#shared achievements are giving me a giant fucking headache

[ayrennaranaaldmeri]

why has zos still not fixed the damned broken zone guide. 

[innaminitus]

Desires #1

Pairing: Loki x reader

Summary: Vanaheim needs allies and since you are the eldest daughter of its king, you are a victim of arranged marriage with one of Odin’s sons - Loki. 

Chapter warnings: language

Chapter word count: 2629

A/N: I know that this has been done like a bilion times but ~i don’t care~. Let me know if you want to be tagged, and yes, this will lead to smut. 

You were sitting in a spaceship owned by your father, mad at the whole world, mad at this irrational fate that brought you to this moment.

It turned out your planet needed allies or something like that, and it was of course a perfect opportunity to wed you. An opportunity your parents were looking forward to, since you were quite a naughty and unruly child.

A husband is what she needs. He will tame her.

Your jaw hurt from clenching your teeth so hard and you could barely focus on the beauty of surrounding you space. You didn’t want to get married! Nor be pregnant, give birth, be mother, be obedient, pretty little thing without a mind of her own.

Captain let you know that you were about to jump and you tried to prepare yourself for that horrible part, keeping in mind where the bathroom was in case if you had to puke, as usually.

High pressure squeezed your guts and gave you a headache, but thankfully Asgard was close enough to Vanaheim to not make you nauseous. You looked outside and let yourself admire the planet before you put on your mask of annoyed child. Deep inside your heart you were glad that if you had to live somewhere far from home, it could be Asgard. You would cut your veins if you had to spend the rest of your life on Jotunheim or Svartalfheim. At least Asgard was beautiful.

Your ship lowered itself and docked on the colourful bridge… Bifrost, you remembered.

“Y/N, put on your crown.” You heard your mother, but suddenly was too panic-stricken to move. You were not ready to be a wife!

You had to get out of there. There was no way this marriage was going to happen.

“Mother” you started, your voice was steady and chin was slightly lifted. That’s right. You were strong and confident. Or at least one of both. “I am not going to marry anyone.”

She raised her eyebrow and grabbed her sides.

“Is that so?”

You nodded.

“I demand to go back to Vanaheim.”

She came closer and not so lightly patted your cheek.

“You will marry Odinson. And you will obey, Y/N. We are not going back home before you are still a virgin without a wedding ring.”

Deep, crimson red tinted your cheeks. You took a step back and put your steel crown studded with pyrite on. If you could not go back in this ship, you were going to use Bifrost.

You came over to the control station and pushed the button opening the entrance.

“Y/N, what are you doing?” Your mother sounded concerned, but tried not to let you know.

“Going home.”

“Y/N!”

But you were already leaving the spaceship, heels of your shoes were clacking on the surface of the bridge when you were stiffly walking in the direction of the golden dome.

What you didn’t think of, was the delegation of the members of royal family, who were waiting just in front of it to meet you.

Fuck.

You lifted your chin a little higher and fastened your pace.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Even though your lungs refused to work and your heart was pumping blood way faster than it was probably safe, you forced yourself to continue walking.

Odin himself, along with his wife, two sons and entourage was there to greet you.

You were so going to puke.

“Ah, princess Y/N, we did not expect you to come on your own-“ Odin started, but you were fast to interrupt him.

“Excuse me…” You sighed, walking past the royal family.

You were sure your heart stopped from stress. You left them behind you, someone choked on a laugh and someone else murmured something sounding like “those Vanaheimians”, but you ignored it and walked into the dome.

Without paying much attention to the inside, you walked straight to the man standing on the dais, holding a weird looking sword.

“Would you be kind enough to take me back to Vanaheim, sir?” You looked him in the eye. He had odd eyes, they looked older than he was, as if they’ve seen… everything.

A smile crawled on his face and you suddenly felt so small under his sight.

“Lady Y/N, what is the meaning of this?” You heard Odin’s voice behind you, and your confidence faded slightly.

You rubbed your hands together, feeling your magic trying to come out and save the day.

“Sir…” You looked at the man imploringly. “Please.”

He smiled again before leaning closer.

“I can send you back” he said in deep voice. “But if you’d go to Vanaheim, you’ll never achieve what you can here.” You swallowed hard, somewhere deep inside believing him. “You’re a fighter, princess. Not a milk cow. I’ve seen your whole life and I can assure you that if you decide to stay and marry this man, you will be appreciated and reckoned with. Your desires can only come true here, in Asgard.”

You bit your cheek from the inside and allowed yourself to breathe again. You didn’t know how or why, but you believed him. You didn’t want to, but you believed him.

“I promise you princess, that if you ever change your mind, I will personally take you back to Vanaheim.”

You noticed that no one dared to interrupt him when he was speaking to you, even though you felt their presence behind you. You tried to look everywhere but not in those golden eyes, but you couldn’t.

Eventually you nodded quickly.

“Fine.”

*

You couldn’t sleep that night. Your fiancée, Loki, was quite rugged and unfriendly and it seemed like everyone besides his mother was not that much fond of him. It was possible that the idea of marriage wasn’t uplifting for him as well and it made you feel a little better.

He was quite handsome, though, and you couldn’t deny that. You could get used to it.

His brother, Thor, was much kinder and you got along quickly. He offered to show you Asgard after your wedding and, once again interrupting Odin, who was saying something about it being Loki’s responsibility, you agreed with relief, thanking the gods that you wouldn’t have to spend more time with your husband-to-be, who only rolled his eyes at you.

You learned that the golden eyed man’s name was Heimdall and he was an all-seeing Asgardian, which explained why he claimed to have seen your whole life. You felt sympathy for him, though. You somehow knew he was trustworthy.

After rolling in your sheets for a few hours, you decided to get up and breathe some fresh air. Your bedroom was stuffy, so you walked on the balcony. Sweet scent of asgardian flowers hit your nostrils and you started to think that there was no place on this planet with fresh, cold air to soothe you.

“Can’t sleep?” You heard a voice somewhere near you and almost jumped when you saw Loki sitting on a sofa on your balcony.

“What are you doing here?” You hissed, crossing your arms to cover yourself, since you were wearing only thin nightgown.

“Reading” he said, lifting his book, so you could see it.

“And do you have to do it on my balcony? How did you even get here?”

He rolled his eyes on you just like he did during the supper. He pointed at the building.

“My room is next to yours, we share this balcony.”

You clenched your teeth. Of course.

You turned to face Asgard, stretching before you. It was beautiful, you couldn’t deny it. Dozens of little lights were showering the city in a glow, you could hear laughter and music somewhere far in the depths of the buildings. Nightlife was blooming and you let yourself wonder if you could ever feel truly happy there. If you could visit one of the restaurants that were open at night, drink good wine with good company and call this place your home.

With broken, but possible willing to be healed heart you turned away from the view and focused on Loki. You didn’t like to get nostalgic.

“What are you drinking?” You asked, but way quieter than you intended to.

He didn’t look at you from his book.

“Tea.”

“May I have some?”

He sighed and a teacup appeared on the table next to him.

“Help yourself.”

The fact that he didn’t even look at you hurt a little, but you reminded yourself that this man was in no place to make you feel bad. He was just supposed to be your husband, period.

You walked over and poured yourself a tea from the teakettle and sat down at one of the big armchairs with massive pillows. You almost sunk in them.

“Your homeland is very beautiful.” You tried to start the ball rolling and took a sip of hot liquid.

“Asgard is not my homeland, but thank you.” He once again didn’t look at you, but you noticed that his eyes stopped following the text.

“What do you mean?”

He sighed and turned a page, but still didn’t really read anything.

“I’m from Jotunheim.” You froze, but he continued. “And, before you ask any more questions, yes, I am a frost giant.”

A hand with a teacup begun to shake a little, so you quickly put it back on the table. A frost giant. You were to wed a fucking frost giant.

“Look at you, so shook over there.” He sighed, this time he was looking at you. His eyes were full of life, and a smirk on his face made your heart skip a beat. The air became colder and you didn’t know if it was his abilities or if the temperature really dropped. You could feel your nipples hardening, covered only with that damn nightgown. It didn’t escape his notice, his smirk deepened. “Don’t worry, I am not going to turn into a giant in bed.”

You quickly got up, letting your hair fall on your face to hide a deep blush blooming on your cheeks.

“I’m going to sleep.” You stuttered out and almost run to your bedroom, hunted by his laughter.

*

The next day you were fitting asgardian wedding dresses, which were much richer than the ones Vanaheimian brides wore. While in your country they were mostly in colours of earth; green, yellow and brown, here they were sawed with golden threads, studded with expensive gems. You could get used to such clothing.

The wedding was organised very quickly because of sudden need, so the ceremony was to take place in the evening.

You were better not thinking about your future husband. He was cold, cruel and a frost giant. You kept wondering what sins brought you to this moment.

You weren’t only stressed because of the personality of Loki, but also because you never really… Did anything with a man. You’ve kissed once or twice, but were never in love, let alone laid with anyone. The idea of it made you shiver, you’ve heard enough about it from your friends and sisters, about how much it hurt and how the first time was awful. If you had to go through it, you hoped it would be at least with someone you loved. Arranged marriage was not supposed to be your love story.

