#side note I need to write down the differences between how the hive works in TGWDLM vs how it works in yellow jacket | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

schrijverr · 3 years ago

Text

Standing Up Again

Their meeting with Moreau at the pool goes slightly different. He makes Eliot kneel for him and the whole thing makes Hardison want to break out in hives and punch Moreau. When he asks Eliot about it later, things come to light and he tries to convince Eliot that he doesn’t deserve what happened to him.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: mentions of past rape, abuse of power and self blame. Please be cautious.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Hardison knew something was wrong the moment the words: “My name is Eliot Spencer,” left the lips of the person in question.

Eliot was private, if he gave his real name it was always only ever Eliot, never the Spencer, and he never told any of their marks so that there would be no way to trace him back to the team. His job was to protect them and Hardison knew how serious Eliot took that. There was no way he would jeopardize a mission like this. So, there must be something wrong.

Still, he followed the hitter into the elevator, hissing the question as of why Eliot had done so. The pit in his stomach only growingas Eliot didn’t answer him, only saying: “Just stick close to me, okay? This might get messy.”

He knew better than to argue, so he followed Eliot’s lead, mentally writing out a rant to demand explanations later, because this was not cool, not cool at all.

At the pool everyone was immediately on guard with guns being drawn all around them. Hardison knew that even Eliot couldn't fight his way out of this one. He had to stay in character, no matter what Eliot or Moreau threw at him.

The guy that met them was not Moreau, but he looked both scared and gleeful at the appearance of the hitter, Hardison hardly registered as he focused all his attention on Eliot, who got right up in his personal space while guns were being pointed at his head from all around them.

“Chapman,” Eliot greeted. He knew this guy? By name?

“Eliot,” the man, Chapman, returned. Okay so they were both familiar with one another, not surprising with how they got in, cool, cool.

“They gave you the job?” Eliot asked and he sounded as if he found that comical while Hardison just tried to puzzle the pieces together, not happy with what he was finding here.

“There was an opening,” was that scorn in Chapman’s voice? That might be useful if they wanted to get out here alive. That was if Eliot still was here for the plan with the way he was going off on his own right now.

Their staring match got interrupted by a man stepping out of the sauna. It was a face Hardison knew well after all the research he had done on the man: Moreau.

“It’s no way to treat an old friend,” Moreau started and it all clicked.

Hardison had already suspected something was going on when Eliot’s name – his realname – got them in and then with the recognition of what was obviously the head of security, it added up, making Hardison believe that Eliot at least must have worked with some of these guys, maybe did an odd job for Moreau before they started Leverage.

But this? This was not just an odd job that was heightened by Eliot’s name in the business. This was personal contact that hinted at a closer relation. Moreau knew Eliot personally and considered him a friend. Why the hell had he not told them?

“Damien,” Eliot greeted and it just kept on getting worse, didn’t it? They were on a first name basis and it looked like Eliot had been his former head of security.

Was this a trap? Was Eliot ratting them out? He had never suspected Eliot, despite all that he had found on the man. Eliot seemed like he enjoyed working for Leverage, like he wanted to help, like he had changed. But it seemed not.

Still, Hardison knew that not everything was always what it seemed. His whole job was based on it, in fact. So, he decided to keep on playing his part, hoping Eliot was still on his side.

“Let’s catch up!” Moreau clapped in his hands as he smiled and Hardison saw a flash of something he couldn't place in Eliot’s eyes.

Quickly the men moved around them and Hardison got handcuffed to a chair. “You call this a plan?” he couldn't help but subtly ask, praying that Eliot would give him at least something to work with.

“I’m not handcuffed to anything,” was Eliot’s answer and there went his hopes as the meeting began with Moreau grabbing a drink, before pointing at Eliot and saying: “You work alone.”

“Things change,” Eliot pointed out as Moreau sat down.

“Don’t take it personally, it takes me a while to warm up to people.” Hardison was surprised for a moment when Moreau addressed him, but he managed to play it off as pretty woman in a bikini came to offer them two flutes of wine or champagne or something of the sort. Moreau waved her away with a, “He prefers beer,” about Eliot, making Hardison once again question how well the two knew each other and why the hell he hadn’t been informed.

“This one of your retrieval jobs, Eliot? Tell me, whose Snoopy lunchbox do I have?” Moreau went on as if nothing was wrong, questioning Eliot as if they were truly just friends catching up, even with the undercurrent.

“It’s not a retrieval,” Eliot answered, he was apparently still on Hardison’s side, luckily, going with their cover story, “I’m escorting the middleman. I’m here to ensure he gets in and out with the offer.”

This Hardison had prepared for, so he jumped in playing his role, glad that Eliot was still running their con. “Pardon, monsieur, my client has heard what you’re selling and would like to acquire the Rams Horn.”

“And you client is?” Moreau smiled both pleasantly and condescendingly and Hardison had to give him credit for that.

He quickly came up with a stalling deflection as answer. “If you indulge us with the details of the auction, we can make a bid. All will be revealed then. I assure you, we are working in good faith.”

“I’m sure you are, I’m sure you are,” Moreau said pleasantly, while managing to look anything but pleasant, “but I don’t know you.” He turned to Eliot and smiled like a shark, “I do know you. We could talk.”

“Look, I’m just here to vouch for him, he’s the one who can do the talking. I’m not the one with the client’s wishes,” Eliot tried to explain, but it sounded as if he was already giving in to something Moreau hadn’t even said and Hardison wasn’t sure if it was played or not.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Moreau leaned back in his chair, looking to Eliot as if he was a fun little trinket for him to play with. Hardison was really starting to hate this guy. “Still, I need to know if you’re still someone, who can vouch to me. Loyalty is hard to come by these days, I hope you understand.”

“Ah perfect,” Moreau clapped in his hands again, obviously pleased with himself as Eliot nodded tightly. “I think showing that you still know your place would be a good start. How about that little thing you first did for that Russian, it always was my favourite. You remember?”

“I do,” Eliot replied and it suddenly hit him what the flash he had seen earlier in Eliot’s eyes had been. It was fear. An emotion so unfamiliar on the hitter’s face that he hadn’t recognized it. Eliot was scared of Moreau. This could not be good.

“Well, then, go on. No time like the present,” Moreau waited expectantly as the men around him started to grin, making Hardison fear for whatever was about to come.

Then, slowly, Eliot took one step forwards, fishing a knife out of a holster he had stashed somewhere and handing it to Moreau, before sinking down on his knees. It was not just a normal kneel, no he spread his legs completely and sat on his feet, making ithard to get up easily. His back was arched, because he held his arms behind his back, grabbing his elbows. Yet the icing on the cake was how he opened his mouth, letting his tongue rest on his chin.

He was practically presenting himself, waiting for something as the rest of the guys there laughed at him, though he didn’t react. It was making Hardison uncomfortable to think about what Eliot’s employment had been like that this was normal and what they were waiting on since Moreau still had the knife.

Leaning forwards, Moreau lightly dragged the knife under Eliot’s eye, not enough to break skin, but close enough to be threatening. Eliot didn’t flinch, just kept looking straight ahead as if he was a soldier on attention.

The knife went across his nose, nicking a bit of his other cheek, before Moreau pressed the upper, non-sharp ridge against Eliot’s tongue. All through this Eliot didn’t react.

Moreau putthe knife point between Eliot’s eyes, before pressing two fingers far enough into Eliot’s throat that most other’s would have gagged and impaled themselves on the knife. Luckily Eliot wasn’t most others and he just let Moreau do that to him. He didn’t even make a peep when Moreau caressed his cheek gently and said: “I missed you, Eliot. You just left one day, no note, no goodbye. What’s a man got to think?”

He let his hand trail through Eliot’s hair and Hardison saw him tense slightly when Moreau raised the knife towards it. He studied Eliot carefully, then said: “I like the hair,” before cutting off a small strand that was out of sight. “Sad that it would have to go when you come back.”

Then whatever the weird hazing ritual was, was over and Moreau focused back on Hardison, explaining: “Some guys aren’t impressed by money, but by power, influence. I’ve come to enjoy the practice.”

Hardison attempted a sort of smile-nod, but his insides twisted at the view. He thought back on Eliot warning Nate on multiple occasions, the fear in his eyes before and the stupid control show off. He did not want to think about what Eliot had gone through for that man and he felt guilty for doubting Eliot earlier, when he obviously didn’t want to be there, but was there anyway. For them.

“You sit,” he told Eliot as if he was a dog and Eliot stayed seated. “I know you can vouch for someone now. You have some loyalty still left. I’ll talk with you, you can tell you middleman after and he can tell you client what you said.”

“I ain’t much on talking, Moreau,” Eliot finally spoke again, his voice rough after his tongue had dried up, hanging outside his mouth.

“It’s not really your choice, now is it, Eliot? I’m not the one kneeling on the floor,” he said patronizingly, before gesturing to one of the guards, “Let’s keep it short.” And before Hardison knew it, he was splashing into the pool.

He trashed and clawed for the surface, hoping Eliot would jump in after him. Cause screw the con at this point. He was dying.

Oh my god, he was dying.

He was cuffed to a chair at the bottom of a pool and the one person who could help him was surrounded by men with guns, kneeling on the floor in front of one of the most powerful people in the world.

They would never make it.

He would never make it.

This was the end of Alec Hardison: Greatest hacker to ever live, drowned in a pool.

His blood rushed loudly past his ears as he scrambled to the surface to no avail. Eliot would never come. If he were to do so, he would have done it already. He was most likely already shot and bleeding out while Moreau sipped his little drink.

Still, he was desperate to survive. He knew his body couldn't handle much more without oxygen, so he sucked at the chair in desperation.

There was still air in the chair.

He could live a few moments longer.

He could do this.

Fuck, he just hoped Eliot was still alive. He hoped they would get out of there.

A key dropped next to him.

A key.

He was saved.

Wasting no time, he undid the handcuffs before swimming to the surface, breathing in the moist swim pool air as if it was the best he’d ever had. He quickly went to the edge of the pool, only bothering with his surroundings once he was back on steady land.

Eliot hadn’t moved an inch. He was still sitting there in that same position with his knees spread wide and his arms behind his back, only his tongue was inside his mouth this time, eyes hard and face grim.

Hardison wanted to snap his neck. He wanted to rage at Eliot, scream, demand why he hadn’t jumped in after him. He wanted answers about why his best friend would have left him to drown in a swimming pool.

But he didn’t, because there was still a con to run and while Eliot hadn’t saved him, the fact that they were both alive meant that it was working. He couldn't ruin that and risk both their lives- again. He would be mad when they got out of there.

So, he walked up and dabbed his face with a wet handkerchief, still in character. “And what message should I convey to my employer?”

Moreau laughed and pointed at Hardison while looking down on Eliot. “I like this one,” then he said to Hardison, “That we can strike a deal.” He turned back to Eliot, “Up.” Eliot did as he was told while Moreau said: “Reminds me of Belgrade.”

Eliot didn’t reply to that remark, just turned and started to walk away as he told Hardison: “Come on.”

Hardison let himself be lead away, still conflicted about how he felt.

On the one hand, Eliot had lied to him – to everyone – about his connection to Moreau. He had led him here only to go off script without an explanation or plan and put Hardison’s life at risk. He had let him get pushed into the water and didn’t come to get him, he hadn’t even moved.

However, on the other hand, it was obvious that Moreau scared him, that there was a reason he didn’t want to talk and the little hazing ritual thing Moreau had forced him to do and itmade Hardison’s stomach twist, especially with how there seemed to be more of them and how Eliot had allowed that. Not just now, but in the past as well.

Still, trying to work it out, he said: “I know the chair, it sucked the air like a numatic, it gave me another 30 seconds. That better be why you didn’t come get me, ‘cause you knew I’d do that, right?”

He just wanted confirmation from Eliot that he had been safe the whole time, that Eliot wouldn't leave him to drown like that. It would be okay, he just needed a bit of reassurance that Eliot wouldn't have let him die like that.

“Yeah, Hardison,” Eliot grumbled sounding nothing like his usual grumpy self, while still managing a close imitation, “because I knew you were going to suck air out of a chair.”

“That better be why you didn’t come and get me,” Hardison tried again when the answer wasn’t what he wanted to hear in that moment, giving Eliot another chance to explain.

Eliot didn’t, he just kept walking through the stream of models and then out of the building without a word.

All the while Hardison was fuming. He had gone in there with trust, he had followed Eliot’s lead and he hadn’t given them away. He had done everything that had been asked of them and all he wanted in return was some sort of proof that Eliot still had his back, but Eliot was completely blocking him out, giving him the cold shoulder.

This was so not cool. Hardison deserved an explanation, deserved to know that he still had the other in his corner and that Eliot hadn’t done something stupid. He could demand a bit of security after what he’d been through, especially with all the people staring at him in his wet suit.

But at the same time… Well, Eliot looked a bit like a lost boy, which was totally weird on his face, especially if you knew him. Yet there it was, that bit of fear from before, resignation as well, along with a little bit of guilt and anger, though Hardison didn’t know who that was directed at.

Someof the anger he felt for Eliot was directed at Nate, who hadn’t listened when Eliot had warned him about Moreau, who had send Eliot in there when Eliot was obviously scared- well, not obviously, but the fact that he protested should have been enough. Most of the anger, however, was for Moreau, for what he had done to hurt his favourite hitter. Because Eliot was hurt that much was obvious from that encounter.

“Really, man? Nothing? I get nothing,” there was still a bit anger for Eliot left, enough for Hardison to out it. “I just got pushed into a pool. I nearly drowned, okay. And that’s- that’s not cool, not cool at all. You have anything to say for yourself?”

“No.”

Okay, so it was going to be like that. The anger from before came back, this was the third time he had let Eliot explain himself, but it seemed Eliot wasn’t about to. No, no, Eliot was quite happy to say nothing to Hardison at all, despite the fact that he hadn’t moved an inch to save Hardison’s life even while that was his job.

“Oh, no? He says no,” Hardison said. “No, because why would you tell me why you didn’t come save me while I was drowning, while you old boss watched. Which is another thing, huh, your old boss. Good old Moreau. Or should I say Damien?”

Eliot tensed, so he’d hit a nerve then. The hitter turned to him and hissed: “I will say no and you will shut the fuck up if you know what’s good for you.”

“Is that a threat?” Hardison could hardly believe his ears. Eliot threatened him all the time, but it was usually playful and about something stupid, not this serious threat that he would back up, if he went off Eliot’s tone.

“It might be. Maybe next time you won’t have a chair,” Eliot snarled back and okay, low blow, too low of a blow for Hardison to let go.

All the anger he had send to Nate or Moreau came back to point at Eliot. He didn’t care for his reasons, not right now, not after that. So he let it build up inside his chest as they walked to the meeting point, deciding to turn on Eliot as soon as he could, make him explain when he couldn't run or threaten.

