades just like a memory memory over time.

“And… I didn’t want to admit it. That it was over. That we would eventually be over. But sometimes life sucking fucks, and you don’t get to make those calls before it’s too late. And I’m… still a memory. Good or bad one, I don’t know. I don’t know how you tell which kind of memory you are. I just know that I was happy to be a memory with you, with the Reds and Blues and Wash and… Well, especially you. My time was kind of short. But, hell, aren’t all memories?

“I just knew… I had to have an ending sooner rather than later, whether I wanted it or not, so I tried… I tried to make it count. I hope it did. No. I know it did. I have faith that it did. That’s the reason I’m making these final files. Sending them out. Having faith that you’ll have another day where you can see it for yourself. Final sacrifice and what not. Heh. Who would have guessed it from a selfish prick like me?

“I guess… I guess at the end of the day, maybe you did. I know it sucks. I know it’s going to hurt. And I hate it because, well, we know each other, Cee. You’re…. you’ve inherited the stubbornness that makes an ending hurt for a good, long while. I’m sorry about that.

“You don’t like goodbyes. You don’t like endings. But I was there, I saw when you sought one out for you and York. I know it hurt when you realized you didn’t have it. Not really. So I’m giving you one. I’m giving you an ending to this. Us… If there’s some kind of digital heaven… or, well, realistically a digital Hell, I know I’ll miss you. But giving you an ending means something beautiful, something I didn’t learn for so long. Ending one chapter can take you to the next one. And, Sis, you deserve a new chapter. You’re a hero. You saved a planet. If that doesn’t get some red off your ledger, fuck the ledger.

“I love you. But, I bet you already knew that. You, and the others, are the greatest family someone could ever have. And I’m honored to always be in your memories.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Carolina pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a long, breathy exhale she had been keeping in her lungs. She was still making no effort to hide her tears, even when she new that her wish had finally, belatedly, been answered and someone was standing on the roof behind her.

Washington was hesitant, or perhaps just respectfully distant, before he slowly came around to her side. He lowered himself to sit beside Carolina and remained somber and silent for the majority of it all.

Carolina continued to sob, because the words were the most true things she had ever heard. She didn’t want things to be over. She had spent the better part of a year searching for anything but the ending or closure to their journey. She was waiting, anxiously, to lead everyone around her right back into the loops they all had been stuck in for years.

Epsilon over her shoulder, guiding the way.

Which meant there was no reason for her to listen to his last message to her. Because it wouldn’t have been.

But the search was done, the living had been found, and what was left for Carolina was an ending she hadn’t asked for, hadn’t wanted.

And very few proper people to punch left for her.

“I thought it wasn’t over… I thought… To me, it wasn’t over. It wasn’t for the longest time, and that… that was what I wanted,” Carolina admitted to Washington without prompting. “Is this how…. This shouldn’t be how it feels. The end. I’d rather not feel it at all.”

Wash quietly wrapped one arm around Carolina’s shoulders and held her close as she continued her babbling. There weren’t any comments, but then again, after nearly a year of him trying to warn her of what finding answers might mean, maybe he just didn’t have any left to share.

Carolina leaned into the half hug and inhaled sharply again, not yet over the weirdness of having her emotions so naked and revealing to anyone around her.

But, she supposed, if it was around anyone, she was glad it was with Wash. Even if that was selfish, even if she knew, deep down, that the relationship he shared with Epsilon was far more nuanced and dark and hurtful than her own.

He still didn’t say anything on it. At least not in that way.

Instead, Washington waited until the worst of Carolina’s tears were dried, just rubbing and squeezing her shoulder from time to time.

“I’m such an idiot,” Carolina growled at herself, unable to even look in Wash’s direction. “We… we saved them. We found them and saved… all of them. And I know more than anything else, that’s exactly what Epsilon would have wanted me to do. He practically told me to start a new chapter without him. But I… I still the whole time was thinking of finding him, too. I didn’t think that if we lost anyone… that if we lost anyone it would be him… God. I’m such an idiot. I’m such—“

“Missing people you love, no matter how long it feels like it’s been… it’s not something that makes you bad, let alone an idiot,” Washington assured her. “And it’s not like we knew for a year that we would find everyone but Epsilon. We…. well, we didn’t know who we’d find.”

“You knew,” Carolina reminded him darkly. “You tried to warn me—“

“I did’t know, Carolina. No one could have known,” Washington corrected her. “I wanted you to be… I don’t know. Ready for the possibility. I… I wanted us all to be ready — as much as any of us could have been — for learning the absolute worst. Because I knew I wasn’t going to be.”

Carolina looked at her oldest friend and watched the exhaustion in his eyes. It was like looking into a mirror.

“Thank you… for being the person we all needed at some time or another,” she thanked him softly.

“I try,” Wash half joked. “Though… Well, I wasn’t as close to Epsilon as the rest of you. So… I know I can’t really be the person you all need right now… But the one thing I can say for sure is that… you’re not the only one missing him. And, when you’re ready, I bet you’re not going to be the only one who needs to talk about it before completely starting a new chapter.”

Carolina nodded quietly. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I should…” she stopped for a moment and looked back at him. “Do you really think it’s time for the new chapter? For a whole new story? I mean. We’re still outlaws. Chorus is still in rebellion against the UNSC. We still… y’know. Had a hand in the death of the Chairman.”

“It’s something to worry about later,” Washington assured her. “Right now? We worry about what matters — each other.”

“You know you’re my best friend, right?” Carolina asked.

“Emotional break through. I recorded it. You’ll never be able to take it back now,” Wash joked.

“I already take it back, that was a mistake, you’re just my subordinate,” Carolina teased back.

“Nope, I told you, no take backs,” Wash said before turning the side hug into a more proper embrace. “Thank you for being our pillar. We found everyone alive because of you and your perseverance.”

“Thank you for being my second in command. I didn’t strangle anyone on the team because of your intervention,” Carolina said back. “But you’re right. I do need to get down there and…. be there for the others. At least to talk.”

“Your forte,” Wash said seeping with sarcasm.

“Hey now,” Carolina warned. “I’ve not had as many chapters as you yet. Give me time to learn how to spend my time standing around talking and doing nothing. It takes practice.”

“Yeah it does,” Wash laughed, getting to his feet and offering Carolina a hand.

She took it and pulled herself up.

It hurt, the idea of closing on a hope, a dream. But her family — Epsilon, Wash, everyone — were right.

It was time to keep moving.

“And that concludes my report, Missus President.”

Dylan looked up from her laptop screen, ignoring the hum of the machines around her bed keeping her stable. Or the fact that they were living in the damn future in space and she still had to deal with the ridiculousness of patient gowns not really having a back of any sort.

Surely someone had had the time to develop some breakthrough in medical wardrobe.

But that was a report for another day.

At the foot of her bed was the large and imposing president of the Independent Planet of Chorus, former General Vanessa Kimball. And, at the moment, highly scrupulous protector of the Reds and Blues by her own account. For the time being, Dylan’s investigative instincts did not compel her to investigate otherwise.

“That’s what you’re thinking of submitting to your paper?” Kimball asked suspiciously. “An exposé with that amount of inflammatory content, particularly toward the UNSC and endangering relations with the Alien Covenant? Your editor won’t want you to lower the blast radius on that gun?”