Whether you liked it or not, you had to choose a dress, so you picked a golden one with embroidered glistening flowers and studded with small rhinestones. Your back was nearly whole exposed and shallow neckline was enough to show expensive necklace you got from your father. The crown they gave you looked as if they dipped a daisy flower crown in pink gold.

You looked like a cake. Or a feast. Or one of the dolls your younger sister played with. The point is, you looked nothing like you imagined you’d want to look on your wedding day. This was yet another bitterness. Everything was awful and all you wanted to do was to hide in your bed and choke on a pillow.

“Princess Y/N” one of your new ladies said, standing behind you so could see her in the mirror. You didn’t bother to remember her name. “It’s time.”

You took a deep breath and tried to remember what Heimdall told you.

You will be appreciated and reckoned with. Your desires can only come true here, in Asgard.

You held on that promise, for it was the only thing making you move right now. You forced yourself to walk through the halls of the palace, take step after step.

You will be appreciated and reckoned with.

You never were on Vanaheim. You were treated like a broodmare, created for a sole purpose of bearing a child, preferably a boy, to look pretty and do nothing besides embroidery and being pregnant.

Your desires can only come true here, in Asgard.

You could hear the music already, but didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop now.

You reached the massive door leading to the throne room. Your father was waiting there for you. He offered you a hand to, as the custom dictates, lead you down the aisle.

You didn’t even look at him.

“I am no longer your property, father” you spat out. “I shall go alone.”

“You turd, you will not-“ He raised his hand to hit you like he always did when you were rude, but this time it didn’t reach your face. You blocked him with your magic, burning his hand badly when it hit the shield you created.

“I cannot let you ruin my makeup, father. It is my wedding day, after all.” You forced yourself to look at him, still squirming and holding his burnt hand. “After the ceremony you will go back to Vanaheim. If you stay, I shall command you to be removed from the palace. I recommend you not to test my patience.”

The door opened and you put on your best smile. The throne room was as big as you remembered from when you were a child, but this time it was filled with flowers and guests, and at the end of it stood Odin along with your fiancée. You felt dizzy and although the musicians were still playing and people were whispering, you didn’t hear anything besides your heart pumping blood.

One step after another you were closer to the moment that could be just as easily the worst as the best decision you could make.

When you reached your destiny you could barely breathe.

“Asgardians! The time has come that my youngest son stands before us all on his wedding day!” Odin shouted and the guests cheered. “We gathered here today to witness these two souls being bound by marriage.”

He was talking for what seemed like four days, but you didn’t hear him. You were focused on trying to keep your hand from sweating in Loki’s grip.

Suddenly everything silenced and from Odin’s burning sight you figured it was time for your vow and that Loki was already facing you. You swallowed and turned to him as well, and took one ring from the pillow held by Odin.

“With this ring I bind myself to you,” you said in tandem. “My fate is yours. My sword will fight for you and my magic shall be always in your favour. My soul is yours, your life is mine.”

A wedding ring on your finger felt as if it weighed ten pounds when Loki leaned and placed his surprisingly warm lips on yours for a second.

“You are now husband and wife.”

The crowd cheered with a force of a thunderstorm, making you shut your eyes and wrinkle your nose. You heard an annoyed sight next to you.

What have you gotten yourself into?  

Tag list:

@lokislilslut 

@princerowanwhitethorngalathynius

@darkprincessloki92

[robininthelabyrinth]

Countless Roads - Chapter 37

Fic: Countless Roads - Chapter 37 - Ao3

Fandom: Flash, Legends Pairing: Gen, Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, others

Summary: Due to a family curse (which some call a gift), Leonard Snart has more life than he knows what to do with – and that gives him the ability to see, speak to, and even share with the various ghosts that are always surrounding him.

Sure, said curse also means he’s going to die sooner rather than later, just like his mother, but in the meantime Len has no intention of letting superheroes, time travelers, a surprisingly charming pyromaniac, and a lot of ghosts get in the way of him having a nice, successful career as a professional thief.

———————————————————————————

“Your boys got into a dust-up with the Stillwater gang at the tavern,” Hex tells Rip. “Stillwater’s men have been stealing, robbing, killing people in this town for months. This ain’t gonna help.”

"That's terrible," Ray says. “Well, if they want to continue that, they’ll have to go through us first."

“No, they won’t,” Rip squawks, and for once Len is inclined to agree with him. “Your little ruckus has undoubtedly already placed the timeline at risk, to say nothing of potentially alerting the Hunters to our presence here.”

“Looks like someone’s already planning on busting out of town,” Hex says, sneering. “Again. You always were good at cutting and running, Hunter.”

“A man wearing a Confederate uniform doesn’t really get to talk about cutting and running,” Len says mildly.

“It’s rude to discuss matters to which you have no understanding, Mr. Snart,” Rip says hastily, even as Hex turns on Len and takes a step towards him, eyes narrowed and mouth all threatening-like.

Len seen a lot worse. He glares back.

“My mother was black,” he says pointedly. “Jax is black. Kendra’s black. Feel we’re pretty far along understanding all we need to understand about good ol' Jonah here, however buddy-buddy the two of you may have been back in the day.”

“I had my loyalties,” Hex says stiffly. “And I surrendered myself to the Union army after 1862 rather than betray either my comrades or my disdain of the slave-holding system.”

“The fact that it took you until the Emancipation Proclamation to figure out that the Civil War was about slavery doesn’t say much about your intelligence,” Kendra says, arms crossed. “Uh, no offense.”

Everyone stares at her.

“There a way of taking that that wasn’t offensive?” Hex asks, but he looks more amused than anything else.

“Maybe we should talk about the Stillwater gang,” Ray says hastily. “And how we plan to stop them.”

“Still not seeing how it’s any of our business, Haircut,” Mick says.

“We’re heroes,” Ray says. “We can’t just stand aside and let this town suffer!”

“Well, what about the timeline effects?” Sara says practically. “It’s one thing if the Stillwater gang was a bunch of nobodies who have no impact, but if they end up attacking someone who gets inspired by that incident to shape their belief system and then that person becomes someone influential – stopping that could be bad. Butterfly effect, right?”

“Excellent point, Miss Lance,” Rip says.

"But how does the butterfly effect square with the whole 'time wants to happen' stuff?" Jax asks, frowning.

“Gideon, why don't you check the timeline?" Rip continues, ignoring him.

He probably doesn't have a good answer.

“As it happens, no member of the Stillwater gang has a significant impact on history,” Gideon says. “In fact, the only individual in the town who does is one Herbert George Wells, a young boy, and he's not listed as having any life-changing incidents during this period.”

“Then we can interfere!” Ray exclaims. “Listen, guys, it's actually all pretty simple. There’s a town being terrorized by this gang, and I aim to do something about it.”

“You 'aim to',” Len says dryly.

“Haircut’s going native,” Mick says, smirking.

“I think it’s admirable,” Kendra says firmly, but her attention is elsewhere. “Uh, Sara, can I borrow you for a minute?”

The girls head off their own way.

Ray goes back to town to talk to the sheriff, Hex accompanying him – Rip having opted, yet again, to remain on the ship for reasons of his own.

Ray walks out with a sheriff’s badge pinned onto him and a gigantic grin.

“Oh, he’s gonna be insufferable now,” Len says, covering his eyes with his hand.

“Nevertheless, it is our duty as his teammate to back him up,” Stein says with a sigh. “Come along, Jefferson; it’s best if we stick together. Let’s go ask for a map or something at the tavern.”

That just leaves Len and Mick.

“There isn’t even anything here worth stealing,” Len complains to Mick, who nods in pained agreement.

“I’ve gathered up some other ghosts for you, sir,” Grace says, floating over to him. She points at a massed up crowd, some way distant. “I’ve asked them to stay back for now, though.”

“Well, that’s thoughtful,” Len says, noticing absently that James is nowhere in sight. “So, what is it you want the life in order to –”

At just that moment, an actual honest-to-god posse on horseback ride into town, shouting and firing guns.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Len groans, burying his face in his hands.

“We should find high ground,” Mick says, heading off purposefully.

Len grabs a rifle and follows.

Ray, of course, walks straight up to the guy. “This here town’s under my protection.”

The man sneers. “And who the hell are you?”

“John Wayne,” Ray says. “Salvation’s new sheriff.”

“Did he just –” Mick starts.

“Don’t,” Len says. He can feel a headache developing.

Grace’s still floating by.

“We can talk later,” Len tells her.

She nods, though she looks a little annoyed.

“– my boys ride into town whenever we want and take whatever we want,” the guy in charge says. “In exchange, we don’t kill the whole lot of you, the whole town. But the arrangement’s over now, little man. And given that there’s only one of you –”

Let it never be said Len doesn’t know his entrance lines.

He shoots the gun out of the leader’s – Stillwater? – hand, making his horse rear up and making the man have to take some time to calm it.

Ray smirks. “You get out of town and you don’t come back, or the next bullet’s in your eye,” he says. “I’ve got sharpshooters all around.”

“Boss,” one of the gang says. “The guy at the bar could also shoot a gun out of a man’s hand…”

“Probably the same guy,” Stillwater scoffs, twisting around in his seat to look to see where the shot came from. He sounds a little doubtful, though.

