#scantily clad side characters who deserved better

[nancypreggo]

🫄1️⃣🏙(a graduation/birthday/college/etc. party)🧠 👖

tags/kinks: nonbinary!pregnancy, singleton, in public (at college party), didn't know they were pregnant, clothing birth;; also vague birth denial from clothing-- technically??

After four taxing years in high school they were finally at college. They went to orientation, got acquainted with their roommate, and made sure they had their class schedule in order. For the first couple of weeks, they kept their nose to the grindstone and made sure to take diligent notes to get a good start to their studies.

What high school hadn’t prepared them for, however, was all the very attractive students-- and even some of the teachers. They didn’t know what to do with themselves and whenever somebody particularly attractive approached them, they were like putty. It wasn't long after that they were trading study hall sessions for secret hook-ups in the empty part of the school library, or trading all-nighters for parties where they would have their turn at multiple sexual partners in one night.

After all, this was part of the whole college experience, wasn’t it? Partying and finally getting a taste at independence since they were miles and miles away from any parents.

The following semester when they got their report card back with grades that reflected a partying lifestyle, they decided they needed a little bit more balance. They went to less parties and studied more, which was just as well because after the winter they seemed to contract some sort of bug that had them feeling a bit sick. It was probably better that they just stay in and study instead of possibly spreading whatever sickness they had.

Lounging around in the dorm room of staying cooped up in the library with reference books all of the time had them going out less, meaning they were beginning to put on a little bit of weight. They didn’t pay too much mind to their expanding belly, however-- they called it the “freshman fifteen” for a reason. They just started wearing bigger clothes and kept up with their studies.

That choice proved fruitful when at the end of their second semester as a freshman, they could proudly show their parents a report card full of A’s and B’s. Before they were due to go back home for the summer, they decided that all their hard work had earned them one last party as a freshman before he had to go back and do it all over again.

Dressing in a comfortable tank top and short shorts, they were going over to the Sigma Chi house that was hosting a huge party full of all sorts of characters. It was a pool party so there were sure to be scantily-clad babes all around and maybe the soon-to-be-sophomore was looking for a fun romp before they had to go back home for the summer break.

When they got to the party however, they found that they were feeling a little out of breath and that their back was aching a bit. It was probably nothing; with their belly sometimes they got out of breath a little quicker than months before but that wasn’t going to stop them from having a good time and partying with their friends. 

“Whoa..! When are you due?!” A partygoer asked them.

The student just cocked their head to the side, confused by the question. “Fall semester starts in September, duh..!”

They went about their way and they had just gotten to the refreshments table to fix themselves a well-deserved cocktail when a sudden pain hit them in their abdomen. Whoa. They wondered very briefly what they must’ve eaten to cause that sort of indigestion and decided that maybe adding alcohol to that mix was a bad idea. No problem-- they didn’t need to be drunk to have a good time.

After dancing for a little bit, they noticed that they had caught the eye of a possible suitor. Across the dance floor was a very attractive individual who had their eyes practically glued onto his large, dancing figure. 

“C’mere,” they said, making a come hither motion with their finger to beckon them over.

When the two met on the dance floor, their suitor couldn’t keep their hands off of their distended belly. “I’ve been watching you all year,” they murmured, loud enough to be heard over the music blaring from the speakers. “We have English together and god, you look like you’re ready to pop…”

They giggled then, placing their hand on top of their dance partner’s as they swayed their hips together. They could feel the way their classmate grinded against their ass. “I’m not a virgin, y’know. There’s nothing to pop…”

A small fit of laughter came from their suitor, who only accentuated their arousal by rubbing large circles against their protruding form. “Fuck if that’s not the truth…” they laughed.

Very suddenly, their little moment was broken when another bout of painful indigestion had them stopping their dancing altogether and clutching their belly. “Oof…” they whimpered.

“Are you okay?” the older one asked, their sensual tone now replaced for one of concern. “Are you… Shit, are you in labor?”

“What?” After the pain had passed, they managed to straighten up and took a deep, cleansing breath. It seemed they hadn’t heard those last few words and just pulled their dance partner closer. “I’m fine; c’mon, let’s keep dancing.”

They continued to dance with each other until they decided to move over to a nearby couch and take a load off. It was just as well, too, because the pains were coming back with a bit more force and they found that standing by itself was now a task.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Their concerned dance partner asked of them, placing their hand on top of their round belly. The surface was firm with very little give, clearly filled to the brim. 

Having just worn a tank top because of the warm almost-summer weather, the bottom of their belly was a bit exposed for all to see. There were definite stretch marks marred along their skin. “Y-yeah, I must’ve just had a bad lunch,” they said, rubbing their tummy. “I think-- I think maybe I should go to the bathroom.”

They waddled off in search of the bathroom, and when they sat on the toilet and tried to pass whatever it was that was making them sore, there was a definite expulsion of something splashing into the toilet bowl. “Oh..!” they gasped out in surprise, “I’m glad I didn’t wet myself!”

After using toilet paper to clean themself between their legs, they waddled back out to join the rest of the party. Their dance partner wasn’t where they had last been so it was back to the dance floor. Whoever was in charge of the tunes had put on something with a strong bass beat that had everyone jumping up and down. Despite their pain in their lower back, they wanted to join in on the fun. They could always deal with the consequences tomorrow and it wasn’t anything a little painkillers couldn’t alleviate, right?

Jumping to the beat, they almost looked like a gravity-defying feat with the way their belly bounced with them. They jumped up and down and up and down, wholly unaware of the growing pressure between their legs. It wasn’t until the song was over and everyone was cheering, that they realized even though they had gone to the bathroom the pains hadn’t gone away.

Deciding to take another dance break, they waddled back over to the couch and sat down with a heavy sigh. A greater pain gripped their side and that mounting pressure forced them to spread their legs. Unable to keep quiet, they let out a soft moan. The loud music had almost no one looking at them but when another pain had them digging their heels into the carpet beneath them and letting out an even louder moan, someone nearby finally took notice. 

“Hey, are you okay..? You look like you’re in pain,” a young woman-- probably a senior-- asked as she knelt beside them. 

They just shook their head, trying to just ignore the pain. Hopefully the pain would stop so they wouldn’t have to end their night when it had barely even begun. Right about now they were beginning to wish they hadn’t worn such tight shorts, however, because somehow they felt even smaller than when they’d put them on.

Suddenly, the mounting pain reached its apex and they bucked their hips up as much as their heavy belly would allow. They let out an especially loud scream as a very large bulge appeared in their shorts. They started to cry as many pairs of eyes turned to look at them, and someone turned the music down.

“Holy shit-- are you having a baby..?!” the young woman exclaimed, gesturing to the large protrusion filling out the individual’s shorts.

Before they could even answer or vocalize their realization, another contraction seized them and rendered them unable to speak. They writhed with where they sat on the couch, trying to push the baby out to no avail. Their shorts were too tight and the baby had no more room to be expelled. “H-help me..! Help me, please!” they screamed with tears in their eyes.

As they screwed their eyes shut to focus on pushing, they could hear a commotion go all through the party and they thought they heard for someone to call for an ambulance. Just when pushing the baby out seemed futile, they realized their little booty shorts were beginning to rip at the seams. The force of their pushing and the weight of the seemingly large baby was ripping a hole right between his legs. The wet mass that was the baby’s head was being pushed through their shorts as the shoulders were pushed through their stretched sex.

Someone-- apparently a student who knew some first aid-- appeared between their legs and helped pull the baby out the rest of the way. The fabric of the shorts were ripped and torn apart and their underwear was soaked with birth fluid.

The new parent wondered to themself as they looked down at their newborn son, if being born in the house made him an honorary Sigma Chi pledge.

[kainissoable]

Since my edit/redesign of the Priestess cut from Soul Reaver actually went well, I thought I’d try another scantily clad side character who deserved better, Kiya.

I tried to balance aspects from the original with historical accuracy, but it’s not a bandage bikini, so it’s automatically better. I blame the weird arm lengths on the general PS1 model issues. Anyway, Sony remake MediEvil 2 and give Kiya the magic, agency and suitable clothes she deserves.

[cognacdelights]

steamboat springs

my outer banks masterlist

add yourself to my taglist

summary: after coming into a large sum of money, two teens in the midst of riding the wave of young love decide to blow their fortune on a once in a lifetime trip to the mountain winter resort of steamboat springs, colorado. 

warnings: swearing. angst. fluff. slight indication of sexual content. 

The tips of her scarlet-painted toes skimmed the lukewarm bubbles of the hot tub as her petite, bikini-clad frame perched on the varnished, wooden edge. Her rose gold, star charm anklet glistened under the dimmed, romantic fairy lights that encompassed the tall, pine wood canopy as her contemplating, chartreuse eyes observed the picturesque scenery before her; the towering, snow-topped peaks that entrapped the quaint, expensive mountain resort were breath-taking. Lined with an army of ancient, snow-sprinkled evergreens and littered with miles of meandering, frozen streams, the Colorado Mountains were truly a sight to behold. Yet, there was a relentless, incessant niggle that plagued her pensive mind - refusing to allow her peace and tranquility in possibly the most calming and serene of locations.

“What you thinking ‘bout, pretty girl?” the low, husky voice of her sandy-locked, indigo-eyed boyfriend drew her out of her pondering, wistful daze. His toned, half-naked body waded through the tepid, jet-powered waves as he demanded the attention of his long-term girlfriend. His warm, paw-like palms settled on the tops of her droplet-covered thighs - his slightly calloused thumbs tracing delicate, tender circles against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs - as he came to rest between her parted legs. He left a gentle, adoration-filled kiss against the hickey-marked skin of her inner thigh, ensuring that he had captured her whole, undivided attention.

“Maybe you should have paid off your restitution with that money, instead of blowing it all on this,” a heavily weighted exhale escaped her plump, rose-tinted lips - her glimmering, beryl eyes concentrating on his concern-laced features. Instinctively, she ran her dainty fingers through the damp, tousled tangles of his blonde, straw-like locks, pushing the unkempt waves from obstructing his chiselled face.

“What?” his anxious, sapphire orbs peered upwards through his fair, sparse eyelashes - his apprehensive heart anticipating the sickening plunge of disappointment into the deep, dark caverns of his stomach as he urged her to elaborate, “you don’t like it here?” All the fair-haired, cobalt-eyed boy yearned for was to see the beautiful, content smile - which he so very much adored - plastered across her sun-kissed features; everything he did was for the sake of her happiness - in all it’s purity, so the thought of her holding regrets towards their once-in-a-lifetime, never-be-able-to-afford-again trip pained him dearly.

“No, I do. I love it. It’s beautiful and I would give anything to leave the Outer Banks behind and stay here, forever, with you,” her voice softened at the heart-wrenching sight of anguish laced within the pearly, silver speckles of his eyes, “but I want you to be a free man more.” There was a negligible, minuscule sliver of her that resented him for taking the blame for the sinking of Topper’s boat; it had changed the course of their relationship entirely, and not particularly for the better. Not only had her strict, over-bearing parents proclaimed their disapproval of their relationship upon hearing tattling whispers of his arrest, but his selfless, fictitious confession meant that he would more than likely be sentenced to a stay in a juvenile corrections facility.

“It’s just a bit of debt, it doesn’t matter in the long run,” he half-heartedly attempted to dismiss her concerns - nonchalantly shrugging his broad, muscular shoulders as a disheartened breath escaped his nicotine-laced lungs.

“It’s a permanent charge on your record, JJ, and you could still face time in juvy for this,” she responded solemnly, “what am I supposed to do if you get locked up? Juvenile’s don’t get conjugal visits, you know?” The shaggy-haired blonde had neglected to think of the consequences of his actions upon declaring that he was the individual responsible for the Thornton’s boat shenanigans. However, the reality was, JJ Maybank had just checked off his third strike on his long, delinquency-filled wrap sheet - and the metaphorical book of justice was poised and ready to be launched in his direction as they spoke.

“And you’d rather that have been on Pope’s record, huh?” he countered opposingly - his usually loving, tender voice raised several decibels as he defended himself against his girlfriend’s disapproving tone, “it would ruin his life. Not to mention, we all know he would never survive inside. They’d fucking eat him alive.” The pleasant, endearing warmth she once felt where his wandering hands caressed the cellulite-plagued plains of her thighs dissipated into the brisk nipping of the bitter, wintry mountain breeze as he retreated from their intimate embrace.

“Pope’s the one who did it,” she mumbled in response, uncomfortable with the tone of their heated conversation. Unfortunately, this was just going to be one of those things that they would never agree on. She platonically adored Pope - truly, she did - but, of course, she loved her boyfriend more. It was inevitable that the selfish, pining sliver of her that believed Pope should take responsibility for his actions would rear it’s ill-timed head eventually. JJ didn’t deserve to be punished for a crime he, for once, had not committed - and neither did their already suffering relationship.

“Pope’s the one with the future. He’s got his scholarship, he’s got his whole life planned out, he has dreams that are actually within his reach. I couldn’t let that be taken away from him because of something I pushed him to do,” he continued to argue, his tone defensive and abrupt. As her crestfallen, veridian eyes attempted to meet with his, she recognised an unfamiliar emotion that had etched itself into the foundations of his chiselled, stubble-lined features: guilt. A conscience-eating tidal wave of remorse had overwhelmed his entire being, convincing his impressionable mind that the entirety of the situation was down to the shaggy-haired blonde. Perhaps he was right; perhaps Pope wouldn’t have acted so wildly out of character and pulled the plug from the extravagant 2019 Malibu without the misguided encouragement of his trouble-making best friend - but, simultaneously, she was right. At the end of the day, Pope was the one who ultimately committed the delinquent act, and Pope did that off his own culpable accord.

“What about your future?” she challenged him, the desperation evident within the subtle inflections of her almost pleading tone. Her tanned, petite shoulders slouched from their structured, upright position - as her head tilted ever so slightly to the side, her malachite doe eyes searching for his torment-filled pools of teal. Despite her best, relenting efforts, he refused the intimacy of eye contact.

“I don’t have a future,” his voice was quiet - almost weak - and barely audible above the ceaseless, mechanical humming of the hot tub jets, “not one like that.”

“Yes you do,” she told him tenaciously - adamant in her words as her tender, dainty palms embraced the defined contours of his pronounced cheek bones, her gentle thumbs affectionately grazing over the brittle stubble, “you have a future with me. I don’t know what that entails; whether it’s opening our own surf shop down in Yucatán, or having a log cabin in the Colorado Mountains, or living on a freaking boat in the harbour back in Kildare. Whatever it is, I don’t care as long as it’s me and you. It’s me and you, forever, J. It always has been and it always will be.”

“I’m gonna pay it all off, I promise, even if I have to get a third job,” his calloused, bear-like hands encaptured hers, giving her petite fingers a gentle, adoring squeeze, “then I’m gonna give you the life you fucking deserve. A ring, a big ass wedding at one of those fancy, country estates, a whole bunch of kids, even that damned pink Volkswagen Beetle with the flowers painted on the doors - whatever you want, I’m gonna make sure that you get it all.”

“To me and you,” he toasted meaningfully - his words exuding promise and assurance as his meaty, ring-clad fingers grasped the condensation-laced neck of the lavish, half-empty champagne bottle. Expectantly, he tilted the punt of the onyx-tinted, glass bottle towards the breath-taking, brunette beauty before him.