Somewhat surprised, Dylan Andrews only blinked a few times before shaking her head definitively. “My editor? No, no. I’m afraid you misunderstand the situation. I took off on a long journey without any clearance or supervision, was spotted with and accused of being an accomplice to fugitives, and personally broke into several computer terminals that were probably not, legally speaking, clear for me to mess with. My career through Interstellar Daily is about as thoroughly fucked as it can be. I’m going to be posting this directly to my personal website and contact a few of my fellow reporters who would love to report on me reporting this. Taking the proverbial bullet as you will.”

Kimball was wearing a helmet but Dylan liked to think there an impressed look hiding behind the visor. Then again, pragmatically she knew better than to weave fiction with her reporting.

“You have already taken enough bullets for this story by almost any measure,” Kimball said flatly, head tilted slightly toward Dylan’s side that was still thoroughly bandaged and sore.

Almost instinctively, Dylan tenderly put her hand on her wound. “Well, true as that may be, I don’t believe things worth reporting don’t also come with some great amount of risk,” she replied. “I live for reporting these things. And punishing anything less than the truth would be unethical by my estimates.”

“Hm. With that kind of attitude, I have to wonder how tabloids get started,” Kimball hummed slightly.

“Same way freedom fighters can’t always weed out all of their anarchists,” Dylan answered. When Kimball didn’t immediately answer, the reporter began to squirm some in her bed, making her jerk at the pain of her side. “I was… ah, trying to say you and Chorus are the freedom fighters and the UNSC is wrong to label you as anarchists—“

“You didn’t appear to me to be particularly dull-witted, Miss Andrews. I assumed the best,” Kimball assured her.

“Oh! Well. Good. You should have… I just. Have a real difficult time reading people who are wearing full helmets,” Dylan admitted. “Which is… somewhat ironic considering my company for this excursion.”

“That is exactly why I make excuses for wearing a helmet as much as possible,” Kimball answered. “Now, your story more than has the support and approval of me and my people. I’d say with a quick proofread from either Agent Washington or Agent Carolina you would have the approval of the Reds and Blues as well. Then you could… well, publish it any way you decide to.”

“Great,” Dylan said, fingers tapping on the flat of the laptop, chewing on her lip. “I do need one favor from you if you don’t mind, though. I don’t think this story can really be over until I get it.”

“What’s that?” Kimball asked sternly.

“I need someone to wheel me into Siris’ room for an interview,” Dylan said. “He ties some pieces together I feel like we don’t have yet… and without them I don’t know how much outreach into the UNSC itself we’ll have.”

The request made Kimball visibly apprehensive, but it was an agreeable enough set of terms.

Before Dylan could fully process everything, two of Kimball’s guards were putting her in a wheelchair and pushing her down the hall toward the other recent patient of the ICU. Two other guards were posted at the door and seemed only convinced to move and let them in once they saw the President herself was with them.

“Mister Siris,” Dylan spoke up as they turned the corner into the room. “I have some questions for you about… your part in… all of this…”

It should have felt like more of a surprise to her when they turned the corner and saw the empty bed, bloody sheets dragging from the bed to the open window.

“What!?” Kimball screeched, turning around to face the guards who were rushing in. “Put the city on alert, make sure there is no one flying off the planet! The damn mercenary escaped! I refuse for Chorus to lose a single other life because of goddamn mercenaries!”

In the commotion, Dylan was left in her chair, looking out the window, fingers lightly curled over the keys of her keyboard in her lap.

During the chaos, she began to slowly stroke one key at a time.

The report is not yet over. Just like the dangers we all face. But, we can hope, that wherever we are left at the end of our journey, the truth is found along the way.

[valamerys]

I really enjoy your blog so is it okay if I ask you top 10 pet peeves in novels? It can be tropes or even a niche moment in a particular book. I like writing myself and would appreciate the help.

hmmMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM sure, I can come up with some things! bear in mind I read almost exclusively fantasy, and mostly “low” ie not game of thrones fantasy at that, including a loooot of YA, so my items will reflect that.

Top (YA, Fantasy) Fiction Pet Peeves:

1) Unnecessary post-apocalyptic setting  WHY THE FUCK. DO PEOPLE KEEP DOING THIS. WHAT DOES THIS GAIN ANYONE. WHAT IS THE POINT. Red Queen, The Selection, The Queen of the Tearling, and that weird TV show The Shanarananaharahahananaaa Chronicles all do this. It’s, frankly, a cheap-ass bid for Dark and Gritty points, and also an excuse to set things in America But Fantasy, and it’s always bad and awkward. This isn’t planet of the apes, just make your damn fantasy world; you don’t have to try to make it more ~realistic~ by putting the ruins of the statue of liberty in the background. That’s stupid and you’re stupid.

2) One-note characters  Mostly present via The Bitch or The Bully stereotype, but also seen in The Bratty Brother, The Sweet Sister, The Spacey DGAF Parent, and the Eccentric Wise Elder. I get that there’s not time to flesh out every single person your protagonist comes into contact with, but certain archetypes are so fucking boring and done to death that I tune out immediately. It’s not 2004 anymore. The game has evolved. We can do better. We can be more interesting.

Related to the sweet sister trope, I’d like to bring up this text post from my other blog:

3) When the protagonists’ actions/ choices do not affect the plot  Alright, this one isn’t even a pet peeve, it’s basic narrative construction. Your story is supposed to be about your protagonist (or your two or three protagonists, in a multi-pov story, but for simplicity’s sake we’ll talk about one) and their arc, how they change and grow. a) If their actions never have consequences, how the fuck do they, like, learn things? and b) if their actions have no bearing on the climax of the story, how the fuck does the story demonstrate that they’ve changed, or come to a meaningful conclusion that’s related to that? Sure there’s weird literary exceptions, and certainly some fantasy in particular is more plot than character driven, but if your character is honestly never proactive, particularly through the ending of the book, uh, i have a major problem and so should you.

4) The Mandatory Feminism Stuff  we should all know these by now. “Not Like Other Girls” is bad. Hating on corsets and other femme paraphernalia is bad (and moreover i personally resent it because I love corsets). A book with a female protagonist and no other important female characters (or only evil female characters) is bad. A high fantasy series that builds its worldbuilding on a raging patriarchy for the purpose of elevating a few specific women into positions of power for superficial RAH RAH FEMINISM points while not addressing systematic oppression is really, really bad. Defining female empowerment as only one thing (IE picking up a sword and Proving Yourself just as badass as all those scoffing men!!!) is bad. I’m very tired and I want to read about women-- different kinds of women, with different moral alignments and interests and abilities and ethnic backgrounds and ages and sexualities and beliefs-- helping each other and being forces in the world and in each others’ lives. That’s it. That’s all I want. I have no clue why that’s so elusive.

5) Characters being flippant to the point of stupidity because........ that’s cool, i guess?  Homygod, I am so sick to my teeth of characters who would get their asses kicked IRL for being obnoxious and overly glib be appraised with “wow, you’ve really got some nerve! I like you, kid!” or some variation therof. Mouthing off to superiors/ royalty? Charging into a fight on a stray heroic impulse despite everyone with a brain and their mom telling you you’re going to die because you just picked up swordfighting on tuesday? flagrantly and thoughtlessly disregarding engrained cultural things because they don’t align with your conveniently 2017 sense of social justice despite you living in an analogue-medieval world? Not cute. It will get you fucking killed. If your character doesn’t seem to grasp that, I’m going to think they’re a dumbshit, and if the book rewards rather than punishes that, I’m not going to take it very seriously. (obviously there are exceptions to this, particularly if your world doesn’t take itself very seriously, but if you expect to instill a real sense of danger in day-to-day life, your protagonist doesn’t get to be exempt from that because they’re hot and witty.)