Len ducks down and shoves the gun at Mick, who stands up pointedly.

“There,” one of the gang says.

“Different guy, boss,” another reports.

“Fine,” Stillwater spits. “Let’s ride, boys!”

And then they all gallop out.

“Dude,” Jax says from the door of the tavern. “That was badass.”

“Running a bad guy out of town’s always been on my bucket list,” Ray replies gleefully.

“You lot ain’t nothing but trouble,” Hex says, scowling. “You just keep on poking that hornet’s nest.”

“Hey,” Jax protests. “He saved the town!”

“Today, sure,” Hex says. “What about tomorrow? Day after? For a bunch of time travelers, you don’t seem to understand much about the future. One day you’re gonna leave, and Salvation will end up like Calvert.”

“What’s Calvert?” Ray asks.

It turns out to be some town in Oklahoma that a guy named Quentin Turnbull razed to the ground, and it turned out that Rip had been there – Rip had actually moved in, gone native, and stayed there nearly half a year. The day after he’d disappeared, the whole place had been destroyed.

That, presumably, was why Rip was keeping to himself this mission.

“That would’ve been nice to hear from Rip,” Jax says, but shrugs. “Okay. So what do we do now? We can’t stay forever.”

“If you want to save this town, really save it, that means we have to find and destroy the Stillwater gang for good,” Hex says. “And that means finding and arresting Stillwater himself. With him gone, the rest of them will scatter like rats.”

“I have a map,” Jax says, holding it out to Hex, who snatches it. “And directions. Grey got them from the barkeep. He went back to the ship to get a kid some medicine.”

“Won’t that be a timeline problem?” Ray asks.

“Ask yourself if Grey cares,” Jax says wryly.

“This information’s good,” Hex grunts, ignoring them. “Based on this, I know where the Stillwater gang is holed up. We can go get ‘em.”

They go pick up more guns and a set of horses, some of which come from gang members they’d beaten up earlier.

Len – who’s already armed – leads his horse out to the area behind the stables to practice getting up on it. He’s not that familiar with the mechanics of horseback riding and he’s not particularly pleased about the idea of practicing in front of a judging audience.

“Pardon me,” Grace says from behind him as Len swings himself onto the horse the way people do in the movies – one leg in the stirrup, then up and over. It works pretty well, likely thanks to how tall he is.

Attempt to climb giant beast, successful. Go Len!

Oh, wait, giant beast is moving, what the fuck.

Not good, not good, not good!

Okay, gripping with the legs seems to work –

“Regarding your offer of life…?” Grace says, coughing a little.

“Sorry, yes,” Len says. “Gimme a minute, this – okay, whoa, whoa, boy! – this isn’t as easy as it looks.”

“Have you never ridden a horse before?” she asks, distracted.

“Not unless you count carousel horses,” Len says. “And one traumatic near-riding experience when I was younger, but that didn’t actually ever go anywhere.”

That seems to put her off a bit. “I see,” she says. “Regardless, I wanted to talk about your earlier offer.”

“Sure thing,” Len says. “Tell me, what is it that you’d like to do with –”

“Len!” Mick shouts from the front of the stable. “We’re riding out!”

“Damnit,” Len says. He hasn’t entirely figured out ‘go’. “Sorry, Grace,” he tells her. “We’ll talk about it later.”

He tries kicking at the horse’s sides.

Lo and behold, it works! He is achieving forward motion!

“City boy,” Mick sniggers when he sees him.

“Shut up,” Len says cheerfully. He’s in way too good a mood to let little things (like Mick’s perfect form on a horse) get to him. “We going to get them?”

“Hell yes,” Jax says.

“Where’s Stein?” Mick asks.

“Still with the medicine,” Jax says. “It’s fine; Rip took the time to swing by and re-emphasize how much we really shouldn’t be using any future tech or anything.”

“Well, if I get shot, I’d appreciate some future tech healing me,” Len drawls. “So, you know, don’t take him too much to heart.”

“Got it, boss,” Jax says with a grin.

“Y’all gonna keep flapping your mouths or you gonna come do some real good?” Hex asks.

“Flapping, clearly,” Mick says. “Speaking of doing 'good', how much of a bounty you gonna get from these guys, again?”

Hex glares.

“We’re allied for the sake of the town,” Len says. “You still haven’t given us a reason to like you, Mr. Confederacy; remember that. Let’s go.”

They ride forth.

At one point, Len notices when he turns to say something to Mick that Grace is still standing where he left her. That’s strange.

Then Ray comments that it would’ve been nice to have Sara on this mission and Hex replies with something offensive about their “fillies”, apparently referring to Sara and Kendra wandering off on their own, and Len has to turn back to stop Hex from getting shot by the more progressive members of their little group, and he forgets all about it.

“Time-era appropriateness,” Len reminds them. “Remember, just because he walks and talks like a racist stereotype doesn’t mean he’s actually as stupid as he comes off.”

“You fellows are real good company,” Hex growls.

“What, did Rip never mention any of this stuff?” Ray asks.

“No.”

“Look at me,” Len says. “Surprised that Rip Hunter managed to fail to mention something.”

Luckily, that manages to get a laugh out of the whole group, and tensions fade.

And then, because plans are apparently for idiots, not cowboys, Hex leads them straight into the gang’s camp without giving them a chance to pause and talk strategy.

Maybe he's where Rip got it from.

“Jeb Stillwater,” Ray announces in his most grandiose voice. “You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney –”

“There won’t be Miranda rights for another hundred years,” Len snaps.

And that, unsurprisingly, is when the shooting starts.

There are a lot more of the gang than there are of them. Len has his ghosts, though, and that would probably even the score –

“Don’t you dare, boss!” Mick calls to him. “Remember, no general-ing!”

Right. Len’s trying to avoid calling on large groups of ghosts. Need to ensure that he doesn’t try to take over the world.

Not that taking over the world as it exists in 1871 would be fun in any way other than to establish an iron-fisted progressive state…

No. None of that.

Even if it would be funny.

“Fall back!” Hex shouts. “We have Stillwater! Fall back!”

They turn the horses around – some judicious yanking on the reins by Len helps convince his particular horse to think about turning, but the loud sounds of the guns helps incentive it even more, Len finds – and start getting out of there.

And then, just when he thinks they’re free and clear, a lasso flies out of the dark and loops around Jax, pulling him backwards off his horse.

“Jax!” Ray shouts.

“We’ve got to go!” Hex shouts in return.

“Not without Jax!” Len bellows.

“We got Stillwater! We’ve got leverage over ‘em, we can trade him back to the gang in exchange for your buddy,” Hex argues. “Live to fight another day or die tonight.”

“Fuck that,” Mick says. “Boss?”

“Go get him, Mick,” Len says, glaring at Hex. "Jax is black, you asshole; they might just lynch him before daybreak on the grounds that no one would bother trading a man worth a bounty for a black man."

Mick jumps off of his horse – damn, his form is good; you could film a movie of just that and Len would be entranced – and sprints back towards the gang.

“Your friend’s gonna die,” Hex tells Len.

“Oddly enough,” Len drawls, “I don’t think that’s gonna be the case. C’mon, let’s get Stillwater back to the ship.”

He doesn't want to trust Ray alone with this guy - less because he thinks Hex will pull something, and more because he thinks Hex will successfully talk a still-too-trusting Ray into something stupid.

They’re about halfway there, Len hanging back from the others a bit because his horse seems to be intent on moving at a slow walk instead of a trot and all the kicking in the world doesn’t seem to be helping, when Grace appears right in his way.

Len grabs instinctively at the reins, making the horse buck and him swear.

"Grace, what is it?" he asks. "How can I help you?"

"Oh, you can help me quite a bit," she says. "You know how. Your life."

"I told you –"

"Later," she hisses. "Oh, yes, later, always later – well, I'm tired of waiting for a later that will never come!"

Oh, shit.

Len throws himself to the side, leaping off the horse and rolling badly onto the ground as she reaches for him, her eyes glowing white. She's only a minor poltergeist – he should be able to hold her off until –

Someone grabs at Len's shoulder.

Len wrenches himself away, twisting sharply to break their grip, but not before he feels that awful nauseating sensation of his life being sucked out of him by force.

Unquiet dead.

Len puts his back to a tree, even though he knows it won't help.

It's not just Grace, either; it's the whole group of them that she introduced the second time she came to him – the time when James was strangely absent –

"You gathered up unquiet dead," Len says, and has to leap to the side as one of them charges him. He escapes that one, but another grabs him by the hip, scooping out another handful of life. "What happened to James?"

"He didn't agree," Grace says, her pretty face still twisted in anger. "He didn't understand – for people with power, it's later – always later –"

"Not that I don't sympathize with that notion," Len says, hissing and ducking forward when another ghost's arm comes through the tree to gouge out more life from his back. "But if you keep up with this, you're gonna kill me!"

"So be it," Grace says indifferently.

"Damnit, if you just waited a little, I'd be happy to give you assholes what you wanted!" Len snarls and looks around. Hex and Ray are gone, with Stillwater. Mick is rescuing Jax.

He reaches inside himself for his power, intending on calling up some friendlies, but Grace herself darts forward and slams her arm right into his belly.