“To me and you,” she recited his endearing words fondly, an enamored, cordial smile curving the corners of her full, luscious lips upwards. She too grasped the neck of a chilled, vintage bottle of champagne - hers significantly fuller than his - before clinking the two aged bottled together in celebration of their future together. The two, slightly tipsy, teens each took a generous swig of the fruit-fragranced beverage, concluding the ritual.

A giddy, infatuated squeal surpassed her plump, champagne-drenched lips as his soaked, paw-like palms gripped her dainty ankles, proceeding to gently tug her scantily-clad silhouette into the depths of the heated, bubbling water. His brawny, exposed back pressed against the varnished pine wood of the hot tub bench - her already bruised knees falling either side of his swimsuit-clad lower half, straddling his tamed, semi-erect length. His loving, yet ravenous, lips found hers, molding together in a beautiful, melodic synchrony as his audacious, meandering fingers fumbled to untie the loose strings of her Aztec-printed bikini bottoms.

[bunnyywritings]

no one else but you

Greed x fem!reader

[a/n: thank you for another request! It’s been a hot minute since I re-watched FMAB so I’m a little rusty with the characters. I think I made him rlly soft here...This is set after Promised Day with a twist! Greed lives, has control over his body and tries to start a new life with his s/o. What’s in BOLD is the reader dreaming. enjoy! -yours truly, bunnyy-`ღ´-  ps. I 100/10 do not recommend writing after being awake for like 29 hours lol I lost my train of thought waaaaaay too many times while writing this ]

“What? You thought I still wanted to be with you?” The disgust in his voice made the pit in your stomach grow. “You seem to forget who I am. I’m Greed.”

“But I thought-” You were cut off by a scoff.

“I didn’t think there was anything useful in there.” The was he was belittling you was the last straw, your shoulders shaking uncontrollably as tears streamed down your flushed cheeks like a waterfall.

“W-why are you s-saying these t-things? This isn’t l-like you!” You pleaded.

“Yeah, well that was when the twerp was still in charge. I hate to break it to you sweetheart, you don’t know me at all.” A wicked grin curled his lips, the hardening of his outer-shell grabbed your attention. It encased just his arm. Before you could say anything else, he used that hand and grabbed you by the throat. His grip was deadly as he picked you up from your knelt position on the floor. “Now if you’re done with your yapping, I don’t need you anymore. You were nothing but a hindrance.” he emphasized his words with a growl before tossing you onto the bed,

“Good riddance, (y/n).”He spat and you watched his back as he walked past the doorway.

“N-no! Greed! G-Greed please! Please d-don’t leave me!” Your hoarse voice fell onto deaf ears. “Please don’t go...”

You jolted awake in a cold sweat, tears leaking from your eyes as you curled into yourself, tugging the duvet closer to your body.

Greed had been away for about a week or so, saying he had “things to take care of.” Whatever that meant, you had no idea. You just knew that it had nothing to do with this ‘Father’ character either, but you never really questioned Greed. You trusted him. Even if he was a homonculous and even if he was an ex-member of a secret military that tried to take over the government. With Greed’s newfound freedom, he was eager to start over. Start a new life with him. He was different though, it wasn’t like ‘GreedLing’ as Edward liked to call him, he was completely greed. Through and through. It was like a total personality change. He still respected you and loved you, there was no doubt about it. However, you couldn’t help but feel inadequate when he would return to your shared apartment after running an errand and would brag about how many girls, and guys, wanted his attention. Saying things about how gorgeous/handsome they were, and how they basically threw themselves at him. Not to mention all the perks that he had received by just existing. Discounts on clothing, or the butcher lady “looking the other way’ and giving him an extra pound of meat, free of charge. Slowly, your insecurities came into the light. Being afraid that one day he’d find another girl that you were no match for. One that had an amazing body, smarts to match his wit. You feared it so much that it was a recurring nightmare that you had been having for weeks. Greed had noticed how off you were acting and asked if you were okay and not wanting to burden him with your silly thoughts, you just shrugged him off. Fake smile painted on your lips as the phrase, “I’m fine.” seemed to leave them at least 4 times a day.

He had called you a day or two ago and said that he’d be back soon. How long was soon? Had he already found someone else? Were you really someone that wasn’t worth his time and attention....pfft. What were you thinking? Of course you weren’t, he deserved so much better. He deserved a girl who wouldn’t hate what she saw in the mirror. He wouldn’t want a girl who wasn’t smart and witty like he was. He’s Greed. He only wants, and deserves, the best of the best.

These thoughts plagued your mind as you went through the day, trying to fill the time. Doing useless things. Cleaning everything at least 5 times over, or picking up a book and getting comfortable on the couch only to put the book down 15 minutes later. Mind racing with unanswered questions and suspicions.

As the day passed by and the sun started to say its final goodbyes with an array of reds and oranges smeared across the sky, the fear in your tummy swelled. You reluctantly got ready for bed, dreading every second that passes by. Hours passed, you laid in the dark resisting the way your heavy eyelids dropped closed. If you didn’t sleep, you didn’t dream. Simple. Easier said than done.

Disappointment filling your entire being as you gave in. Letting your eyelids shut and sleep tug at your subconscious mind. An surely enough, those fears plagued your dreams. Leaving you to toss and turn in the sheets, mumbled phrases escaping your lips.

“(Y/n) this is Lust, she’s an...old friend.” During that pause, you definitely didn’t miss the way his eyes were running over the curves of her scantily clad body. A thing, serpentine smirk grew on her lips. The dark crimson color shimmering under the golden light of mid-day. “I thought it was finally time for a change of pace so, it’s time for you to go.” The grin on his lips was playful but his eyes were piercing into you, in any way but playful.

As you looked her over, you weren’t surprised why he had picked her over you. Her breasts were perky and perfect, her curvy yet slim body was enticing in a way that yours never could be (so you thought), her lips may have been thinner than yours but they seemed to fit her small frame perfectly. Her stomach was flat and probably didn’t protrude when she sat comfortably (it so did), and the way Greed was hungrily eyeing her definitely gave away his own selfish intentions of getting himself off.

“What? But w-where would I-“ your stutters were cut off by Greed making an exclamation.

“And she has a fully functioning brain. Unlike the poor excuse of a walnut, that you no doubt have, as a brain!” He chuckled, you couldn’t believe he was going this far to be cruel. You were so distraught that you hadn’t noticed the tears falling from your face. “Great! And here come the water works again!” Greed scoffed.

The one thing Greed hadn’t expected when he stepped into the apartment was to be instantly met by your screams. It was what you said that made his heart ache.

“Greed! Please, please I know t-that I’m not enough but-” He stopped at the door, it was open just a crack but it was enough to see you sit up, eyes wide and tears trailing down your cheeks. He watched with a broken heart as you approached the mirror.

“Of course he doesn’t want you. Who would?” You started to prod at your tummy, then at your thighs, before your hands moved upwards and cupping your breasts a bit, holding them up a bit before you let them drop naturally and went to pick at your skin. Scowl permanent on your beautiful face. “He deserves better than-than trash.” That was it. He shoved the door open, causing you to jump and turn to him.

“G-Greed? You’re back?” You were slightly afraid as you watched his towering figure march over to you. Clenching your eyes shut to endure any verbal abuse he was going to inevitably spew at you...but it never came. Instead, his arms wrapped around you and pulled you into his chest.

“Why are you saying those things? Hmm? Why are you hurting my pretty girl?” You were taken aback by his reaction. Why were you acting this way.

“N-No, it’s silly...”Your cheeks flushed red in embarrassment, as you shook your head and nuzzled into his warmth.

“It’s not silly if you’re this upset. Now come one, tell me.” He noticed your hesitance and chuckled. “Look, just because I am the way I am. Greed. Doesn’t mean that I don’t care for anyone else.” He assumed he guessed correctly on the reason you sere so upset. “I love you.”

“Are you sure? Because you could have anyone one you want, crave anyone you want and you’d still pick me?” The disbelief in your voice wounded him.

“Yes.” There was zero hesitance. “I would still pick you. Every. Damn.Time.” Tears rose to your eyes once again but they were for the overwhelming feeling of affection in his words. The way he didn’t stutter when he said it caused chills to run up your spine. “You have no idea how much you mean to me, (y/n). You stuck by me despite my faults. Despite my flaws. You loved me regardless of what I had done.”

“Well you did the same for me.” 

“Well how could I not? You don’t have flaws.” He cupped your cheeks and leaned down to kiss away the remaining of the tears. He then got behind you and hugged your waist as you both stood in front of the mirror. “Your body is deliciously stunning.” He playfully bit your neck which caused you to squeal a little.

“But what about-?” You had motioned down to the slight pudginess of your tummy.

“What? Your belly? I absolutely love your belly, it’s super soft and it makes you very cuddly. I wouldn’t have you any other way.” His hands then slowly ran up your torso. “And you know I love these. No explanation needed. They’re perfect.” He purred as he gave your breasts the tiniest, most playful of squeezes.

“Greed!” You giggled, falling back into him. All fear and insecurity seeping out of your body.

“Shouldn’t me being with you be reassurance enough?” There was a cockiness in his tone, goodhearted but cocky nonetheless. “I’m Greed. I only desire the best of the best.” He spoke in a powerful voice, one you would fear if you didn’t know him. “And I only desire you, my love.” You made eye contact with him through the mirror.

“Only me? You wouldn’t want someone prettier? Or smarter?”

“Nope. It’s you. No one but you. You’re perfect the way you are and no one else could ever be the one for me.” he gently pushed your chin to move your head to the side, lips meeting his in a passion filled kiss. Spilling all your emotions into it.

“Now...” He gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him. “why don’t I spend the entire night showing you that you’re all that I want.”

Needless to say, after this night, you never once again doubted Greed’s love for you. And from here on out he made sure to remind you every day. 

[kayteewritessteve]

Secrets and Sins - 3/13

Description: You flee from an abusive situation and find yourself on the other side of the country, creating new friends and possibly finding new love. But will you be able to escape your past? To truly move on with your life? Or will everything come crashing down around you in the blink of an eye?

Catch up HERE.

Word Count: 4,180 ish.

Pairing: Mobster!Steve Rogers x Reader.

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Violence. Drinking. Curse words. Brief mentions of abusive behaviour, and moments of abuse—nothing to in depth but could be upsetting to some. Plus possible other triggering thoughts and feelings described.

A/N: I sadly don’t own any of these characters. And no beta reader, so I do proudly own all the errors.

FYI. I actually adore Sharon, SO MUCH. And hummed and hawed about just making an OC for this role, but it fits the story way better in a later chapter to use Sharon. So I apologize to the Sharon stans!!! Anywho, enjoy!!

Steve’s POV.

He found himself sitting on a white leather couch in the middle of a VIP section, in yet another loud ass club. His arms crossed over his chest and a few random girls trying to get, and keep, his attention. But he wasn’t having it. Not tonight. He wasn’t in the mood for annoying, scantily clad bimbos. They were dime a dozen in his world. And just as he’d drop one, 5 more would step up to take her place. To him woman were good for one thing, and one thing only. And once he had gotten that from them, he was done with them. He had yet to meet a woman that was worth his time, or effort. He was starting to believe such a woman probably didn’t exist. He knew he needed to marry, produce an heir so the mob could stay in his bloodline. So his position could stay secure. But he could barely stand keeping women around till morning, let alone for life.

The loud music was giving him a headache now. He fucking hated clubs, but being that this one was Tony’s newest endeavour, he figured he’d check it out, at least once. It was the least he could do after—well, after everything that Tony had done for him.

When Steve’s father was gunned down over what they assumed was a business deal gone wrong—but as no one had ever came forward to claim the murder, all they could do was assume, though they did have their suspicions as to who was behind it—he was too young to take over the reigns. So Tony stepped in to oversee everything in his place, along with his mother, as was decided. And together they kept the mob’s higher ups placated and prevented any successful hostile takeovers. Not that a few power hungry idiots didn’t attempt to overthrow Tony or Sarah, to take over the king’s position in what they thought was a moment of weakness, however none of those attempts were even close to successful. Tony had the backing of the majority, being that he had been Steve’s fathers right hand man for years. And because the mob was a dog eat dog world, there were always contingency plans in place, should a king be murdered. It had been agreed on when Steve was born that should anything happen before he was of age, Tony would step in, in the interim.

But when Steve was in his late teens, his mom was murdered in cold blood, taken out by the request of the NJ mob boss. Attempting to assert his dominance. His attempt however failed. Miserably.

The murder snapped something deep in Steve. Something dark. Instead of mourning her and cherishing her memories, his mind went directly to getting revenge on those accountable. Tracking them down with the help of Tony, one by one, and making them all suffer. Making them pay. Leaving the actual person who pulled the trigger and the NJ mob boss to the very last. He wanted them to know he was coming. To strike fear into them as they heard of the others involved slowly being taken out. The ones who were higher on the food chain then the hitman, and just as hard to track down as the boss. He wanted them to feel the same fear his mother did in her final moments.

His plan worked. By the time he reached the hitman on his kill list, he was a blubbering idiot. Begging for Steve to end him, pleading with him to do it fast. He granted him his wish. Two bullets to the head. Just like his mom. He could have made him suffer more, tortured him to the brink then brought him back, only to do it all over again. Like he had with the others. But he knew the man was hired for the job. Paid upon completion. He wasn’t the one that deserved Steve’s full anger. Hell, Steve had placed many hits throughout the years. More than he could count. But he remembered every one, vividly.

No hit was ever placed without serious thought, and solid evidence. He may have given the command to take someones life, but each hit still weighed on his conscious, on his soul. Like little black marks or splattered ink on a page. He would always carry them around with him. Wherever he went.

But as for when he finally tracked down the NJ mob boss, the very last person on his list. Well, that was a different story. He didn’t get mercy. He didn’t get a quick death. No, Steve made him suffer the worst out of any of them. But that’s a dark story for another day.

Which brings us back to why Steve was currently in this loud ass club. Why he felt he owed it to Tony to be present tonight—

He felt a hand on his forearm and turned his head to see Sharon staring back at him. Attempting to coo something in his ear. He grabbed her wrist and removed her hand from his arm, forcefully. He was not in the mood for her tonight. She took a special kind of mindset to handle her bullshit and right now he was not in that place. He was not interested. Once he released her arm she jerked it away and into her chest, cradling it as if it were broken. She was always so fucking dramatic.

Sharon was a crown chaser, through and through. She had flung herself at Steve the second he was in full power. And assumed she’d win him over due to their close family connections. But boy was she wrong.

Now that’s not to say that he had never taken her up on her offers a few times, because he had, she was very beautiful after all. When she kept her mouth shut. But the odd tryst here and there was all it ever was or ever would be, he wasn’t stupid enough to let it go any further then that. Though she had an ungodly annoying habit of just popping up wherever he was. In her mind they were pretty much engaged, however, that was definitely not the case. And never, ever would be.

He glared at her in warning before standing up and walking towards the banister overlooking the club. Deciding to people watch for a bit. He knew he just had to stay for a little longer, keep up appearances, then he could leave this loud ass club and retreat back to his office to handle more important matters. But then something bright red entering the club caught his eye, he knew hair like that could only belong to one woman. Nat.