So the moment they arrived with the others, who looked to be successful at least, he said: “Tell em what you did, Eliot. You risked my life.”

“We’re in,” Eliot ignored him as he talked over him like it was nothing, like Hardison hadn’t had to suckair out of a chair. “Moreau is going to give me the details about the auction tomorrow.”

“You? Why is he giving you the details?” Sophie focused on the right thing and Hardison promised himself to do something nice at her next show.

“I said we’re in. Just make the plan.” Eliot was angry and trying to deflect like he’d done before, but Hardison wasn’t having it. Not again. “Eliot worked with Moreau back in the day.” Everyone turned to look at the hitter, who had the decency to look uncomfortable. “A lot.” Then he demanded, “Tell,” before he sat down.

Nate got up from his place and started to walk towards Eliot. “We’ve been chasing Moreau for six months and you didn’t tell us.”

Eliot tried to explain while Nate kept on talking. He said something about finding a way around it and taking a shot, before snapping: “I’m protecting you!” They all fell quiet. “Last time I checked that’s my job.” So he did remember.

“Look, we can handle Moreau,” Nate sighed in the voice he used for some clients and marks, never on them.

“We’re out of our league, Nate,” Eliot had a sadness in his voice, but also a desperation for Nate to understand and Hardison couldn't help but think back on that flash at the pool. “Every one of Moreau’s men has innocent blood on their hands, every one of them. Every one of them-” he took a sharp breath- “are worse than me. You think you know what I’ve done? The worst thing I ever did in my entire life, I did for Damien Moreau and I- I’ll never be clean of that.”

Hardison had hacked as many files as he could find on Eliot, but Eliot was hardly ever caught and none of it was bad enough (comparatively) to get that reaction. He shuddered to think what a man, who paraded his men around like dogs, would make them do.

“What did you do?” Parker asked and he watched as pain filled Eliot’s eyes.

“Don’t ask me that, Parker,” answering seemed to take a lot out of him. “Because if you ask me, I’m gonna tell you, so please don’t ask me.” Hardison had never heard that desperation, nor seenthe relief when Parker nodded.

“Look,” Sophie got the attention on her, “we all have past. You don’t have to tell us anything, Eliot. But we’ve learned the hard way we gotta be straight with each other.”

It was quiet as they all remembered Sophie’s double cross. That had been painful as well and Eliot had been the most upset out of all of them, which seemed hypocritical in hindsight. Still… Hardison couldn't blame the paranoia with a ex-boss like Moreau.

The little power display was unsettling, yet Eliot here waseven more upsetting, just the tears threatening to spill were enough to convince Hardison that there was a good reason for Eliot’s silence and the anger he’d felt was fading.

Eliot had wanted to protect them all and even facing the worst person he knew and giving himself up like that was something he was willing to do for them, knowing all the risk. Hardison in that pool might have been mild compared to what could have happened and Hardison was glad not to have had that knowledge beforehand.

Damn Eliot for making it hard to be mad at him, it was so much easier to feel rage and betrayal than a sadness and frustration for something you couldn't change. Moreau had been the breaking point for Eliot and Hardison wanted to take the man down. Brutally.

Then always observant Nate noted: “So, uhm, you said that Moreau is going to give you the details of the auction tomorrow. Why tomorrow?”

Hardison dreaded the answer the moment the question had left Nate’s lips and Eliot delivered on all his fears. “Because he wants me to do something for him first.”

“I bet he does. What?”

“Kill Atherton.”

“Kill Atherton?” Sophie repeated. “You can’t. You’re not that man anymore,” and despite all that happened today, Hardison had to agree. He was still a bit angry, but now again more at Moreau rather than Eliot. His heart just ached for Eliot.

“You might have to be.” Nate surprised them all. “To get us in.”

“No, what?” Hardison cut in, he was looking at the specs and it was not looking good, but what Nate was saying was even worse. “We’re not letting Eliot kill for Creeper Moreau with his sick little games so that we can buy a bomb!”

“What?”

“The Rams Horn, it’s a bomb. A very big bomb,” he explained. “But first, what the hell, Nate. You’re not serious are you? I’m not letting you send in Eliot to kill someone for that asshole that almost killed me today and was very weird. It was like super uncomfortable and there was a knife for Eliot and he had to-”

“That’s enough, Hardison,” Eliot cut in before he could tell them about the kneeling. “Tell us about the bomb.”

“You’re not being serious right now, are you, man?” he asked. “I saw your face in there, okay. You were scared of Moreau. He scared you. You’re not going to work for that sick fuck again.”

“I’m not-” Nate was cut off by Sophie, who asked: “What on earth happened in there? You were really upset at Eliot a moment ago and you’re defending him and calling Moreau sick. What did he do to you two?”

“Hardison. Don’t,” Eliot warned.

A warning Hardison did not heed. He had seen enough today to know that no matter how angry he was at Eliot for leaving him, he would never – never– let Eliot anywhere near Moreau again. The hitter had been scared and anyone who could scare Eliot was bad news and not someone Hardison let people he cared about close to. The emotional jojo-ing was a bit dizzying.

“Well, first off, he pushed me into a pool and nearly let me drown. I had to suck air out of chair, okay,” he began with himself, lulling Eliot into a false sense of security, which was kind of mean, but deserved, in his opinion,seeing the circumstances. “And he made Eliot do this weird submitting, parade, show dog thing. It gave me the creeps and was just plain sick- sick, I tell you.”

“Hardison, fucking stop. They don’t need to know all that,” Eliot hissed. “It was absolutely nothing, he was practically mild. We’re lucky he didn’t need a toe as proof.”

“What?!” Hardison squeaked, remembering the medical report he’d found on Eliot that showed he missed a left toe.

Eliot ignored him and told the others: “The pool was pretty bad, but he had enough air. He was under for one minute and twenty second, a human can go without air for three minutes. We were lucky and we’re in. He believes us, let’s use that. Nate, the con.”

“Alright-” Nate started, but was cut off again, this time by Hardison, “You have to explain how you nearly chocking on his fingers while he held a knife to your forehead is not bad. Please, try, I invite you. But you’re not just letting it slide. That was creepy as fuck.”

“I get it,” Eliot growled, “Moreau sucksand likes being in control and having power over others. He liked having power over me. It was creepy and uncomfortable, I know, I was there. Now drop it, Hardison. It wasn’t the first time, won’t be the last, certain things just happen and it could have been way worse, so. Let. It. Go.”

“What do you mean ‘won’t be the last’?” Hardison shot back, ignoring how the others followed their conversation like it was some sort of violent tennis match.

“I have to go kill a man and report back to him,” Eliot growled. “Reporting back to Moreau- well, he has his own ways, if you’re under his control. Nothing makes the most powerful man in the world look more powerful than showing that full grown men will kneel for him. Shit’s in the past. Now. Move. On.”

He was really hammering in those last words again, but before Hardison could reply, Nate cut them both off: “I will hear more of this in a minute, but Eliot isn’t killing anyone. We’re pretending he’s murdering someone.”

“You can’t fool Moreau like that, Nate,” Eliot protested, but it wastiredly and in a defeated tone that Hardison hated immediately.

“No, we can. I get that you’ve been wrapped up in his world for longer than we have and that you know him, but you can’t let the fear and image of him you have in your head blind you to what we can do to him,” Nate said gently. “You fooled him today, you can do it again. He’s not invincible.”

It was interesting to watch Eliot’s face as it went through multiple emotions. From despondent hopelessness, to a sadness, to guilt, to a bit of pride and ending on a slight bit of hope that disappeared the moment Nate asked what Hardison and he had been talking about.

“‘S nothing, Nate,” he tried to wave it away once more, but with all their eyes on him, he couldn't do anything, but give in: “Moreau does this – I guess you can call it a trick – with his men, where he has them kneel, usually with a knife or other weapon that they give to him. It’s something for show, because while not everyone is intimidated by money, everyone knows power when they see it. All of us know them, it’s just a show. Came with the job.”

“So why were you talking about it as if he did it in private too?” Hardison was so glad Nate knew which questions to ask and how to get answers, because while he didn’t want to hear it, he also desperately wanted to know and Eliot would never tell him.

After a moment of hesitation, Eliot gritted: “It started as a show, but he liked it, I could provide it. It was part of his need for power. He’s always been power hungry and this was just another thing he could get, so why not, you know? So, when you give a rapport, you kneel. There are different ways and levels- not important, but you kneel. It’s usually one on one, but it was also a punishment to have to kneel in front of everyone.”

So what Eliot had to do today. It was a punishment as well as a parading tool. It was meant to humiliate and drive home who was in charge. And it had been effective. It had been effective and that sucked the most, because Eliot had been rattled and Moreau was inside his head.

Sophie looked disturbed to say the least, she had never heard or seen anything like that in all her grifts among the most powerful. “Elliot that’s terrible. You had to go through that again, I can’t ima-”

“No, stop. All of you stop,” Eliot cut her off. “It wasn’t terrible, just something that happened. It wasn’t the worst he could have done, not the worst I’ve done. It’s over now and you all need to shut up. We don’t have time for this. Hardison just told us the Rams Horn is a bomb, we have other things to focus on that poor little me having to sit on my knees, okay.”

And while Hardison didn’t agree with the ‘having to sit on my knees’ description of the events, he did have to agree that they had other things to worry about right now, so he explained the bomb and the relation to the battery as Nate set out the con.

Hardison hated having to let Eliot go with Chapman to fake Atherton’s death. His mind was kept off it by having to find a white male John Doe (which was harder than it looked, okay, Nate. Can’t have demands about a corpse, alright).

He hated it even more when Eliot returned and demanded to know if everything had gone okay, slight panic in his eyes. He also hated it when Moreau called him, telling him he hadn’t lost his touch and that they were in. Eliot’s eyes hardened at the voice and Hardison noticed how Sophie and Nate marked the slightly tremor in his hands as he grunted back. But he was glad Eliot hadn’t had to report in person.

Still, there was a con to run and both had parts to play, so Hardison couldn't stay to ask Eliot about it again.

A con that quickly went to shit.

The battery was not where it was supposed to be, they had to hijack a fucking train and diffuse a bomb – well more set it off, but differently while running for his life through said train, but that was his life – while Nate and Eliot were unreachable and things were probably going to shit on their end as well.

Next time he saw Eliot, the man had lost a shirt and looked more haunted than before, though neither he nor Nate said anything specific as to how they got there, making Hardison dread. He knew better than to ask now, however, there were still other things he wantedto talk about with Eliot.

Nate had given all of them a chance to walk away. He always did. No one was at Leverage without wanting to be there and Hardison was glad when Eliot stayed, when he didn’t walk even when they went after his worst nightmare. Eliot would have his back, Hardison knew that, but the reminder was nice after today.

While Nate was off planning and the other’s were asleep, Hardison sat down next to Eliot at the closed bar. None had been willing to go to their own apartments after the day they’d had.

Eliot acknowledged him with a nod, but didn’t make eyecontact, just stared at the bar. After a moment, Hardison opened: “I’m not mad at you anymore for the pool, man. We cool.”

At that Eliot looked up, his surprise quickly hidden.

“Like, I’m not happy about almost drowning,” he said, “but I get why you did it. And you were counting, even if you blew me off, you knew exactly how long I’d been under and how much time I still had. Can’t be mad when you just did your job.”

“Hardison, I almost got you killed, didn’t even flinch when they threw you in,” Eliot replied. “You are allowed to be mad at me. I won’t bite. Not now at least.”

He huffed at Eliot’s reply, then sighed, of course Eliot thought he was just pretending not to be mad anymore. No, cause why would anyone genuinely not think Eliot wasn’t a bad person for a change? Okay, after today, kind of fair, but still.

“I said I wasn’t mad, dude, just take it,” Hardison told him. “I know you won’t bite me. I was just mad, because I didn’t understand and you just brushed me off.”

“And you understand now?” Eliot raised a disbelieving eyebrow and Hardison could almost believe Eliot was challenging him, hoping for a fight. But Hardison wasn’t in the mood to fight, he just wanted his hitter having his back and all being good again. He was tired of all of this martyr bullshit.

“Yeah, I understand,” he gave Eliot an unimpressed look. “You think you’re the bad guy and just like Moreau. You want to blame yourself for what he did, because you worked for him once and that makes you just as bad, but it doesn’t. You gotta stop, man. I said I wasn’t mad over the pool, believe me when I say that.”

“You don’t know me,” Eliot growled, downing his beer.

“No, I don’t,” Hardison agreed. “I don’t know all you did before we met, I don’t know why you find certain things distinctive, when your eyes go blank from time to time I don’t know what you’re remembering and I don’t know why Moreau scares you so much. I don’t.”

“Is there a point, Hardison?” Eliot gritted out.

“The point is that I don’t care that I don’t know that stuff, because I at least know the you now, I know the Leverage you and I like that you, okay,” Hardison explained. “You are my friend and I just want to hurt Moreau for what he did to you, because he did something to you, I could see it, so don’t even try to deny it.”

“Look, I get that you believe that,” Eliot said, “but I’m not who you think I am. I’m- I’m not anyone’s friend, alright. I don’t do that sort of stuff and I’m never going to be just the me from now, that’s just unrealistic. So thank you, but you’re not going to fix me or something like that through talking to me.”

“You’re deflecting about Moreau,” he pointed out.

“And you’re deflecting about what I told you, Hardison.”

“If you don’t wanna talk, man, that’s cool. I don’t agree, but cool. Your tale with Moreau is none of my business,” he said. “However, you can at least do me the courtesy by being honest.”

“Alright,” Eliot nodded, “Leave me the fuck alone, Hardison.” Somehow he hadn’t seen that bluntness coming. “I don’t wanna talk with you about ‘my tale with Moreau,’ he’s a dick that I made the mistake of working for and you don’t need to go poking in that mess. You don’t need to hear my shit.”

“Okay, cool, but I don’t mind listening to your shit,” Hardison said, “Just FYI. Your business is your business, but don’t hold back on my account.”

“You almost drowned today, you can do with a bit of break,” Eliot said, but he didn’t argue about wanting to talk about his shit (he always did that thing where he didn’t say what he wanted, but let other decide to urge him on, so he could blame it on them)and Hardison felt this was his window if he wanted Eliot to open up.

“Probably, but leaving me alone with those thoughts is also not all that great, so please, burden me with your shit,” he said. “It’s always easier to think of someone else’s problems and it might be useful for when we go after him. And I’m curious about how the kneeling thing started. Indulge me.”

At that Eliot chuckled and the angry tension that had been between them dissipated slightly, as he nodded. “I actually started it. The kneeling.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I was in charge of this mission with some terrorists, but they had money – recent dealings, not important – and Moreau wanted to intimidate them. A few of his things had been targeted and he wanted them to stop,” Eliot explained. “I had to come up with something that showed that Moreau was powerful when he couldn't just pay them off.”