The sheer wrongness of it knocks the breath out of his body.

"Don't call for more of us," she says. "There's more than enough of us here already. Don't let him speak!"

And then they're on him, ghostly fingers scrabbling at him, hurting him, bearing him down the ground, pulling at him, and Len has a lot of power now, more than he ever did before, but he's still not an endless sieve of it.

"Stop!" he hears someone call.

"James!" Grace hisses.

And then the friendlies come – few of them, very few, damnit, he's too new to this era, he shared willingly with too few of them; he should have listened to Mick – and they wade in to help him, pulling the unquiet dead off of him.

But they're slow and he's getting weaker, and he doesn't want to risk Jax's life but he doesn't want to risk his own, either.

"Mick," he croaks, pushing ghostly fingers away from his mouth. "Mick!"

The second one came off as more of a gurgle than a proper yell.

"Mick!"

That was better, louder. Still not much – but then, Mick didn't need Len to be that loud.

"Shut up!" Grace screams, and shoves her hands into his chest. "Shut up and give it to us!"

"Get your goddamn hands off of him," Mick's blessedly familiar voice roars.

He's come.

"Mick," Len says, or tries to. His tongue is too thick for his mouth. He's slurring.

He's dying.

There are too many of them.

Mick roars above his head. The sound is filled with pain - not just pain at Len dying, but his own pain, pain of the unquiet dead lashing out at him.

If Len dies of the grasping hands, of the fire in his brain, of the choking death, Mick will be left alone.

No.

"Come," Len gasps, throwing his power out where his voice does not reach. "Come and fight for me."

And they come, his dead, his legions, his friendly followers, they come to him, they come for him, they come to fight on his behalf.

The dead of the war between the states, the dead of the clashes between the tribes and the white men who came ever onwards, the dead of the West –

They come to him, howling in rage.

And they rip the unquiet dead off of him, tear them off, and he can breathe free again.

His hands are clenching, his back arching, his muscles spasming, his legs kicking –

But he can breathe.

Len sucks in the air, filling his lungs. He ignores the shouts and screams of the dead around him, clashing against each other. It means less than nothing; his dead will take care of it.

His Mick will take care of it.

"– boss! Boss!"

Len opens his eyes. He's lying on the cold, dark ground, his back propped against a tree. Why?

There's a young black man kneeling above him, concern in his eyes. His hands are outstretched. He does not appear to be a threat, but he is not one of Len's ghosts.

"What?" Len rasps.

"How you doing?" the young man asks. "You okay?"

Such an inane question. Where are Len's ghosts? They will help him without badgering him.

"Where," Len says, but the strength fails him. His ghosts, he needs his ghosts – his legions –

"Lenny?" someone else asks. "You okay?"

Len sneers. What a stupid question. Of course he's not! And this, to come from one of his own, no less. He needs his ghosts, to come to him, to defend him –

"Lisa needs you."

It takes a second to register, but when it does, Len's belly seizes up with fear. Not Lisa, no –

He looks up. Jax and Mick are looking down at him.

"Where," he starts, trying to convey the urgency, that he needs to find her, help her, protect her – then he thinks about it for more than half a second. "When?"

Mick exhales and crouches down. "Good to have you back, boss."

"What?"

"You sure he's back?" Jax asks. "He hasn't even moved as far as 'how'."

Len painfully uncurls a finger in his right hand. Just one.

Jax laughs. "Okay, yeah, he's back." He reaches forward and clasps Len's shoulder for a moment. "Don't scare us like that, okay? We've only got one of you, boss."

Then he stands and walks off.

Len looks after him in confusion. Then he looks at Mick in question.

Mick shakes his head. "You lost yourself for a few minutes there. Megalomania. Not just that, though; it was worse than before. You forgot – everything. Even Jax."

Len swallows.

"It's okay. We got you back."

"Thanks," Len says. He swallows again, sitting up, though he needs Mick's arm to do it. "I'm back."

"I know." Mick's voice is fond. Concerned, yes, but fond.

"What happened?"

"Well, Ray and Hex got Stillwater back to town without noticing you’d fallen behind, the Waverider is now guarded by what feels like a full on legion of invisible ghosts, the Stillwater gang has notably increased its respect for and belief in the supernatural nature of this forest, and I think they're going to challenge us to a duel at high noon. For the town. Way for ‘em to save face before getting the hell out of Dodge."

"Not Ray."

"No, don't worry. No one is so stupid as that. Rip'll do it."

"And?"

"And I'll keep an eye from a distance."

"Good."

"You, on the other hand, will be spending some quality time with Gideon's med bay. That was the nastiest attack we've had in years."

"How many?"

"Dozens. Hundreds, maybe. First you nearly died, then you went all megalomaniac on us for a bit…It was bad, Lenny."

That sounded bad.

"Well, I survived," Len says, shaking his head even as he stands up and starts walking, very gingerly, towards the ship. "And I wasn't on a horse. So, you know, you win that argument."

"What argu—wait. You mean the one about you not being safe behind the wheel? I can't believe you even remember that."

"I remember when someone warns me about the dangers of falling off a horse," Len says. "Especially shortly after I have to jump off of one."

"Technically, you jumped off of one to avoid falling off of one during an attack –"

"That doesn't make you right."

They bicker all the way through the camps – literal camps, because you can take the man out of the army but apparently he’ll bring along his tent – of ghosts guarding the Waverider. They're almost at the ramp when Len hears it.

"—Snart!" a distant voice calls. "Grazhdanin Snart! I must speak with him!"

Len frowns. Grazhdanin is the Russian word for fellow-citizen; even if 1980s Russia hadn't featured it pretty heavily, old Vanya back in Iron Heights, an old Russian gangster who'd protected Len from his dad in one of his earlier stints in the can and taught him all the Russian he knows, had taught it to him early on.

"What is it, boss?" Mick asks.

"Exactly how many Russian communists would you expect there to be in the Wild West?" Len asks.

Mick frowns as well.

Len turns. "Let me see who it is," he calls, and his voice doesn't even go into echoes, good.

"I don't like this," Mick grumbles. "Maybe they're up to something."

"You'll stop them if they are."

The ghosts part and another ghost hurries through, aiming right for him.

A woman, powerful but weary, in a great big peacoat and a rifle –

"Svetlana?" Len exclaims.

"You know her?" Mick asks, surprised.

"Yes, we spoke – but that was in Russia. In 1985. How could she be here? Now? And still know my name? I mean, even if she wasn't so obviously a Night Witch from World War II, she's Russian -"

"I'd like an answer to all that," Mick says, lips pressed together. "I've had enough nasty surprises."

"Grazhdanin Snart," Svetlana says, coming close. "I have found you! I began to fear – but no matter. I have an update."

"What's the update?" Len asks. "And while we're at it, how did you get here? To this time, to this place?"

"The two answers are related," she says. "I took you at your word and followed the man in Moscow – Master Druce, his comrades call him."

Len blinks. "Wait," he says. "You followed him..?"

"I entered his ship, or rather, those of his three servants," Svetlana confirms. "It repelled me, but I persisted."

"Well done Svetlana," Len says, impressed. Even Mick, the only other ghost Len knows to have been willing to enter a time ship for more than a few moments, looks impressed by it.

She flashes a quick smile. "Thank you, Grazhdanin. But more important: they have followed you here."

"Of course they have," Mick growls. "Funny how Rip's hiding spot turned out not to be all that great for hiding."

"They suspected he would come here," Svetlana confirms. "He was here in the past; he has an attachment to the place. They have come here and plan to ambush you during the duel."

"Duel – the shootout at high noon?"

"Yes, yes, that. But there is more: they have changed orders. They are to kill you now."

"They weren't trying to before?" Mick asks.

"No," Svetlana says. She sounds very sure. "Not to kill. Only to chase."

"To capture, you mean," Len says.

"No," Svetlana says. "To chase only. They say this is an operation; they rely upon Rip Hunter to guide you."

"Hold up. He's with them?" Len asks, alarmed. If that's the case, they're screwed – and Len isn't the judge of character he thought he was –

But Svetlana is shaking her head. "No," she says. "It's a plot. A sting. He does what they expect. Only – they did not expect you to come so close to succeeding. Too dangerous."

"Close to succeeding," Len says. "You mean – in the 50s, when we nearly got Savage? They don't want us to kill Savage?"

"Makes sense," Mick opines. "What with them not wanting to change the timeline and firing Rip and all that."

"But then what's the sting part of it?" Len asks. "Why let Rip – why let us – do what we're doing? Why chase instead of kill or capture right off the bat?"

"Maybe we're not supposed to kill him until the moment is right?" Mick suggests.

"Then why’d they decide to kill us now?" Len scowls. "Something stinks."

“Stinks or not is unimportant,” Svetlana says impatiently. “The Hunters are going after the others now.”

Len looks at Mick. Mick looks back.

“Don’t you dare,” Mick says.

“We’ll need all the help we can get to fight them, if they're that tough,” Len points out.

“We will not,” Mick says, crossing his arms and glaring the way he does when he's really serious about something. “You are going to stay on the Waverider and get your brain looked at to make sure there wasn’t any damage. I’m gonna go warn the others –”

“But –”

“Boss. I’ll take half of the ghostly army we’ve got on our doorstep with me, okay? But I don’t think we’ll even need ‘em. If we’re prepared for these Hunter assholes, we can ambush them with just the forces we've got.”