They hadn’t talked in years. Not since his mom’s funeral. They had grown up together, been inseparable. Her, Bucky, Sam and himself. But when Steve went off the deep end after his mom's death, they distanced themselves from each other. Mainly for her safety, as he was out for blood and their would be consequences for that. He couldn’t allow Nat to be one of the casualties in his war. She hadn’t taken that well, saying she could take care of herself, but he knew the truth. She was no match for the people he was going up against, the people he was pissing off. But she was to damn stubborn and bullheaded to understand that. So he made the choice for her, threatening her life if she ever so much as spoke to him again. She knew him well enough to believe him and heeded his warning. His threat. Though, unbeknownst to her, he always kept tabs on her, made sure that she was good, that she was safe.

He watched as she entered with 4 friends, looking them over slowly, 3 of them he knew from Thor’s pub, clearly a girls night out. But the 4th, she was new.

“Hey Boss, how’s the people watching?”

He turned his attention from the group of woman and came face to face with Bucky. His life long best friend, more so like a brother, and his second in command. The only person Steve truly trusted. Without a shadow of a doubt. Well, Bucky and Sam, but the latter couldn’t join them out tonight as he was performing a very important job for Steve.

“Nat’s here,” he jerked his jaw towards where she was, “looks like a girls night,” he smirked.

Bucky peered over the banister, narrowing his eyes. “Who’s she with?”

“Looks like the waitresses from the pub,” he turned to look towards them again, “though, I don’t recognize that 4th one.” He furrowed his brows. He knew everyone in this city. It was his city after all. And surely he would have noticed a woman that looked like her before.

“I swear I know her from somewhere,” Bucky piped up after a few minutes, “She looks oddly familiar. Do you want me to find out who she is?”

He shook his head “No, I’ll figure it out.”

“Well, if you want me to find out all you have to do is ask,” Bucky said with a smirk before he turned and walked away.

Steve didn’t acknowledge his offer, he just continued to people watch. When he looked to Nat’s table he saw she was sitting alone, which caused him to chuckle to himself. Classic Nat. Always refusing to have fun.

Then he began to wonder where the mystery woman had run off to. He searched through the crowd and his eyes landed on her, in her dark green dress, dancing her heart out with the other ladies. Every now and then some guy would try to dance with her but she would push them away or step away from them. And every time it would happen a snort would escape him, he was enjoying watching every new guys failed attempt. Amateurs. He scoffed internally. Clearly she was not interested in any male attention tonight. At least, not yet, anyways.

After a while he saw her heading to the bar, he watched as she slowly began looking around. He knew her eyes would eventually land on him, but he was not a bashful man. He would very openly stare at whatever or whoever he wanted. Whenever he wanted. This was his city, after all. When her eyes finally landed on him she paused completely. He could see her checking him out and that caused an involuntary smirk to form on his lips. But then she abruptly turned to face the bar again. Oh, shy are we?

That was it for him. He had to know who she was and he always got what he wanted. He made his way down the stairs and through the crowd, which wasn’t hard as people normally gave him a wide berth. It was like parting the red sea where ever he went. Just as he was reaching the bar he saw her turn and head back towards her table.

He closed the distance and was just about to tap her on the shoulder when some fuckhead, drunk of his ass, was pushed by a buddy into her. Steve quickly reacted and reached out to grab her, preventing her from hitting the ground. He glared menacingly at the guys responsible and watched as their eyes widened upon seeing him. Then he stood her back up, making eye contact with one of his guys standing near a side wall and jutting his chin out to the drunk fucks. Receiving a nod in response he turned his attention back to her, just as she spun around to face him.

She just stood there, staring up at him before shaking her head and speaking. Though he couldn’t hear the words, he knew it was most likely a ‘thank you’. She looked flustered either by what had just happened or by his presence. Maybe she knew who he was. Would be hard for her to not know who he was, given his position here. And that they were very much currently on his turf.

He leaned forward and whispered, “You’re very welcome,” in her ear. Noticing the slight shiver that ran down her. He stood back up straight, staring at her once again.

Something about her drew him in, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. His eyes travelled her face, taking in every detail. He could tell, even from far away, that she was beautiful but being up close, right in front of her, she was breathtaking. His eyes landed on her lips and for the first time, in a very long time, he felt heat rise in his face, all the way to his ears. Mob bosses don’t blush. He snapped his eyes back up to hers, curious if she could see the tint on his cheeks. He was sure she couldn’t. Not in the dim lighting of the club.

She opened her mouth as if to speak before closing it again and instead nodded at him. Then she began to move around him, he turned as she did, curiously keeping a close eye on her. Waiting to see what she’d do next. Once she was on the other side of him, she took a few steps back then waved. Making him laugh at how awkward she seemed. It was fucking adorable, to say the least.

She then turned and damn near bolted towards the bar, obviously needing to replace her lost drinks. He glanced up at the VIP section, seeing Bucky standing at the banister with a shit eating grin on his face. Clearly getting a kick out of all of this. Steve shook his head then decided to make his way over to her, yet again. Like he was going to actually let her get away that easily.

He saw her standing off to the side of the bar, and walked up directly behind her. Raising his left hand to signal the bartender, who turned, saw him and quickly made his way towards them. Just as the bartender reached them, he noticed her slowly starting to turn around, causing a smirk to form on his lips as she finally fully faced him. Realizing he was now behind her. The look on her face led him to believe she was not expecting him to be standing there, seeing her visibly gulp confirmed that thought.

She looked like she was about to pass out, so he stepped up beside her, causing her to turn towards the bar again and put his hand on her lower back, just in case she did actually faint. He had already stopped her from hitting the floor once tonight, what was a second time?

With one more quick glance down at her he was sure she would manage to stay upright for now so he leaned in towards the bartender, “My usual, and the two drinks this woman just ordered,” The bartender nodded his response then quickly turned around to start making the drinks.

He stood back up and looked down, seeing her eyes closed and feeling her release a deep breath as she opened them again. Clearly he was in fact flustering her. And he liked that.

Most woman oozed fake confidence with him. They played this act that they were tough, confident. That their shit didn’t stink. Their words always seemed so scripted, their reactions derived entirely off his own. They were blunt and to the point. And most of the time they wouldn’t show any hint of being flustered, as they knew exactly what he would give them—or more accurately, what they would get from him. It was just sex. And they all knew it. They weren’t foolish enough to think he’d date them, let alone marry them. Though a few had tried to build those things with him, over the years, but he wasn’t interested. Marriage was a business deal to him, and as of now he had yet to meet a deserving partner. Or one that brought something to the table. Money, turf, businesses, whatever. Like he said, it was solely a business deal to him. Nothing more, nothing less.

Once the drinks were in front of them he swore he could see the wheels in her head turning. She looked up at him and the confusion was written all over her face, but only for a moment, then he watched as her cheeks tinted pink. Glad they were near the bar, where the lighting was a little better, or he may have missed it entirely. And the sight of it made his heart flutter, just for a moment. That was a feeling he wasn’t used to anymore, as he hadn’t felt that in a long, long time.

“So, what do I owe you?” She piped up and he could hear the shakiness in her voice.

“Owe me?” He asked, utterly taken aback by her question. Which was a first for him.

“Yes,” she nodded, “for the drinks.” She said slowly as you pointed to them.

To say that surprised him was an understatement, he’d bought the drinks for her, he didn’t order them expecting her to pay him back. That’s not how these things worked. Woman never questioned that with him. This girl was different and something in him wanted to know just how different. “A date,” he responded.

But then her reaction was, again, not one he was used to. She actually laughed and shook her head. Was she turning him down? No one had even turned him down. But then she froze and her eyes widened in shock while her mouth hung open slightly, “Oh, you’re serious?”

Obviously she thought he was joking, this girl was far too innocent for her own good. Something about that made him happy. It was like seeing a unicorn in real life.

In the world he lived in, innocence was not a thing. One couldn’t hold on to those sorts of traits here. At least not for long. They’d quickly get beaten out of you. Every person he had ever come into contact with always had an iron shell, but they had to, their safety depended on it. But this woman, she was clearly untouched by the cruelty of his world. That thought made the weird flutter in his chest happen again. He leaned in, right next to her ear and whispered, “I don’t normally joke about those sorts of things,” before standing back up.

“Ah, well, I um, I.” she stumbled out. He was really starting to enjoy how easily he could tongue tie her. Just how much of an effect he had on her—feeling her movement out if his touch broke him out of his thoughts. She was distancing herself from him and he didn’t like it.

“Ah, what I mean is, thank you for the offer but I’ll have to respectfully decline. I can pay you for the drinks though …if you’d like.” She offered.

He raised his hand and shook his head. Like he was going to allow her to pay him back. Once again, not how this worked. And ‘respectfully decline’? Clearly she didn’t actually know who he was.

“In that case, thank you for these,” she lifted up her two drinks, as if presenting them to him, “Enjoy your night!” She quickly said before turning to leave. But he wasn’t done with her yet, the thought of her walking away again, upset him for some odd reason so he reached out and gently grabbed her forearm. Preventing her from leaving and attempting to turn her back around. She did so, willingly. Maybe she didn’t want this interaction to end just yet, either.

Not only did he not want it to end, but he was also still curious about her. About her story. He leaned in again so she could hear him over the music. “One question,” he saw her nod for him to continue in the corner of his eye, “Why have I never seen you before?”

She pulled back and he removed his hand off her forearm. ”Oh, so you know every person in this city, huh?” She responded with one eyebrow raised. Yup, she has no clue who I am. But the slight sass in her tone made him inwardly laugh. She just continued to peak his interests with every passing second. He felt the smirk form on his face, this time entirely on it‘s own. He nodded, “You could say that.”

“Well, clearly not.” She sassed, “Or you’d know who I was.”

“What’s your name, doll?” He blurted out before he could stop himself. Shit. What is this girl doing to him? He had to know who she was. The curiosity was too much for him. He could swear he saw about 5 different emotions pass through her eyes before she finally said, “Find me again one day and I’ll tell you,” then she spun around and walked away. Rather quickly, might he add.

He watched her move away from him and something in him didn’t enjoy that sight. Not one fucking bit. But he let her go this time, he knew he’d be able to track her down again. And if the ladies she was with tonight were any indication of where she worked, then he knew exactly where he’d find her.

He turned back to see Bucky still standing up there watching him, this time shaking his head. Steve raised a hand, signalling for Bucky to come down and join him. Knowing he would have something to say about what just happened, but there was something they both needed to handle.

He turned back to look in the direction she had gone then finished his drink and put the empty glass on the bar. Turning just as his friend approached him, motioning for Bucky to follow him out a side door.

“Did the Rogers charm fail you this time?” Bucky joked with a cocky grin once they exited the loud club. He chose to ignore that question and continued down the alleyway. “Because that was painful to watch.” Bucky then added with a chuckle.

Steve paused then turned to his friend, “She was different,” he said thoughtfully.

Bucky furrowed his brows in confusion “What do you mean ‘different’?”

“I can’t explain it. She was just, different” he shrugged.

“Well you got her number, yeah?” Bucky asked.

Steve shook his head.

“Okay, but you at least know her name now, right..”

Steve scrunched up his nose but didn’t answer and just abruptly started to walk again. Not missing Bucky’s jaw damn near hitting the ground before he quickly ran to catch up to Steve and shook his head, “You have lost the Rogers charm, Boss.”

“In my defence, I asked her for her name—”

“And yet you still don’t know it?” he cut him off then laughed, “Oh man, that’s rich.”

“Shut up, James,” he growled.

“Okay, okay. Damn, no need for the first name. But I’m disappointed in you, Rogers.” he shook his head again.

“Please. Not once have I ever been turned down before,” he paused again to turn to his friend with a wicked grin, “What’s your rejection count at these days, jerk?”

Bucky’s right arm flew up to clutch at his chest as if he had been fatally wounded, “That cuts deep, punk.”

Steve just rolled his eyes. “You’re so fucking dramatic.” they both laughed.

Bucky and Sam were the only people who could get away with talking to him like this. They were the only people who ever got to see this side of Steve. The only ones he could just relax around and joke about life with. No one else could see him like that, not without risking them thinking he was their friend, instead of their boss. But Bucky and Sam respected that there was a time and a place for it, they knew when they could poke and when to step back. And they’d never poke in front of others. Only when it was just them, alone. Respect is huge in their world. And disrespect could get you killed.

“Well, since we have established you’ve lost your touch with the ladies, where are we heading?”

“First off, fuck you,” He growled, “Secondly, we have a couple punks to deal with,” he answered as they rounded the corner to find a few of Steve’s henchmen holding on to two guys, both looking just about ready to shit their damn pants. That made Steve smirk, “We have to teach these guys some manners.” He finished coldly. His entire demeanour instantly shifting back into Boss Mode. He took off his suit jacket and handed it to one of his men, before rolling up his sleeves to his elbows and undoing the top 2 buttons of his shirt.

Bucky leaned in to whisper, “Wait, are these the same dudes from earlier?”

Steve nodded, “The ones that knocked her over, yes.”

Bucky just stared at him for a moment before shaking his head and whispering again, more to himself, “Oh man, you got it bad.”

He shot his right hand man a glare in response before he turned his attention to the two fuckheads. He clapped his hands together once with a menacing grin on his face, “Alright guys, here’s what’s gunna happen…”

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@hopefulmoonobject @itsstillnotwhatyouthink @tessvillegas @boxofteenageideas @wangdeasang @giggleberts

[buzzdixonwriter]

Colonialism

You back into things sometimes.

One of my many guilty pleasures is old school pulp, which I first encountered with the Doc Savage reprints in the 1960s, then old anthologies, then back issues at conventions, and now thanks to the Internet, an almost limitless supply.

And to be utterly frankly, a lot of the appeal lays in the campiness of the covers and interior art -- brass plated damsels fighting alien monsters, bare chested heroes combatting insidious hordes, etc., etc., and of course, etc.

Once past age 12, I never took these covers or the covers of modern pulps such as James Bond, Mike Hammer, or Modesty Blaise seriously; they were just good, campy fun.

While my main focus remained on the sci-fi pulps, I also kept an eye on crime and mystery pulps, war stories, and what are sometimes called “sweaties”, i.e., men’s adventure magazines.

Despite the differences in the titles and genres, certain themes seemed to pop up again and again.

Scantily clad ladies, typically in some form of distress, though on occasion dishing out as good if not better than they got.

Well, the pulps that drew my attention were the pups made for a primarily male audience (though even in the 1930s and 40s there were large numbers of female readers and writers in the sci-fi genre).  Small wonder I was drawn to certain types of eye candy; I had been culturally programmed that way.

That’s a topic well worthy of a post or two on its own, so I’m putting gender issues / the patriarchy / the male gaze aside for the moment.

What I’m more interested in focusing on is the second most popular characters to appear on the covers (and in the stories as well).

The Other.

The Other comes in all shapes / sizes / ethnicities.  Tall and short, scrawny and beefy, light or dark, you name it, they’ve got a flavor for you.

“Injuns” and aliens, Mongols and mafiosi, Africans and anarchists.

Whoever they were ”they ain’t us!”

Certain types of stories lend themselves easily to depicting the villainous Other.

Westerns, where irate natives can always be counted on to launch an attack.

War stories, where the hero (with or without an army to help him) battles countless numbers of enemies en masse.

Adventure stories, where the hero intrudes in some other culture and shows them the error of their ways.

Detective stories, where the Other might be a single sinister mastermind but still represents an existentialist threat.

And my beloved sci-fi stories?