“And your answer was kneeling?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“The leader we were meeting was of an old Sultan line, used to have a lot of power and prestige, so he would appreciate the value of that gesture,” Eliot shrugged as if it was normal. “And I had been involved in a bit of his business, so he knew I wasn’t the type to be messed with.”

“So, how did that convo go?” Hardison couldn't help but imagine a grumpy Eliot just telling Moreau straight up that he would kneel and that would be a hilarious image, if it wasn’t Moreau, who was terrifying and didn’t care if he hurt people. “Did you kneel like today?”

“Nah, not like today, just kneeling while I was the only one fully armed,” Eliot answered. “It was a simple power show. And I introduced the why first, Hardison. I’m not stupid.”

“Didn’t say that. Did not say that,” Hardison said, then added, “And after? Did it just evolve naturally from there? How does that even happen?”

“Why are you so interested in this anyway?” Eliot asked instead of answering. “It can’t be the strangest thing you’ve seen and I know you know it’s not the worst that happened to me. Why are you getting hung up on that detail.”

“Because it’s incredibly fucked up, Eliot. And you can’t even seem to see that,” Hardison blurted out, finally putting into words what had been bothering him about the whole thing.

“What?” Eliot choked out a bit surprised.

“Come on, man, you out here talking about it as if it is no big deal that a man, who held a lot of power over you forced you to do all sorts of things, like today he practically made you present yourself and finger-fucked your mouth. You really see no problem with that?” Hardison ranted now that he got the floor to do so, the thoughts that had been piling in his head all day, spilling out.

“At least he didn’t torture me?” Eliot shot back, but it was weak and fell flat.

“You realize that making that comparison only makes it worse, right? Like you get that?” Hardison wasn’t even sure that Eliot was aware of that. Eliot just shrugged, not saying anything for a moment, which only cemented the idea that he hadn’t even realized how fucked up it was.

“I came up with the kneeling thing, so it’s kinda my own fault,” he finally offered, as if blaming himself would make Hardison feel better.

“Stop, you aren’t making it better. It doesn’t matter who came up with it, he used it against you as some sort of ego trip, just because he could and that’s not okay. What he did to you was not okay, Eliot. It just wasn’t.”

Eliot blinked dumbly at him and Hardison couldn't take this.

“It wasn’t okay. Yeah, I don’t know what you did, nor what he did. And no, this probably wasn’t the worst of it all, but it still wasn’t okay and I know of this now and seeing you blame yourself for it, fucking sucks, man. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t.”

“Well, I- It- I wasn’t presentingmyself,” Eliot protested a part form a while back instead of engaging with what Hardison had told him.

“Eliot, man, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but we both know that’s bullshit and you’re trying to hide,” Hardison replied, hoping Eliot would see he disagreed for Eliot’s sake and not just to be a dick.

The hitter’s shoulder’s sagged slightly and he nodded. He softly explained: “It was for the Russian mafia, you know how they can be about power. The- the guy, he was gay. One of our sources had seen him go into a certain type of brothel, if you know what I mean, and- well, Moreau decided to use that. He told me to make it more explicit and-”

Hardison waited as Eliot cut himself off with a blush of deep shame, swallowing hard as he regathered his thoughts again.

“He told me to make it more explicit and- and he implied some stuff about getting private security from Moreau if the deal went through,” Eliot’s voice was barely a whisper at the end and Hardison’s heart had dropped to his stomach at the end of the sentence.

“Moreau- he- he whored you out?” he choked, immediately wanting to slap himself for his word choice when Eliot curled in on himself. “Hey, man, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that, sorry. But that’s abuse, like sexual abuse. Rape even. Are you okay?”

“I could have said no,” Eliot whispered, instead of denying it.

“Could you?” Hardison asked gently. “Because from where I’m standing, he could threaten you with both unemployment, torture and death, so that kinda sounds like forced consent. That’s not a real yes, not under those circumstances.”

“Still could have said no, I could have taken him,” Eliot pointed out, refusing to believe that what had been done to him was bad.

“Maybe you could have taken him, but you were scared of him,” Hardison kindlyexplained. “I saw your face. Do you really think you could have said no to him? Back then? Or were you too scared to do so?”

“But-”

“No buts, Eliot,” Hardison cut in. “I know you like to think only the violence was bad, but deserved, but it’s not. Both of the violence and this was far from okay. Way too far from okay. He can’t- no one can give consent for you for those kind of things. No one. It’s invasive and seriously fucked up and nobody – nobody – should have to go through that, no matter what they did. Including you, alright.”

Eliot wasn’t meeting his gaze, even if his eyes flicked quickly to his once, only to flit away just as fast. He was obviously processing and Hardison let him, waiting patiently until Eliot reacting, deciding to base his next move on Eliot’s reply.

“It wasn’t that bad, not like he made me do it often,” Eliot finally said after a long silence and Hardison’s heart broke when Eliot still didnot get it and he vowed to punch Moreau in the face at least once, maybe more.

“Once is already too terrible for words, Eliot,” Hardison told him, wondering how his day went from trying to run a con to being incredibly upset with Eliot to trying to explain to the hitter that getting raped was bad.

The hitter didn’t verbally react to that, but Hardison watched as pain and guilt warred on his face, until there was a bit of relief mixed in. He was doing good in telling Eliot he hadn’t deserved it, even if it took a while for him to believe it.

“Moreau was a sick bastard,” he said, then he suddenly remembered Eliot telling them that Moreau liked it and that he could provide it and felt a bit of sick in his throat. Carefully he asked: “You- you don’t have to answer, but did- did Moreau- did he ever…?”

“He was never truly into that sort of thing, liked the power trip of holding it over your head as a maybe more than going through with it,” Eliot tried to assure him, but it fell flat. “He only did it once, to create a threat of what he could do. I think he only did it to me, I was his favourite.”

God, what Hardison didn’t want to break Moreau’s body. How dare he torture Eliot like that. How dare he make Eliot think that only doing it once would be reassuring when the reason was so that he could torment Eliot with the thought of doing it again. A hot pang of guilt and anger shot through him as he recalled the flash of fear came back in full force after Moreau had asked him to kneel for him again, like he had done for the Russian, which he let Eliot get raped by and how he had said it had always been his favourite.

“Can I touch you?” he asked, unable to verbalize all of that just yet.

Eliot looked confused at the question, which hurt as well, but he nodded and Hardison didn’t hesitate sweeping Eliot up into a hug, feeling how he tensed before melting into it.

“I’m going to murder him,” he whispered. “I’m going to murder him and enjoy every second of it. Not a little bit of guilt.”

“Don’t,” Eliot warned and it spoke testaments to how he was feeling that he hadn’t pushed Hardison off yet.

“Why not?” Hardison challenged.

“Because he doesn’t deserve to have control of your life as well.” It was a simple answer that hit him right in the chest, because yeah, Moreau controlled Eliot’s life, had controlled Eliot’s life for a long time and it had sucked. And even now the hitter was protecting him from that, from the worst person he ever met. Hardison hated himself for doubting Eliot earlier that day.

“Okay, no murder, but a lot of hate. I’m going to make his life hell while we take him out,” he conceded. “And I’m gonna keep telling you that you didn’t deserve that and that it was fucked up, alright?”

And in the end that was all he could do. No matter how much he wanted to jump in and fix it all, he couldn't. This was not something he could fix in a day, no bug he could work out or code he could rewrite. He could only keep on telling Eliot that it hadn’t been his fault and that it was fucked up and undeserved, while he hoped it would have impact.

“Yeah- yeah, okay,” Eliot answered, voice a bit broken.

Hardison squeezed Eliot tighter, then waited until Eliot was ready to let go. When he was, he let go as well, but stopped to lay his hands on Eliot’s shoulder and look him in the eye intently. “I am glad that it’s you, who has my back. I’m glad you survived, even if I wish you hadn’t needed to go through that.”

There were again unshed tears in Eliot’s eyes and Hardison wondered if Eliot could cry, or if that too had been taken away from him through all the hardships he was forced to go through.

Eliot lay a hand on his and nodded, before making some excuse to leave and Hardison watched him go, knowing to give him some space, while also vowing to himself to keep a close eye on him.

Still, his shoulder’s were lighter than they had been earlier that day and Hardison decided to count that as a win. While he couldn't take all of the pain away, he could make sure that Moreau was a demon that Eliot never had to meet again and he would do that, no questions. Because despite all the bickering and the threats, Eliot was his best friend and he would do anything to make him happy and give him a respite from all that haunted him.

A/N:

I did all the dialogue from hearing alone, so at some points I guessed what was the best, so apologies for anything wrong in the lines from the show itself.

The kneeling part is inspired by bemusedlybespectacled's fic: The Retrieval Job, which I highly recommend

Starring: the feeling you get when your friend tells you something that makes you want to punch a person and then goes ‘haha, it was nothing, lmao’

Also this is my first time writing anything like this, so please do point out if I was insensitive anywhere. If you’ve ever gone through something like this, that was fucked up and you didn’t deserve that. I hope you found people who can make you believe that, because it’s true.

#RR writing #tw: referenced rape #tw: past rape #tw: rape mention #tw: victim blaming #tw: internailzed victim blaming #tw: abuse of power #leverage #eliot spencer #eliot spencer angst #damien moreau #moreaus mindfuckery basically #alec hardison #leverage tv

9 notes · View notes

letterboxd · 4 years ago

Photo

Best of Sundance 2021.

From pandemic-era stories, via portraits of grief, to the serendipitous 1969 trilogy, the Letterboxd crew recaps our favorite films from the first major festival of the year.

Sundance heralds a new season of storytelling, with insights into what’s concerning filmmakers at present, and what artistic innovations may be on the horizon. As with every film festival, there were spooky coincidences and intersecting themes, whether it was a proliferation of pandemic-era stories, or extraordinary portraits of women working through grief (Land, Hive, The World to Come), or the incredible serendipity of the festival’s ‘1969 trilogy’, covering pivotal moments in Black American history: Summer of Soul (...Or When the Revolution Could Not Be Televised), Judas and the Black Messiah and the joyful Street Gang: How We Got to Sesame Street.

The hybrid model of this year’s Sundance meant more film lovers across the United States—a record number of you, in fact—‘attended’ the prestigious indie showcase. Our Festiville team (Gemma Gracewood, Aaron Yap, Ella Kemp, Selome Hailu, Jack Moulton and Dominic Corry) scanned your Letterboxd reviews and compared them with our notes to arrive at these seventeen feature-length documentary and narrative picks from Sundance 2021. There are plenty more we enjoyed, but these are the films we can’t stop thinking about.

Documentary features

Summer of Soul (...Or, When the Revolution Could Not Be Televised) Directed by Ahmir-Khalib Thompson (AKA Questlove)

One hot summer five decades ago, there was a free concert series at a park in Harlem. It was huge, and it was lovely, and then it was forgotten. The Harlem Cultural Festival of 1969 brought together some of the world’s most beloved Black artists to connect with Black audiences. The star power and the size of the crowds alone should have been enough to immortalize the event à la Woodstock—which happened the same summer, the film emphasizes. But no one cared to buy up the footage until Ahmir-Khalib Thompson, better known as Questlove, came along.

It would have been easy to oversimplify such a rich archive by stringing together the performances, seeking out some talking heads, and calling it a day. But Questlove was both careful and ebullient in his approach. “Summer of Soul is a monumental concert documentary and a fantastic piece of reclaimed archived footage. There is perhaps no one better suited to curate this essential footage than Questlove, whose expertise and passion for the music shines through,” writes Matthew on Letterboxd. The film is inventive with its use of present interviews, bringing in both artists and attendees not just to speak on their experiences, but to react to and relive the footage. The director reaches past the festival itself, providing thorough social context that takes in the moon landing, the assassinations of Black political figures, and more. By overlapping different styles of documentary filmmaking, Questlove’s directorial debut embraces the breadth and simultaneity of Black resilience and joy. A deserving winner of both the Grand Jury and Audience awards (and many of our unofficial Letterboxd awards). —SH

Flee Directed by Jonas Poher Rasmussen

Flee is the type of discovery Sundance is designed for. Danish documentarian Jonas Poher Rasmussen tells the poignant story of his close friend and former classmate (using the pseudonym ‘Amin Nawabi’) and his daring escape from persecution in 1990s Afghanistan. Rasmussen always approaches tender topics with sensitivity and takes further steps to protect his friend’s identity by illustrating the film almost entirely in immersive animation, following in the footsteps of Waltz With Bashir and Tower. It’s a film aware of its subjectivity, allowing the animated scenes to alternate between the playful joy of nostalgia and the mournful pain of an unforgettable memory. However, these are intercepted by dramatic archive footage that oppressively brings the reality home.

“Remarkably singular, yet that is what makes it so universal,” writes Paul. “So many ugly truths about the immigration experience—the impossible choices forced upon people, and the inability to really be able to explain all of it to people in your new life… You can hear the longing in his voice, the fear in his whisper. Some don’t get the easy path.” Winner of the World Cinema (Documentary) Grand Jury Prize and quickly acquired by Neon, Flee is guaranteed to be a film you’ll hear a lot about for the rest of 2021. —JM

Taming the Garden Directed by Salomé Jashi

There’s always a moment at a film festival when fatigue sets in, when the empathy machine overwhelms, and when I hit that moment in 2021, I took the advice of filmmaker and Sundance veteran Jim Cummings, who told us: “If you’re ever stressed or tired, watch a documentary to reset yourself.” Taming the Garden wasn’t initially on my hit-list, but it’s one of those moments when the ‘close your eyes and point at a random title’ trick paid off. Documentary director Salomé Jashi does the Lorax’s work, documenting the impact and grief caused by billionaire former Georgian PM Bidzina Ivanishvili’s obsession with collecting ancient trees for his private arboretum.

“A movie that is strangely both infuriating and relaxing” writes Todd, of the long, locked-off wide shots showing the intense process of removing large, old trees from their village homes. There’s no narration, instead Jashi eavesdrops on locals as they gossip about Ivanishvili, argue about whether the money is worth it, and a feisty, irritated 90-year-old warns of the impending environmental fallout. “What you get out of it is absolutely proportional to what you put into it,” writes David, who recommends this film get the IMAX treatment. It’s arboriculture as ASMR, the timeline cleanse my Sundance needed. The extraordinary images of treasured trees being barged across the sea will become iconic. —GG

The Most Beautiful Boy in the World Directed by Kristian Petri and Kristina Lindström

Where Taming the Garden succeeds through pure observation, The Most Beautiful Boy in the World relies on the complete participation of its title subject, actor Björn Andrésen, who was thrust into the spotlight as a teenager. Cast by Italian director Lucino Visconti in Death in Venice, a 1971 adaptation of Thomas Mann’s novella about obsession and fatal longing, Andrésen spent the 1970s as an object of lust, with a side-gig as a blonde pop star in Japan, inspiring many manga artists along the way.