Len thinks about protesting, but his head is hurting and he still feels vaguely cotton-mouthed. He probably won’t be of much use even in the best case scenario. Still… “If you need help –”

“I’ll send a ghost,” Mick promises. “So that you can get Gideon to come blast them from the sky. But trust me – you won’t need to.”

“Fine,” Len grumbles, conceding the point, and finally climbs onto the Waverider. “Gideon,” he says, once inside. “I need a brain scan.”

“Certainly, Mr. Snart,” Gideon says, sounding somewhat puzzled. “Is there a particular reason?”

“How familiar are you with the symptoms of epilepsy…?”

[theotherscarmanthewoman]

Series 2 Episode 2: Sweet Thumbelina don’t be glum (and other stories)

Anyway, the cat loses interest; perhaps it’s intending to eat the freshly-murdered Mr. Farrow instead. However, the Doctor rules out getting back to the ship just now, because cats are super-quick and he doesn’t fancy being a part of its diet. This has touched a nerve with Babs, who reckons this is getting more horrifying every moment; clearly being eaten by cats is something she, as someone whose flat (according to Ian in one of his douchier moments right at the beginning of the show) is probably full of stray animals like a sixties Disney Princess (well, she’s got the physics-defying hair for it), fears above all things. Just thought I'd bring up that little gem. What is more likely is that, as discussed in previous episodes, the relentless threat of death is starting to Bother our Babs. Susan asks whether they ought to try communicating with the people here, but the Doctor and Ian are against it because of Science: they’ll sound like a squeak and the unshrunk humans will sound like a low growl. Barbara, however, has other fears: that they will be seen as freaks who will be put in glass cases and examined under microscopes. We seem to be learning a lot about Barbara’s phobias this week. The Doctor has another important thing to add: the people who live in this house are murderers and therefore have insane and/or criminal minds and are incapable of showing sympathy and understanding. So there. You share those Victorian attitudes to mental health, Doctor! Though to be fair, he's not wrong about the whole 'don't put your trust in murderers' thing.

Babs wonders whether they oughtn’t to do something about that there murder; the Doctor reckons they can do sod-all in their current state. But before they can get into it, a giant leg approaches—everybody run! AND OH WE HAVE TRIPPAGE! BARBARA HAS GONE OVER ON HER ANKLE PURELY FOR THE PURPOSES OF SPLITTING UP THE GROUP. Though it should be noted that Susan tries to go back for her. Yes Susan. (As well you might, after Babs was willing to be guillotined rather than leave you behind when you were afflicted with that narratively-convenient headache.) The Doctor and Susan head over to a pipe, while Ian gets Barbara to join him in the briefcase. Looming above the briefcase is our murderous businessman Forester, who is chatting to Smithers the Scientist, who is wearing a lab coat because he is a Scientist. He tries to tell him some cock-and-bull story about Farrow stealing the formula and accidentally shooting himself, but a brief examination of the body (which merely looks like a pen has exploded over its shirt) puts paid to that. Smithers, rather coolly, advises him not to try that shit with the police, as Farrow has clearly been shot through the heart from some feet away. No flies on Smithers. (Or on anyone, if DN6 makes it to production. Yeah I’m paying attention to the plot!) Anyway, the reason Smithers is so unfazed by the body is because apparently he’s seen people dying of starvation all over the world, which is why he’s been developing DN6. And he’s been working crazy hours for the past year to do it, too, and is pissed off that Forester didn’t just try to bribe Farrow instead. Forester reckons he can make it look like a boating accident seeing as how Farrow was off on his French river cruise…which I seriously doubt, seeing as how the body will still have a gunshot wound in it when the police find it washed up on the Riviera. Smithers doesn’t give a shit as long as he can stop people starving to death. Which is a noble cause, but surely DN6 wouldn’t actually achieve this if what it’s really doing is causing widespread crop failure because all the pollinators have been wiped out. Anyway, Forester is going to get on with his dastardly scheme…but he’s going to take Farrow’s briefcase back into the lab first. Because of reasons. In the lab, Ian and Babs emerge from the briefcase, looking green around the gills; Babs says it was worse than the Big Dipper. Which just adds to my ongoing ‘Barbara and Ian go to a fairground and are reminded of all sorts of fucked-up stuff from their adventures with the Doctor’ head canon. Also, I choose to believe they once went to Blackpool on a school trip in an advisory capacity and it was basically like a Willy Russell film only with Carole Ann Ford instead of a kid called Carol. Also also, Ian’s lament—‘of course it had to happen to us­—of all the places to pick, we had to choose one that was movable’—is the story of their lives. Barbara reflects ruefully that she’s bashed her knee on a large piece of metal that turns out to have been a paperclip; Barbara’s sense of the absurd continues to be prevalent.

Anyway, because she’s done her ankle in, she’d like to find some water to bathe it in. Sigh. I should note at this point that I have cruckled my ankles several times and it’s absolute agony, but seriously they could’ve found another way to get these two into the briefcase and then to the sink. Why are women’s ankles always a plot device and why do men never go over on them? Outside, Forester and Smithers are moving the body. They take it past a drain, inside which the Doctor and Susan are lurking. Susan’s seen Forester take the briefcase, and the Doctor nearly falls down the drain when he goes over to investigate the drainpipe, which he pronounces smelly. In fact it has an awful chemical smell, which means it’s a special pipe and probably leads inside the house, and the Doctor intends to climb up it. It’s corroded so it’s got lots of handholds and footholds, and the chemical smell mean’s it’s germ-free. So no tetanus for the Gallifreyans, then, just maybe a few hideous chemical burns. Then a beautiful thing happens:

SUSAN: It's too far for you, Grandfather. DOCTOR: Well, if it is, I shall have to give up, and I'm not going to give up before I've tried. And remember, you must think of the other two. They must be constantly reminding themselves they're only one inch high. There's only the two of us to help them. SUSAN: All right. But you let me go first. DOCTOR: Yes, yes, yes, go on.

YES CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT! The Doctor is willing to scale a giant drainpipe full of chemicals to help his humans, despite his age and despite Susan’s protests, and is actually advocating thinking of others before thinking of oneself. I mean he doesn’t particularly care about the murder or the indiscriminate slaughter of small things all around him, but still, he now cares about literally twice as many people in the universe as he did at the beginning of the first series. Also he is actually displaying empathy here, which might be a first. Meanwhile, back on the workbench, Ian has failed to find ankle-bathing water, but that’s ok because Babs is fine now. Apart from the shocking bruise on her knee, that is. I wonder is Barbara in some way related to Arthur Dent? Anyway, Ian wishes there’s something he could do to help her, but is it just me or is it quite nice to see them worrying about something so normal as a bumped knee? They go off exploring. Back in the pipes, Susan is checking up on her Grandfather’s progress. Handholds and footholds or no handholds and footholds, it’s impressing that they are essentially scaling a crazy-high climbing wall without the aid of a safety harness. You go, Gallifreyans. Meanwhile, Ian is pointing out features of interest such as Enormous Test Tubes to a politely interested Barbara. Which only adds to my ongoing collection of ‘post-Doctor Babs and Ian go on holiday’ headcanons. They come across a large pile of grain which looks to me an awful lot like giant Sugar Puffs. Which, after having consulted the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy Wikipedia, I can confirm is because Sugar Puffs are in fact puffed-up grains of wheat. Which is what this is. Also, did you know that Sugar Puffs (well, Quaker Oats) helped finance the 1966 film The Dalek Invasion of Earth 2150AD? And that posters for said breakfast cereal can be seen all over the film? And that Sugar Puffs held a giveaway competition in which the grand prize was a Dalek prop from the film? WIKIPEDIA, WIKIPEDIA, WE THANK THEE FOR THIS BOON. But seriously, this is some of the best googling I’ve ever done.

Anyway, Babs doesn’t have access to Wikipedia and is clearly not a fan of Sugar Puffs, because she asks Ian whether he reckons it’s corn or wheat; Ian says wheat, so it must be true. He then turns his back for a couple of seconds while Barbara is a FUCKING IDIOT and picks up one of the grains to confirm that yes, this is wheat. Have you forgotten all about the Doctor telling the gang not to eat or drink anything (and by extension handle food and drink) because of the indiscriminate deadly insecticide, Babs? Having put it down, she realises it’s covered in sticky stuff like toffee. Maybe she’s not being dumb and actually thinks she’s come across a pile of Sugar Puffs? Ian, however, is distracted by a book of litmus paper, and is so busy pretending to be a Shakespearean Emo mulling over how often he’s held such a piece of paper between his fingers that he doesn’t find it weird that Babs has asked for his handkerchief, nor notice that she is wiping her hands vigorously with it. Ian is also stupid this week. Having said that, it is rather poignant that Ian has found himself in his former work environment and that he is now using a book of litmus paper as a bench. The humans are bearing these insults to their reality that make it so utterly absurd rather well.