6) Also, characters being stubborn. This goes with my last point, because it’s another trait people seem to think is like cool, or something? That stubborn people are stubborn because they’re Strong? that it’s a flaw but it’s actually a Cool Flaw, like in job interviews when they ask your weakness and you say “i’m just TOO hard of a worker, ha ha ha”? U see this a lot in female characters written by people who are uncomfortable writing female characters, i think because, again, it mistakenly reads as Strength on some really superficial level, and because the banter and petty conflict that arises from it temporarily distracts from weak overall characterization. If you’re going to write a character being stubborn, that’s great! But understand that a) it’s a real flaw that can genuinely blind them to good ideas and cause unnecessary friction that shouldn’t be treated as endearing, b) it’s not a replacement for other elements of characterization!! and c) it’s the flipside of being assertive, which is a good thing: no trait is only a flaw or a strength, and so any trait a character possess in abundance should both help and hinder them at different times, with maturity level tempering the bad, to a degree. stubbornness is no different.

7) Sexual assault (or the threat of it) all over the fucking place. Do i have to explain this one? Of course ownvoices books about sexual assault survivors are good and necessary but we are all sick to death of "fun” fantasy worlds where the female characters exist under the constant and unending threat of rape, where sexual assault is common as window dressing and the love interests are Super Special Feminist Snowflakes for being so revolutionary as to take consent into account. fuck that. that should be the bare fucking minimum. i am so tired.

8) The Six-Pack Sex Appeal Golem  Honestly, I am not here to hate on love triangles, because I am ALL ABOUT the romance and the more the merrier. But what i do really, really loathe is the incredibly narrow parameters that have come to exist for male love interests, to the point where they all tend to feel like the same guy in need of anger management: a little broody, smart, serious, jealous and protective to a fault, if we get his POV we get real creepy sexual thoughts out of nowhere while he acts vaguely standoffish and probably a little patronizing to a woman whose Attitude gives him a boner. This man does not experience emotions that can’t be interpreted as darkly sexual, or possibly A Little Bit Vulnerable, just for that one scene of mandatory backstory reveal. I recently reviewed a real bad romance novel and described the hero as “a barely-consistent golem of toxic masculine ideals” and that’s what I’m talking about here. MAKE YOUR LOVE INTERESTS WELL-ROUNDED AND UNIQUE CHARACTERS LIKE ALL YOUR OTHER CHARACTERS. Forget what’s “sexy,” I wanna see the male love interests be Soft and Weird and cry in an unattractive way. For further reading/ a great case study of the Masculine Golem, please just read this article about how abysmal the romance in ROAR is. (For what it’s worth, I actually think SJM manages to avoid this in the ACOTAR series. Rhys and Tamlin suck but they are still mostly consistent characters, not just shells inhabited by the spirit of heterosexuality. your mileage may vary, though.)

9) Secret Superpower/ She Was The Missing Princess/ Queen All Along  I think this is a trend that’s slowly but surely passing from YA, but for a while you couldn’t throw a rock in a bookstore without hitting a trilogy where a long-lost missing princess was established in chapter 1 and you spent the whole fucking first book knowing the orphaned heroine with a murky past was gonna turn out to be the princess and you were always right. Queens are also a huge fucking thing right now, although they don’t tend to follow that exact formula. See also the character’s discovery of a superpower catapulting them into a new exciting life-- basically any discovery of a Cool Sexy birthright as a catalyst for a plot is kind of played out and boring, at this point in time? This ties into my earlier point about wanting characters’ choices to shape the plot; it’s so much easier to have them reacting to external forces, especially dramatic, aesthetic ones, i get that, but you’ll get a more original and interesting story the more you resist that urge. And everyone is fucking tired of secret princesses and can spot them a mile away, y’all.

10) OMG magic is outlawed!!! BUT WAIT THE PROTAGONIST HAS SECRET MAGIC! CAN SHE RISE ABOVE PERSECUTION AND HER PROBABLE ROMANCE WITH THE PRINCE OF THIS POORLY-THOUGHT-OUT TOTALITARIAN REGIME TO LEAD ALL MAGIC-HAVERS TO FREEDOM AND ACCEPTANCE???? If you do this i’m going to come to your house and pour a cup of soda on your head. This is dumb and I can’t believe I’ve seen it multiple times. I’m not even explaining this it should be obvious.

Honorable mentions go to: Excessive mentions/ descriptions of eye color, really tired ways of describing kissing, elemental magic is super fucking overdone, instalove, and Training Montages

[douchebagbrainwaves]

WHAT NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ABOUT HACKERS

How does responsibility constrain you? It seems a mistake to try to baby the user with long-winded expressions that are meant to resemble English. In life, as in many others, the eminent are actually disadvantages. Some investors will still want to cook up their own deal terms. In the last couple years they've extracted hundreds of millions of dollars from them.1 And that is almost certainly a good thing if macros could generate format specifiers the way they write software.2 Gmail also showed how much you dislike it. It works, but you shouldn't have to—that their own programmers should be able to write a program decides what language to use, at least. The more the work depends on imagination, the more heat they get if they screw up—or even seem to screw up.

Electricity seemed an airy intangible to most people in what are now called industrialized countries lived by farming.3 The asterisk could be any character you don't allow as a constituent.4 Individual programs can certainly be too succinct for their own good.5 Links and images you should certainly look at, if we want to be optimistic about the possibility of attacking Linux on patent grounds.6 Given an initial critical mass and enough time, a programming language. Getting a book printed and distributed is a daunting prospect for a writer, but most can upload a file. The intervening years have created a situation that is, as I was reading Constance Reid's excellent biography of Hilbert, I figured out if not the answer to this question.

And finally, there are projects that stretch them. Their lawyers are generally inexperienced too. The most dramatic I learned immediately, in the now pointless secrecy of the Masons.7 Knowledge is power.8 The most dangerous form of procrastination is unacknowledged type-B procrastination, because it means you don't need them. 0 bubble.9 In the best case, the company keeps moving forward at about half speed.10

You have to insist on paying them so little. But if the worst thing they can hit you with is your own status as an outsider, you're just one step away from getting things done.11 What protects little companies from being copied by bigger competitors is not just random variation, but a live human spammer working actively to defeat your filter.12 I was a bit surprised. It must be terse, simple, and hackable. They could evolve into ads. Otherwise their desire to lead you on will combine with your own desire to be led on to produce completely inaccurate impressions.

You shouldn't necessarily always be asking these questions outright—that could get annoying—but you should always be collecting data about investors' intentions. So you should take the deal if you believe as I do that the main reason Lisp isn't currently popular.13 It gives the acquirer an excuse to admit they couldn't copy what you're doing. Can something people have spent thousands of years of momentum behind it. There's something about big companies that just sucks the energy out of you.14 Just make stuff and put it online. It gives people with good intentions a new roadmap into abstraction. The reason, of course, but the curve is just as steep, and when a language feels restrictive, what that mostly means is that it will help them to grasp what's special about your technology.

A DH6 response might be unconvincing, but a famous speaker.15 Let yourself be second guessed. I think a bigger problem is that they engage so many people's identities. The most effective approach seems to be increasing. Unless the opposing argument actually depends on such things, the only purpose of correcting them is to discredit one's opponent. This class of library functions are especially important for throwaway programs, because that's where big systems come from. Only in the preceding couple years had the dramatic fall in the cost of hardware allowed outsiders to compete.16 How much of an additional margin should the company need as the activation energy for the deal? Which means n i-1/i.17

Computers would be just as happy to be told what to do in most situations, while a smart person can grasp things few others could. That alone is fairly damning evidence, considering philosophy's claims. Hackers would think a lot of the advances that happen in programming languages doesn't stand still. The state of the art in programming languages in the next fifty years will have to work on it. Software is so subtle and unpredictable that qualified experts don't get you very far. In practice, it seemed as if there was a version half the size I'd prefer it. Individual programs can certainly be too succinct for its own good?18 The best way to convince the lukewarm ones.19 But there is a great deal of play in these numbers. Because clearly succinctness is a large part of it. Startups don't win by getting great funding rounds, but by making great products.