As we know by now (Alex Winter’s Showbiz Kids is a handy companion to this film), young stardom comes at a price, one that Andrésen was not well-placed to pay even before his fateful audition for Visconti. But he’s still alive, still acting (he’s Dan in Midsommar), and ready to face the mysteries of his past. Like Benjamin Ree’s excellent The Painter and the Thief from last year, this documentary is a constantly unfolding detective story, notable for great archive footage, and a deep kindness towards its reticent yet wide-open subject. —GG

All Light, Everywhere Directed by Theo Anthony

Threading the blind spots between Étienne-Jules Marey’s 19th-century “photographic rifle”, camera-carrying war pigeons and Axon’s body-cam tech, Theo Anthony’s inquisitive, mind-expanding doc about the false promise of the all-seeing eye is absorbing, scary, urgent. It’s the greatest Minority Report origin story you didn’t know you needed.

Augmented by Dan Deacon’s electronic soundscapes and Keaver Brenai’s lullingly robotic narration, All Light, Everywhere proves to be a captivating, intricately balanced experience that Harris describes as “one part Adam Curtis-esque cine-essay”, “one part structural experiment in the vein of Koyaanisqatsi” and “one part accidental character study of two of the most familiar yet strikingly unique evil, conservative capitalists…”. Yes, there’s a tremendous amount to download, but Anthony’s expert weaving, as AC writes, “make its numerous subjects burst with clarity and profundity.” For curious cinephiles, the oldest movie on Letterboxd, Jules Jenssen’s Passage de Vénus (1874), makes a cameo. —AY

The Sparks Brothers Directed by Edgar Wright

Conceived at a Sparks gig in 2017 upon the encouragement of fellow writer-director Phil Lord, Edgar Wright broke his streak of riotous comedies with his first (of many, we hope) rockumentary. While somewhat overstuffed—this is, after all, his longest film by nearly fifteen minutes—The Sparks Brothers speaks only to Wright’s unrestrained passion for his art-pop Gods, exploring all the nooks and crannies of Sparks’ sprawling career, with unprecedented access to brothers and bandmates Ron and Russell Mael.

Nobody else can quite pin them down, so Wright dedicates his time to put every pin in them while he can, building a mythology and breaking it down, while coloring the film with irresistible dives into film history, whimsically animated anecdotes and cheeky captions. “Sparks rules. Edgar Wright rules. There’s no way this wasn’t going to rule”, proclaims Nick, “every Sparks song is its own world, with characters, rules, jokes and layers of narrative irony. What a lovely ode to a creative partnership that was founded on sticking to one’s artistic guns, no matter what may have been fashionable at the time.” —JM

Narrative features

The Pink Cloud Written and directed by Iuli Gerbase

The Pink Cloud is disorienting and full of déjà vu. Brazilian writer-director Iuli Gerbase constructs characters that are damned to have to settle when it comes to human connection. Giovana and Yago’s pleasant one-night stand lasts longer than expected when the titular pink cloud emerges from the sky, full of a mysterious and deadly gas that forces everyone to stay locked where they stand. Sound familiar? Reserve your groans—The Pink Cloud wasn’t churned out to figure out “what it all means” before the pandemic is even over. Gerbase wrote and shot the film prior to the discovery of Covid-19.

It’s “striking in its ability to prophesize a pandemic and a feeling unknown at the time of its conception. What was once science fiction hits so close now,” writes Sam. As uncanny as the quarantine narrative feels, what’s truly harrowing is how well the film predicts and understands interiorities that the pandemic later exacerbated. Above all, Giovana is a woman with unmet needs. She is a good partner, good mother and good person even when she doesn’t want to be. Even those who love her cannot see how their expectations strip her of her personhood, and the film dares to ask what escape there might be when love itself leaves you lonely. —SH

Together Together Written and directed by Nikole Beckwith

Every festival needs at least one indie relationship dramedy, and Together Together filled that role at Sundance 2021 with a healthy degree of subversion. It follows rom-com structure while ostensibly avoiding romance, instead focusing on how cultivating adult friendships can be just hard, if not harder.

Writer-director Nikole Beckwith warmly examines the limits of the platonic, and Patti Harrison and Ed Helms are brilliantly cast as the not-couple: a single soon-to-be father and the surrogate carrying his child. They poke at each other’s boundaries with a subtle desperation to know what makes a friendship appropriate or real. As Jacob writes: “It’s cute and serious, charming without being quirky. It’s a movie that deals with the struggle of being alone in this world, but offers a shimmer of hope that even if you don’t fall in fantastical, romantic, Hollywood love… there are people out there for you.” —SH

Hive Written and directed by Blerta Basholli

Hive, for some, may fall into the “nothing much happens” slice-of-life genre, but Blerta Basholli’s directorial debut holds an ocean of pain in its small tale, asking us to consider the heavy lifting that women must always do in the aftermath of war. As Liz writes, “Hive is not just a story about grief and trauma in a patriarchy-dominated culture, but of perseverance and the bonds created by the survivors who must begin to consider the future without their husbands.”

Yllka Gashi is an understated hero as Fahrjie, a mother-of-two who sets about organizing work for the women of her village, while awaiting news of her missing husband—one of thousands unaccounted for, years after the Kosovo War has ended. The townsmen have many opinions about how women should and shouldn’t mourn, work, socialize, parent, drive cars and, basically, get on with living, but Fahrjie persists, and Basholli sticks close with an unfussy, tender eye. “It felt like I was a fly on the wall, witnessing something that was actually happening,” writes Arthur. Just as in Robin Wright’s Land and Mona Fastvold’s The World to Come, Hive pays off in the rare, beaming smile of its protagonist. —GG

On the Count of Three Directed by Jerrod Carmichael, written by Ari Katcher and Ryan Welch

It starts with an image: two best friends pointing guns at each other’s heads. There’s no anger, there’s no hatred—this is an act of merciful brotherly love. How do you have a bleak, gun-totin’ buddy-comedy in 2021 and be critically embraced without contradicting your gun-control retweets or appearing as though your film is the dying embers of Tarantino-tinged student films?

Comedian Jerrod Carmichael’s acerbic directorial debut On the Count of Three achieves this by calling it out every step of the way. Guns are a tool to give insecure men the illusion of power. They are indeed a tool too terrifying to trust in the hands of untrained citizens. Carmichael also stars, alongside Christopher Abbott, who has never been more hilarious or more tragic, bringing pathos to a cathartic rendition of Papa Roach’s ‘Last Resort’. Above all, Carmichael and Abbott’s shared struggle and bond communicates the millennial malaise: how can you save others if you can’t save yourself? “Here’s what it boils down to: life is fucking hard”, Laura sums up, “and sometimes the most we can hope for is to have a best friend who loves you [and] to be a best friend who loves. It doesn’t make life any easier, but it sure helps.” Sundance 2021 is one for the books when it comes to documentaries, but On the Count of Three stands out in the fiction lineup this year. —JM

Censor Directed by Prano Bailey-Bond, written by Bailey-Bond and Anthony Fletcher

The first of several upcoming films inspired by the ‘video nasty’ moral panic over gory horror in mid-’80s Britain, Prano Bailey-Bond leans heavily into both the period and the genre in telling the story of a film censor (a phenomenal Niamh Algar—vulnerable and steely at the same time) who begins to suspect a banned movie may hold the key to her sister’s childhood disappearance. Often dreamlike, occasionally phantasmagorical and repeatedly traumatic, even if the worst gore presented (as seen in the impressively authentic fictional horrors being appraised) appears via a screen, providing a welcome degree of separation.

Nevertheless, Censor is definitely not for the faint of heart, but old-school horror aficionados will squeal with delight at the aesthetic commitment. “I’m so ecstatic that horror is in the hands of immensely talented women going absolutely batshit in front of and behind the camera.” writes Erik. (Same here!) “A great ode to the video-nasty era and paying tribute to the great horror auteurs of the ’80s such as Argento, De Palma and Cronenberg while also doing something new with the genre. Loved this!” writes John, effectively encapsulating Censor’s unfettered film-nerd appeal. —DC

CODA Written and directed by Siân Heder

A film so earnest it shouldn’t work, with a heart so big it should surely not fit the size of the screen, CODA broke records (the first US dramatic film in Sundance history to win all three top prizes; the 25-million-dollar sale to Apple Studios), and won the world over like no other film. “A unique take on something we’ve seen so much,” writes Amanda, nailing the special appeal of Siân Heder’s coming-of-ager and family portrait. Emilia Jones plays Ruby, the only hearing person in her deaf family, at war between the family business and her passion for singing. While Heder is technically remaking the French film La Famille Bélier, the decision to cast brilliant deaf actors—Troy Kotsur, Marlee Matlin and Daniel Durant—makes this feel brand new.

But it’s not just about representation for the sake of it. A sense of authenticity, in humor as much as affection, shines through. With a script that’s 40 per cent ASL, so many of the jokes are visual gags, poking fun at Tinder and rap music, but a lot of the film’s most poignant moments are silent as well. And in Ruby’s own world, too, choir kids will feel seen. “I approve of this very specific alto representation and the brilliant casting of the entire choir,” Laura confirms in her review. Come for the fearless, empathetic family portrait, stay for the High School Musical vibes that actually ring true. —EK

We’re All Going to the World’s Fair Written and directed by Jane Schoenbrun

Perhaps the most singular addition to the recent flurry of Extremely Online cinema—Searching, Spree, Host, et al—Jane Schoenbrun’s feature debut ushers the viewer into a haunted, hypno-drone miasma of delirium-inducing YouTube time-suck, tenebrous creepypasta lore and painfully intimate webcam confessionals. Featuring an extraordinarily unaffected, fearless performance by newcomer Anna Cobb, the film “unpacks the mythology of adolescence in a way that’s so harrowingly familiar and also so otherworldly”, writes Kristen. Not since Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s Pulse has there been such an eerily lonely, and at times strangely beautiful, evocation of the liminal spaces between virtual and real worlds.

For members of the trans community, it’s also a work that translates that experience to screen with uncommon authenticity. “What Schoenbrun has accomplished with the form of We’re All Going to the World’s Fair is akin to catching a wisp of smoke,” writes Willow, “because the images, mood and aesthetic that they have brought to life is one that is understood completely by trans people as one of familiarity, without also plunging into the obvious melodrama, or liberal back-patting that is usually associated with ‘good’ direct representation.” One of the most original, compelling new voices to emerge from Sundance this year. —AY

Judas and the Black Messiah Directed by Shaka King, written by King, Will Berson, Kenneth Lucas and Keith Lucas

It was always going to take a visionary, uncompromising filmmaker to bring the story of Fred Hampton, the deputy chairman of the national Black Panther Party, to life. Shaka King casts Daniel Kaluuya as Hampton, and LaKeith Stanfield as William “Wild Bill” O’Neal, the FBI informant whose betrayal leads to Hampton’s assassination. Both actors have never been better, particularly Kaluuya who Fran Hoepfner calls “entrancing, magnetic, fizzling, romantic, riveting, endlessly watchable.”

Judas and the Black Messiah is an electric, involving watch: not just replaying history by following a certain biopic template. Instead, it’s a film with something to say—on power, on fear, on war and on freedom. “Shaka King’s name better reverberate through the halls of every studio after this,” writes Demi. A talent like this, capable of framing such a revolution, doesn’t come around so often. We’d better listen up. —EK

Pleasure Directed by Ninja Thyberg, written by Thyberg and Peter Modestij

A24’s first purchase of 2021. Ironically titled on multiple levels, Pleasure is a brutal film that you endure more than enjoy. But one thing you can’t do is forget it. Ninja Thyberg’s debut feature follows a young Swedish woman (Sofia Kappel) who arrives in Los Angeles with dreams of porn stardom under the name ‘Bella Cherry’. Although Bella is clear-eyed about the business she’s getting into, Thyberg doesn’t shy away from any of the awfulness she faces in order to succeed in an industry rife with exploitation and abuse. Bella does make allies, and the film isn’t suggesting that porn is only stocked with villains, but the ultimate cost is clear, even if it ends on an ever-so-slightly ambiguous note.

Touching as it does on ambition, friendship and betrayal in the sex business, Pleasure is often oddly reminiscent of Paul Verhoeven’s Showgirls. Or rather, the gritty film Showgirls was claiming to be, as opposed to the camp classic it became. There’s nothing campy here. Kappel is raw and fearless in the lead, but never lets the viewer lose touch with her humanity. Emma puts it well: “Kappel gives the hardest, most provocative and transfixing performance I’ve seen all festival.” “My whole body was physically tense during this,” writes Gillian, while Keegan perhaps speaks for most when she says “Great film, never want to see it again.” —DC

Coming Home in the Dark Directed by James Ashcroft, written by Ashcroft and Eli Kent

A family camping trip amidst some typically stunnin—and casually foreboding— New Zealand scenery is upended by a shocking rug-pull of violence that gives way to sustained terror represented by Daniel Gillies’ disturbingly calm psychopath. The set-up of this thriller initially suggests a spin on the backwoods brutality thriller, but as Coming Home in the Dark progresses and hope dissipates, the motivations reveal themselves to be much more personal in nature, and informed on a thematic level by New Zealand’s colonial crimes against its Indigenous population. It’s a stark and haunting film that remains disorientating and unpredictable throughout, repeatedly daring the viewer to anticipate what will happen next, only to casually stomp on each glimmer of a positive outcome.

It’s so captivatingly bleak that a viewing of it, as Collins Ezeanyim’s eloquent reaction points out, does not lend itself to completing domestic tasks. The film marks an auspicious debut for director and co-writer James Ashcroft. Jacob writes that he “will probably follow James Ashcroft’s career to the gates of Hell after this one”. Justin hits the nail on the head with his description: “Lean and exceptionally brutal road/revenge film … that trades in genre tropes, especially those of Ozploitation and ’70s Italian exploitation, but contextualizes them in the dark history of its country of origin.” —DC

The World to Come Directed by Mona Fastvold, written by Ron Hansen and Jim Shepard

Mona Fastvold has not made the first, nor probably the last, period romance about forbidden lesbian love. But The World to Come focuses on a specific pocket in time, a world contained in Jim Shepard’s short story ‘Love & Hydrogen’ from within the collection giving the film its name. Katherine Waterston and Vanessa Kirby are Abigail and Tallie, farming neighbors, stifled by their husbands, who find brief moments of solace, of astonishment and joy, together. What shines here is the script, a verbose, delicate narration that emanates beauty more than pretence. “So beautifully restrained and yet I felt everything,” Iana writes.