Why, we fans told ourselves our stories were better than that!  We didn’t wallow in old world bigotry, demonizing blacks and browns and other non-whites because of their skins.

Oh, no:  We demonized green skinned aliens.

Now I know some of you are sputtering “But-but-but you wrote for GI Joe!”

Boy howdy, are you correct.

And boy howdy, did we ever exploit the Other with that show.

I never got a chance to do it, but I pitched -- and had Hasbro accept -- a story that would have been about the way I envisioned Cobra to have formed and been organized, and would focus on what motivated them.

They were pretty simplistic greedheads in the original series, but I felt the rank and file needed to be fighting for a purpose, something higher to spire to that mere dominance and wealth.

I never got to do “The Most Dangerous Man In The World” but I was trying to break out of the mold. 

For the most part, our stories fit right into the old trope of The Other.

Ours were mostly about the evil Other trying to do something nefarious against our innocent guys, but there’s an obverse narrative other stories follow, in which our guys go inflict themselves on The Other until our guys either come away with a treasure (rightfully belonging to The Other but, hey, they really don’t deserve it so we’re entitled to take it from them), or hammer The Other into submission so they will become good ersatz copies of us (only not so uppity as to demand equal rights or respect or protection under law).

These are all earmarks of a very Western (in the sense of Europe and America…with Australia and New Zealand thrown in) sin:  Colonialism.

Now, before going further let’s get out terms straight.

There’s all sorts of different forms of colonialism, and some of them can be totally benign -- say a small group of merchants and traders from one country travel to a foreign land and set up a community there where they deal honorably and fairly with the native population.

The transplanted merchants are a “colony” in the strictest sense of the term, but they coexist peacefully in a symbiotic relationship with the host culture and both sides benefit, neither at the expense of the other.

Oh, would that they could all be like that…

Another form of colonialism -- and one we Americans are overly familiar with even though there are all sorts of variants on this basic idea -- is the kind where one culture invades the territory of another and immediately begins operating in a deliberately disruptive nature to the native population.

They seek to enslave & exploit or, failing that, expel or eradicate the natives through any means possible.

It’s the story of Columbus and the conquistadors and the pilgrims and the frontiersmen and the pioneers and the forty-niners and the cowboys and the robber barons.

It’s the story where different groups are deliberately kept separate from one another by the power structure in place, for fear they will band together and usurp said power structure (unless, of course, they band together to kelp make one of ours their leader, and build a grand new empire just for him).

It’s the story where our guys never need make a serious attempt to understand the point of view of The Other, because they are just strawmen to mow down, sexy lamps to take home.

I think my taste in sci-fi and modern pulp writing in general started to change around the mid-1970s.

Being in the army quickly cleared me of a lot of preconceptions I had about what our military did and how they did it.

The easy-peasy moral conflicts of spy novels and international thrillers seem rather thin and phony compared to the real life complexities of national and global politics.

Long before John Wick I was decrying a type of story I referred to as “You killed my dog so you must die.”  Some bad guy (typically The Other) does a bad thing and so the good guy (one of ours -- yea!) must punish him.

Make him hurt.

Make him whimper

Make him crawl.

Make him suffer.

The real world ain’t like that.

Fu Machu falls to Ho Chi Minh.

As entertaining as the fantasy of humiliating and annihilating our enemies may be…we gotta come to terms with them, we gotta learn to live with them.

That’s why my favorite sci-fi stories now are less about conflict and more about comprehension.

It’s better to understand than to stand over.

. . .

The colonial style of storytelling as the dominant form of story telling is fairly recent, dating only from the end of the medieval period in Europe and the rise of the so-called age of exploration.

This is not to say colonial story telling didn’t exist before them -- look at what Caesar wrote, or check out Joshua and Judges in the Old Testament -- but prior to the colonial age it wasn’t the dominant form of storytelling.

Most ancient stories involve characters who, regardless of political or social standing, recognize one another as human beings.

And when gods or monsters appear, they are usually symbols of far greater / larger forces & fates, not beasts to be subdued or slain.

Medieval literature is filled with glorious combat and conflict, but again, it’s the conflict of equals and for motives and rationales that can easily be understood.

It was only when the European nations began deliberately invading and conquering / dominating foreign lands that colonialism became the dominant form of storytelling.

It had to:  How else could a culture justify its swinish behavior against fellow human beings?

Even to this day, much (if not most) popular fiction reflects the values of colonialism.

Heroes rarely change.

Cultures even less.

We’ve kept The Other at arms length with popular fiction and media, sometimes cleverly hiding it, sometimes cleverly justifying it, but we’ve had this underlying current for hundreds of years.

Ultimately, it hasn’t served us well.  

It traps us in simplistic good vs evil / us vs them narratives that fail to take into account the complex nature of human society and relationships.

It gives us pat answers instead of probing questions.

It is zero sum storytelling: The pie is only so big, there can’t be more, and if the hero doesn’t get it all, he loses.  (John D. MacDonald summed up this philosophy in the title of one of his books:  The Girl, The Gold Watch, And Everything.)

It’s possible to break out of that mind set -- The Venture Brothers animated series brilliant manages to combine old school pulp tropes with a very modern, very perceptive deconstruction of the form -- but as posted elsewhere, imitation is the sincerity form of flattery that mediocrity can pay to greatness, so while I certainly applaud The Venture Brothers I don’t want to encourage others to follow in their footsteps.

Because they won’t.

They’ll pretend they will, but they’ll veer off course and back into the old Colonialism mindset.

We need to break out, break free.

Here in the U.S. it’s African-American History Month.

The African-American experience is far from the Colonialism that marks most white / Western / Christian storytelling (and by storytelling I include history and journalism as well as fiction; in fact, anything and everything that tells a narrative).

It’s a good time to open our eyes, to see the world around us not afresh, but for the first time.

Remove the blinders. 

I said sometimes you back into things.

Getting a clearer view of the world I’m in didn’t come from a straightforward examination.

It came from a counter-intuitive place, it found its way back to the beginning not by accepting what others said was the true narrative, but by following individual threads.

It came from Buck Rogers and the Beat Generation and Scrooge McDuck and the sexual revolution and Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance and the civil rights era and Dangerous Visions and the Jesus Movement and Catch-22 and the Merry Pranksters.

It came from old friends, some of whom inspired me, some of whom disappointed me, and yet the disappointments probably led to a deeper, more penetrating insight into the nature of the problem.

This Colonialism era must come to a close.

It can no longer sustain itself, not in the world we inhabit today.

It requires a new breed of storytellers -- writers and artists and poets and journalists who can offer 

It’s not a world that puts up barriers by race or gender, ethnicity or orientation, ability or age.

There’s ample opportunity for open minds.

All it asks of us is a new soul.

  © Buzz Dixon

[exhaustedwerewolf]

Detroit: Become Human fans, please consider checking out C4/AMC Humans!

I’ve been meaning to make this post since D:BH’s release, but I just found out that Humans was canceled after three seasons, and in my grief, I’m going to finally deliver. I’m not sure what the overlap between these two fandoms is like because I’ve never seen anyone talking about it and couldn’t find any posts tagged with both, which surprises me a lot.

For those unfamiliar with either, both shows are set in a world where humanoid robots are commonplace as servants and members of the workforce, and what happens when some of these individuals begin to achieve sentience. Asides from the subject matter- so similar I literally don’t have to explain them separately- so many characters have parallel roles in the story, the commonalities, from the overarching themes, to the robot detective, to the blue blood, are practically endless. I really want to draw people’s attention to Humans, though, because in my opinion it’s a severely underrated show, and I think those who enjoyed D:BH would get more of what they loved from it, and those who had more mixed feelings about it would find Humans delivers where D:BH lacks.

Let me explain what I mean.

Warning, though, that this ramble won’t be spoiler free, so if you‘re interested in the show but don’t want to read any spoilers- I’d really urge you to give it a shot!

Also warning, I’m a little dismissive of D:BH here, but that’s not to say I dislike it or don’t think people should like it, etc. I’m just trying to explain why I think in some areas, Humans does better- ofc, Humans is a tv show and not a game that needs engaging gameplay and multiple endings, so it has opportunities D:BH doesn’t.

The Synths (Androids)

I’m not a huge fan of the way androids are presented in D:BH, and the reason I’d argue for that is Cage makes no real effort to “other,” them- in fact, he goes beyond the logical to make them as human as possible. Androids’ body language and movement, range of facial expressions, idiosyncratic habits like Connor’s coin flipping, tendency even, to lie down to rest... they endear them to the player, but they’re ultimately all superfluous. Why were these things programmed in? Why don’t they operate as economically as possible? Further, why do androids become deviant, and burst out of their programming? We’re told it’s due to “stress,” but why can they feel such stress in the first place, and why does it trigger sudden sentience? We never get a clear answer. It’s pretty unclear, admittedly, how sentient androids are before they become deviant in the first place- and I see where the game was coming from with that, however...

Synths in Humans are far more unsettling- the actors portray their movements with a jarringly uniform perfection. Their speech and facial expressions are far less emotional, because emotions were never intended for them. They can’t feel physical pain, (although incurring damage remains a stressful and frightening experience) because again, that was never intended for them, and so they have no mechanism by which to do so. This gives humans arguing that they’re only machines a lot more clout. Everyone has memories of blank slates who never laugh or smile, and who can be turned off with a tap under the chin, only to crumple like mannequins. There’s times when they’re presented to the audience as unapologetically eerie and even disgusting, and it’s easy to see, therefore, how they’re being perceived by the public as machines or monsters, which arguably, was somewhat less credible in D:BH, where even non-deviant androids were personable and warm, had the capacity to create art from their imaginations, etc. Letting synths be genuinely different to humans while still portraying them as sentient and deserving of rights, rather than just... “human, but mechanical,” gives the issue a lot more nuance and fuels the inclusion of elements like anti-synth propaganda, and counter-protest, which I’ll talk more about later.

(As a note, the “why” behind their sentience is also explained in a manner that was, imho, more coherent and satisfying.)

As I mentioned before, a lot of the characters have seeming direct parallels, so I’m going to take this opportunity to talk about a couple of characters in depth.

Niska

The blue-haired Traci’s appearance is one of the most controversial elements of the game, from what I’ve seen. The writers undeniably dipped their toes into multiple subjects fraught with heavy implications in her scene, but ultimately that was as far as it went- Traci and her lover only existed to further the narratives of Hank and Connor (and to provide a frankly fan-servicey fight scene while scantily clad in the rain, but hey, that’s neither here nor there.) To anyone who found this character interesting but ultimately underutilized, might I introduce you to the light of my life; Niska. Like Traci, Niska spends a stint as a prostitute, and ultimately kills one of her patrons and skips the joint. Like Traci, Niska is a wlw- although her relationship with her girlfriend comes a little later on in the show. Unlike Traci, Niska is one of the main protagonists of the show, and undeniably one of the most important- she holds everyone’s fate in her hands more than once, she’s fascinating from an emotional point of view- her traumas are confronted in depth and not dismissed- and her actions are very often a driving force in the plot line. Her relationship with her girlfriend is developed on screen, and in many ways, arguably the most important in the entire show.

Max

I‘ve seen criticism of the revolution storyline in D:BH in that violent protest always nets you a bad ending, and in that the peaceful route is arguably too idealistic.I’d posit Max’s storyline (and the effects of his dynamics with Mia, Niska, etc.) as a more nuanced exploration of the issue. There’s characters pushing for both paths and they’re all portrayed as understandable, and their reasons for pushing either a peaceful or violent agenda are present and reasonable. As similar as he might seem to Markus at first glance, I’d argue Max, soft-spoken, brotherly, and empathetic, is a very different kind of leader, so I’m hesitant to compare them too much. But it’s interesting to see a character like this in such a high-pressure leadership role, and I’d argue that this is a less rose-tinted look at compassion in the face of oppression and violence.

Sam

I’m not going to mince words on D:BH’s  Alice twist- to me, it felt inorganic and disappointing. I felt like the game withheld foreshadowing and intentionally misdirected the player to keep the reveal a surprise, and that really bothered me. However you feel about the Alice reveal, it’s undeniable that it is so late on in the game means that the whole idea of robo-kids being adopted into human families doesn’t really get explored in much depth. Humans gets more into the grit of this, discussing how a kid like this would be able to relate to kids and adults alike, what this strange form of “eternal youth,” would mean, etc. If that was an idea that interested you, you’ll get far more of it in Humans. 

This really isn’t where the parallels stop- like I mentioned, we have a robot detective with a really close relationship with their human partner (hannor shippers, I’m looking right at you) we’ve got themes of domestic violence and abuse, we’ve got separated families, we’ve got art and morality- I can’t be here all day, but I’ll say it like this; if it’s explored in D:BH, it’s probably explored in Humans, too.

The Humans

D:BH is very much grounded in the perspective of androids- all the player characters are androids, as are the majority of the supporting cast- Hank is arguably the only human character that gets any real screen time, and one of the only real insights we get into how humans are coping with this new android-filled world. I think this is a shame, because the setting is a really interesting one, and a lot goes unexplored, or at least, unexplored in depth. It frankly feels kind of disingenuous to me to only see little of Markus’ impact beyond a number on the screen labeled “public opinion,” and this is something that I feel Humans deals with a lot better. One of Humans’ biggest strengths is, ironically, the humans in it- the viewer is grounded in this sweeping, overarching plotline primarily through the perspective of the Hawkins family, but ultimately other human characters play a lot of important roles as well. We’ve got synth/human romances, we’ve got humans passing as synths (yes, that IS Princess Shuri down there) we’ve got synths passing as humans, we’ve got humans campaigning for synth rights, we’ve got humans campaigning for synth extinction. Getting the human side of the story is really valuable and adds so much to the narrative as a whole, it makes the protagonists’ struggle more real and raises the stakes.

Frankly this post is a mess but if you made it this far, thanks for reading, and please watch Humans if you like this type of sci-fi. I promise it’s worth it.

[daphenomenal-1]

Mortal Kombat 11 & Character Designs

I have been a fan of fighting games since I could pick up a controller. And, naturally of course, my favorite fighting game franchise of all time is obviously Mortal Kombat. I love the brutality and complexity of the gameplay and I enjoy the risks the game takes.

However, people have been in a bit of a...discussion about the new designs for the newest entry, “Mortal Kombat 11″. Some say it’s too PC, while others say that it’s the best thing to happen to the franchise. I have a lot of thoughts about it, so I’ll address them by addressing both sides of the argument.

 The Nay-Sayers

 Look y’all: just because a game doesn’t have scantily clad women in it doesn’t mean the game is bad. Most of the complaints I heard were leveled at Jade, more specifically how her hood “isn’t practical”. Yeah, it’s not practical...also, flying through someone while their spinal cord is intact isn’t practical either. You don’t need to have women dressed like they’re going to give you a good time to have a solid fighting game. It’s about the mechanics of the game, not the character designs. However...

The Praises

 I understand where some of these people are coming from. Casting our minds back to when Netherrealm made MK 9, nobody really gave a shit that Kitana, Jade, Mileena, or Skarlet were dressed, because we were too entranced by how solid the gameplay was. Likewise with MKX: nobody really gave a shit about the designs because we were engrossed in the more fast paced action and brutal X-Rays and even more gruesome fatalities. And yet somehow, here we are in 2019 and it’s an issue as to how the characters are designed. I think that the designs from the past games were to pay homage to the classic outfits from UMK while also “modernizing”. I think those getting mad at people who are mad at the new designs are making assumptions that aren’t true. I’m pretty sure no guy is feeling some type of way about these characters (although probably some of them are), but more importantly, it was to show how females can be sexy but also kick ass.