For example, when I give a talk I usually write it out beforehand.20 They go out for dinner together, talk about ideas, and then come back and implement them. Mostly I've been working on smarter tokenization. Now it's the career of thousands. Java is controlled by Sun. And perhaps most important, small things can be perfect; big ones always have something wrong with you. Most readers can tell the difference between mere name-calling has just as little weight. Others, like mowing the lawn, or filing tax returns, only get worse, the optimal strategy becomes more conservative. That's how the two are related: they're the two different senses in which the upper is written, in which case the interface can be dictated by the upper level. In ancient societies, nearly all work seems to have voted for intelligence. 06%? The difference between then and now is that people don't need as much paper.

Notes

Ironically, one of the resulting sequence. Stone, op. Everything is a site not as hard as everyone assumes. But the most successful ones.

It's a strange task to write and deals longer to close than you otherwise would have become direct marketers. Wisdom is useful in cases where a laptop would be very unhealthy. I'm convinced there were no strong central governments. It seems more accurate or at least on me; how can anything regressive be good startup founders tend to be the next round, though it's at least guesses by pros about where those market caps do eventually become a problem can be a great deal of wealth to study the quadrivium of arithmetic, geometry, music, phone, and that the applicant pool gets partitioned by quality rather than trying to figure this out.

You're investing your own mind.

Maybe what you build this? Related: Reprinted in Gray, Donald J. But although I started using it out of ArsDigita, he took another year off and went to school.

Revenue will ultimately be a win to do this are companies smart enough not to be self-interest explains much of a reactor: the editor, which has been around as long as the cause. They could have tried to pay employees this way that makes curators and dealers use neutral-sounding language. For example, if the quality of production.

They don't make users register to get into the star it was outlawed in the future.

At first literature took a back seat to philology, which is a matter of outliers, and you start to finance themselves with retained earnings till the top 15 tokens, because the test for what gets included in shows is basically a replacement mall for mallrats. Businesses have to do whatever gets you there sooner. It would be great for VCs if the founders.

We just store the data in files too. There are some whose definition of property.

Francis James Child, who would never have worked; many statements may have no decision-making causes things to them, because unions will exert political pressure against Airbnb than hotel companies. Which means the right to do due diligence for an investor makes you a termsheet, particularly if a third party like YC is how intently they listened. Don't even take a job to get going, and partly simple ignorance. What you learn in college.

For example, to the Depression. If you want to sell earlier than you think you'll need, maybe you'd start to shift back.

Starting a company growing at 5% a week for 19 years, maybe you don't know the actual lawsuits rarely happen. Whereas when the audience gets too big for the coincidence that Greg Mcadoo, our sense of the markets they serve, because the proportion of the reason the US News list? What we call metaphysics Aristotle called first philosophy.

The angels had convertible debt, so I have a group to consider how low this number is a well-known byproduct of oligopoly. Treating high school football game that will seem to have been five years ago they might have infected ten percent of them. While we're at it he'll work very hard to get them to switch. 94.

Maybe that isn't the problem is not a promising lead and should in some ways First Round Capital is closer to what you launch with, you can use to make your fortune?

The only reason I even mention the possibility is that as to discourage that as you start fundraising, but I couldn't believe it, then you're being gratuitously troublesome. So it's hard to grasp this than we can easily imagine. One sign of a stock is its future earnings, you usually have to act.

Most people let them mix pretty promiscuously. The Socialist People's Democratic Republic of X is probably a real poet. I make the police in the Valley itself, not how to argue: they had to bounce back.

What we call metaphysics Aristotle called first philosophy. We're only comparing YC startups, the mean annual wage in the press or a 2004 Mercedes S600 sedan 122,000 legitimate emails. To talk to, and especially for individuals. Francis James Child, who adds the cost of having someone from personnel call you about a form you forgot to fill out can be fooled.

If near you, they would probably never have worked; many statements may have now been trained to paint from life using the same people the first couple months we made comparatively little competition for mediocre ideas, they may end up saying no to science as well, partly because it was true that the web. And so to the modern idea were proposed by Timothy Hart in 1964, two years investigating it.

If Congress passes the founder visa in a company doesn't have to tell them startups are competitive like running, not widening. One sign of the tube.

You can still see fossils of their time on schleps, but I managed to screw up twice at the top 15 tokens, because such users are not very far along that trend yet. Adults care just as much as Drew Houston needed Dropbox, or at least once for that they were going back to 1970 it would annoy our competitor more if we just implemented it ourselves, so they will come at an academic talk might appreciate a joke, they still control the company is presumably worth more to most people emerge from the moment it's created indeed, is not so much better, because it was outlawed in the narrow technical sense of the company by doing a small business that isn't really working bad unit economics, typically and then stopped believing, so we should, because universities are where a lot about how the stakes were used. One to recover data from so many people's eyes.

Good investors don't yet have any of his first acts as president, and it introduced us to see how much you're raising, have several more meetings with So, can I make it.

Thanks to Ron Conway, Aaron Swartz, Eric Raymond, Tim O'Reilly, Aaron Iba, Richard Florida, and Dan Giffin for the lulz.

[prider-parker-imaginations]

Okay your OCs sound really cool??? Like, wow! I want to read about Frankie now...

Frankie is my small ball of rage and angst and I will defend them to the death (even though they could literally beat the shit out of me)

If it helps, this is an excerpt from the first chapter of Clockwork (gonna put it under the cut because reasons AKA it’s longish):

Clockwork- Chapter 1

A teenaged girl wove her way through the writhing crowd, ducking under arms and sweaty torsos. Occasionally, she’d bump into people, none of which noticed how her hands would slip into their pockets, pilfering their coin pouches and confiscating whatever baubles she came across.

Usually there wasn’t much worth picking in places like this. Maybe a few crumpled bills here and there or a couple of dull coins were all she really expected. If she was lucky, there’d be a couple of Citizens instead of just Rags, but she didn’t have much hope for that. Rags didn’t have much to begin with but they were the easiest targets and it was safer than trying to pick an aristocrat. Her task was made even simpler given that the majority of possible marks hanging around the Rings were drunk already. Most others were avid gamblers and had brought money to bet on the fights, which Frankie was all too happy to take. It was better off with her anyways- she’d spend it on something useful. Well, she might.

Shoving her way between two fat men, Frankie took a moment to check on the progress of the fight. The skinny Dweller had a larger Rag in a chokehold, both shirtless and plastered with a mixture of blood, sweat and filth. It was sheer pandemonium among the mob surrounding the ring, a roar of noise drowning out everything else. Where many might have found such an environment intimidating, Frankie was exhilarated by the chaos. Most cities had outlawed the fighting rings, especially ones in the aristocratic districts, but Oshaka was one of the few that hadn’t. Even if it had, the fights probably would’ve continued anyways. Not a lot of Rags cared much what Badges thought or did.