And you can feel the fluidity and elegance in the way the film sounds, too: composer Daniel Blumberg’s clarinet theme converses with the dialogue and tells you when your heart can break, when you must pause, when the end is near. “So much heartache. So much hunger. So much longing. Waves of love and grief and love and grief,” writes Claira, capturing the ebb and flow of emotion that keeps The World to Come in your mind long after the screen has gone silent. —EK

Related content

The 2021 Sundance Film Festival lineup by Letterboxd rating

Letterboxd’s ‘Official’ Top 50 of 2021

Awards Season 2020-2021: our awards-tracker list

Letterboxd’s Festiville HQ: our home for up-to-the-minute festival coverage

#sundance #sundance film festival #sundance 2021 #sundance2021 #questlove #summer of soul #black woodstock #shaka king #judas and the black messiah #letterboxd top 50 #best of sundance 2021 #letterboxd

11 notes · View notes

red-the-dragon-writes · 3 years ago

Text

Word search game! Tagged by @wizardfromthesea

My words are Cold, Sharp, Bright and Deep.

Cold: From Soundwave: Committed, a Transformers fanfic

They’d claimed Megatron would destroy Cybertron. Well, Cybertron had been an ice-cold sunless wreck for the last thousand years, and didn’t look to be changing any time soon. Autobots, in the end, had done that, but Megatron had been the catalyst. They had claimed Megatron would bring an end to the worship of the Prime, and he had led half of their race in open rebellion against him. They’d claimed he would be the end of peace, and comfort, and he was. And so were they, because they had fought back, but they had always known that would be how it was.

Sharp: From the same.

He did not know that the Cause, as it was, now, was a Cause he would have joined had he been on the sidelines. It was different. It was harder, crueler. But the world was hard and cruel, and finally they were making headway; so he might have. He didn’t know. But for the first time, it seemed like they really had a shot at winning. Megatron had said that they would tear down the Senate, early on. Now he spoke of crushing the entirety of the old rule, pulverizing it to dust between his heavy claws. He spoke and the people answered with roaring cheers and appreciation. He spoke and the people of Cybertron roared. And it was working; they were gaining ground, faster and faster, now, and the Senate was being forced back. Sentinel Prime was growing madder and madder; the noble families built ships and strongholds in plain sight. And they had cities, now, whole cities they’d overtaken and were holding, though it was too soon to say that that would hold. But Megatron’s Cause was sharper, harsher. There was no room for the weak. The quiet. The meek. The things that Soundwave had signed up for, they were succeeding at; he was here to burn down the last holds of Functionism. But he could see that the Decepticons were leaving people behind. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Bright: From an as-yet-unnamed, in-progress Transformers fic about Megatron and Optimus fighting but like over A Long Time

Optimus Prime had been near the back, not fighting. He’d come to lead from the front, just like Megatron, but neither of them had had the experience yet, here. The war had only been raging in earnest for maybe two groons. Tensions had been up for ages, of course, and they’d carried out a few bombings, sure, but open hostilities, armies meeting on the battlefield to rend and tear each other to pieces and the sky clouded black with smoke, that had been very, very new. Megatron got lost in it, and Optimus found himself hiding from it. And somehow Megatron had let himself be led away from the fray. Now he was wandering, lost, a little confused, looking for people he could see weren’t his so he could go back to the fight. For all that the air smelled of energon and burnt metal, and he could hear screaming and cannon blasts going in the background, it almost felt like the late night at the tail end of one of those roaring Kaonite block parties, after most everyone had gone home and all that were left were the scraps of food wrappers and empty high-grade bottles in the streets and vaguely overcharged gladiators and streetmechs wandering around looking for something to do before they passed out in a corner somewhere. Megatron had always enjoyed those. How different it was, and how similar all the same. But littering the streets were pieces of armor, twisted and burnt; and it wasn’t engex puddling in the little ditches at the sides of the road. He’d seen them set up in a dark building by lamplight. Red paints gleaming, clean and bright, nicer than Megatron’s Decepticons ever really looked; medics’ crosses adorning their pauldrons and wings. At this distance he couldn’t see the red badges on their chests, but he knew they would be there. Somehow he’d gotten separated all the way behind the Autobots’ front lines.

Deep: From a kind of very mean OC-in-canon TMA fic i am writing for fun. for myself. it is probably not terribly fun for anyone else. sorry for the fucking wall of text here but it doesnt make any damn sense unless i have that context and the word doesn't appear anywhere else :|

The archivist was well upon the way to a nervous breakdown already. Haven didn’t care for him enough to bother pushing him over the edge. He didn’t care for the archivist at all. He had, grudgingly, admitted a sense of similarity with the man, as he also berated and stalked his subordinates, and he also obsessed over information and filing, and he also seemed to be abrasive and foolish and without a healthy sense of respect for that which outclassed him. Haven was pleased to note that the archivist and the archivist’s assistants were stupider than him, though; he would hate to be within their intellectual weight class. He was tangentially aware of the demons that stalked what they were researching; it was a shame, for those in the research facility, that they had not paid greater attention to that which was not part and parcel of the dealings of those demons. He had heard, from a source, that the only stories that this archivist believed had a morsel of truth to them were the ones that did not record; he had not heard that this archivist had ever learned that there were far better, less obtrusive, ways to vanish information. And the archivist never quite seemed to believe those whose credibility was called into question, unless there was that obvious calling card behind it. Not only had Haven slipped beneath the archivist’s radar, he had so thoroughly escaped it as to make himself invisible to the man, even as he trode the same roads he walked. Frequented the same buildings. Did his foul work in the same air as the archivist attempted to do his. When he finally decided to reveal himself to the archivist, all he needed do was walk directly into the archives and sit down. Not one of them had succeeded in keeping themselves protected from outside influences for very long, and so he had had ample opportunity to get to them and make himself invisible. As such he could walk through the archives like a spectre. His footsteps, imperceptible, his very breath silent to their ears. And all the while, unharassed, he could do whatever the hell he liked, touch whatever the hell he wanted, and take whatever the hell he wanted to take from their poorly maintained, poorly labeled, poorly organized collection of records and nonsense paraphernalia. And other things, besides. It was not terribly long after the incursions of the worms caused by the demon that associated itself with the hives that Haven chose to finally drop the bullshit. He deposited himself upon the rickety chair that sat behind the archivist’s desk while the archivist was still away at lunch, and there he waited for the archivist to return. To his credit, though Haven was rather enjoying not giving the archivist any credit, the archivist did not seem terribly alarmed when he saw Haven sitting in his chair. It was deeply unlikely he mistook Haven for a member of the facility, given that Haven had made no effort to appear as such. Regardless, the archivist merely paused in the doorway for a moment before coming to sit at the opposite chair at the desk.

Since I'm still catching up on my tags, this is an open tag! if you choose to play, your words are mold, rust, decay and rot. :D

#not to give the grimmest word set ever but its 2:10 in the morning and i just need something i can slam the fuck out #i need to be asleep three hours ago #XDDDD #tag game #last line #my writing

1 note · View note

wnterflower-a · 4 years ago

Text

so now that i’ve officially delved into the supernatural au realm here , i decided to write out what my kind of like , lore is when it comes to werewolves and vampires . it’s open to tweaking and working around other peoples’ lore since well . . . i wouldn’t have my pack and ( future because at the moment i have ONE vampire but i’m sure more will come ) coven without inspiration and love from two of my lovely mutuals and i also know everybody has their own ideas when it comes to the supernatural . so yeah , under the cut will be werewolves and then i’ll reblog and post vampires . ** please note that if there is anything you don’t agree with or don’t h/c that’s fine because everybody is different and while this is how i see my lore and i am open to picking and choosing . ** omegaverse traits such as : knotting , slick , m-preg ARE NOT a part of this . heats and ruts aren’t a THING either , just a heightened sex drive .

WARNING : this post is most likely going to be LONG . ** UPDATED - 10/20/2020 , updates will be bolded.

☾ lycanthropy is both a gene and a disease and are viewed as “ pureblood “ and “ half-blood “ .

☾ a pure-blooded werewolf is a wolf whose family has bore the gene dating back to an unspecified date . ☾ a half-blooded werewolf is a wolf who was either bitten or scratched by another half-blooded or pure-blooded wolf while they were in their wolf form . ☾ while both can turn anybody , a pureblood has a higher chance than a half-blood . a pureblood has about a 90/10 chance whereas a half-blood has more of a 60/40 chance . those who DON’T turn useless end up dying due to their bodies rejecting the change . ☾ if purebloods have children with humans , their children will almost ALWAYS carry an active lycan gene . it’s not often that they do not , and those who have an inactive gene it does not mean that they can not pass an active gene onto their children . ☾ if half-bloods have children with humans , their children usually will NOT become a lycan due to it being more of a disease than a gene for them . half-bloods and purebloods are more likely to have a child with the gene. ☾ children who have an inactive lycan gene can have it activated in cases of traumatic and/or life-altering situations , such as witnessing a traumatic event or the death of a parent who acted as lead alpha ( this usually results in the child being taught to become the next lead alpha with an interim one until they are able to take over ) . they can also have it activated by being bitten/scratched just like a human but still retain a pureblood status if born as the child of pureblood parents .

☾ every full moon werewolves will turn , but are also able to turn whenever they want to as well .

☾ shifting has A LOT to do with control . a freshly turned wolf will have a much harder time than someone who has been doing it for years ( unsurprisingly . ) ☾ it also is dependent on your mental wellbeing and health . rage or strong anger is likely to cause an unintentional shift in someone compared to someone who is calm and collected . ☾ wolves in a weakened state also are more likely to turn as it is easier to heal their bodies in their wolf form anyways .

☾ pack dynamics are a thing : alpha , beta , and omega , and packs are very common within their realm. all ranks can be male or female .

☾ alphas : there can be more than one alpha in a pack but there is only one lead alpha . they usually have at least one other alpha in the pack but within family packs there are sometimes up to half a dozen . — leaders and commanders are the two subcategories of an alpha . — an alpha’s wolf tends to be the largest of them all . their eyes are either red ( marking a packless wolf ) or silver ( marking a pack alpha ) when in their wolf form . — are physically stronger and built more muscular than betas .

☾ betas : while it’s ultimately the alpha’s job to protect the pack , betas are somewhat the soldiers of the group and make up the majority of packs . — enforcers and mediators are the two subcategories of a beta . — betas depending on their ranking are usually in between sizes of an alpha and omega . their eyes are blue whether packless or not in their wolf form . — leaner than an alpha . their bodies are built more for speed and agility .

☾ omegas : usually the mother hens of the group , omegas are often mistaken to be the weakest members of the pack and underestimated . — the peacemakers and healers are the two subcategories of an omega . — assumed to be much smaller than alphas or betas , omegas actually are about the same size of a beta . their eyes are either yellow-green ( when packless ) or gold ( when a part of a pack ) in their wolf form . — also on the leaner side . coats tend to be a little more fuller than an alpha or beta’s though which make them look bigger than they are.

☾ their wolf forms are just oversized wolves . they’re taller than the average wolf , usually around three to three and a half feet tall but no more than about six feet long .

☾ things like dyed hair do not affect their fur color. ☾ their eye color changes in wolf form , and a giveaway to someone being a werewolf while in human form is the slight ring of the color of their eyes in wolf form that is around their pupil . ☾ their eyes will flash between colors if feeling threatened or challenged . ☾ males tend to be bigger than females .

☾ as wolves , they have heightened senses , supernatural speed and reflexes , and accelerated healing abilities .

☾ while all of these traits follow over into their human forms , they aren’t as heightened as when in wolf form . ☾ when it comes to healing , minor cuts , scratches , and bruises usually disappear after an hour or two . deeper cuts take two - three days depending , broken bones as long as they aren’t open fractures take one - two weeks depending on severity . ☾ things like tattoos and piercings do not grow in or fade for unknown reasons . ☾ their temperatures run higher than the average human , usually between 100 - 104 F . this makes hospital visits complicated as it’s assumed they are running a low grade fever .

☾ they do not change into half-wolf half-human beings , but their canines and claws can elongate in human form if angered or agitated enough . no fur or ears though .

☾ silver and wolfsbane are not deadly but react more like an allergic reaction .

☾ silver often will leave the skin it touches red and inflamed , if worn for extended periods of time it can cause minor burns . ☾ wolfsbane when ingested will cause a severe allergic reaction . common symptoms can include : chest tightening and difficulty breathing , rash / hives , watery eyes , swollen lips / eyes / tongue / face , vomiting , and in serious cases collapsing .

☾ while they don’t live longer than the average human , they physically age slower than humans .

☾ everybody has their own distinct scent .

☾ visible scent glands may have been in their ancestors but have since darwined themselves out . while a wolf gives of a specific scent in general , the strongest areas you will smell them will be : the neck and wrists . ☾ scenting is common in packs , as it shows a sense of camaraderie and belonging amongst them . scents of non-pack members tend to be off-putting to some. ☾ scenting is often seen as intimate and is usually reserved for mates , family members , and pack members . ☾ if a pack is inducting a new member , scenting is usually forbidden until the lead alpha has openly scented the person . ☾ a person’s scent can give away a member’s emotions , mainly : contentment , fear , anger , distress and sadness . ☾ a person can also manipulate their scent in order to calm another person down .

☾ like their animal counterparts , werewolves mate for life .

☾ wolves are able to find their mates once they turn eighteen. ☾ while you may be able to find your mate before eighteen , you aren’t able to define that feeling until after their birthday . mating with a childhood friend isn’t uncommon if you’ve stayed close until then . ☾ the rejection of a mate is not a deathwish , and while you can move on , the connection will never “ feel right “ and it isn’t uncommon for the rejected mate to never have a long-lasting relationship .

☾ some wolves may come off as what is called “ feral “ amongst groups.

☾ this essentially is summed up as a member who has a closer connection to the wolf side of them . ☾ “ feral “ members are often more territorial , less open to new pack members , and have a bit more trouble controlling their emotions . ☾ they are better in tune with their animalistic instincts , especially their sense of smell and reflexes . ☾ feral members tend to be more comfortable in their wolf forms . ☾ there can be entire packs of feral wolves , usually more traditional packs .

☾ the closer to the full moon the more instincts come out for them . usually it’s the week leading up to the full moon that this happens .

☾ the closer to the full moon , the more they feel the connection to their wolves . ☾ for feral members , this time is normally when they’re in the best mood possible because they aren’t having to tamper down these feelings . ☾ during the week up until the full moon they typically have a heighten sex drive , a pull to spend more time and be closer to their pack , and aggression towards other werewolves who are not a part of their pack . ☾ there is usually an underlying itch to revert to their wolf counterpart during this time as well .

☾ wolves can often be very possessive of whoever they are currently seeing and / or mates and are often very connected to them .