I can make a few examples, but the one I think of the most is Mileena, particularly from Mortal Kombat X. Mileena is the picture-perfect example of sexy but powerful. Tumblr has been all up Mileena because not only is she incredibly attractive (minus the face, but even that got a touch-up), but she was also the rightful ruler of Outworld and staged a coup against Kotal Kahn. And in gameplay, she’s a brutal bad-ass with some crazy mix-ups and brutal combos. Another would be Cassie Cage. Again, another character who’s wise-cracking and kicking ass with good anti-air attacks and good spacing/zoning potential. But look at her and tell me she isn’t looking like a whole snack and a half.

Yes, they are sexy. But they are sexy and powerful. Kitana becomes Queen of the Netherrealm, for fucks sake. And she maintains both her sensuality and her sense of power as a Revenant. Same with Sindel: maintains her sexuality, but still is powerful.

What I thought was so cool about MKX was that each character did not feel the same. Everyone was so distinct, especially the women. No character feels or looks the same. But in 11, both Skarlet and Jade’s costume designs feel more similar than different. Yeah, they have their differences, but they don’t feel unique.

I think people are putting more focus on the outfits and are forgetting that this game is a fighting game. These characters are more than just their looks: they are great kombatants that deserve better than what people are giving them. I both like and don’t like the new designs. But also: I don’t care. Because it’s a fighting game. Cosmetics are just that, and they aren’t the important aspect of the game.

[katie-dub]

The Princess of White Chapel (8/12)

Dr Killian Jones is having a terrible day. He’s got a mission, he’s got a time machine, he’s got … drunk. What could possibly go wrong?

AO3 | Tumblr

Rated M for alcohol use, violence, minor character death, frank discussions of depression and grief.

Thank you all for reading, liking and reblogging. I loved your amazing responses to the last chapter, I get a kick out of seeing what you think! I love this chapter - in fact, from here on out I love all the chapters - shit’s about to get real guys! My betas @ultraluckycatnd and @distant-rose made every chapter of this fic better - never more so than this one, which is full of London details that I couldn’t have included without help. @princesse-swan made my header - thank you to the @captainswanbigbang mods for matching us up, I couldn’t have asked for a better artist! 

Now on with the show...

The first thing Killian noticed upon waking up on Saturday morning was the refreshing breeze tickling his nose and filling the room. When he'd gone to sleep the air was heavy, an impending storm looming over the city. But somehow the air had cleared without a crack of lightning or peal of thunder. He might have been suspicious at the sudden change if he weren't so grateful for the reprieve.

For the first time in forever he could breathe easily (or perhaps it was only since last Tuesday, not that the British were ever needlessly melodramatic about the weather). Air. Sweet, fresh air. He greedily gulped it down.

The second thing was the soft chink of crockery bumping together. Emma.

He opened his eyes and sat up slowly, peering over the back of the sofa at her. She was rifling through the mugs in his cupboard and he watched, fascinated, as she searched for some unknown treasure.

Despite needing to reach up into the cupboard, she was stiff and tense, pausing often to just listen. She's like a frightened animal, he thought, on the alert for an imminent attack.

At one point two mugs knocked together with particular force resulting in a large crash. She tensed further still, shoulders flying up and slightly crumpling in on herself in what could only be described as a full-body wince. She froze, listened hard, damn near stopped breathing. She waited. Waited. Killian found himself mimicking her and hardly daring to breathe, not willing to share that she had already woken him, too intrigued by what he was seeing. Then after an agonisingly long few seconds she moved again and he too breathed a sigh of relief.

He could tell the moment that she found her treasure. The tension was gone instantly and she punched the air, doing a little wiggle of excitement. She grabbed her holy grail and pulled it out. It was a large white mug that curved inward at the base. The words “would you like an adventure now or shall we have our tea first” were emblazoned across it in an elegant handwritten scrawl. He couldn't help but laugh that this ridiculous gift from Belle - who knew his affection for Peter Pan (even if he did have an intense dislike for the eponymous character) - was her object of desire.

He realised his mistake at once.

She froze. He cringed. Busted, seemed to be their simultaneous thought.

Emma turned around slowly, hugging the mug to her. “How long were you watching me? Why didn't you tell me that you were awake?” she questioned, her accusing tone hard to ignore.

“Just a moment!” was his defensive reply, a moment too long, you creep, his inner demon hissed at him. “I didn't want to - I didn't mean -” he sighed and started over. “I'm sorry. I was trying not to startle you and honestly I was curious about what you were so desperate to find, but that was kinda creepy and, yeah, I shouldn't have done that. I don't want to make you uncomfortable.” Stop talking you babbling buffoon!

He expected Emma to lash out at him, perhaps remind him of some boundaries, but to his surprise she simply blushed and set the mug on the counter.

“Oh it's nothing,” she brushed off, “that's just the perf- a good size. For tea. If you happen to like that sort of thing.” She shrugged and slumped back against the counter in such a forced gesture it was almost comical, a parody of nonchalance.

Killian eyed her thoughtfully, realising that she wasn't used to having nice things. Or not used to being allowed to keep them. “You have it, love,” Emma's eyes lit up but she simply shrugged again, trying desperately to convey utter indifference. He knew only an equally strong display of indifference from him would induce her to accept it now. “I don't much care for it anyway, Belle should have known better than to get me a mug with that demon Peter Pan's words written on it.”

“He comes to your realm too?” she gasped in horrified amazement, the mug temporarily forgotten.

“Err, no? I just don't like the character in the book.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Perhaps that's just lingering bitterness on my part that he didn't steal me from - from normal life.” He had inadvertently almost revealed too much of his sorry beginnings in life, perhaps after feeling as though he intruded on Emma, she deserved his vulnerability.

But this felt too much.

Something about her though loosened his tongue, he felt a strong kinship with her that he could not explain. What could he possibly have in common with a princess? And why did she have that look in her eyes that he so often saw reflected in the mirror - the look of an orphan? She was a mystery. One he couldn’t solve without giving up his own secrets. But he wasn’t ready yet - maybe he wouldn’t ever be.

“So, you want to go get some new clothes this morning?” He asked, breezing past the awkward moment.

“I don’t need any - I’ll be fine in what I have.”

“Didn’t we cover this last night? Hardly seems fitting for a bad ass motherfucker to go around saving the realm looking like they might be doing a walk of shame.” Emma’s eyes narrowed at his words. He couldn’t be sure if his meaning was unclear or if she was just deeply unimpressed by it, but he felt the need to clarify. “Not that I think a lady should be judged by her clothing - never judge a book and all that - I just think that something more practical might be helpful.” Plus the tabloids will have a fucking field day if they catch sight of her performing magic while scantily clad, he thought. Right or wrong, this society was obsessed with women’s clothes and she didn’t deserve to be attacked over something that held no bearing over her ability to help.

“You’re right. I just feel like I owe you so much. Everything that you’re doing - that you’ve done. It’s a lot.”

“I’m not sure if I can ever do enough to make up for taking you from your realm. Possibly forever.”

There was the smallest grimace of pain that flashed across her face at his words. The most fleeting microexpression. If he weren’t studying her so intently he might never have noticed. But he was and he did and he felt sick at hurting this wonderful person. “This isn’t forever.”

“No?”

“I believe you can do this.”

Bloody hell, he didn’t deserve this utter faith in him. He’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone so completely on your side, to just know that he would do the right thing. That he could fix this. It had been so long since he’d had this.

Since Milah.

And once again he was stuck in a cycle of shame. Distressed at letting Milah down. He’d forgotten her. No. Not forgotten. But he’d lost her inside his stupid brain that couldn’t figure out how to save her or how to keep her memories fresh and alive.

Stop it.

He couldn’t do this again, not right now. He needed to break free of this cycle of shame, torment, and regret that was making him sick, keeping him stuck.

He took a deep breath of that clear, sweet, fresh air and closed his eyes. He felt a light touch on his arm. He started and looked back up into Emma’s disconcerted face.

“You okay in there?” she asked. “All this faith can be pretty intense, can’t it?”

He nodded slowly, intrigued. He’d found himself beginning to think of her as an open book to him - it never occurred to him that he might look the same to her.

“I think we understand each other pretty well, you and I. You think that I’m - what was it you said - marvellous? something like that? You’re so sure that I can just do this all so well, and that’s really … great. But that doesn’t make this less scary because what if I can’t? You want me to trust that you’re right. Well, this is me saying to you that you should trust me. It’s ok if you don’t believe that you can sort all this out, because I’ll believe in you enough for the both of us, got it?”

Killian felt embarrassingly close to tears at Emma’s emotional plea.

God this was one of the things that he missed most about having a partner. Milah’s support meant everything to him, and even when he didn’t - couldn’t - believe in himself she was always there for him. He’d lost so much when she died, and not just because she was gone, but because he shut himself off from the possibility of having someone else be there for him. He couldn’t let her be dead, he needed her not to be dead, so he tried to will her back into existence. And now that he was finally beginning to really come to terms with her loss - to accept that perhaps there was someone else who could be a true partner to him - he would have to lose her too.

The universe was laughing at him.

The universe felt a lot like Gold with his stupid high pitched giggle. He wanted to punch the universe in the goddamn face. Or maybe that was just Gold. But for once he wanted to show the universe, or Gold, or whoever that he could be better than this, that he wouldn’t be destroyed again.

He was ready to heal.

“Yeah, let’s do this. Don’t stop believing, hold on to that feeling.” He tried to be serious, but he smirked at the stupid reference, even if he was going to have the Glee rendition of that song in his head for the rest of the day.

Emma cocked her head to the side. “Why do I feel like you’re quoting something at me?”

His smirk turned to a laugh. “Because I am.”

She punched the air in delight. “I’m getting good at recognising these references of yours,” she said with a cheesy grin over her face. “Now, can we stop with all this serious talk and eat something? I’m starving.”

It took them far longer than it should have to get going that day - lingering over breakfast and both having lazy showers as though they didn’t have an important mission for the day. Maybe it was just that “purchase a new wardrobe for the princess” didn’t feel quite as significant as “fix whatever gaping wound in reality you’ve created”, but he didn’t feel the urge to rush.

They ambled down the city streets, past tall blocks of flats and two storey brick buildings. Past building work that was sure to make some flat owner incredibly pissed off that the grand view of the London skyline that they paid extra for was about to be blocked out. Past grand architecture, which clearly impressed and possibly even awed Emma in the way that London architecture often did with newcomers when to Killian it had become simply the bog standard backdrop to his life, and past scruffy shops, which did not.

They reached a barber’s shop with golden awning, ornate lettering announcing it to be the imaginatively named BarberBarber. A hipster sat in a vintage leather barber’s chair in the window, no doubt paying extra for the “authentic old school touch that money can’t buy” as he had his beard sculpted into the latest facial hair du jour.

Killian paid the shop little mind, turning right and walking through an impressive set of metal gates into a covered market.

He casually looked at Emma out of the corner of his eye as they strode through the stalls selling leather bags in a variety of shapes of satchel, all manner of quirky signage to suit your every interior decorating whim, scarves in every colour and pattern imaginable, tasteful abstract art, vintage pocket watches and other antique fripperies to suit the discerning hipster and foods of all varieties.

Milah used to love it here. So bustling and full of life. Excellent for people watching. Great for bargains. Occasionally offering hilarious items that they could only guess at the use of - usually ridiculous suggestions made in hushed whispers into each other’s ears until they had to quickly move on before earning the seller’s ire. He was letting Emma into a part of their London, and he desperately hoped that she approved.

Judging by her wide eyed looks of wonder, curiosity, and, occasionally, complete confusion, she did.

He made a beeline for a stall he always loved that sold genuine vintage band t-shirts at knockdown prices. They rifled through the racks, looking for possibilities. Emma made Killian smile by pulling out a ginormous Beatles Yellow Submarine t-shirt her eyes shining with glee and holding it up to herself.

“Bit big, don’t you think?” he commented, arching one eyebrow.

She blushed. “I’d wear it as a dress with a belt. I don’t know. I like yellow. But … yeah, it was a stupid idea.” She started to put it back, looking crestfallen, but he stopped her, feeling guilty for mocking her.

“If you like it, it’s yours.” Her smile lit up her whole face and Killian knew then, he would do anything to see that smile again.

They continued on, taking in different stalls and gathering up things that she would need, before it occurred to him that she would need underwear. He was certain that she wouldn’t appreciate him trailing along as she bought panties and bras so he pressed money into her hand and gestured her towards a suitable stall, fiddling with his ring as he waited.

She returned soon after, face flaming red. She clearly had bought something, but she was clearly deeply flustered by the experience.

Knowing he’d probably regret it, he took a deep breath. “Everything okay, Swan?” he asked, scratching at his ear.

“I - I -” she looked around awkwardly and leaned in close to him “- I don’t understand the corsets you have in your realm.”

“Oh!” He felt his own face redden as blood rushed to his face and he tried hard not to picture what she did - or possible did not - have on under his shirt. “Perhaps I could ask Belle to join us later and help out?” he asked, hoping that his voice hadn’t really risen an octave as he spoke, although he rather suspected that it had.

“Seriously?”

She was utterly incredulous and he could tell that this was the wrong thing to have said. “Yyyyeesss?” he said slowly, unsure what else to do.

“She’ll hardly believe that I’m really your colleague if I don’t know anything about… bras I think the sign called them?” Killian opened his mouth, honestly unsure of what the right answer might be to this excellent point. Emma sighed in frustration. “It’s fine, I’ll just go without.”

He really wished she hadn’t told him that. He made a show of looking away, so as not to stare at her chest. As he did so, he thought he caught sight of a familiar - and unwelcome - face in the crowd. But when he looked again, there was no one he knew in sight.

“Killian?”

He was still scanning the crowd suspiciously when Emma got through to him. He had no idea how long she’d been talking for. “Hmm?” he asked absentmindedly.

“I was just asking what’s next?”

“Oh love, you’re in for a treat,” he said, eyes gleaming.

He took her on a tour of the street art that was in and around Brick Lane. Emma gasped at the fine detail of the giant hedgehog on Chance Street, scowling at Killian when he laughingly clarified that such creatures did not in fact, exist in this realm - not at that scale, at least. She ‘awww’ed at the cute figures by Stik that were sprinkled around the area, wondering at how the artist conveyed so much with such simple drawings. She exclaimed at the vibrant colours they saw from numerous artists as they walked on by, loving the energy they brought to otherwise dull buildings.

Two moments stood out for Killian in amongst all of the beauty they saw.

He had a specific piece that he was eager for her to see, a large black and white heron on red brick. Emma was awestruck by the piece, gazing at it for several minutes in quiet contemplation.

“Thank you for showing this to me,” she said, eyes sparkling, “I can see why you love it so much.”

This filled Killian with pride and he couldn’t help but beam. “Milah painted it.” He smirked as Emma’s jaw dropped in surprise. “The council tried to cover it up a few years back but the community revolted.” He was boasting now and he didn’t care. “She always loved that street art was transient, that one day it might suddenly disappear, but to know that something she made is so special to other people, people who maybe didn’t even know her…” He gazed up at it, feeling a lump in his throat. “It means a lot.” He turned away before Emma could respond and strode off down the street, trusting her to keep up with him.