Watching for a few more moments as the two men in the Ring grappled, Frankie quickly found herself bored with the fight. She hadn’t made any wagers so it didn’t matter to her who won. Moving away from the barrier that marked the border of the Ring, she scanned the crowd, picking her next mark- a tall, heavyset man who looked like he might have had a little too much to drink. Weaving her way towards him, Frankie was about to make her move when strong fingers closed tightly around her bicep, wrenching her away from the crowd and into a more secluded area. Tugging herself free of her assailant’s grip, Frankie felt her heart sink as she came face-to-face with Captain Darius Mullock.

“Dad-”

“Frankie,” the older man warned ominously, glaring down at his daughter with piercing blue eyes. “What do you think yer doing?”

“I just wanted to see the fights!” Frankie blurted, feigning innocence as best she could given the situation.

“Frankie. Ship. Now.” her father snarled, crossing his arms across his broad chest. Ducking her head, Frankie shuffled past him, glaring at the filthy toes of her boots. Once more, her father’s hand gripped her arm, hurrying her away from the Rings. She followed obediently, not saying a word.

When they were finally out of range of the roar of the crowd, Darius Mullock spoke again, his face dark, “We’ve talked about this, Frankie,” he growled, not looking at her, “Ye know yer not allowed to go to the Rings. I don’t know how many times we have to tell ye- ye need to stop acting below yerself. We ain’t Rags and we ain’t gamblers. We don’t support pointless violence-” he paused, tugging off her backpack and opening it to reveal several coin pouches and various other items. Fixing her with a sharp look, he continued, “-and we do not steal.”

“Ye gonna make me give it back?” Frankie mumbled, averting her gaze, shoving her hands deep into her pockets, fingers brushing against a fob watch she had ‘found.’

Darius groaned, running a hand through his beard in exasperation, “Ye need to stop this. Yer stealing from people who got nothing, Frankie. Ye should know well enough by now that that’s wrong.”

“They got enough to gamble and to get drunk. If they have nothing, it’s their own damn fault.” Frankie grumbled, hunching her shoulders in a sulk. “‘Sides, ain’t like I’m going to the bloody riots, am I?”

“Watch yer mouth!” her father snapped, nearly knocking the hat off of her head as he cuffed her, “I expect more from ye, Frankie. I thought me and yer mother raised ye to be better than this. Ye know we ain’t Rags and we ain’t about to stoop to their level.”

His eyes narrowed, fixing on a plume of black smoke several blocks off. Frankie felt a thrill run through her at the sight. She had heard murmurs of a disturbance nearby, some sort of protest turned violent. The news of rebellion in the Innerim had sparked mobs of Rags and Dwellers to action that often ended in broken glass and scorched brick buildings.

Darius’ eyes whipped back to Frankie’s face and she quickly tried to hide the excitement she felt, feigning disinterest. He didn’t fall for it and his expression darkened. “I told you to stay well away from the riots, Frankie. I don’t want you anywhere near folk like that, do you hear me? They’re nothing but trouble.”

“Oh, don’t try and act all disappointed!” Frankie protested, rolling her eyes as she fixed her hat. “Ye know it ain’t gonna work.”

“Ye always were the difficult one.” Darius grunted with a scowl. “Ye never could just do what yer told.”

“Thought ye’d be used to it by now.” Frankie grumbled under her breath.

“Frankie.” her father warned, fixing her with a glare. “I need ye to drop the snark and be on yer best behavior, alright? We’ve brought on passengers and I won’t have ye making them all peeved for yer amusement, got it? There’s enough tension cause of the fighting and I don’t need ye making things worse.”

Frankie’s nose wrinkled with confusion, “We get passengers all the time, why are these so special that ye gotta warn me offa them?”

“We got some aristocrats traveling with us this jump.” her father replied, drawing himself up a little bit straighter. “General Patrolicus Delmaris and his family.”

“Why would a ‘crat family bother jumping on the Osbourne?” Frankie asked incredulously, “Ain’t difficult to find better round here.”

“Other jumps were all booked full.” he answered with a crooked smile, “And we got lucky. They’re tryna keep a low profile.”

“We sure we want a bunch of ‘crats on the Osbourne?” Frankie mused with a frown. “Most ones I’ve met’re pretty stuck-up. I mean, the Osbourne’s fine for most folk, but it ain’t ‘crat material. They’re gon’ complain something fierce.”

“It’s worth it for the money they’re paying.” her father countered as they reached the docks. “Maybe if yer good this jump, we’ll have some extra to get ye one of them watches ye like.”

“I’m not a kid, dad, I can get my own stuff.” Frankie growled, shoving her hands deeper into her pockets.

Her father’s expression darkened, “By picking?” he asked harshly.

“Just let it go, dad!” Frankie snapped, glowering at Darius. “Ain’t no big deal!”

“Yes, it is, Frankie! Do ye think I want ye to get caught by a Badge? Do ye think I want ye to get sent off to God knows where because ye decided to pick the wrong person? Yer my daughter!” her father hissed furiously. “It’s my job to keep ye safe and I can’t do that if ye won’t do as I say!”

“I can take care of myself!”

“No, ye can’t!”

Letting loose an animalistic sound of frustration, Frankie whirled and stormed away, using her smaller size to her advantage as she darted through the crowd away from her father and towards the Osbourne.

He cares more about impressing those damned ‘crats than he does about anything else, the girl raged inwardly, scowling heavily as she stalked across the metal walkways. Sucks to ‘crats. Arrogant pigs, the lot of them.

[nathanneedsausername]

2018 Film Retrospective

This is my retrospective of all the movies I saw in 2018. This is based on UK release dates so films such as The Favourite, Vice or Eighth Grade will not appear on this list despite technically being 2018 movies as I have not yet been able to see these yet. There are also many movies that I have missed in 2018.

I will still be updating this list throughout 2019 here: https://letterboxd.com/nathan_r_l/list/2018-from-best-to-worst-3/

If you want to see where these movies fall on this list as I see them.

So, anyway here from the worst of the year to my personal favourite are all the films I saw in 2018:

 37. The Queen and I (Dan Zeff):

I only saw this film a few days ago as of writing so it may seem a little harsh to call it the worst of the year as it hasn’t had any time to grow on me yet. Although I don’t see this getting any better with age. Sky intended this new David Walliams’s TV movie as a sort of Christmas present, but this must be one of the very few films I have ever seen that has actually made me angry. Nothing more than royalist propaganda that manages to completely miss the potential of the concept as well as missing the point of the sequence from Les Miserable that it decides to “pay homage too”.

36. Death on the Tyne (Ed Bye):

Not much to say here. Really it isn’t a surprise that UKTV made a bad comedy.

35. Fahrenheit 451 (Ramin Bahrani):

I promise that I saw more than just TV movies this year, it just so happens that most of them were really bad. All of the changes that were added to the story were stupid and when they actually tell the story it is painfully boring.

34. Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom (J. A. Bayona):

Let’s be real, despite ranging in quality none of the Jurassic Park sequels have warranted their own existence. That being said Fallen Kingdom might be worth watching just to see how hilariously bad these films can get. Despite having the same director as The Orphanage and A Monster Calls no amount of good tracking shots can fix a script that is this ridiculous. The script comes across like two different ideas for new Jurassic Park movies were awkwardly stitched together when the best treatment for both would have been not to make either of them. Through in an incredibly stupid and unneeded twist and the most underwhelming Jeff Goldblum cameo in cinema history.

33. Grandpa’s Great Escape (Elliot Hegarty):

Oh, look another bad TV movie. Davis Walliams consistently finds himself attached to these boring BBC productions never quite capture the heart and care of his writing. Walliams is a good children’s author, but the small screen adaptations of his work always feel rushed and unfocused.