☾ while more mature and older wolves can reel in their need to mark their significant others , the younger ones often mark each other with hickeys and even sometimes bite marks . ☾ pack members who are in a relationship or mated tend to smell more like each other than anybody else . ☾ there are two different types of bite : a mating bite is done with elongated canines and results in a permanent scar . a mating bite’s scar when healed is two crescent shaped marks that are the width of the space between one’s canines . a marking bite is a bite that is done without the canines and just looks like someone bit you . . . which they did . ☾ marking / mating bites are usually done on the shoulder or juncture of neck and shoulder . ☾ those in a relationship or mated tend to be more in tune with the other . they naturally gravitate towards each other in social situations and can tell when if something is wrong , and are better at knowing where their significant other is . ( ie : you can tell which room where the other is without seeing them or previously knowing they were there or can tell they’re home before anybody else hears a knock on the door or the door opening . )

☾ younger wolves are typically called pups amongst their packs and it’s a common term of endearment .

☾ while there can be small packs within a city , usually there are larger packs who look over the others ???? it’s not exactly a monarchy because you can have two - three main pack families but they all run specific areas .

☾ hunters ? is that a thing ? maybe . idk , i haven’t decided . but it sounds fun .

#❝ ooc » lore specifics ❞#❝ ooc » werewolf lore ❞

6 notes · View notes

notthatiwilleverwriteit · 5 years ago

Text

I want to make one thing absolutely clear before getting any further into this: I am not in any way or form saying you are not allowed to ship whatever you want. I am not here to call you Toxic™ or Problematic™. In fact, I get hives when people guilt-trip others because of their fictional ships and make them feel like there’s something wrong with their head. I have many dark ships myself and know how the bashing feels so I would never do something like that to others.

For a long time, I didn’t actually have a real NOTP, and this one was mainly born out of the fans’ reaction to She Li and his recently revealed backstory rather than the ship itself. To me, it seemed like some people took the “easiest” way with SL and MGS’s relationship and jumped straight to romantic love. When, in fact, I find their past and relationship much more complicated.

I liked what OldXian had to say about the matter, actually. Thank you @nira18 for going through the trouble of posting and translating OX’s comments for us. (I’m going to borrow them for a while 🙏) But before that, a few words about what I’ve learned about interpreting during my years as a literature major.

Usually, I have mixed feelings about authors “explaining” their stories because fan-readers often use them to attack other fans’ interpretations that differ from their own and make them less valid. There are actually three major players and powers when it comes to interpreting: the author, the text itself, and the reader. You can study texts from any of those major perspectives, but you’d be surprised how little the author’s intentions weight when reading and interpreting. In fact, scholars and students of literature are very rarely interested in them at all.

What many fan-readers don’t perhaps realize is that interpreting isn’t supposed to be some kind list of correct and incorrect that you should check with someone to see if you “got it right”. As long as you can argue your point by using the text, your interpretation is valid. Which is actually an interesting issue since so much of the fandom culture stems from the fans’ almost rebel-like ways of reading characters and stories. For example, one reason why fans write fanfiction is to fulfill their own interpretations the author hadn’t explored. Actually, fan-reading revolves around the age-old question of literature: to whom does the power of interpreting belong after a text has been published, the author or the writer? So, why are we somewhat hypocritical when it comes to fan-interpretations that differ from our own?

All that being said, I’d still like to take a look at OX’s comments. But I don’t wish to use them as weapons, though. I’ve been saddened by how people seemed to almost rub them in the shippers’ faces.

“Two people can’t just stand in one place together and fall in love! [Laughing crying] There are many kinds of feelings in the world, family affections, friendship affections, romantic affections, hatred, jealousy, etc. I personally believe that the often interesting relationships (?), are complicated and unexplainable.” X

As I said earlier, when SL’s backstory and his first connection with MGS were revealed, some fans jumped straight to the romance wagon and saw SL being so hung up on MGS as romantic jealousy. I see where the shippers are coming from but find that a whole plethora of feelings that would fit between hate and romantic love is in danger to be bypassed. As OX said, there are many kinds of feelings in the world, and many of them are nuanced even though they share some common denominator. I am not saying people can’t see SL and MGS romantically, but it’s a bit frustrating if they choose to ignore all of other, more complex options. Just because 19 Days is a shounen-ai doesn’t mean there can’t be any other kinds of relationships.

Partly, my frustration stems from my “protectiveness” of SL’s character. It’s no secret I’m very interested in and intrigued by him. I realize he’s the bad guy of the story and fully understand why the majority of the fans hate him with a burning passion. But I can’t bring myself to dislike him. He’s in the long line of antagonists who have found their way into my heart.

I find SL’s character highly complex which is why I don’t want to brush his feelings towards MGS and role in the overall story off as romantic love. It feels way too hasty. To go to such extreme as “love” is too easy and cuts too many corners.

What I think SL and MGS’s relationship could be boiled down to instead is “misery loves company”. SL had once managed to pull MGS down with him and intends to keep him there. Because if MGS gets freed from SL’s world, it would quite painfully point out how messed up SL’s life is, too. Which brings me back to OX’s point about nuanced feelings. To see others you thought shared your misery actually try and climb out of the pit, is its own form of jealousy. When I see SL being so hung up on MGS, I don’t see romantic jealousy but something more complex.

I like what @casually-inlove said about the different roles of SL and HT in her answer. HT is a savior of sorts in MGS’s life, someone who believes in him and strives to make him “an outstanding person” aka not ruin his life by becoming a part of the criminal gangs and underworld for good. The opposite of what SL ultimately wants to.

And the change in MGS must have been apparent enough for SL to take notice. Since MGS has gained more people who actually see good things in him and even admire him, it’s given him more self-esteem and confidence and started to convince him he’s not an outcast good-for-nothing delinquent. He’s been looked down by his peers since his childhood and after a while, he’s started to believe in that image, too.

Hope is a very strong motivation in life, and SL seems to despise the idea of MGS having any of it. It’s the light at the end of the tunnel that would ultimately lead MGS out the world he’s shared with SL.

Up until HT got involved, SL had managed to snuff out MGS’s hope quite effectively. He’s manipulated him by using the carrot by talking about “destiny” and seemingly giving MGS what he knows he’s desperate for:

But he also wasn’t hesitant to use the stick when he needed to remind MGS of his place. There’s a lot to be said about using gratitude as a way to manipulate others but it’s very effective and something SL seems to go for a lot:

I don’t know if SL actually believes MGS owes him for the rest of his life and sees himself as some kind of grand savior. It’s possible, I suppose, and would somewhat explain why he’s trying so stubbornly to hold on to MGS even though he obviously has quite a lot of followers already. SL seems to have a compulsive need to control and possess other people and sees MGS trying to leave his side as a betrayal. No one is allowed to think their debts have been repaid until he says so. Now, why is it like that is the million-dollar question. Why is he so desperate to shackle people to himself like that? Is it simply about power or something deeper?

We don’t know exactly how SL saved MGS either, but ultimately I think it’s about giving MGS a place to belong when others discriminated against him. He took advantage of MGS’s growing bitterness and strengthened his poor image of himself by creating a vicious cycle of being involved in gangs and further more estranging him from his peers. As I said in my earlier post regarding MGS’s character, there’s no faster way to turn someone into an outcast than by making them bitter and pushing them to join like-minded people.

However, it’s also possible it didn’t begin that way. It’s unclear to us how long MGS and SL have known each other. Their first encounter was revealed in ch 294, but it seemed one-sided. How soon after this

did MGS and LS meet again? Did SL recognize MGS? Were they actual friends at some point, and it all went to hell later on? Did they perhaps bond over both being seen as weirdos and outcasts by others? (As a side note, I’d like to recommend this piece of fanart by @naesol that I think offers an interesting possibility of how things might’ve gone down between them.)

At this point, you might rightly wonder how on earth I could like a character like that. A despicable manipulator who exploits others’ weakness and wants to drag them down with him. It’s actually partly why I don’t see a romantic connection between MGS and SL.

As crazy as it sounds, I relate to some of SL’s character. Up to a point, I see my own shortcomings in him. When I see him being jealous of MGS trying to turn his life around, ultimately leaving him behind and feeling betrayed by it, I 100% recognize that feeling because I’m prone to it myself. In those situations, I don’t go wielding pocket knives or try to manipulate them out if it, of course, but I can’t bring myself to genuinely root for them, either. Instead, I tend to feel jealous, envious, and bitter. When I see others fix the things in themselves that I hate about myself, I silently wish them to fail because if they can do it, what’s my excuse for not doing the same? I’m not proud of this side of myself but it is the truth.

And that’s why I think it’s dangerous to bash other people for what they ship or what characters they like. You can’t possibly know the reason why and can make them feel really shitty about themselves by assuming they just don’t know right from wrong or want to romanticize problematic things. The thing about fiction is that it provides us a safe environment to experience and discover different feelings, some of which can be weird or scary or conflicting, and possibly recognize those feelings in ourselves and work on them. And people should be allowed to do that without being bashed or made assumptions about by others.

All in all, because I relate to what I interpret SL is feeling I don’t recognize the romantic aspect some readers find between them. I think it’s more based on fanon than actual canon, but that doesn’t mean I have the right to tell anyone what to ship.

30 day 19 Days challenge

#30 day 19 days challenge #she li #mo guan shan #19 days #kinda long post again #but this has been on my mind for a while now #and what sometimes bothers me about this fandom

240 notes · View notes

heuristicallyinclined · 5 years ago

Text

MallekWeek2020 Day 4 Writing Prompt

Chapter 4: Day 4: Mallek working through his feeling for someone Summary: MSPA Reader wants to ask Mallek a question.

Notes: Good luck predicting this chat.

They had come over a few nights after visiting Galekh to hang out with you. Normally you two just chatted, enjoyed the silence, or played video games. Things were pretty chill tonight with the two of you hanging out on the couch and them catching you up on their very active social life and you with your coding progress. You knew they didn't understand all of what you were talking about, but they still were making an effort and were listening very attentively. It was pretty nice of them and you enjoyed just being able to talk to someone about it.

You had just finished updating them on your work when you noticed they looked a bit hesitant to speak, now not meeting your eyes and preferring to look off to the side. They clearly had something to say and the pause in the conversation was growing uncomfortable.

"what = up;" you kept your tone easy, trying not to look concerned. You knew they were pretty sympathetic and you didn't want them to feed off of your worry if something was already bothering them.

"Nothing! I just wanted to thank you again for showing up at Galekh's place like that. I know you're a busy guy so that was really cool of you." They smiled, but they were still stiff, this was clearly not all they wanted to say and you wanted to know what it was..

"like i said; its != a big deal; i had some free time;" You definitely made some free time for them when they called. Like they weren't too far, but you did drop everything you were doing for them. I mean you were friends. Friends do that.

They waited a bit before continuing on, "And I really appreciate it. You being fine with that and all of the other stuff. You've just been pretty easygoing about a lot of things in general and I know I say dumb shit all the time because of me being an alien and not getting Alternian stuff. Also just who I am as a person." They chuckled a little at the end and were getting a bit more anxious, they were starting to play with their hair.

You turned towards them on the couch. You wanted to put them at ease but also really wanted to see where this was going, if you could. "i like who you are as a person;" you teased.

They seemed a bit reassured by this and they gave you the smallest smile. “Thanks. And I'm kinda hoping you still will if I ask you something? I mean, can I ask you something?" their voice was getting higher at the end and they were finally looking at you again, looking sheepish, but hopeful.

Oh.

OH.

They noticed you were flushed for them? You mean you did slip up and call them cute while they were soaked. And said you would do anything for them during a video call that another person fucking heard. Also, you met them and immediately gave them your sign? Okay, maybe that last was a bit too obvious.

You were being pretty clear, but you thought they were shy or this just wasn’t translating for them. It would be dumb to hold aliens to Alternian romance and didn’t know if they had anything similar, not that you would ever ask. You even wondered if they were trying to be polite about it since you two were friends, but it’s pretty clear when they’re uncomfortable. You weren't expecting this tonight or for them to just come out with it like this. Guess they were just full of surprises.

"sure robobud; you know you can ask me anything;" you leaned towards them now, looking down at them softly. They looked up at you and while still tense, they seemed to calm down.

"That's good, okay so," they took a deep breath and looked up at you now more determinedly. Your attention was solely on them now, you wanted to hear what they wanted to say.

"What did I say to Galekh that made him so uncomfortable?"

What.

"what;"

So that did not go where you thought it was going. But they were pushing through, speaking rapidly before they lost their nerve.

"Like how when you were tattooing him I said he was crossing something off of the bucket list and he just full body cringed. And then you calmed him down by saying something I didn't understand. So that meant something very different to you two than it did to me and I want to know what so I don't say something dumb like that again to someone." They were looking at you a bit more optimistically now but that didn't stop them from adding," again, only if you're okay with it."

Well, you did say anything.

You didn't know that giving a bluebood a tattoo was going to result in the most uncomfortable conversation of your life with another person. The fact that this person was an alien who you were flushed for wasn't helping. They just didn't have the same cultural background meaning that you would have to go deeper into this than you would otherwise have to, not that you would ever even need to explain this to another troll. But still, you were their friend and it's probably better for them to be unaware and ask you these questions rather than someone who would just kick their ass.

You guess it took you a bit to process that with how they were looking at you. "Are you okay with it? You seem to be having a hard time."

"yeah; sure; i = good;"

"You were quiet for a little bit."

"i != was expecting you to say that;"

"Yeah, I could tell." They paused and perked up a bit, "wait, what did you think I was going to say then?"

"i != know; != that;" You weren't looking forward to getting into it, but they somehow managed to find the only topic of conversation that you wanted to talk about less than that. You consider for a moment, before just deciding to be direct with them.

"i mean you basically said he had a bucket list;"

They looked at you inquisitively. "Doesn't everyone?"

You just took a moment to take in the casual way that they just asked that. Either they were into some shit or this meant something wildly different for humans. You try again, hoping for the latter.

"what does that phrase mean to you;"

"A list of things you want to do before you die."

You took in a deep breath, pressing your palms together, and stared, "define things;"

"Like big life goals? Like learning how to play an instrument, or how to speak a new language, maybe running a marathon or climbing a mountain. Maybe traveling or getting a tattoo. Things that are kind of experiences that are aspirational."

Oh okay then.

"i get it; but why say it like that;"

"It’s for before you kick the bucket."

What the fuck.

They saw your look and said, "It is a metaphor. It means to die. Like I'm not one hundred percent sure where it came from but yeah. It sounds weird to actually dissect it."

"i mean; you could get culled if you did that here;"

At this they were confused, "why would that even matter?"

"The drones != like that;"

"Why would the drones even care?"

It was at this point you realized that there was a much deeper lack of understanding than you had previously anticipated. Like you weren't expecting much, but this was still a lot. So you just kinda jumped into it and tried to explain the whole thing with drones and quads as best you could without turning cerulean. Luckily they had already seemed to have a pretty decent understanding of quads because of their other friends’ personal lives and knew a lot about the brooding caverns from one of their jade friends. It was more they never picked up on the connection between the two.

Not that it mattered much since once they understood the implications of what they said, they were turning bright red, clearly embarrassed.