Later, he brought her to a car park that was covered in street art, walking past an artist holding spray cans, their fingers stained with colour and the chemical scent of paint in the air.

The door slammed open, and Killian crept out of their room, grinning at the sight of Milah gulping down a drink at their kitchen counter. Her curls tumbled down over her hoodie and she wore scruffy trousers, paint speckled across her clothes and coating her fingertips.

He snuck up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. He inhaled the scent of spray paint that always clung to her when she’d been creating on the streets. “You been painting, my love?”

Milah laughed and leaned back against his chest. “What gave it away?”

“Well you look awfully dirty, perhaps I could help you with that? These clothes need to come off for a start.” He grabbed her zipper and tugged on it.

She batted his hand away and turned in his arms to grin at him. “Something tells me that I’ll end up dirtier after your help.”

He licked his lips and wiggled his eyebrows. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” And he surged forwards to kiss her...

Killian was nearly knocked down by the force of the memory slamming into him. It had been years since he’d recalled Milah with such perfect clarity. He could practically feel the memory, could taste it, and it was all thanks to that smell. He was stunned. Perhaps he had been wrong to cut himself off from the art scene, if it could’ve kept Milah alive to him so completely.

“Everything ok?” Emma had at some point taken his hand in hers, and she was gently stroking it. Her face was a picture of concern. He hated that he’d worried her.

“Never better,” he said, putting thoughts of Milah to one side and tugging her into the car park. “In fact, looks like there’s a new piece for us to see. I wonder what it might - oh.”

He stopped short. Emma barrelled into him and they both stumbled. He pulled her into his side, placing his hand about her waist and pointing towards the freshly painted scene.

It was Emma.

She was radiating confidence, arms loose at her sides, wearing clothes similar to those she had worn when she first arrived in London, but with some key differences. Her vest was not worn on top of a shirt, and was fitted to her body, her boots stopped mid-thigh and she wore short shorts. There was a golden circlet across her forehead and her blonde hair flew out around her face. She stared down the viewer, looking strong and powerful, arms held loosely at her side, a lightsaber clasped in one hand. Light shone out from her like she was a goddess amongst men.

And alongside her were the words:

Our Saviour

A true Wonder Woman

The Princess of White Chapel

“Is that me?” she breathed, breaking away from him to move closer to the painting.

Killian smiled at the way she reached out as if to touch it, but stopped herself at the last second. “Aye, love. I’d say it’s a good likeness.”

She cocked her head, reading the words, and half turning to him, but seeming unable to quite tear herself away from the sight. “What does The Princess of White Chapel mean?”

“You’re in White Chapel. It’s this part of London.”

She frowned at turned to him. “But how could they know what I am?”

“I don’t think they were being literal. See this and this?” He stepped towards her and pointed to the lightsaber and circlet in turn. “That’s Leia’s weapon, and Wonder Woman’s crown, they’re two incredible, feisty and badass princesses from our popular fiction. They’re showing that you’re just like them, so you should be known as our princess.”

Emma choked up a little at his words. “Oh. Oh, that’s…” She didn’t finish the thought, just stared hard at the sight, until she was ready to leave.

But the day wasn’t overtaken by intense emotional moments, they were able to laugh at the funny art, to grimace at the dark and distressing and revel in the joy of the creativity that adorned the walls all around them. Where yesterday it had pained Killian to be so reminded of Milah’s love of art, today it was a comfort, a way of honouring her.

The only dark cloud was the constant sense Killian had of being watched. Time and again he thought he saw an old ally out of the corner of his eye, only to find that she’d disappeared when he turned his head. It was unnerving. If she was around there could only be one reason: Gold.

Emma hadn’t been keen to try any of the curry places they’d passed on their meanderings so he was taking Emma to one final gallery on their way back to catch a bus to Borough Market, where he was sure she’d find something she’d like. From the poncy wording of the exhibition listing, he wasn't entirely sure what to expect, but it could usually be counted on to provide more examples of amazing street art. Stolen Space with its sleek painted black brick frontage nestled in between ominous looking tall fences with spiked tips (which felt slightly counter to the whole purpose of showcasing street art in Killian’s opinion, but what’s life without irony?). But, before he could open the door, she flung her arm out to stop him.

“Why does it say Wish You Were Here on the windows?” she cried out in alarm.

“Name of the exhibition I expect,” Killian replied, unsure what the issue was with this innocuous phrase.

She turned to him, exasperation spread across her face. “Don’t you people understand how dangerous wishing can be?” she hissed indignantly.

He laughed, and anger flashed in her eyes. He sobered at once. “I’m sorry, but we don’t believe in wishing here. That phrase is just a platitude that people write on postcards.” She had relaxed as he talked but still looked wary - at the word postcard her nose scrunched in confusion. “Notes that people send home from their holidays. It’s meaningless, just a way to say ‘thinking of you’, what’s the harm?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “God people in your realm are so stupid.” “Hey!” Killian butted in indignantly, not appreciating the slight to his intelligence. “Wishes always go wrong,” she continued, “they shouldn’t be taken lightly.”

“You’re taking be careful what you wish for a little too literally, love.”

“Really?” Her mouth had dropped open in disbelief. He hadn’t thought she could be even more mystified by him than she already was, but apparently her incredulity knew no bounds. “So you do know that, you just choose to ignore it?”

Killian started to feel like they were having two entirely different conversations. “It’s just an expression,” he said feeling more than a little defensive over Emma’s continued ire.

Her face darkened and her voice went quiet. “You wouldn’t say that if you’ve seen the pain that wishing can cause.”

“Bloody hell,” he breathed out, face softening as he realised that Emma herself must have been somehow hurt by a careless wish. “I didn’t mean to upset you. We don’t - there isn’t -” He broke off, dropped his shopping bags and ran his hand through his hair. He wanted to find the right words to soothe this situation. “Wishes don’t come true here, it’s easy to be careless about something fictional -” Emma looked indignant “- I know that where you come from they are a fact of life, but here, they’re just another fairy story. I’m sorry for being so thoughtless.”

Emma studied her feet “sok,” she mumbled to the ground.

He stepped closer to her, intending to wrap his arms around her and comfort her, but he felt that prickle on the back of his neck of being watched and it made him anxious to leave. “Let’s skip this place and go get food shall we?”

They hopped onto the 47 and climbed up to the top deck of the red double decker bus. Emma was quiet on the journey, content to gaze out the window at the sights, until she spotted Tower Bridge as they made their way across the Thames. “Isn’t that where Lily landed the other day?”

“Yep. That’s Tower Bridge, it’s a major attraction.”

“Typical Lily,” Emma said, rolling her eyes.

“We’re on London Bridge - and we need to get off in a minute.”

When they were off the bus and walking towards Borough Market, Killian couldn’t help but wonder where everyone was. Usually this area was teeming with tourists and locals alike and while the streets were hardly empty there were still far fewer people around than he’d expect. It made him feel nervous, and he was already on edge.

When they made it to the market and he started to guide Emma around the stalls, he began to relax. It was hard not to, with the way she lit up at the sight of all the sweet treats on offer. He tried pointing out all the amazing savoury options, suggesting venison burgers, homemade pastas, cuisine from all over the world. But she still chose a salted caramel cronut the size of her fist and did a little wiggle of happiness, her eyes going wide with excitement as she took her first bite.

He good naturedly shook his head at her, as she refused to even try his duck fat chips. “These chips are actually legendary, are you sure?” he asked, taking one before stowing the rest in a paper bag as they walked by the Thames.

She shrugged. “My mom was taught how to use a bow and arrow by Hercules, legends don’t impress me much.”

“OK, so you have actual legends for family friends, my poor chips never stood a chance with you.”

“I’d definitely rather take a bite out of this cronut than Hercules any day.” Killian nearly choked at this unexpected innuendo, while Emma grinned mischievously, delighted at her own joke.

When he’d recovered from his coughing fit he asked somberly, “does he not quite measure up to the legend? The size of his herculean tasks not all that he claimed?” This earned him a smack. “You wound me, Swan,” he yelped with a grin.

Food purchased, he steered them towards the Tate Modern, aiming for the grassy area in front of it where they could people watch and he could finally settle down to enjoy his chips.

When they arrived it was already crowded with people driven to find any patch of grass they could to enjoy the sun in. An alarming number of whom had clearly been exposing far too much skin while wearing far too little sun cream and there was a veritable rainbow of sunburn on display. A few bold people had beer bottles in their hands, clearly ignoring the ban on public drinking in the area. Several people had picnics, most lazing on towels and blankets, but an ambitious pair had brought out a small picnic table, chairs, and appeared to be slicing up roast ham with a carving knife. Killian shook his head at some people’s idea of a picnic.

They found themselves a spot near a living statue performer who was sweating in silver paint and a silver suit. Killian had tossed a fiver into the man’s hat, feeling sorry for the poor bloke in the heat, marvelling at the endurance of both the man and his make up. He began a jerky robotic dance routine in thanks, which caused Emma to yelp and throw up her hands into attack mode in alarm.

“Relax,” he said with a laugh, gently pushing Emma’s hands down. “It’s just a performance.”

“Oh,” she replied, looking a little sheepish and laughing at herself. They settled down on the grass and he finally tucked into his chips.

“What do you think of it here?” he asked.

“It’s lovely, reminds me of a place back home.”

“Yeah I love it h-” He broke off as he yet again saw the ghost from his past. He had a chip halfway towards his mouth when he spied her, lurking at what she obviously thought was a discreet distance away. Ursula. She was undoubtedly following him and he couldn’t ignore her anymore.

“Long time no see!” he called out, dropping the chip back into the box as he stood up, instinctively placing himself between Emma and Ursula, at a distance though she was. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but we both know that’d be a lie.”

“Screwed up anymore lives recently?” Ursula replied cheerfully nodding towards Emma meaningfully as she strode towards them.

He seethed at her words and clenched his jaw, knowing that she was entitled to her anger. If he weren’t sure she was working for Gold, he’d even feel bad for her, knowing how he’d destroyed her life. As it was, he knew better than to respond to her jibes. “I’m sure that Gold has you out watching me, so just let him know that I’m not that easily intimidated.”

Ursula shook her head, as she closed the gap between them, a picture of innocence. “I have no idea what you mean, I’m just out enjoying a lovely summer’s day, like you and the lovely Emma.”

His nostrils flared and his jaw ticed as he took a deep steadying breath, trying not to let the use of Emma’s name get to him.

“Killian, what’s going on?” Emma stood up behind him, gently touching his shoulder to get his attention as she spoke. He turned to her, ready to offer her reassurances when Emma’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Fuck.”

He spun around immediately, kicking himself. He was sure that Ursula wouldn’t actually make a move today, or he would never have antagonised her.

What he saw was entirely unexpected.

The creature before him still looked like Ursula - after a fashion - their faces with their gorgeous smiles, chocolate eyes and dark skin were identical at least. But that’s where their similarities ended.

For one, the Ursula he knew tended to wear stylish, tailored clothing and was always impeccably dressed. Whereas whoever this was was wearing a fitted corset that accentuated her breasts and flared out at the hips, sculpted leather gloves that reached up past her elbows and an elaborate headpiece that looked to Killian like a cross between a tiara and sea foam.

For another, this creature had tentacles erupting from beneath her corset and slithering across the pavement and into the road.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, staggering backwards and bumping into Emma.

“Hook!” the creature snarled, glaring at him with murderous intent. “Do you know how many years I’ve waited to get my tentacles on you?”

“I - I - I don’t believe we’ve met,” he stammered, as a tentacle snaked closer to him.

“Oh move over, that’s Ursula the fucking sea witch!” huffed Emma. She shoved him sideways as though being attacked by an angry mermaid (what do you call a creature that’s half woman half octopus? Killian wondered, a little hysterically) over a case of mistaken identity on the South Bank were a common occurrence.

She rushed forward with her arms stretched out before her. Bright light blazed out from her hands.

The blast hit Ursula in the chest. She staggered backwards with the impact, crumpling in on herself. The tentacle that was almost upon them recoiled and reached up to her chest protectively.

Her head snapped up.

“Oh! Princess Emma! I didn’t recognise you,” Ursula jeered. “Consorting with pirates? What will Mummy and Daddy think?”

Killian was bewildered by the witch’s words. Judging by the confused glance Emma sent his way, so was she.

He was dimly aware of many things around him. The living statue shrugging off his jacket, picking up his hat and settling down next to them saying “I can’t compete with this”. A crowd of onlookers gawking and filming. There was the screech of brakes as a cyclist slammed to a halt, leaping from his bike as it slid out below him, coming to a stop just feet away from the tentacles.

(He also had a niggling thought to be annoyed at the constant Captain Hook jibes about him, just because he had lost his hand.)

“Oi what the fuck mate?” the cyclist yelled at them in his thick cockney accent. He clearly had no sense of self preservation.

One tentacle reached out lazily towards the bike, coiling around the middle of it and squeezing.

Metal scrunched as the bike was crumpled as easily as if it were paper. The tentacle flicked it lazily into the Thames where it landed with a loud splash.

Killian could hear more shouting. Londoners really needed to learn some chill. And possibly watch a goddamn Marvel movie once in a while. Now was the time to get the fuck out of dodge, not yell at sea witches with the ability to crush bikes with their bare tentacles.

Tentacles, thought Killian, the hysterics bubbling out of him.

“You shouldn’t have done that fucking Octopussy!” the cyclist continued. Perhaps they should start to include the rules of surviving apocalypse scenarios in cycling proficiency, mused Killian.

“I'm going -” but the cyclist didn't get to finish his entirely futile threat to the monstrous tentacled woman, because another tentacle had knocked him out.

Killian shook his head, unsurprised at the fate that had befallen the unwisely feisty cyclist, then looked up to assess how best to help.

Emma was firing magic at Ursula who countered with blasts of her own murky purple magic. Emma's pure light magic was clearly stronger, but Ursula’s tentacles gave her an edge. Four of them seemed to be struggling against invisible restraints, but the rest were writhing, thrashing and lashing out.

His mission was clear: take out the tentacles.

His possible methods to do that were less so.

His prosthetic was far stronger than a standard issue one and could potentially damage a tentacle, but that would require gripping and squeezing one, which given their speed seemed unlikely. He scanned for available weapons, thinking mournfully of those that Lily had destroyed the night she sent his lab up in smoke. Perhaps he should replace his stash.

Carving knife: most suitable weapon, required running to the pair with the overambitious picnic, and trying to persuade them that he should have their knife while there was a dangerous creature within spitting distance and leaving Emma alone. Also risk that they’d just stab him with it themselves at seeing him hurtling towards them.

Broken bottle: easier to access quickly, risk of damage to himself and possible others to procure it.

Keys: in pocket, potentially useless against the sea witch but right to hand.

He grabbed his keys in his right hand, laced them between his fingers and made a fist around the keyring. Wolverine claw it was not, but it should cause some damage.

Now, how to fight a bloody tentacle?

He knew hundreds of ways to hurt a man - the precise points to hit with a swift blow and cause maximum damage. But do octopuses even have pressure points? He racked his brain for knowledge of the animal; crazy smart, wily and incredibly strong was all he knew. He was sure he'd read tales of octopuses escaping their tanks into sewers or simply to visit friends.

Perhaps distraction was the best thing he could offer.