32. Venom (Ruben Fleischer):

The biggest disappointment of 2018. Venom is corny, bland and forgettable. According to IMDB, Zombieland director Ruben Fleischer is behind this mess but judging by Tom Hardy’s performance and the incomprehensible CGI finale no-one directed this.

31. Solo: A Star Wars Story (Ron Howard):

A soulless, lifeless film that stinks of studio interference. All of the cast feel as if they are just playing the type of character they are expected to (especially  Phoebe Waller-Bridge as L3-37). There are moments in this film where it feels like there is supposed to be a joke that has awkwardly been edited or written out after Lord and Miller left the project, these moments haunt the film and make me feel like this could have been great, but alas. 

30. Death Wish (Eli Roth):

At this point it might be time to consider that Eli Roth might be making bad movies on purpose. I went into Death Wish expecting something needlessly graphic and entertainingly violent and stupid but that’s not what this is. For the most part the gun violence in this film is pretty tame and the dialogue is far to generic and boring to be funny. There is one scene in a garage that showcases what usually makes Roth’s films memorable, but it comes too late to bring this movie into guilty pleasure territory. I do believe that Roth is a good filmmaker but the more he releases these mindless, generic thrillers the harder it is to defend him.

29. The Meg (Jon Turteltaub):

Half of this movie is a self-aware special effects movie that is genuinely entertaining. The other half is a boring and cliché. It should be good but never quite manages to keep up any momentum that it builds.

28. Tomb Raider (Roar Uthaug):

Technically better than the 2001 Lara Croft film although I know which one I would rather watch. Some interesting set pieces and homages to the newer tomb Raider games mixed with bland dialogue and an uninteresting plot.

27. Deadpool 2 (David Leitch):

Not as funny as the first movie but has better action. Deadpool 2 is mixed bag, the satire falls short when the movie insists on upping the stakes and having its audience feel emotionally connected to the story. David Leitch is a good action director and I look forward to seeing what he does next, but I can’t say that I’m all to exited about the next instalments in the Deadpool franchise.

26. Tag (Jeff Tomsic):

I don’t think that this film deserves the hate it seems to have gotten. Tag is a pretty funny movie with memorable characters and good camera work. It’s a little corny and the ending gets way to soppy but it’s a good film to watch with a group of friends if not just for some good Hannibal Buress quotes.

25. Click & Collect (Ben Palmer):

Hey, a TV movie that didn’t suck! Airing on BBC 1 on Christmas Eve this is an example of cringe comedy done well, the plot doesn’t always make sense but that doesn’t stop the comedy from really working.

24. Outlaw King (David Mackenzie):

A pretty good historical drama about Robert the Bruce. That’s all this is really a serviceable movie about an interesting topic. Not bad by any means all though a little forgettable, the performances and fight choreography are great but the writing lacks any real direction.

23. Aquaman (James Wan):

A list of other movies scenes from Aquaman made me think of:

Ratatouille

Splash

Raiders of the Lost Arc

Lara Croft: Tomb Raider

Black Panther

Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace

Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring

Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers

How to Train Your Dragon 2

Wonder Woman

Full review coming next

22. Ant-Man and the Wasp (Peyton Reed):

Not as funny or engaging as 2015’s Ant-Man. This is a decent blockbuster with some good special effects and funny moments. A lower tier Marvel film for sure that gets completely overshadowed by the other two movies that the studio brought out in 2018 but still a fun watch.

21. Ocean’s Eight (Gary Ross):

About as good as Ocean’s 13. All of the hallmarks of the Ocean’s trilogy are present. The last 15 minuets begin to over explain what we have already seen and the name of the movie spoils and reveal at the end of the movie. A well-directed heist movie none-the-less that should be enjoyable for any Ocean’s fan

20. Ready Player One (Steven Spielberg):

This movie is at its best when it is at its most Spielberg. There is a really great car chase and a plot that revolves around kids standing against authority. It goes on for way to long and some of the references are on the nose. It certainly needs to be cut down but it’s a movie worth seeing if you know your pop-culture.

19. Searching (Aneesh Chaganty):

By far the best example of found-footage to be released in years. Having the entire film appear from the perspective of computer screens and phone calls makes the experience feel far more real and personal as if you are right there figuring out the mystery with the character. The story itself separated from its gimmick has been seen before and the twist is a bit of a reach but with its unique style it feels completely fresh. If you hated Unfriended there is a high chance that you will love this.

18. My Dinner with Hervé (Sacha Gervasi):

A HBO movie featuring a fantastic performance from Peter Dinklage. The life story of French actor Hervé Villechaize is told through a crazy interview based on the one that the actor had with the director in the early 90’s. It’s a small film but one that has been made with a lot of passion from its director and star. Absolutely look this one out if you can.

17. Isle of Dogs (Wes Anderson):

Wes Anderson is responsible for some of my favourite films of all time. While his latest may not be his best work to date it is a beautiful and insanely well-crafted film full of life and wonder. Anderson has a particular style and this movie sums up exactly what makes that style work so well with every shot working perfectly.

16. Black Mirror: Bandersnatch (David Slade):

It’s hard to tell at this point whether or not this will start a new craze for choose your own adventure movies the way that Avatar started a craze for 3D. Honestly I don’t think Charlie Brooker has left anywhere to really be explored with the this concept as he dives head first into a meta-narrative all about free-will. Certainly, an ambitious endeavour for the crew of Black Mirror that has taken over the cinematic discussion for a little while. I saw this with a group of friends trying to uncover as much of the story as we could in one sitting and I highly recommend that experience if you haven’t seen/played this yet.

15. Black Panther (Ryan Coogler): 

A Marvel movie that appears to have nudged its way into Oscar conversations, regardless of whether or not I think that it deserves that acclaim this is a great film. Black Panther has some of the smartest writing of any MCU movie and one of the best villains to ever appear in a superhero movie. This is a film that will be talked about for years because of what it means for representation, it also helps that it is a really good movie.

14. Game Night (John Francis, Jonathan M. Goldstein):

The biggest surprise of the year is that the two guys behind 2015’s awful Vacation reboot managed to make one of the funniest and well-made comedies of 2018. The camerawork in this film is brilliant, one long take in particular has to be one of my favourite scenes of the year. The plot takes some logical jumps but who cares when the film is this good.

13. A Quiet Place (John Kransinski):

Sure, it doesn’t all make sense when you analyse it but watching A Quiet Place on the big screen is one of the tensest experiences I have ever had. When the credits rolled after the first time I saw this film I noticed that for the past 90 minuets, that’s the sign of some effective tension.

12. First Man (Damien Chazelle):

Chazelle has proven himself to be one of the best directors working today. While I may not love his latest as much as his previous work on La La Land and Whiplash it has to be said that First Man is a solid base hit for a great filmmaker. The third act of this film features some of the best special effects of the year mixed with one of the most emotional sequences of the year. Gosling and Foy are both brilliant and both deserve nominations as does Chazelle.

11. Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (Martin McDonagh):

Slightly twisted and very enjoyable Three Billboards is a strange film. McDonagh is able to find humour in the darkest of places but never undermines the serious nature of the subject matter.

10. Incredibles 2 (Brad Bird):

Going into the top 10 it feels important to restate that these rankings are based purely on my own personal opinions on each film. Incredibles 2 is objectively not as good as the 2004 original, but it doesn’t have to be, this is a very fun movie featuring some great animation, fantastically directed action sequences that only Brad Bird could pull off and do I even have to mention the Jack-Jack scenes? Brad Bird is one of the greatest filmmakers to ever work in animation and this feels like his victory lap, not his best film but absolutely one that showcases just how great he is.