"I turned it into a sex thing. Oh poor Galekh." They covered their face with their hands and groaned. "I can't believe I turned it into a sex thing. Fuck, if you didn't play it off, I wouldn't be surprised if he just kicked me out of his hive then." You didn't tell them that that was probably the best case scenario since they were already mortified and things turned out okay for them anyways.

Trying to comfort them, you reply “i != worry about it too much; quad shit can get complicated for trolls; he would have gotten worked up about it somehow anyways; so it must be especially wild for an alien;”

“It was mostly just the introduction to them that was wild. The first time someone was trying to explain quadrants to me, it wasn't really an explanation of them so much as it was this indigo guy trying to convince me to be his matesprit since it would come with benefits, or anything else he could get. Yeah, so that was uh,” they mull over their next word carefully, “something."

"yeah; that = skeevy as fuck dude;"

“But otherwise it’s mostly that there are more kinds here that focus on different parts of a relationship. Like auspitism I am still a bit fuzzy on, I get kismesitude now, I have a moirail, and matespritship is basically analogous to what romance for humans is.”

That last little bit of information caught your attention immediately. So they did have something equivalent. That was promising at least, the fact that it was even a possibility. There were no chances of anything happening tonight though, not with the turns that conversation took. You still had mental whiplash from that.

It wasn’t hard for the two of you to slip back into the casual chatting that you had been doing before. It was just easy to talk to them. They started telling you some of the wilder antics that had been keeping them busy and some of it was hilarious. They had you laughing throughout and maybe you were imagining things, but you started to notice the way they would glance at you, how they smiled at you a little longer when you laughed, how it reached their eyes.

You were starting to feel a little bit better about your chances.

Notes: Getting some lighter chapters after angstier ones is self-care.

#mallekweek2020 #mallekweek #mallek adalov #hiveswap #homestuck #my writing

31 notes · View notes

skips-is-asleep · 5 years ago

Text

Steph Talks For Way Too Long About Sollux’s Harry Potter House

I havent been able to stop thinking or talking about this topic for like 60+ hours

first wanna say that it’s really hard to interpret how people are sorted because JK Rowling is apparently shitty at writing. So people seem to have wildly different opinions on why people are in the houses they’re in because they view the houses and their qualifications differently.

I’ve also never read a harry potter book and havent watched a movie for like 5+ years maybe so i had to talk to like 3-4 people who went though huge harry potter phases and we talked for over 3 hours cumulatively for me to make up my mind.

I think it’s really important to say that because Sollux isn’t really a main character, there’s a lot we have to make guesses on. Hussie didn’t make a big sheet full of Sollux’s Dreams and Ambitions, Morals and Beliefs, so we have to fill in a lot of blanks on what we think those are based on a few things. Who he talks to, and associates himself with and what he does

The point being we don’t have a lot to work with.

It’s also pretty important to say that Sollux puts on a LOT of fronts and facades. He’s only truly mean and cruel to people he doesn’t like or care about Plus Karkat. He plays Fake Mean a lot, and if you dig even a centimeter under it, we see time and time again that he’s just pretending and does actually give many shits.

Sollux is also really passive in most things that he does. He doesn’t really question anyone’s authority or make a point to fight something out very often. The only time we ever see him resort to action to solve his problems are when dealing with Eridan. And even then, the first time we ever see them talk, it’s Eridan walking up to him and Feferi privately having a conversation and Sollux telling his gf to “make him go away.” And then after Eridan doesn’t go away, we see him resort to fighting. His PQ arc also has him antagonize Eridan and then drop a building on him, so like, yeah. Usually, when presented with conflict, Sollux either removes himself from the situation quickly, or if he’s unable to do so, makes it extremely clear that he doesn’t want to engage. In most cases, Sollux is by himself, sitting alone and not making attempts to talk to anyone else. It’s totally possible that he’s more social at other times and we only see him when he’s at his worst, but we dont see that so we can’t really speculate much on it. Point being, he’s very passive and self contained/oriented.

What i really want to put emphasis on is the people he associates with. His main friends we see him talk to willingly or at least show fondness for are Aradia, Feferi, Kanaya, Terezi, and Karkat. Three of these are considered main characters, or are at least given character arcs to some extent. These are the good guys. The guys who at least try to do good, and show compassion, and care about others. The characters we see him either avoid quietly, avoid loudly or vocally hate and commit violence against are the rest of the characters. Namely Vriska, Gamzee and Eridan. (im kinda gonna gloss over Vriska because his distaste/hatred/unpleasantness towards her doesn’t have to be a moral statement on his part. It’s pretty easy to assume that anyone with his past to her would have a similar if not identical stand point) These are characters that actively do bad things, they murder and harm others at worst and are gross nasty incels at best. And even the best case in that scenario is still blabberingly racist and, treats sollux and the people he cares about like shit. Sollux doesn’t associate with people that the comic have established are villains, or at least do things that are pretty unambiguously wrong or evil.

In Sollux’s pesterquest, Kanaya tells MSPA reader than when The Thing with Aradia first happened, Sollux refused contact with Kanaya because she didn’t cut off Vriska. He was upset at her for being associated with someone who traumatized him. This is very telling of sollux’s personality and his relationship with his friends, and it’s a side we don’t see of Sollux any other time in the comic or in his PQ arc. It’s only when she tells him that she doesn’t cut Vriska off due to romantic feelings for her does Sollux change his mind. He doesn’t bring up Vriska, Aradia, his grief or his trauma at any point while at his visit with her that we see. He doesn’t appear mad or reluctant to be there, he makes jokes, smiles, and reminisces memories with her fondly, even almost sleeps over at her place for the day. It’s like he’s completely forgotten about being upset at her at all, or is at least choosing not to bring it up out of respect for her.

Again, it’s unclear how much time has passed. But when you start his arc, the reason youre talking to him is because he’s been reclusive out of grief. He hasn’t been talking to people lately and his friends are worried about him. So clearly enough time has passed for him to be okay with seeing Kanaya, as that’s his sole purpose for leaving his hive that day at all, but not enough time for him to be fully recovered.

This moment in his arc showcases his loyalty that he has for Kanaya, and possibly his other friends. He seemed quick to forgive her, or at least bury whatever resentment he may have been harboring. One may say that his cold shoulder to Kanaya would be indicative of a lack of a loyalty trait at all, that if he were loyal to her, he wouldn’t be ready to possible end his relationship with her over this. But i kind of view it as a sort of bluff? Like Kanaya essentially told him that his trauma did not at all change the way she feels about her, Kanaya still has a crush on Vriska after hearing about what she did to one of her good friends. To some, this may have been a slap to the face, an entire dismissal of his trauma in it’s entirety. But instead, he sees it as a valid reason for not cutting her off, he shrugs it off. I feel like if he were serious about not wanting to be friends with Kanaya while she was talking to someone who hurt him greatly, her crush wouldn’t have been an excuse.

I also wanna touch on his loyalty to Aradia very quickly because you dont need me to tell you that he cares about her. Once again for like the third time, we have to make guesses on how much time has passed between events. From the time Aradia dies on Alternia, becomes a ghost with an entirely new personality, a robot with another personality, and then finally her alive Godtier self, Sollux’s feelings for her are very consistent. He seems to not really care for the ghost or robot versions of her, he even sits a chair away from her during Openbound on the meteor, and doesn’t talk to her much, is very cold towards her, and even tells her that she’s incapable of feeling when she tries to tell him goodbye when she explodes (it’s also worth noting he cries after this, which i think is the first and only time we see him do this). When Aradia comes back to the meteor, alive and herself again, Sollux immediately leaves the rest of his friends to go hang out with her. Even with Karkat begging him to stay, he just peaces out, without even really thinking about it. We have to assume that if it’s not written in the dialogue, it isn’t being said. So he doesn’t discuss wanting to leave with Aradia or with anyone else. He just decides he’s leaving, and then does. And he stays by her side for almost the rest of the time we see him. He ditches later for other reasons, but don’t worry, they’re back together by the time Collide is happening.

Point being, for the most part, he sticks by his friends unless they’re doing something he disagrees with morally. If he’s not down for what’s happening, he’s not down for sticking around. He even seems to be better friends with Nepeta now that this version of her isn’t really hanging out with Equius that much, someone Sollux would no doubt not get along with for many reasons.

Some of my friends pointed out that him sticking by his morals so strongly is something a Slytherin would do, coupled with the fact that he’s kind of a dick or something idk that much about Slytherins. But I think Huffliepuff is very much about comradery. We can tell a lot about Sollux based on who he surrounds himself with and what he does and doesn’t participate in. He doesn’t participate in trolling humans, he doesn’t participate in helping Vriska do something he doesn’t feel good about doing, he doesn’t participate in any of the relationship melodrama happening around him. But he helps his friends. He helps Kanaya open the viewfinder to see and talk to Rose, he helps Kanaya do little errands in his PQ route, he helps Terezi find out who Dave is, and he sacrifices himself to save the remainder of his group (which btw only contains the people I’ve previously stated he associates with minus feferi not that that means anything i just thought it was kind of fun to point out). I mean, he got better but its the thought that counts.

Someone could make a point that “If Sollux is so loyal, why didn’t he mourn Feferi even a little bit when he found out she was dead?” And yeah, that’s a good point to bring up, and i don’t really have anything to say about it other than….maybe he knew by this point that death doesn’t really mean anything? Maybe his euphoria of finally being lifting of the voices was happening at the same time? And also that he predicted he’d go blind like a million pages ago and now he can finally stop worrying about it? Is he happy that he’s talking to Terezi and right now that’s more important? It’s hard to tell. Sollux doesn’t really explain himself apart from “missing being her matesprite” when in Erisolsprite form talking to Fefetasprite form. It’s hard to tell what their relationship was at the time, or what his feelings truly were immediately afterward. I kinda think it was the foremost of those explanations, he probably knew that she’d come back as a ghost, or something?

Anyway, those are all the reasons i can think of at the moment for why I think Sollux would be Hufflepuff. A lot of his personality revolves around his friends, who he considers friends and who he doesn’t consider friends. Send me asks, message me, and do that shit if you wanna talk more, but i probably won’t have a whole lot to say lmao. Or ill just restate a lot of what i said here.

Props for getting this far. For the record, if Sollux for some reason was unable to be in Hufflepuff, I’d probably put him 50/50 Ravenclaw or Slytherin. I really don’t think he’s a Gryfindor because as I understand it, that house is very much about being courageous, and standing up for yourself and i went off for way to long about how he’s a little weenie man who does nothing mostly.

#its 3 am #sollux captor #homestuck #headcanons

4 notes · View notes

crqstalite · 5 years ago

Text

pt. 1, crossfire (vector && rubiksi)

this one didn’t go as well as it should because originally i was going to write it as a 10k word chapter for all nine months, but i didn’t happen so i guess we’re gonna wait again for the writing fairy to whack me over the head again.

anyways psa i love mr bug man and you should too.

written: 9.20.19. word count: 2,419.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════ character song: crossfire, stephen.

character file: khelan hyllus & vector hyllus.

1 month.

rubi-no, khelan now, isn't sure what to think anymore, as she stares out the window of her apartment. all she wants to do is lie down and cry, and she's not sure what's causing it anymore. after all these years, all her tears should be dried up now. they should be, but for some reason it seems like every day a new situation arises, and she isn't emotionally ready to deal with it. picking up the holophoto on her night stand, she tries not to cry as she analyzes the photo taken on their wedding day. the way she'd faked a smile in a white dress and vector in a diplomatic uniform until she could return to the phantom to be alone for a while with her emotions. it should've been a happy day.

but it wasn't. why couldn't she just be happy for once? and stop thinking about marring the skin beneath her sweater sleeves, about finally leaving this world for good? possibly it's because of the pale lines that still dot her wrists, and the fact that the ring on her finger feels heavy with pity everytime she slips it on.

"khelan?" a voice startles her from her thoughts as she places it back gently next to the chrono, where it always sits.

"yes, vector?" she asks, turning from the window as the joiner enters the bedroom. he's dressed down today, and he smells of sweets. the man had taken up baking since they'd moved in together, saying something about finally being able to please her properly with his cooking. it's delectable, as is to be expected. (he spent months learning from two-vee in secret before presenting her with an exquisite cake for her birthday. possibly the hive has been giving him recipes, and though she knows they can't read minds, he always seems to know what she has a taste for) "is there something wrong?"

"you didn't come to eat dinner." he responds, curiously cocking his head, as a child would. his dark hair plays peek-a-boo with his pupiless eyes, and she offers him a smile as he brushes it out of his vision, coming to stand next to her by the floor-length window, the cool sky reflecting onto his pale skin, "we were worried."

"i'm just fine, vector. do not worry yourself with the likes of me." she responds, inhaling his scent as he moves to put his arms around her. there's a significant between the joiner and prior agent, but she feels safe as she buries her head in his chest. safety isn't ever guranteed for her, and she's glad that she took the leap of faith to finally say yes to him. he was never persistent, he gave her the space she needed to recuperate from the life she'd once lived. he leans his head against the top of hers, and she closes her eyes to relax for just a moment. he smells of the rain, but also of the forest and a sharp smell of something spicy she just can not name. she wouldn't trade her husband for the world. "i will come to eat in a bit."

"if you are not hungry, we can put away the food for another time, ru..khelan." he corrects himself as she frowns, pulling her hair back into a low ponytail at the base of her neck. he's not used to her new alias either, and it's as if he can sense it bothers her. her aura must be out of whack again as a questioning look covers his features (she'd never understand how vector saw her, though he'd tried to explain it a few times with little success). "we are sorry if we've troubled you. which do you prefer?"

she considers for a moment before following him out of their bedroom. "i wish i did not have a name at times like these, vector. it makes everything so much more difficult. i don't even have my own identity that wasn't cultivated by intelligence."

he simply listens as she walks into the kitchen, pacing back and forth as the thoughts fly through her mind at breakneck speed. she's never been more grateful for him as she thinks to herself, and he simply continues to prepare dinner alongside her. it isn't until they've sat down across from each other that she responds to his question, "the ensign once told me on my official records, my name is ana'la. would you like to call me that, vector?"

"we would be happy to call you whatever you prefer, ana'la. names are not everything." he says, picking up his own cutlery as he tries to comfort her, "all that matters, is that we love each other."

she seems surprised for just a moment before looking down at her own plate with a certain satisfaction in her eyes. "thank you, vector."