A potentially foolish plan sprang to mind. He moved to action before he could second guess it.

“MOVE!” he barked at a gathering crowd who scattered, shrieking. He sprinted past Ursula away from Emma towards a busker with drums that he’d spotted at what he hoped was a safe distance away.

“May I?” he asked the drummer, who had stopped drumming to watch the action and now silently handed over his drumsticks.

He turned to face Ursula’s back.

“OI! URSULA!”

He banged as hard as he could on the drums as he shouted.

Ursula had turned to the noise as he hoped.

“Hey sea bitch!” he called cheerfully, striding closer to her, “you want to kill a human? Well I’m the worst human around!”

She snarled and lunged.

A blast of almost blinding light from Emma hit her in the back and she fell to the floor rendered immobile.

The air shimmered and Ursula the monster was once again Ursula the human.

“What happened? Where was I?” she cried out in alarm. She looked up at Killian and glared. “Gold will hear about this,” she snarled and ran off.

“Be sure to give him my love,” he taunted.

The crowd around them burst into wild applause. Several of them surged towards him, pressing money into his hand and complimenting them on the performance. He pushed through them all in a daze, brushing off the living statue who wanted to know how they did their special effects. He stumbled over to Emma who’d found her way back towards their abandoned shopping bags and his now cold legendary duck fat chips.

He flopped down beside her, sighly sadly at what was left of his eagerly awaited food. He stretched out on the grass, giving his heart rate a few minutes to return to normal, before he sat up and fixed Emma with a winning grin. “Well, Swan, I hope you don't mind my saying, but I think we make quite the team.”

[ciathyzareposts]

Crusaders of the Dark Savant: Summary and Rating

Kind-of a weird image choice for the box. Is that supposed to be one of the “maps”?

          Wizardry: Crusaders of the Dark Savant

(Generally known as Wizardry VII but never called that in the game or documentation)

United States

Sir-Tech Software (developer and publisher)

Released in 1992 for DOS, 1994 for FM Towns and PC-98, 1995 for Playstation, 1996 for SEGA Saturn; re-released in 1996 for Windows and Macintosh as Wizardry Gold

Date Started: 20 August 2018 Date Ended: 2 December 2018

Total Hours: 108

Difficulty: Moderate (3/5)

Final Rating: (to come later)

Ranking at Time of Posting: (to come later)

In my many entries on Crusaders of the Dark Savant, I’ve painted it as a game that tells a mediocre story, does so ineptly, and usually doesn’t take its own story seriously–at least not until the end, when it becomes almost comically full of pathos. It also has a way of feeding the player over-wrought prose, often one line at a time, multiple times, with no way to escape. I hold to these criticisms as we enter this final summary, but as in the case of many other games we’ve seen on the blog–the Ultima series primary among them–my criticisms have to be understood in the context of the fact that few other games of the era offered enough of a story to make such criticisms possible. A game that offers no backstory offers nothing to make fun of. One that puts itself out there with a detailed backstory and complex plot offers dozens of things to react to.

I don’t apologize for a blog whose purpose is to chronicle these reactions, from the perspective of a modern player, but I do apologize if I don’t put sufficient context around my criticisms, or if I don’t balance them by highlighting the positive content and mechanics of the game. Looking over my previous entries on Crusaders, I don’t think I conveyed often enough that even though I had some issues with some of the storytelling and other content, those reactions were in the context of a title that kept me up all night playing. Even in the “game world and story” category, Crusaders is going to perform well.            

One of the more broadly-drawn and poorly-explained factions in the game.

          Part of my reaction to the plot is personal preference. I will always prefer the low-key, locally-relevant story to the world-threatening catastrophe. Give me the party trying to clear out the slums of New Phlan instead of the one trying to save the universe. You think that higher stakes might make a more epic game, but I find that the opposite is true–that there’s more opportunity for deeper and more realistic characterizations of people and places when the scope of the game is smaller. The Fallout games all do a good job in this regard. None of them invite you to save the world from a nuclear war. You just get to make your little corner of the world a little better.

In this case, though, the nature of the threat isn’t even really clear, partly because the characterizations of key NPCs are so thin. Who is the Dark Savant? Where does he come from? What are his motivations? Again, what the game gives us is, unquestionably, better than the standard “evil wizard” with no background who appears in 90% of the games before this one. But in some ways that just makes this experience all the more unsatisfying.              

Is it a time for a new purpose, or a new perception of purpose?

           Nothing in the game is more frustrating than the character of Vi Domina. She shows up in the backstory, scantily-clad, sporting a mechanical arm and visor, like someone’s cyberpunk cosplay fantasy. When she finally appears late in the game, she’s more of a naif than someone whose name all but demands that you add a “trix” to the end. You’re told repeatedly that she’s a “warrior,” but she never seems to fight anything. For the final chapter, she’s everywhere, and and the game trips over itself telling how how awesome she is and how much you love her. Literally some of the last lines tell how you “are pleased to be in the company of such a pleasant traveling companion and new partner.” I don’t like it when games tell me what my characters think, especially when they haven’t earned that right by giving me any insight into the character’s backstory or motivations.              

This is laying it on a little thick.

             The story is attributed to David Bradley, although I don’t know how much of it is wholly his creation. It’s no secret that I had a near-immediate negative reaction to Bradley when I first started playing Wizardry VI, what with the ridiculous photograph and cringe-worthy interview that appeared in the game’s cluebook, plus his insistence on dropping his name on literally every page and calling the game a “fantasy role-playing simulation.” Too much authorial presence breaks the fundamental illusion of a game, book, or even a blog. I’ve run afoul of this myself. Audiences want to be able to take what they read seriously, authoritatively, and they can’t if they feel that someone ridiculous is feeding them the story. (I often wonder how many readers Terry Goodkind lost by putting this picture on his books.) I realized writing this that I have no idea what specific individuals to credit for most of my favorite RPGs, like Baldur’s Gate and Morrowind, and perhaps that’s a good thing.

But it’s worth remembering that I had issues with Bradley even before I knew who he was, with the absurd NPCs in Wizardry V (e.g., the Duck of Sparks, Lord Hienmiety, the god La-La and his priest G’Bli Gedook). Bradley is fond of broad humor–the type that that favors ridiculous names with long o sounds (“Phoonzang,” “Bambiphoots”) or puns (“Ratsputin,” “Blienmeis”) that most of us grow out of by age 10. I’m sure he had a clear idea in his own mind about the Dark Savant and his Mary Sue Domina, but I don’t think he conveyed their story competently.             

And it begins.

          Having said all of that, it’s important to keep in mind that in my complaints, I’m evaluating Crusaders against a modern game, or an “ideal” game, rather than other 1992 games. Compared to its own contemporaries, there’s no question that Crusaders deserves a high score in the “game world” category. More important, it deserves high scores in the equipment, combat, and character development categories. The mechanics of the game are excellent. The worst thing Bradley could have done when taking over the series was to jettison the approach to combat introduced in the first Wizardry, but he did a good job keeping its fundamental tactics alive. He, or someone, deserves credit for perfectly balancing the “rest” system. If it had restored everything, as it does in Might and Magic, the game would have been far too easy and all the challenge would have come down to individual battles. If they’d made you return to a central location to restore spells and health, as in the first five games, extended expeditions would have been a nightmare. As they programmed it, resting restores just enough hit points and spell points to keep you going, but it takes just long enough, and offers just enough chance for random encounters, that you’re discouraged from abusing it.

Character classes are well-differentiated, and the system of switching between them is well-balanced enough to offer rewards for switching but equal rewards for staying. (Perhaps putting a maximum on the number of times you can switch, or the lowest level at which you can switch, would have been a good idea.) Character development is constant and rewarding throughout the long game. The equipment system is equally solid.

I’m on the fence about certain aspects of the game world and quest. In general, I favor open game worlds with nonlinear narratives, and even games where the main quest itself is something of a mystery. Crusaders checks all those boxes. It also deserves credit for making its game world somewhat dynamic, with roaming NPCs who engage in (off-screen) conflicts with each other and sometimes (often, in my case) find key treasures before the party does.            

The “Locate Person” spell helps keep tabs on constantly-shifting NPCs.

         On the other hand, I wouldn’t have minded if the game had offered a little more guidance on the main quest, particularly in respect to the 11 “maps” that become the focus of the exploration and quests. (I put that in quotes because they’re not really maps at all, but texts.) I was deep into the game before it became clear that assembling the set of maps was the primary goal of exploration. Just a few lines in the manual or in-game backstory would have cleared up a lot of confusion.

Hardcore Gaming 101 has an excellent paragraph that describes some of the negative aspects of the open game world:           

The game is entirely non-linear, and upon landing the player doesn’t even get a clue what to do first. Even though most areas are effectively locked off due to being inhabited by far too strong monsters, the game is always dominated by a crushing feeling of being lost. The world is full of items that absolutely have to be kept, remembered, and recognized for puzzles somewhere at the other end of the world, dozens of gameplay hours later. Many puzzles aren’t necessarily all that hard on their own, it’s just that the ingredients are spread out too far, and the hints are often obscure, if there are any hints at all.

            But it’s again important to remember that Crusaders was pioneering new territory here. Only a few games prior to it were as physically large, long, and complicated, and the developers didn’t have a lot of good examples to draw upon for balancing such a large world and complex plot. In the end, I’m grateful that Crusaders advanced the importance of detailed stories, NPC interaction, side-quests, sub-quests, and player choices. As such, I would be surprised if the GIMLET didn’t put the game in the top 5. Let’s see:

1. Game world and story. Crusaders offers a detailed backstory that plays a significant role in the game itself. There are multiple factions with their own characteristics and motivations, history, and lore. The characters’ actions visibly affect the world, and the game is one of a rare few in which some events happen dynamically, without the player’s input. There are aspects of each of these elements to criticize, but I’ve mostly done that enough. Score: 7.

2. Character creation and development. Mechanically, the game’s approach is about as good as any game on the market. It has a full set of race choices, class choices, attributes, and skills, several magic systems, and meaningful inventory restrictions by race and class. (I think some of the races are stupid, but that’s a minor concern.) Different selections create different experiences for different players. The ability to switch classes, while perhaps unbalancing the game a bit, adds additional dimensions to character development. Development is regular and rewarding throughout the game.

On the negative side, the classes and races really don’t play any meaningful role in the game, at least not in a way that was clear to me. Certain skills are useless or mostly useless, and I don’t think the game gained anything by dividing skills into multiple categories. Score: 7.            

Defeating the Dark Savant kicked everyone up a level.

           3. NPC interaction. I actually think the series took a step backward here. In the system introduced in Wizardry V and included in VI, characters can have full-sentence dialogues with NPCs, but the previous games seemed to offer a more sophisticated interpreter in which full sentences were actually necessary. Phrasing things as statements or questions, even with the same keywords, might produce different results. Here, the game just seems to scan for keywords regardless of their positions in the sentence or the surrounding text, and I offered a few joking screenshots along those lines.

Having said that, I don’t really mind this “dumbing down” of dialogue, since it was always frustrating to figure out exactly how to phrase a question to get an intended result. What I do mind is that the NPCs respond to a lot fewer keywords than their Cosmic Forge counterparts while simultaneously tripling their dialogue quantity. They are also a lot goofier and thus less realistic.

Back on the positive side, I like the way NPCs roam around and engage in conflict with each other, and I wish the game had done more with this, offering more reasons to seek out, track down, and ally with (or oppose) various NPCs. Instead, since encountering NPCs is non-optional and results in pages of unskippable and unvarying dialogue, the game effectively encourages the player to simply kill everyone.

The end result of the goofy names and characterizations and long-winded introductory dialogue, there wasn’t a single NPC in the game that I actually liked. That’s particularly too bad given that, mechanically, the game supports fairly deep interactions with its NPCs. Score: 6.           

One of the game’s goofy NPCs responds solely to the word “archives.”

            4. Encounters and foes. The foes are mostly originally-named, which in this case is a negative because most of the names are silly. I didn’t like that so many enemies used the same graphics and were thus difficult to distinguish, even though their strengths and weaknesses might vary considerably. On the other hand, the bestiary is satisfyingly large, with enough strengths and weaknesses among them to create different tactical challenges.

Non-combat encounters were plentiful and engaging, and while they didn’t offer a lot of opportunities for role-playing, many of them provided challenges of satisfying difficulty. Score: 6.

5. Magic and combat. The magic and combat system continue to be the primary strengths of the series, and as I said above, Bradley deserves a lot of credit for adapting rather than replacing the system introduced over a decade prior. The various spells and enemy characteristics come together to create a near-infinite number of tactical choices, but everything is exquisitely balanced.

I see that in my GIMLET for Bane of the Cosmic Forge, more than five years ago, while giving the combat system a high score, I said I was “past the whole ‘line up your attacks and execute them all at once’ system.” I understand what I meant, favoring more tactical combat screens like those used in the Gold Box games, and anticipating more real-time (but no less tactical) combat as in Might and Magic III. Still, it was a short-sighted statement. Crusaders proves there was still life in the old system. Score: 7.            

I’m not sure I used “parry” once in the entire game.

          6. Equipment. My primary quibble here is that the game only gives you one “accessory” slot, and you find so many rings, necklaces, capes, belts, and similar items that it’s constantly torturous to choose among them. I also continue to dislike the identification system of the series. I don’t mind so much the process of casting “Identify” to view an items characteristics, but I rather wish that having done so, I could simply view the item in the future to remind myself of those characteristics, not have to cast the spell again. It makes evaluating multiple items a time-consuming, spell-point consuming chore.

But overall, the game does a good job here. There is a such a variety of weapons of different types and ranges, armor (helms, upper body, lower body, gloves, boots), and usable items that almost every treasure chest offers something useful. What I particularly like is that the selection of items in chests (and, to a lesser extent, on dead enemies) is mostly randomized. I hate when the same artifacts appear in the same locations for every player. Score: 6.

7. Economy. I didn’t talk about it much during my entries, but it’s not very good. The primary problem is that “stores” are mixed up with NPCs, and there simply aren’t enough of them selling enough useful stuff. You mostly end up selling rather than buying, amassing a huge amount of gold before the end, and spending most of it on plot-specific purchases (like ascending in the Dane Tower or buying your way into the Umpani legions) rather than equipment. I would have appreciated more places to spend gold and a less-cumbersome purchasing system. Score: 3.            

I ended the game with far too much money and not nearly enough things to spend it on.

            8. Quests. With a main quest with not only multiple endings but multiple beginnings, faction options, and numerous side-quests and sub-quests (although it’s not always clear which is which), it’s hard to ask for more in this category except for better writing and greater complexity, both of which later games would offer thanks to titles like Crusaders setting the standard. Score: 8.

9. Graphics, Sound, and Interface. Perhaps the weakest category in my opinion. The graphics are certainly improved from previous titles in the series, but they’re still just textures. While many of the monster animations are fine, I wasn’t in love with anything else. Sound effects were at best adequate, at worst annoying (e.g., the continual background droning), and since they slowed down the game so much, I turned them off halfway through.

It’s tough to write a good interface in a game of this complexity, and while I eventually got used to it, there were aspects that bothered me until the end, including poor use of the keyboard, inability to switch between characters while in sub-menus, limited scope of the automap, lack of any way to determine coordinates, inability to skip text you’d already seen a million times, and a lot of unintuitive commands. Score: 3.