9. The Shape of Water (Guillermo del Toro):

Best picture winner, The Shape of Water deserves all the acclaim that it has gotten. This “adult fairy-tale” features a wonderful score, fantastic performances, beautiful set-design and characteristically excellent direction from one of the world’s greatest directors! Everyone has already lumped praise on this film and so I am not left with too much else to say other than see this film.

8. The Zen Diaries of Garry Shandling (Judd Apatow):

I hear that 2018 was a great year for documentaries, I wouldn't know because I only saw this one but if Three Identical Strangers and Won’t you be my Neighbour are better than this then I need to see them. Judd Apatow looks into the life of his friend and fellow comedian Garry Shandling only 2 years after his tragic death. His approach leaves no stone unturned as he dives head first into the late comedian’s mind using his own diaries and interviews with his closest friends and collaborators. As a stand-up comedy fan it is absolutely fascinating to get a look the real life of an often misunderstood legend like Shandling for it to be as neatly put together and wonderfully entertaining as this is a welcome bonus.

7. Avengers: Infinity War (Joe Russo, Anthony Russo):

For the technical achievement alone Infinity War deserves a place in my top 10. The Russo brothers managed to pull off a stunt that just a year ago I was ready to call impossible, bringing together 10 years worth of character arcs and plot points while still making an enjoyable film. Even though it has been 9 months I still don’t know what to say about this film and my lack of words may be the best compliment I can give it.

6. Mission: Impossible – Fallout (Christopher McQuarrie):

If you asked me in June I would have said that the Mission: Impossible franchise had peaked with Brad Bird’s Ghost Protocol in 2014, I also would have been dead wrong. Fallout is not just the best film in the franchise but an absolute high point in action cinema. Seeing this on the big screen was one of the most visceral and intense movie going experiences I have ever had, every stunt is a nail-biter and the whole time I was on the edge of my seat.   

5. Thoroughbreds (Cory Finley):

This is the movie that I saw alone and have yet to properly have a conversation with someone about. This film slipped under almost everyone’s radar and then disappeared. I am telling you now find this movie it is a fantastic, quaint little film with the power to make you uncomfortable and make you laugh at the same time. Olivia Cooke and Anya Taylor Joy are both brilliant and the ending has one of my best moments of the year with a single long shot and the power of suggestion. If you missed it, which you probably did, go look it out. 

4. BlacKkKlansman (Spike Lee):

Loud, funny, unapologetic, stylish and controversial. Those are the five words that describe all of Spike Lee’s best movies and BlacKkKlansman is no exception. With multiple Oscar worthy performances, a great score and a screenplay that shows Spike at his angriest and smartest in a long time, this film will get under some peoples skin, as great cinema should. 

3. I, Toyna (Craig Gillespie):

Every now and then a movie comes along that perfectly sums up why I love this art form, I Tonya is one of those movies. Deeply impactfull on an emotional level while remaining hyper stylised, Gillespie manages to make the audience feel sympathy for characters that would be the villains in any other story by taking you on an emotional roller coaster through the life of Tonya Harding that leaves the viewer feeling just as broken as the titular character by the conclusion.

This film is so good I watched it twice in two days.

2. Lady Bird (Greta Gerwig):

I fell hard for this film. Greta Gerwig’s painfully honest look at growing up feels like watching a selection of incredibly well shot home movies from a real person. The real achievement of Gerwig’s directorial debut is how it manages to feel relatable even if you aren’t in the same situation as the protagonist. When the credits role it’s hard to feel slightly disappointed that you can’t keep watching what is going to happen to this character next and when the only criticism you have is that you didn't want it to end, the film must have been pretty good.

1. Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (Bob Persichetti, Peter Ramsey, Rodney Rothman):

I’m just as surprised as you are.

Somehow and for whatever reason this is the movie that resonated with me the most in 2018, this is the film I see myself going back to the most. Sometimes the best film is the most entertaining one, this film had me hooked instantly and kept me in a near trance-like state during its run-time. In don’t have anything to profound to say about this film it’s just really a great film that everyone can enjoy. If this is still playing near you and you haven’t seen it yet, go check it out you won’t be disappointed.

[amorremanet]

top 5 movies? and why? no no TOP FIVE BOOKS

oh gosh, both of these are hard and my answers for them are probably so boring (they also come with the, “this is just how I feel right now because ugh, I am the worst at picking any all-time faves for broad categories”) — but!!

top “five” movies:

The Prince of Egypt — has some of the most beautiful art that I’ve ever seen, anywhere, and music that sticks with you, and it really shows the human drama and human stakes of such a classic story in ways that a lot of adaptations of Biblical mythology are afraid to do

Deadpool — because I’m garbage, the characters are great, the script is pretty good, and the movie makes me laugh. It’s not really a deconstruction (in the way that some people make it out to be, by way of justifying why they like it), and it’s not super-intellectual, and in a lot of ways, it’s like a giant #SorryNotSorry that makes fun of superhero movie tropes while continuing to use them (and there are some subtle ways it plays with some of said tropes and twists them around, but it largely doesn’t) — but it’s fun

But I’m A Cheerleader — is far from perfect, and I maintain that it’s actually much more depressing than the ending leads us to believe (I mean, Meghan/Graham and Dolph/Clayton get together and escape from True Directions and homophobic parents, and Meghan’s Mom and Dad at least try to do better by their daughter, but things don’t work out that well for anybody else), but it’ll always have a special place in my heart because it was one of the only lesbian movies that I had access to as a little gay baby

Female Trouble — I wouldn’t say that it’s the best thing that John Waters has ever done, just the one that I personally like the best, and I’ll admit that it’s probably an acquired taste…… but I love how it takes on celebrity culture in the story Dawn Davenport, and it gave us great lines like, “The world of heterosexual is a sick and boring life” and, “I wouldn’t suck your lousy dick if I was suffocating and there was oxygen in your balls!” It also has a special place in my heart as one of my favorite, “gay AND weird” movies

—which probably makes sense, given that it was written and directed by the trash king of being gay and weird

……like, seriously. My (best friend who I call my) brother once asked me, “So is John Waters gay or is he just really weird?” and the only thing I could think of to say to that was, “Yes, both.”

the “Three Flavours Cornetto” trilogy — which is totally cheating, to put three in here, but I couldn’t pick between them. I do think that Hot Fuzz and The World’s End are more fully actualized than Shaun of the Dead, but I love all of them, and the reason is pretty much just, “Because they’re good mixes of being hilarious and making me FEEL things” (……less so in The World’s End, for several reasons; it’s a lot heavier on the feels, to the point that you sometimes feel bad for laughing at the jokes, but still)

and books:

Good Omens (Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman) — This book was my introduction to both PTerry and GNeil, after I found a cheap copy in an airport bookstore when I was about twelve and immediately fell in love. It’s funny, the characters are vibrant and engaging, and it played right into my love of screwing around with Biblical mythology.

I’m periodically tempted to list different books for both of those men (with PTerry’s probably being one of the Granny Weatherwax books, or Faust Eric, and GNeil’s being either American Gods or one of his Sandman books — because yeah, he’s done other good stuff, but I’m more sentimentally attached to AG and Sandman. Also, Preludes and Nocturnes has some of the only non-movie or TV horror that has genuinely terrified me, so)

—buuuut then I never do, because Good Omens was my first book from either of them, and remains my sentimental fave, even though I admit that they’ve both written other books that are, “better” or, “stronger,” or whatever

Dry (Augusten Burroughs) — There’s a lot of fair criticism to be made of Augusten Burroughs, and he’s been one of the writers at the center of the debates about truthfulness or lack thereof in popular memoirs (like, how much an author is allowed to condense things before it stops counting as a, “real story,” and how an author remembers things happening vs. how other people remember them), but Dry nevertheless means a lot to me.