Anyway, Ian reckons that whatever is killing the insects has been sprayed onto the grain. Barbara, meanwhile, claims to have forgotten all about the Doctor’s warning about whatever killed the bugs being fatal to them, too. Because of course you’d forget something like that. Ian is so busy warning her not to touch stuff and pontificating about the distinctive aroma of the stuff that’s coating the wheat that he doesn’t notice how worried Barbara has suddenly become, how weird it is that she keeps scrubbing at her hands, OR THAT THE SMELL IS NOW ON HER AND THE HANDKERCHIEF. UGH this serial drives me crazy. AND SHE DOESN’T TELL HIM SHE’S GOT THE DEADLY STUFF ALL OVER HER HANDS. I mean fair enough, at first it’s because he’s prattling away and not listening to her attempts to interject, BUT THEN WHEN HE'S ACTUALLY LISTENING SHE DOESN’T CONVEY VERY IMPORTANT INFORMATION FOR NO REASON AT ALL. BARBARA, I KNOW HE’S A FUSSPOT WHO WORRIES ABOUT YOU EVEN WHEN YOU’VE JUST BASHED YOUR KNEE ON A PAPERCLIP, BUT THIS IS NO TIME TO BE SO FUCKING STOICAL. Babs is super downcast, but Ian doesn’t think this is so unusual and apparently takes this for perfectly normal despair. Even though Barbara is the kind of person who will tear a bed apart with her bare hands if there’s the slimmest chance it will help her crowbar her way out of prison. (In fairness, Babs never despairs when Susan’s around, but will occasionally get maudlin around Ian…but still, he should be more intuitive by now and know something is up.) He decides to cheer her up with blind optimism, suggesting all they need is a piece of string to get down to ground level. Then by heart breaks a bit, because Babs—automatically, it seems—corrects him, saying that at their size string is too thick, and what they need is a reel of cotton. And she catches herself. And suddenly the full ridiculousness of everything catches up with her. And she’s angry. And even though I’m pissed off that she’s being idiotic about this whole ‘probably dying but not going to tell anyone’ thing, I love that we get to see more of Barbara dealing with the absurd, because it’s consistent with the way she’s been going since The Aztecs and the way we saw her in The Reign of Terror. As I’ve said, being home (which they don’t mention at all) but the wrong size and having to scurry about like Borrowers is one insult too many to their sense of reality; they’re an inch high in their own world and it’s made home alien, and for Barbara at least this is the last fucking straw.

(It is at this point that I finally gain access to the DVD player for an evening, so expect gratuitous use of infotext from hereon in.) Ian, who hasn’t employed the Chesterton Neck Pinch for a while, decides that the time is ripe to grab the bestie by the shoulders and give her a good shake. Because this is what being on Earth again does to Ian. Le sigh. However, he must be given token emotional intelligence points for telling Babs to forget about how absurd it all is and concentrate on getting back. Which is pretty much where their characters had been going all last season. Barbara, Barbara, don’t let the crazy grind you down. Although in this case a large part of Barbara’s mopey turn is because she is worried that she’s going to drop dead like that bumblebee from last week. Anyway, Barbara rallies round, and Ian suggests they use the paperclips from the briefcase to make a ladder. Which, according to the infotext, ‘was Barbara’s idea until a late revision to the script’. THANK YOU, INFOTEXT, FOR THIS EVIDENCE OF BARBARA’S RESOURCEFULNESS BEING GIVEN AWAY TO IAN FOR REASONS. She suggests they also try to find out more about the death glaze (insecticide) in the briefcase, but is shot down by Ian who scoffs at her and says the other thing is much more important. AND INFOTEXT STRIKES AGAIN: ‘Ian wasn’t as dismissive of Barbara’s scripted suggestion that the briefcase would “tell us what they do here” either.’ SCRIPT REVISIONS, Y U MAKE IAN A DICKHEAD? Well, presumably for more dramatic tension, as Babs once again scrubs at her hands with Ian’s handkerchief like Lady Macbeth, but still, UGH. Back in ‘the pipe of black drapes’ (thank you, infotext), the Doctor is bloody knackered but persevering. Meanwhile, Ian is offscreen trying to figure out how to open the briefcase and refusing Barbara’s help. Because I swear to god the 1960s make Ian a bellend. He isn’t being particularly Sciency, but is just pushing the clasp; Babs suggest he tries right to left; ‘great minds think alike’, quoth Ian. BUT OH WHAT’S THIS? IT’S A GIANT FLY! MOVING AROUND LIKE THE ANIMATRONIC MARVEL IT IS JUST BEHIND BARBARA…WHO HASN’T SEEN IT! Ian opens the briefcase in manly triumph, but is somewhat deflated to discover that Babs is not sharing in his victory. That is because she is now staring at the giant fly with an expression on her face that is more resigned than terrified. As she backs away…SHE SWOONS! We have a swoon! Because this is what Barbara does in this serial. Mostly because she’s, Y’KNOW, DYING, but I don’t like how everyone’s meant to not notice she’s ill because ladies just swoon when they see giant flies. Especially ladies who have taken on Daleks and brains in jars and all manner of unsavoury characters without having had a fit of the vapours; it’s just what they do.

Enter Ian; the fly buzzes off, and he once again showcases his excellent fireman’s lift technique as he hoists Babs over his shoulder to…safety? I dunno, AWAY. Oh but here come Smithers and Forester. Smithers sasses Forester about being so dumb he’s not noticed the blood all over the patio, then assures him that he’s just in it For The Science. And he has Crazy Eyes just so we know how much he’s in it For The Science. AAAAAH and here comes possibly my favourite of the Giant Sets: THE SINK. With an actual plughole! Out of which the Doctor and Susan have clambered, and next to which the Doctor is currently lying flat on his back looking absolutely fucking knackered. Never before has a Doctor been so relatable when it comes to physical exertion. Soon, however, he’s giving Susan a lesson about echo chambers (the sink is acting like one) and admitting to not having a Scooby as to the whereabouts or indeed condition of the Space Baes.

And OH infotext, you have more gems for me: apparently, when Babs woke up from her swoon in the script, she struggled more against the Chesterton Shoulder Grab (applied with the superhuman reflexes of a man waiting for the Bae to regain consciousness) because she thought it was the fly savaging her—a thought conveyed through the following words: IS THIS THE GHASTLY EMBRACE? Oh Louis Marks. Calmed by Ian’s slightly less ghastly embrace, Babs establishes her ok-ness, while Ian tells her she gave him ‘the fright of his life’ when he saw her standing lying there. Which is to be expected, because he loves you yeahhhh yeahhh yeahhhh. (Sorry, I’ll stop making Beatles jokes.) Oh Ian, babes, I’m glad you’re telling her about your Feelings but right now she’s more concerned about the whereabouts of the fly. Which buzzed off when the humans scared it...ONTO THE PILE OF SEEDS, WHERE IT LANDED AND DIED INSTANTLY. RUH-ROH. Babs, understandably shitting herself, demands to see the dead fly; Ian once again mistakes Barbara being legit worried about dying (BUT NOT TELLING ANYONE) for Barbara just being morbid, and tries to get into the mood, relishing telling her how it must have died the moment it landed. I…I can’t even lambast Ian for being an insensitive dick here, because reading his OTT speculations as to the fly’s hideous demise as a response to Babs staring at the dead fly like he’s trying to indulge Babs in her increasingly Susan-like antics is just too funny. Though BOY does he get it wrong: Babs yells at him to stop it and turns away having mild hysterics. And Ian is just like ‘IAN DID BAD THING!?’, trotting over to her side like a concerned puppy. Pausing only to touch his hands with her insecticide-infected hands without consequence—in much the same way that the Doctor gets the smelly insecticide on him from that dead bee with no harm done (ARGH!)—Babs looks like she’s about to stop being a tit and tell him she’s dying, when… DAMMIT SUSAN! An amplified voice calls the humans’ names. Ian asks what Babs was about to tell him, and instead of telling him like a sensible person, Babs’s face lights up and she says it doesn’t matter because if they’ve found Susan it means they can get back to the ship. WHICH HELPS YOU HOW, BABS? I mean I’ve seen the end of this serial so I know getting back to the Tardis will indeed make everything ok, but do you at this point!?!? Ian punches her on the chin in delight, and off they pop in search of their Space Daughter.

Presenting: The Chesterton Chin Punch

Back in the sink, the Doctor is mansplaining acoustics to Susan the super-advanced space child who knows this baby science like the back of her hand. But hey, the Beeb has to inform its audience, so Susan has to be dumb again. Over the edge of the sink appear our two favourite teachers, and Susan is so excited to see them she has to hug her grandfather a bit. Babs and Ian marvel at their having managed to climb that drainpipe, and look cheery at the prospect of climbing down it, the loons. But first they have to climb down what is to them a thirty-foot plug chain down to the sink; Ian asks Babs whether she thinks she can make it; Babs cheerily reckons she can, and that it’ll be worth it just to Susan and the Doctor again. FAMILY. In your face, Chesterton. Who insists on going first. Outside, Smithers and Forester are clearing up the blood…which is now all over their hands so OH EM GEE THEY NEED TO USE THE SINK. And sure enough, the Doctor alerts the gang to the low rumbling of giant human voices. Babs and Ian scarper back up the chain, and the Gallifreyans jump back down the plughole. How tense! Smithers spots the dead fly and is enormously enthusiastic about the effects of DN6. Apparently he doesn’t now Farrow was trying to stop it because it worked too well. Back in the briefcase, the humans emerge and observe with some consternation that the tap is on…and OH MY GOODNESS SMITHERS HAS PULLED THE PLUG PUT AND SUSAN AND THE DOCTOR WILL BE DROWNED FOR SURE!