10. Gameplay. We get to end the GIMLET on a positive. Crusaders is the first truly non-linear Wizardry, and it’s about as nonlinear as you can get (even the starting and ending locations can vary) except that the so-called “outdoor” world is still pretty confining and there’s a bit of frustration involved in simply getting from once place to another. The faction options, ending options, and different experiences afforded to different character classes make it highly replayable. Its difficulty is pitched perfectly, and even adjustable.

Although it avoided the worst flaws of long games, such as artificial level caps and a general feeling that characters stopped developing, 100+ hours is still far too long. I don’t mind games with optional content that push past the 100-hour mark, but otherwise I feel that a game is becoming indecent if it exceeds a couple of work weeks. Score: 7.

That gives us a final score of 60, tying it for the sixth-highest rating on my blog so far, seven points higher than Wizardry VI. As much fun as I’ve made of David Bradley, the inescapable result of his involvement with the series is that it kept improving–in sharp contrast to a lot of series of the era that, while advancing in superficial elements like graphics and sound, struggled to out-perform their first installments in core RPG mechanics.

             “True point & click mouse interface.” Ugh. Eventually games will come full circle and say things like, “Makes effective use of the full keyboard.”

               Contemporary reviews were universally positive, although some reviewers complained about over-length, interface issues, and too much backtracking. In the February 1993 Computer Gaming World, Scorpia called it “the first Wizardry that has a real-world feel to it,” praising its various factions and roaming NPCs, but sharply criticizing the backtracking that the game requires, including my complaints about having to leave the Isle of Crypts multiple times. The magazine was a bit more positive when it gave the game “RPG of the Year” (for 1993). It is of course extremely well-respected today, with numerous fan sites, analyses, and retrospectives.               

“One day” being nine years from now.

             Wizardry 8 didn’t come out for nine years, and I can’t possibly close this entry without talking a little bit about what happened in between. (Whatever I think of David W. Bradley as a storyteller, he comes across as the least reprehensible party in the mess that followed.) As with many things involving multiple perspectives, it’s hard to glean the raw truth about some of the issues, but I’ve done my best to summarize as best I understand it. Primary sources include a 2014 Matt Barton interview with Robert Sirotek, a 1997 New York Supreme Court decision, and a 1998 Usenet thread now archived by Google Groups.

While Crusaders of the Dark Savant was still under development, Wizardry series co-creator Andrew Greenberg–who had become an intellectual property attorney in the meantime–sued Sir-Tech Software for breach of contract. His cause seems to me to be legitimate. In 1991, Sir-Tech closed its development shop in New York and transferred its assets to Sir-Tech Canada. Its position was apparently that because Sir-Tech Canada was a different company than the New York Sir-Tech, its contract with Greenberg was now void, and they stopped sending checks, despite the fact that they continued to market and sell Wizardry titles in the United States and the same principals owned both companies.

However, in filing suit, Greenberg for some reason named Bradley, who had no ownership stake in Sir-Tech, as one of the co-defendants. Both Bradley and Sir-Tech balked at the inclusion of Bradley, and Sir-Tech later argued, in a counter-suit, that Greenberg’s suit had ruined Bradley’s productivity and caused a one-year delay in Crusaders of the Dark Savant (it had original been planned for a holiday 1991 release). A 1997 New York court decision on the issue would later find that:

           [C]ontemporaneous memoranda do not indicate that Bradley was ever unable to work and, in fact, make absolutely no reference to the Federal court action. In sharp contrast to the position taken in Sir-Tech’s complaint, these writings provide persuasive evidence that the sheer magnitude of the Crusaders project, programming and operating system problems and, quite possibly, Sir-Tech’s own impatience and interference, were the major causes for the delay, which extended for a full year beyond the September 1, 1991 deadline and, in fact, approximately six months beyond the dismissal of the Federal court action.

             The documents I reviewed suggest that Sir-Tech did their best to keep Bradley out of the legal mess and to cover any of his legal expenses, but you can see how it would be hard to maintain good working relationships in such an environment, and after the publication of Crusaders, Bradley left the company in a “falling out” that I haven’t seen otherwise specified.

        The lawsuits, counter-suits, and appeals wouldn’t be settled until 2005, two years after even Sir-Tech Canada closed its doors for good. But these legal straits may explain why Sir-Tech decided to keep further development of the Wizardry franchise as far away from the jurisdiction of U.S. courts as possible. They asked their Australian distributor, Directsoft, to put together a team. Directsoft responded by assembling a group so comically inept that it’s almost as if they wanted the project to fail. The project head was a sound editor-cum-film director who had never (as far as I can tell) managed the development of a computer game before. No one on the initial staff knew much of anything about programming. After months of producing nothing but maps and lewd monster graphics, the team finally hired a couple of programmers. These included Cleveland Mark Blakemore, who by his own account tried his best to turn the documents into an actual program but ultimately got frustrated by the ineptitude of his colleagues and repeatedly tried to quit.     In 1994, sensing the project had become a money pit, Sir-Tech canceled further work on what would have been Wizardry: Stones of Arnhem. This might have been a wise move for thematic reasons, too: nothing about the game, as far as I can tell from the documentation, suggests it would have been a sequel to Crusaders. In the Barton interview, Sirotek even suggests it may not have gotten the Wizardry label.

               A map from the development of Stones of Arnhem. Oddly, most of the major locations named on the map are real place names in Australia.

             Blakemore is himself a controversial figure whose accounts of working on Stones of Arnhem were doubted for years until a stash of Sir-Tech documents emerged in an abandoned storage locker in the town where Sir-Tech had its headquarters, not only confirming his employment but also largely his account of why the project failed. (The documents went up for sale on eBay briefly, but Sirotek somehow got the auction shut down. Somehow the Museum of Computer Adventure Game History ended up with a bunch of scans, and you can find more on various online threads.) Unfortunately, Blakemore chose to pepper his accounts with homophobic and white supremacist rantings and self-aggrandizing nonsense. In 2017, after almost 20 years of development, Blakemore released Grimoire: Heralds of the Winged Exemplar, characteristically calling it “the greatest roleplaying game of them all.” It got mixed reviews.

The Wizardry series was adrift again. In 1996, Sir-Tech re–released Crusaders of the Dark Savant under the odd title Wizardry Gold, an update for Windows 95 and the Mac on CD-ROM. The game is an artifact of the mid-1990s obsession with CD-ROMs, animated graphics, and voiced dialogue before the technology was really there to make any of it good. The result is that the game feels more outdated today than the 1992 version. Here is a link to a video of the game. I would have tolerated that voiced narration for about 30 seconds.    

In 1998, Sir-Tech repackaged the first seven games, plus Wizardry Gold, as The Ultimate Wizardry Archives. I bought the compilation nine years ago to play Wizardry II and have been dipping into it ever since. It’s odd to finally retire the package.

Wizardry 8 would eventually be completed, by most accounts under the direction of long-time Sir-Tech employee Brenda Braithwaite (née Brenda Garno, now Brenda Romero), although in the Barton interview linked above Sirotek seems eager to give her as little credit as possible without naming a specific individual as the project head. Whatever the case, it was released to excellent reviews–but that’s a story for a (much) later entry. In between, we have Nemesis: The Wizardry Adventure (1996), an almost universally-panned single-character game with simplified RPG mechanics. 

We will also meet David Bradley again, as soon as 1995, with CyberMage: Darklight Awakening. After a brief stint with Origin (where he developed CyberMage), he founded his own company, Heuristic Park, which remains in business 23 years later. The company developed Wizards & Warriors (2000), Dungeon Lords (2005), and Dungeon Lords MMXII (2012). I’d say I’m looking forward to playing them, but of course it took me five years just to get from Wizardry VI to VII. I hear that Wizards & Warriors in particular shows a Wizardry influence.

Crusaders of the Dark Savant is the third-longest game on my blog, in raw hours. I’ve had it going on and off since August. In some ways, I’m sorry it’s over because it means I have to focus on a series of RPGs that are a lot less approachable. Let’s see if I can get anywhere with any of them.

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/crusaders-of-the-dark-savant-summary-and-rating/

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True to form, after the very exciting discoveries of Raina Audron on youtube, I have got deeply and instantly attached to the Priestess. I love everything about her except her outfit, and was yelling for someone to give this poor woman some decent clothes. Since I’m probably the only person who cares about her, it was up to me and my dubious editing skills to at least give her an outfit her boobs wouldn’t fall out of.

I ended up spending way too much time and effort on making her model look a bit less PS1-blocky and re-doing her tattoos (got rid of the ones on her arms because I couldn’t figure out what the heck they were meant to look like.) Anyway, here it is!

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My brain is still stuck on Hero Forge, so here’s Princess Kiya from MediEvil 2, one of many characters I love who deserved much better writing.

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I was looking through the tiny handful of Priestess content and found this post which raises a lot of points around Lok’s issues with women better than I ever could, but I do respectfully disagree with them on the clothing front.

As a firm proponent of equal opportunities oggling, LoK is one of the closest video games I know to achieving it with all the lovingly rendered manly abs and whatnot, but I’d argue that they’re really not there in terms of true equality.

Of the few main female characters there are, only Ariel escapes fully clothed, and her boobs were enthusiastically rendered enough for my dad to comment on it (and in the interest of fairness, I should add that he said the same of Kain’s very prominent codpieces in BO1). But of the 6 male guardians in BO1, not one of them even had robes with thigh slits, which is frankly unfair. With a couple of exceptions (Vorador’s vampires of various genders and the cinematic camera focusing on Kain’s lovingly rendered, uh, assets) the half naked male characters tend to be more about exuding a sense of power than of sexiness.

Compare and contrast with, say, the Sarafan designs in SR2. The women are out there in ice and snow with bare midriffs and bare arms while the men have full armour without even a hint of thigh or chest showing. BO2 has a similar problem with its human enemies.

As I said, I’m not opposed to skimpy clothing where it fits. All of Vorador’s group wearing sheer silks and kink gear is fine. It’s appropriate for the character. If Umah had black leather pants instead of bikini bottoms, she’d be exactly as suitably dressed as Kain and look far less uncomfortable. I’ve got no problem if everyone in Nosgoth wants to choose their battle armour from a lingerie catalogue. My issue is when only the men unaccountably don’t.

But you could do something interesting with the skimpy armour designs. Have it show complacency or something. SR1 gets big points for having all its ‘free’ humans in sensible clothing. They’re trying to survive, they have to be practical and wear functional armour. This could be contrasted by the Sarafan in SR2 and BO2 when they’re at their height going with the sexy armour because they’re at the top of the tree and can afford to sacrifice some practicality. Again this draws parallels to Kain’s vampire empire. Then go back to big, practical armour for the demon hunters in later era SR2.

I suppose I just wish that all the revealing outfits in LoK made sense from an in-universe perspective or at least had some sort of thematic relevance.

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James Sunderland and his wife debate on the matter of interior decorating.

Rating: G

Pairing: F/M (shocking I know)

(Probably not quite up to my usual standards, but it feels good to have written something. A literal curtain fic after a suggestion from @evilblot)

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List of rejected working titles for fics I’ll probably never finish:

Medievil 2 1/2: Kiya can have a little murder. As a treat.

What if Homecoming Made Sense?

Nosgoth Said Trans Rights

Blood Omen 2 But Good

SH4: Eileen Makes Everything Better

Downpour would have been less bad if Anne was the protag

Team Scantily Clad Side Characters Who Deserve Better (a multiverse spanning crossover)

Zarok From Medievil: Resurrection Was Completely Justified

Medievil 2: Hear Me Out, Professor Kift Is Actually Evil

Gallowmere Said Trans Rights

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Sisters of the Phoenix (abandoned opening)

In these uncertain times, it's important to hang on to what we know. The sun will still rise, the tides will still turn, and Ro will continue writing snippets which will never turn into anything more. This is another MediEvil/Legacy of Kain crossover, this one intending to focus on the scantily clad side characters who deserved better. Kiya-centric, canon divergent around the Dankenstein/Iron Slugger mark of the game.

*

Kiyante bent over the corpse, trying to ignore the professor's eyes on her. It was not her stitching that held his interest. She promised herself to do something about that if all went well. For now there were more pressing concerns.

Palethorn had walked in not an hour before with a mechanical warrior and a deal. If they defeated it, they could live. If not, they would be at his mercy. Given the way his gaze had lingered on her, she thought she knew where his "mercy" lay. Kiyante had been bought by a lord before, and this one would be harder to nudge into the next world with honeyed words and poisoned wine.

She forced a smile onto her face and strode across the boxing ring as if she wanted nothing more in the world than the hollers and whistles that echoed through the room. Her gaze lingered on Palethorn for a second, and she winked.

The round began, and Kiyante forced herself not to wince as the Iron Slugger threw blow after blow at Daniel. Instead, she turned her gaze to its master.

Kiyante crossed one leg over the other and perched herself on the arm of Palethorn's chair. "I have never been one for lost causes," she said.

Palethorn grinned at the boxing ring. "So you decided to join the wining team," he said without turning to look at her.

"I didn't say that." Kiyante swung her foot as he looked at her, puzzled.

"I intend to make the winning team. Princess was never enough for me," she said thoughtfully, "I should have been a queen." Kiyante placed a hand on his knee. "Would you care to help me with that?"

Palethorn half opened his mouth, his eyes on her lips.

The moment was shattered when the metal monstrosity lost its head. For a moment she thought he would smack her, but Palethorn's rage faded into amusement. He turned to Kift.

"Well, well, well, you've won the round, and I've won the girl. I'd call that a fair trade, wouldn't you?" He patted Kiyante's hip and motioned for her to follow him. She resisted the urge to look back and see the hurt on Daniel's face.

* The spell book lay on the lectern, open and inviting. Now this was what she had wanted. Zarok's words were worth lesser men's leers, even worth more uninvited hands upon her. Kiyante reached out to touch the faded leather, but Palethorn snatched the book away.

"Not so hasty, princess. I need some insurance first."

"What can I give you but myself? I have nothing else of value."

"You have a mind behind that pretty face. A spell for a spell, shall we say?"

Kiyante pursed her lips. "Almost. I will give you the incantation now and the artefacts necessary after you give me one of yours."

"Fine." Palethorn offered her his hand and she shook it.

*

Kiyante returned to her tomb alone. Not one of her grave goods was for for an embalmer or a sorceress. The inscription said it plainly enough, Kiya, devoted wife to Pharaoh Rameses. The bastard had taken everything from her, even her name. She drew the borrowed dagger and scored it deeply through the hieroglyphs. She hacked away at the spell that bound her to him, tore apart every mention of his name.

She had been robbed of everything; her life, her liberty and her power. She would take them back, through a sea of blood if necessary.

Quickly, she read the borrowed tome by torchlight, and gathered whatever odds and ends that could help her in the spell.

A dark guardian, as Zarok's spidery writing proclaimed, fed on souls and nigh impossible to kill. A vampire's soul is bound to its corpse. Bind it to another artefact and make it yours.

Kiyante didn't particularly want to own anyone, but she thought of the way Kift had looked at her and her heart hardened. If it was the price of her freedom then so be it.

Umah's body was long since burned. She had been branded as a traitor by her murderer, forced to watch, insubstantial, as he ruled. Forced to watch the world suffer, as she knew it would. The spectral realm was always cold, but here was a fire, and here was a beacon. Here was a chance at something more.

Colours shaded from blues to sandy browns as Umah stepped once more into the living world.