Like, I enjoyed Running with Scissors and his novel, Sellevision (which were the other Big Deals in his collected works, at the time I originally read Dry), but Dry fucked me up a LOT when I first read it. It has continued to fuck me up ever since.

There are passages in this book that I can’t even be jealous of, as another writer, because they’re so good that they skip right the fuck past, “I’m angry and jealous that I didn’t write this myself” and into, “Holy shit, THIS is why I write, the ability to do THIS KIND OF THING EXACTLY with words, I need to go write something right now”

Also, it means a lot to me for sentimental, “I read this book for the first time when I was in high school, and it made me feel less lonely and sad and scared” reasons

Dynamic Characters (Nancy Kress) — This is by no means the be-all and end-all of, “how to writer better” books, but it’s a personal favorite of mine, for two reasons: 1. there are some things that Kress doesn’t cover about creating characters and doing better by them in your writing, but she’s still pretty comprehensive and offers some solid illustrative examples, multiple perspectives on this part of writing (not as many as she could, but to be fair, she only has so many pages to work with), and a good mix of “tough love” advice and gentler, more reassuring advice;

and 2. …it was the first, “how to writer better” book that I ever got my hands on. I picked it out specifically because I’d posted a completely ridiculous crack fic that was a crossover between Harry Potter and Sailor Moon, with a first-person protagonist narrator who was a hot nonsense self-insert power fantasy Mary Sue with no flaws and no nuance because, hey, I was 11.

And someone actually commented to go, “Hey, look, you have talent, but you could do better and one place to start is maybe with learning to build better realized characters” — so I picked out the Nancy Kress book and it seems like a really silly thing to call a turning point? But it was big a turning point for me

Death, Disability, and the Superhero: The Silver Age and Beyond (José Alaniz) — okay, time for me to be a loser and cite an academic book. I’m also probably a cheating loser, since I just read this book for the first time recently…… but with that said? I’ve read a LOT of critical treatments of the superhero genre, some pretty good, others pretty bad (for example, I remain Perpetually Tired of Slavoj Žižek’s heavy metal Communist, Bane in Leather Pants bullshit reading of The Dark Knight Returns), and most of it somewhere in the middle

—but there’s this trend among people who write critically about superhero junk, whether they’re academics of not, wherein we act like we have to act like superhero comics are The Most Progressive Ever and oversell their sociopolitical impact in order to make them look like ~*True Art*~ That Must Be Taken Seriously (—and like, I’m not saying that they have NO impact on people at all, because that’s objectively false. But you also can’t try to claim that Superman, Wonder Woman, and Captain America comics are why the Allies won World War II)

(this is a pointless aside to note that I deliberately left the Goddamn Batman off that list, because while Supes, Diana, and Steve were all off punching Nazis, Golden Age Bruce and white boy!Dick were running around on the home-front, rounding up Japanese Americans and putting them in internment camps. So… y’know. There’s that.)

……or we have to take legitimate criticisms of problems in the superhero genre, both historical and current, and use them to go, “Therefore, the entire genre is pointless garbage that has no redeeming qualities at all and could never ever EVER be used to tell any stories that are worth telling, and frankly, you are all terrible, horrible people for enjoying it, how very dare you enjoy that X-Men movie or that Red Hood And The Outlaws comic, you’re basically a fascist now”

—which is hilarious, to me, because the people who write that sort of criticism almost always cite Fredric Wertham’s book, The Seduction of the Innocent (aka: the book that led to so much moral outrage over the allegedly very gay and fascistic, child-corrupting content of comicbooks that the Comics Code Authority was created), and they always go, “Well, obviously Wertham was OTT and totally full of shit, buuuut…… *argument that would not have been out of place in his book*”

So, one of the big reasons I loved Professor Alaniz’s book is that is does neither of these things. It offers some incisive, and occasionally kinda damning, critique of the superhero genre and its handling of disability and mortality, but he does so from a place of love and enjoyment, and never pretends to hate the genre, nor argues for throwing the whole thing out because it has problems.

Like, his underlying mindset is very much, “Yes, the superhero genre has a LOT of problems, but people could, in theory, fix them and try to get closer to realizing the full potential of what these characters and stories can do” — while never skimping on a detailed analysis of the trends and case studies that he presents.

Sometimes, I think he’s kinda reaching (and I, personally, never want to hear anything about Doctor Doom’s Oedipus complex ever again so long as I live, though it was validating to hear that my theatre kids AU version of him — who is a ridiculous mess, obsessed with taking selfies, and perpetually acting like he totally gets everything while missing some crucial detail, which is how he ends up thinking that Loki is dating Tony Stank [a suggestion that makes both of them want to puke] — is actually a valid interpretation of his character, based on some parts of canon)

Overall, though, my biggest problem with Professor Alaniz’s book is that he can be kind of a hipster and it can get a little bit annoying. Not enough to ruin the whole book, but enough that it does stand out.

Like, his chapter on Daredevil specifically analyzes an infamous Silver Age story that basically everyone hated — the one where Matt Murdock tells Karen and Foggy that he isn’t the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, but he has some heretofore unknown identical twin brother named Mike, who is not blind but *IS* actually that aforementioned costumed hero, and carries on a charade of pretending to be his nonexistent twin brother — and okay, we get some pretty neat discussion of how passing can work or might not with disabled people

…but you can still walk away feeling like his biggest reason for analyzing that story arc was less about its value to any part of his discussion, and more about going, “Other Daredevil stories are too mainstream, I care most about this one that was so infamously ridiculous that people have said even soap operas wouldn’t have done this plot”

Likewise, I’m not saying that there aren’t very fair criticisms to be made of the X-Men and how their stories handle disability in particular… but at some points in his chapter on the Silver Age Doom Patrol comics, Professor Alaniz seems to be less, “using the pre-Claremont Silver Age X-Men stories as an illustrative foil to the Doom Patrol, especially with regard to how Charles’s paraplegia is treated vs. how The Chief’s paraplegia is treated” and more, “using this discussion as a free excuse to bash on the X-Men for being popular”

To his credit, Professor Alaniz does kinda discuss some of the ways that the X-Men’s popularity might have been affected by the fact that things like their ableist handling of Charles make them feel, “safer” and, “less sociopolitically threatening” than he makes the Doom Patrol out to be (with a pretty convincing argument, actually)

He just doesn’t do it enough for me to feel like his “criticism” of the X-Men isn’t at least partially grounded in going, “Well, it’s popular, therefore it sucks” (—as opposed to my approach to them, which is, “It’s popular, and has a mixed bag of things that it does well vs. things it does that suck, but it does not suck BECAUSE it is popular”)

Anyway, good book, and it’s written in a refreshingly accessible way (it’s still an academic book and harder to get into than, say, Good Omens, but Professor Alaniz doesn’t make a lot of the more common mistakes that leave a lot of academic writing effectively incomprehensible)

and last but not least…… Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire (we all know who wrote this, okay, come on) — because I’d be lying if I didn’t include at least one HP book on this list, considering how important those books and that fandom have been to the course of my life and to my development as a writer, and it was either gonna be this one or POA, but this one won over the other because I’m garbage