WILL THE GALLIFREYANS SURVIVE THIS ORDEAL BY WATER? WILL BARBARA STOP BEING A PRAT AND ACTUALLY TELL SOMEONE SHE'S DEFINITELY PROBABLY DYING AT SOME POINT? WILL IAN INVENT STILL MORE WEIRDLY COMBATIVE GESTURES OF AFFECTION/COMFORT TO MATCH THE CHESTERTON NECK PINCH, THE CHESTERTON SHOULDER RUB, AND THE CHESTERTON CHIN PUNCH? WILL THE GANG EVER GET BACK TO THEIR NORMAL SIZE, OR WILL THEY BE KNEE HIGH TO THUMBELINA FOR ALL ETERNITY? Summary (as applicable to this episode) Does it pass the Bechdel test? By a cat's whisker and only because I'm feeling generous. Is the gaze problematic? Nope. Is/are the woman companion(s) dressed 'for the Dads'? Nope. High necks and dungarees all round. Does a woman fall over/twist her ankle (whilst running from peril)? YUP (yup). Does a woman wander off alone for the sole dramatic purpose of getting into trouble so she can be rescued later? Nope. Though Barbara loitering behind for the sole dramatic purpose of getting into trouble so she can be a plot point later is a variant of the same. Is/are the woman companion(s) captured? Both Ian and Barbara are sort of captured when they're carried off in a briefcase. Does the Doctor/a man companion/any other man have to rescue the woman companion(s) from peril? Ian has to fireman's lift Babs...somewhere? Is a woman placed under threat of actual bodily harm? Yup. Babs is now dying. Does a woman have to deal with a sexual predator? Nope. Is/are the woman companion's/s' first/only reaction(s) to peril gratuitous screaming? No, but there is swooning. Does a woman faint at the sight of peril/horror or generally lose consciousness (discounting normal sleep)? Yes. Though a case could be made for Barbara's fainting fit as an early symptom of having been poisoned by insecticide. Does a woman companion go into hysterics over something reasonably minor? To Ian, Babs probably goes into hysterics over something relatively minor, but we know she's freaking out because she knows she's probably going to die. 

Is a woman 'spared' the ordeal of having to do/witness something unpleasant by a man who makes a decision on her behalf/keeps her deliberately ignorant? Nope, this week it's Babs not letting on. Which brings me to another new category... Does a woman suffer in silence (to further the plot)? AND HOW. Does a man automatically disbelieve or belittle something a woman (companion) says happened to her? Yes ish, as Ian refuses to believe that Susan and he have been shrunk. Does a man talk over a woman or talk about a woman as though she isn't there? Not enormously.

Does the woman companion have to be calmed/comforted by the Doctor/a man companion/a man? Yup.

Is a woman the first/only person to be (most gratuitously) menaced by the episode's antagonist(s)? Yup. Babs and the insecticide. Though the Doctor and Susan are menaced a fair amount by the whole plughole situation.

Is a man shamed into doing/not doing something because the alternative is a woman doing/not doing something? No. The Doctor is actually motivated by empathy in his climbing endeavours this week.

Does the woman companion come up with a plan? No. And as the infotext tells us, Babs's plan about paperclips is actually given to Ian in the revised script. BOO.

Does the woman companion do something stupid/banal/weird which inspires a man to be a Man with a Plan? Babs banging her knee on a paperclip gives Ian the paperclip ladder idea, though see above for how this was actually Barbara's idea originally.

Does a woman come up with a theory and is it ridiculed by the Doctor/a man? No.

Does a woman call the Doctor out on his bullshit? No need this week.

Does a woman get to be a badass? No. Well, Susan a bit, with the whole scaling-a-drainpipe thing, though so does the Doctor.

Is the young, strong, straight, white male lead the person most often in control of the situation? No.

Is there past/future/alien sexism? It's the present day, so N/A. 

Does a 'present'-day character call anybody out on past/future/alien sexism? N/A. Does an past/future/alien person have the hots for a woman companion and is it reciprocated? N/A.

Did a woman write/direct/produce this episode? No/No/Yes.

Verdict

More entertaining than last episode, but CHRIST ON A BIKE the humans are dumb this week. Barbara doesn't tell Ian she's probably dying PURELY to rack up the dramatic tension and (later) get Team Tardis invested in the whole insecticide plot, and Ian (who ought to know Babs better by now) fails to notice that a) she's not just being morbid this week and b) she's wandering around with his handkerchief that must surely have that distinctive smell of insecticide all over it (as must she). I do appreciate all the little moments the humans have had this week dealing with reality slapping them in the face (Babs catching herself talking about shinning down a workbench on a reel of cotton and almost losing it is one of my favourite moments this week), and I really appreciate this ongoing thread (no pun intended) of them having to deal with not only danger but also situations that are so ridiculous as to rob them of all human dignity. The sets are particularly gorgeous this week (LOVE THAT SINK SET), and I adore the Doctor's little pep talk to Susan in which he actually shows empathy towards his humans. Susan has a lot of gumption this week and is adorable when she's waving up from the sink, but I really don't appreciate it when the writers make her dumb so the Doctor can educate the kids at home. Next week, let's not have women being uncharacteristically stupid just to further the plot, ok? Ok. 

[adventurouskiwi]

Mental Health

This is a topic I wanted to have a yarn about because it’s bloody important and needs to be talked about more. Mental health effects so many people. It is human to have times where we are just not okay but it’s the part of being human we don’t share enough. When I was at uni I went through a period of time where everything became very overwhelming and I simply couldn’t cope. My brain felt like a strangers brain that I couldn’t recognise, that only allowed horrible and unhappy thoughts. At this time I was told I was experiencing anxiety and some depression and I felt extremely alone. The thing is, these feelings are quite common but no one really talks about them so while you’re there experiencing your life spiralling apart it can be an extremely scary and isolating experience. This is why I want to share my experience. I don’t know if many people read this but perhaps someone will one day who is going through a rough time and it might bring them some comfort to know that what they are going through is normal and that it’s going to be okay. It’s going to get better.

I remember when I started spiralling down this dark road I wondered what the hell was happening to me. It was like I woke up one day with a completely different brain and I didn’t know if I would ever get back to where I had been before. It’s so hard being in that place where you simply aren’t coping and you can’t see any fix, it seems so permanent and so dark. I felt like I had no control over my thoughts. Like someone was putting these dark thoughts in my head and I was there held captive to it. I would sometimes wake up and just feel so unhappy that I would stay in bed all day. I remember crying a lot. I would cry so much it hurt and most of the time I had no clue what I was crying about. I just had this blanket of unhappiness, a deep dark feeling in my gut that made me cry. And then I would cry because I didn’t know why I was crying and I just wanted those feelings to go away. Fucking exhausting.

There were times when I would drive to uni and I would park my car and just break down, I wouldn’t be able to get out. Simple tasks like going and sitting in a lecture surrounded by people felt impossible. Going to the grocery store was tough. Holding myself together around people felt like the biggest challenge. I was so incredibly fragile. Someone could say one thing and it would trigger me to go to the bathroom and just break down. The strange thing is often I wasn’t sad about something. It was just a feeling. This awful overwhelming feeling of being so sad and that feeling hung over me like a blanket. It took the light out of everything else and made me feel like I would never be happy.

For someone who is quite logical and not overly emotional to suddenly have all these strange feelings and a head that just didn’t function properly was terrifying. It seemed to happen so fast and I had no idea why or what was happening. I thought I was going crazy. I went to a councelor and it was reassuring to hear that what I was experiencing was normal. During the time I went to multiple councelors which helped me; although it was frustrating for me that there was no quick fix it was nice to be able to talk to someone who’s job was to know what I was going through. I felt like I couldn’t really confide in the people around me because I didn’t think they would understand. Not even I understood. I found it hard to explain what I was going through and one of the hardest things was when someone saw me upset and asked me what was wrong I genuinely didn’t know the answer. I had no idea how to make myself happy and feel in control again.

I remember I was home on break and one night at the dinner table a conversation became too much for me and I went to my room crying. I thought how it was horrible that no one came to comfort me when I was clearly so upset, but in reality at the time I was crying more than I wasn’t and they had tried to comfort me a lot, but no one really knew what to say. Every time I cried it felt like the biggest deal to me, I was in so much pain and my head was just exploding with negativeness. No one knew how to help me and I didn’t know how they could either.

The councelor managed to track down the cause of my anxiety and depression to events in my life that had made me question my deepest morals and stressful future events that were out of my control but stacked together were too overwhelming for me to cope with. For example, I needed to sell my horse which I loved. This by itself was an extremely hard process but on top of everything else that was going on it was unbearable. I remember when I thought about selling him I would just break down and I would spiral into this deep hole where as soon as my tears started to dry, my brain like an evil monster would remind me why I was crying and the tears would hit 5 times harder. I had a lot of headaches and got so tired. It was a deep hole that I kept falling deeper in and couldn’t get myself out of. I remember the counsellor would give me tasks and coping mechanisms which helped because it meant I could try and do something but it was such a slow and long process. I just wanted someone to make me happy and normal again and not to be stuck in this awful place. She would give me breathing techniques to cope with my anxiety and I remember thinking at the time they were so hopeless because they only worked some of the time.

I keep trying to think when or how things got better for me but I can’t really pin point it. It’s a little bit like when you have a runny nose and you find it so annoying but don’t realise or appreciate when it stops running. It just does. (Maybe this is a bad example). I think what helped was making some of the little factors that were contributing to the big overwhelming mess, a little easier. For example, my exams brought me a lot of stress so finishing them was a weight off my shoulders. I remember my parents would tell me to not worry so much about selling my horse and it helped to have them take off some of that pressure I had put on myself. So, I guess if you have a lot going on and it’s just overwhelming, trying to single out and overcome each little factor separately can help and make the whole picture a lot less daunting. It was definitely a gradual process but damn did I come out stronger. I have so much more awareness of my thoughts and emotions now. Roughly a year later there were two deaths in my family within a week of each other and although this time was bloody tough I can reflect now on how well I handled it mentally. I think through learning how to get through the lows in life we can become more adaptable to manage when everything does turn to shit; more ready for whatever life throws you.

I do know that while I was in this state I really couldn’t see a way out, or it getting better. But it does. It will get better. Be kind to yourself, have a warm shower, eat your favourite food, don’t punish yourself if you can’t complete a task. There will be waves of normality in between the darkness but don’t put pressure on yourself if you aren’t coping. Reward yourself for all your small achievements, for being able to go for a walk or managing a lunch with friends. Writing down some of the things in my head seemed to help me unravel that giant ball of thoughts slightly. Write yourself quotes, draw pictures, listen to music (that’s a biggy!). Avoid social media, avoid situations that you know will be hard. Take the time you need. I also listened to sleep meditation to help me get to sleep because it feels like it’s in that silence that our brains can become their loudest.

I know it sounds strange but I’m glad that I have experienced all this. Mental health issues are things you hear about a lot, but I could never fully understand what someone with mental health issues goes through without experiencing it myself. I feel like I understand people so much more now and I can relate to what they might be feeling. I have been able to connect with people through it and have been shocked at the amount of friends who have gone through the same thing. At the time I thought I was the only one in the entire world. I think it would have brought me comfort to know that others around me were facing their own demons. It’s shown me the importance of being open with people, of really talking to them. It can be hard for someone to understand, but someone who experiences mental health issues is a prisoner to their brain. They don’t have control over how they feel, or when they cry or what things will trigger them to break down. I think the best thing you can do is be there for them. Don’t tell them to toughen up or to try and see a different perspective because it’s simply not their choice. Understand how fragile they are, often they won’t want to talk about their thoughts because they won’t understand them or they would have been trapped with them for too long to even have the energy to put them into words. Just be there. Watch movies. Talk shit. Eat pizza. Let them know it’s fine if they want to cry. Just be there.

[draginbreath]

RuleBooks

The fact of the matter is that there’s no freaking manual on how to be human. Nobody wrote out a step by step instructional type list on how to do all the things that we look around and see other people doing with no complications. How come there was never an assembly guide to being a person? It doesn’t even have to be all that difficult. A pinch of compassion, a teaspoon of mortality, a dash of humor. You don’t mention poop in a restaurant, and you can’t talk about Hitler in public. Things that are written on some invisible stone slab somewhere at the bottom of the pacific, and everyone BUT me knows about it.

And on top of that, half the topics we need to talk about, that we need to teach each other about, are considered taboo to talk about. Because one asshole somewhere in history got uncomfortable talking about the fact that OBVIOUSLY his parents had sex at some point, well, that means the rest of us have to act like upon conception of their first child, our parents turned from fertile and passionate human beings into sexless autonotoms. And that’s just one example. For instance, once upon a time I was having a little trouble, shall we say, moving a brown train out the station. It had been weeks since any passengers had debarked, and me, being a child of about fourteen, didn’t know that wasn’t normal. This could be because I’m a dumbass who doesn’t pay attention in biology (sorry, Mrs. Sharpe). I always thought that if I could just ask someone how often they pooped it wouldn’t be so hard for me to figure out that the reason my intestines were twisting was because I hadn’t ridden the porcelain shuttle in a while.

And while we’re on the subject. Anybody notice the fact that in a post on how silly it is that we can’t just talk straight about things, I felt compelled to use euphamisms, rather than just coming right out and saying “I was constipated and hadn’t pooped in weeks.”? It’s not like I have somebody standing next to my desk right now, tapping their foot and saying in a nasally voice, “Eww. I don’t want to hear about your bowel movements. Why would I willingly subject myself to this kind of disgusting drivel?”

Well, first. I’m not talking about my bowel movements, but rather the lack of bowel movements I had when I was fourteen cause I had a shit diet, no pun intended. Secondly, how the hell did you accomplish such wonderful alliteration in such a bitchy comment? Please, teach me your ways.

That nasally warmonger resides in all of us. Crouches there on the dunce stool of our mind, whispering and hissing cruel things just when we need to hear that the least. And that little bitch has a wide range of interests, subjects she (or he, let’s not be sexist here) is fluent in and totally willing to throw down on. Subjects as far flung as social popularity, physical ability, emotional ability, telepathy (what else would you call the presumption of knowing what other people are thinking?), physical appearance, the past, and of course the future. She’s like that know it all cousin. You have a thought about it and oh look, she wrote a world renowned paper on it last week.

But I digress.

There’s been a joke circulating around my generation for a while now. Not even really a joke. More of a social commentary that’s so true we laugh when we hear it. One of those things that we hear and say, “Oh I heard that!” We point at each other in recognition of our mutual interest in that certain topic, laughing until it ends on a sigh. That sigh says, “Yeah, that was funny. And all too poignantly true.”

Why the actual hell are we not taught how to balance a check book in school? Or change a tire? Why don’t they teach us how to nurse a headache, or a baby? (Oh because that would promote teenaged pregnancy, like teaching how to lance a boil would promote walking barefoot.) What the heck is a T4, and why do I need it? Why don’t they teach how to read a map, or tune a radio channel? How to talk to someone who’s upset with you so you don’t get punched in the face. Emergency Situation Preparedness. No, I’m not talking about what to do if an airplane crashes into the daycare next door. What do you do if you shit your pants in public? Or if you find a strange kid wandering in the mall with tears and snot smeared all over his face? What if he shits his pants? What about when you meet your in-laws for the first time? And as long as we’re talking about totally terrifying things hosted by monsters, what about buying a car or signing a lease? Insurance, or registering your car? How does the licensing process work? How do I get a will set up? What do I do if a relative dies?

What about the truly petrifying stuff? What if I’m not good enough? What if I’ve been hurt? What if someone I love is being hurt, and I don’t know how to help them? What if I’m not destined for greatness? Or worse, what if I am, and I just never achieve it? What if I can’t get out of bed, and I don’t know why? What if I’m pregnant, or can’t be? Or the person I love leaves? What if someone I know is having a crisis? What do I do, what do I say?

The concept of adulating is a really common nowadays. The way I interpret it is being able to comport yourself in a mature and competent manner that does not t all betray the pure terror you feel. At what you’re trying to pull off. Kind of like being a circus performer. You do all these highflying acrobatics that no one really trained you for, or they did but you’re using it not quite the way it was intended. And you’re expected to make it all look effortless with a smile on your face.

I know full grown women who have kids and businesses, beautiful homes and loving husbands, which by adult standards is professional level adulting. And these women and men still feel like there’s a secret that’s been withheld from them. Some information that no one mentioned they all know. There’s a sense of being mocked because there are things you don’t know, and everyone acts like they know. So you’re the giant dumbass for not knowing. And doesn’t that make you afraid to admit that you just don’t know?

So, I’m gonna suggest we make a pack. Throw the fear of the non-existent rule book out! There is no guide on how to be human, how to walk, talk, look or act properly! There isn’t and if there is, please show it to me! Share it with the rest of us wonderful people because I promise we’ll love you for it.

And in the case that there isn’t this manual; STOP CARING ABOUT IT. Stop fearing that you’re not following the carefully laid out steps on how to di it right and without incurring judgement. Stop being self-concious, limiting yourself in the hopes of not stepping out of bounds. Just break free of all that doctrine.

I can hear you thinking “But it’s so hard to do that. It’s so easy to day that you’ll just stop giving a fuck about what people do and say and think about you, but so hard to put it into practice.”

I know, I hear you, in spite of the distance. So do just that. Practice. Say ‘fuck your opinion’ to little things. The asshole who honks at you, the lady who stares in the supermarket, the mirror, and especially that bitch in the corner of your mind. You don’t even have to say anything out loud. Just think ‘fuck off’, or ‘I don’t care’ or any other mixture of strongly worded lack of opinion. Practice acknowledging that there’s no rule book so you make your own.

And hey, maybe if we start living by our own rulebooks, we’ll all stop needing them.