"we are happy to be with you, ana'la." he responds, though instead of indirectly looking at her (as he typically does), he finds that her aura is rather odd. it's color remains the same, an indistinct grey tinged with red and pink, as it typically is when they spend time together, but something is making it white. he won't prod into how she's feeling at the moment, but he is curious. what has his wife feeling such a way?

month 3.

khelen didn't tend to ever eat much as it was, but this was getting a bit ridiculous, even for her. the odd way how she couldn't ever hold anything down, even her most favorite delicacies from vector. water was the only thing that would stay down, and she was beginning to have an aversion to even the most pleasant smells.

she was concerned she was going mad. maybe the workaholic lifestyle and done something unspeakable to her, and now she was feeling the after effects? she tried to keep a myriad of other other fragrances about the apartment to keep the feeling of retching out of her mind. it proved difficult, and she eventually threw quite a few away after realizing that vector's enhanced senses were most likely going absolutely bonkers with the strong smells. it seemed the smell of the constant kaasian rain was the only thing that would soothe her, and so that lead to the couple's apartment windows being open a portion of the time.

to say the least, it was still annoying to be so absolutely sick that she didn't want to continue getting out of bed half the time. she was considering holoing lokin at this point, and she rarely if ever contacted her old crew, vector excepted. kaliyo was somewhere in the underbellies of dromound kaas after she dropped out of contact, temple returned to serving the ascendancy and the empire, SCORPIO could be doing something highly illegal, and lokin was always going back and forth between morally questionable medical conferences. she always kept tabs on them, even if it didn't benefit her directly. she still cared about their well-being, even if they didn't.

but being bed-ridden didn't fancy her. at all. the nightmares plagued her, being controlled by watcher x again and again, by the sis. keeping busy, even working on the side for intelligence is what kept her mostly sane. her obvious health issues kept her out of the field for a long while, but once this spell passed, she'd try and begin working in diplomatic services with vector. maybe they wouldn't see each other as much anymore, but it was better than being home alone.

wrapped up in one of vector's jackets, she usually sleeps or reads until he returns home. her current holonovel was just wrapping up, so she'd have to go and buy another soon. with nothing better to do, she might as well train her mind in puzzles and literature while in this state. she'd been slacking lately, and there was no way intelligence would take her back without the required skills.

the door opens just as she's sitting up from her perch on the bed, brushing her hair back as she tries to keep her meager breakfast down. vector must've been back early today. padding out the bedroom, she finds him just taking off his overcoat and hanging it on one of the nobs near the door. she offers him a smile, and he returns it. "you're back early, vector. is something wrong?"

"there is nothing wrong, ana'la." he responds softly, a kiss pressed to her forehead as he puts down his bad. "we were let go early today. we wished to see you again, we were concerned you were ill."

"i'll be fine, vector." she responds, trying to choke back the bile building up in her throat again as she covers her mouth with the sleeve of her shirt. "i've been sick before, and survived worse."

he doesn't respond, but frowns in disbelief. khelan would know this, after knowing him for so long. he often doesn't try to hide his facial features and the emotions tied to them, and she knows good and well he doesn't believe her. "i've been resting lately, if that makes you feel any better." she says, trying to comfort him. speaking isn't helping either, and the feverish feeling she gets before inevitably tossing her last meal is beginning to creep back into her system. "it's most likely just a harmless virus."

"your aura is...different." vector makes note, and she figures he isn't looking directly at her anymore. what does it typically look like? she'd never understood how her husband saw her through his lens, and she wondered if there was some sort of chart she could find somewhere on joiner's and their auras.

"i'm sure it is, doesn't sickness affect it as well?" khelan tilts her head just a bit, and brushes the hair out of her face as he seems to contemplate it, pacing into the kitchen. is he upset? sometimes he bakes when he's feeling upset (she wouldn't exactly complain, they were still very good, but it does concern her when he does). "vector, talk to me. is there something wrong?"

"your aura is, special. we are unsure of why." he says pointedly. "white represents that of purity, and childish natures. we don't believe you radiate much of either."

she decides not to comment here, as he most likely has more to say, "we don't wish to worry you or plant the seeds of doubt in your mind, ana'la."

"do you believe there is something wrong, vector? do you believe that's why i feel ill?" khelan still isn't catching onto what he's saying, or if he's trying to imply something to her. he continues to pace into the living room as she hurries to follow him before he pauses abruptly, "whatever it is, i'm sure we can face it together." she whispers, though she isn't sure this is that's the best answer. what if she's dying? what if her life is ending, and there's nothing they can do to stop it?

he seems unsure of himself before finally turning fully to her, "we've only seen this aura a few times in our life. but, we believe you are with child, ana'la."

something stops functioning properly as she tries to soak in what he's admitting to assuming. child? as in, she'd be a mother in a few, short months should she allow it to continue? how? and when? they had always been careful, and rarely if ever made love to each other as it was. how did this happen? why?

could she be a mother? a functional one at least? visions of the fire blare through her mind, as her adoptive father yanked her older brother away and her older sister tried to protect her the best she could from the dangerous situation. would her child end up in such a situation, khelan unable to protect them from something lethal?

"this is all speculation, ana'la." he breaks her train of thought to tilt her head upwards from where she'd been staring at her hands. "it could be nothing, for all we know. do not panic yourself over the unknown."

it would explain the sudden onset of these horrid symptoms for the last two moments. the vomiting, the unexplainable aversion to her favorite foods. she'd heard about it a few times around the agents she'd met that were now off the field and happy with children, but had never expected it would happen to her. she and vector had never spoken at length about it, ever. it was just a subject that never fascinated her to any end, and so it didn't matter.

or she could be dying. that's a possibility too. one she'd rather not think about at that moment, though it itches at the back of her mind. "possibly you're right, vector."

"do you believe so?" he asks, his face still contorted into that of concern and confusion. "we would believe you would be the first to deny such a thing."

"it makes sense, to say the least." she responds, wringing her hands out as the thunder crashes over her words and thoughts, "this may not be our most ideal situation."

"maybe not." he answers, still seeming uneasy. "at least your child will still grow up here instead of a battleground. they will have a loving mother, and pick up your own admirable traits." she turns an eyebrow up as he continues on, "intelligent, clever, compassionate. beautiful. we have high hopes for your child, ana'la."

"i...yes. thank you vector." he seems satisfied with her answer, and presses a kiss to her forehead to reassure her, her cheeks heated as he makes the observation. still after all these years, he's still able to stun her with his way with words.

she pauses to think for just a moment, before responding with what was on her mind while he spoke, "it seems you forget i've never been with another man though. this is your child, as much as they are mine."

he smiles for once in the entire encounter, and surprises her by picking up around the waist. she holds back a shriek as he smiles, as her own legs latch around his waist to keep from falling. "we do not believe you understand how happy that makes us, ana'la."

"i can make some guesses." she responds, managing a grin for her husband as he kisses her softly in the light of fading day outside.

#swtor oc #swtor #star wars the old republic #star wars #vector hyllus #female imperial agent #female imperial agent/vector hyllus #heritage universe #swtor fanfiction #swtor fanfic #fanfic

12 notes · View notes

alternativewinxcontinuity · 5 years ago

Text

Don't mind me, just losing my mental sh*t

Has anyone else ever noticed it always seems to be the people who’ve never written/posted anything that leave the most unnecessary (and often meanest) comments?

Or the people who themselves write like they haven’t hit puberty yet but feel like they can comment like a professional editor by giving advice that is exactly the opposite of what they were just saying needs to be fixed?!

Not Winx Related, I just really needed to vent. I got a shit review on a non-Winx Story and as I bitch a little about that I'm finally taking the time to address a review I got on my GOT fic, which turned nasty that I want to pick apart, but not to his face because he is not the kind of reviewer who should be interacted with, so I'mma dump it here. (Rant un-beta'd.)

Like? You really want to leave a comment on chapter 2 of a part 30 chapter fic that you haven’t read saying shit like:

“I don’t see the point its basically a rewrite”

When, had you read even one chapter on, you would have begun to see the divergence that is about to slowly snowball out of control while the universe does its best to stay on track. (yes the 'its' typo is review accurate.)

Like buddy, I get it, you've never written anything in your life and you think this is okay to say to someone because, and this may surprise you: you're an asshole.

"The point" was that it was a fun idea, "the point" was that I was enjoying the crossover and figuring out how everything could go wrong by replacing a single major part, "the point" was many, many other people found it hilarious and so did I. Not "the point" but it was also a version of Harry Potter not written by a fcking TERF.

Or:

'This Character is just really out of character, you're doing a bad job of writing him.'

Okay *goes to check their fics to see how they wrote him to see if she can figure out where reviewer is coming from. they have no fics in the fandom.* 'hey reviewer, you say he's out of character, how would you go about fix him so he's more in character?'

'Oh well, he's just not very *season 1 characterisation despite the fact he's explicitly stated to be season 3 end of his character growth story arc*, you should have him do *a thing that is something he would never have done even in season 1*'

Or shit like (and this is a long one from 'Richard' who hid behind the Anon function):

"This is a great fic. It's surprisingly difficult for me to optimize the protagonist. So first,"

Like? excuse you? why would you need to optimize my character?

"I really hope Sansa chooses to mine the metric tonnes of valuable honey and wax from that beehive once she gets her inventory."

So I hate to admit that the honey and wax would be a good idea, and she will be getting a boon of that, but it will be because she'll be getting Bee Hives later, not because she'll think to strip mine a people in dire straights.

"Also, she has valyrian steel claws, which she now knows can dig into the rock very easily. Those crumbling ledges? She can dig new ones, she can dig a staircase. She can widen the entrance so that her soldiers come in to help mine the liquid gold. Especially since she appreciates the difference between currency and goods. Of course, maybe she'll establish diplomatic relations instead."

So I am going to look so fcking petty when I finally get the next chapter out, because I actually addressed this idea with reality. Trust me, I did some research, and while there's almost nothing easily found on how long it would take to do this sort of work by hand, what I found supported the idea that it's stupid. It takes (and I shit you not) literal days with a team of men using hand tools to carve through even a few metres of rock (the exact time depends on how hard the rock is and how large they make the opening/area).

Sansa would be literally clawing at the walls with her nails which, while yes they are Valyrian steel, are still attached to very human fingers and arms. and here's where my first hand knowledge kicks back in: I went on a mock archaeological dig when I was in high school, I spent several hours scrapping layers of compact sand to uncover artefacts, resistance levels aside, the repeated action is hell on your muscles, Sansa would spend as much time recovering as she would digging. to get all the way to the entrance would take her literal years with Richard's suggested method.

PLUS: the point of the adventures is for SANSA (and Arya) to have the spot light, to be forced to think and find ways to use the new Abilities they've been given, or to come up with new ones. It's part of my whole "Power is Earned, or it is Corrupted" mentality, if you don't work for it, you will sooner rather than later abuse it.

AND: of course she's going to use diplomatic solutions, she's Sansa, and that's what the clue of foreshadowing was saying! Literally everything you need to know to solve the Dungeons is in their individual clues!!!

"Secondly, medieval people already had long-lasting torches which burned for hours and hours instead of 5-10 minutes. Each torch looked like a pillar or stupidly elongated torch that was carried with the tip lit and burning down like a candle. They also didn't use candles as those were too expensive. They used rushes soaked in fat which could be made by the dozens to hundreds with a few hours' work. There's a youtube video on this subject entitled medieval misconceptions: torches and candles."

Oh. My. God. Such. Valuable. Information. If . Only. I had. Known. This. When. I wrote. about. reed candles. in this. very fic.

Literally of the four times I used the word candle, twice it was explicitly 'reed candles' (and guess what other name rushes go by?) and once it was a metaphor specifically about the smoke and not the candle.

As for the pillar candles, the ones that burn for hours are too heavy for someone of Sansa's size and arm strength and the hour candles, (if you've ever seen Avatar Last Airbender, the candles they used in the Secret Tunnel) are unwieldy and aren't so good for putting down in a way that doesn't risk them going out. (Putting them far enough into a wall sconce that it won't topple back out makes it very tricky to remove it.)

Which, why even bother with torches that are more effort to obtain when Sansa's powers make the 'advantage' obsolete anyway!? Not to mention: Displayed Content! If a show uses something even in the background, it exists in that world. Wax candles aren't that rare. (Also side note, because I do my fcking research: the majority of hives which supply the honey and wax to Westeros are owned by the Maesters of old town.)

"I don't really care about those things though. The latter is a mistake literally everyone makes and I didn't know was a mistake until a month ago. Which goes into my third point, how Sansa could optimize things."

Then why bring it up, especially since I didn't technically make said mistake??

"At this point she knows she needs people and she's already given her powers to someone trustworthy. She also knows that healing is a power she can give. And she knows they're going to need this at least as much as medics. And there are indeed people she trusts whom she hasn't approached with an offer of power. Ned Stark, Catelyn Stark, Lyra Mormont of Bear Island, and Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion Lannister can wait but not forever. Lyra should be approached as soon as possible."

NO. Arya was the exception, not the rule, Sansa isn't going to just go off and give her god-blessed powers to anyone else. I was hesitant to give it to Arya as it was, and only let myself because I could use the 'Arya's God is Death, there's more stakes than you thought' to fully justify it.

Tyrion as he is can't be trusted, and future Tyrion chose Dany over Sansa, neither Sansa nor Arya know how his story ended, so as far as they are concerned he's a good ally, but not actually trust worthy enough for this.

For those of you confused, Lyra Mormont is one of the daughters of the Lady Maege Mormont, and one of Lyanna's sisters. Lyra got maybe two mentions in the books and nothing in the tv series so I can only assume Richard meant Lyanna, who is currently 2 years old! But we'll come back to this, because Richard sure did!!!

As for the medic thing, I really hope Richard meant he was fcking off for good in his final word, because if he comes back, I really don't want him to think he's responsible for the medic corps that I've been planning and attempting to foreshadow with Sansa approaching Luwin, and Beth and Jeyne following Sansa's lead with archery.

Like, oh hey, guess which unfortunate field medic bride of a Stark might find her way to Winterfell if she hears about young women being trained in some basic healing to help Maester Luwin deal with any cases of over flow of patients. That's right, I'm planning for triage nurses! No magical powers required.

"I assume she's going to get glass from Lys through the Tapestry of Doors. For that she's going to need tokens. She's going to need tokens for everything, and she already knows it. So collecting and hoarding tokens should be a big priority for her. And that means going places where there are tokens to be got. Places she hasn't gone to yet, like The Wall and Bear Island. Just to get tokens."

No. Again, just NO! Sansa already stated that Tokens and relying on them were a thing that would come back to bite her, she'll horde them as she finds them, but she's not going out of her way to find them because she has things to do! Also: the Tapestry of Doors was a piece of Flavour text for way late in the fic if it ever came back, and like a Stargate, requires one at each end, so someone would have to travel to Lys anyway, which is dumb when Sansa now has a Loom which can copy any 'raw' material, and the ability to convert that 'raw' material' into any object she has the blueprint for, which she can get by 'scanning' with her console.

She just has to put 2 and 2 together!!

"She also knows there are dungeons in each place, and that she needs to get to them. And that it's better if she gets in with people. Like people Lyra trusts to whatever dungeon is in Bear Island."

The thing about the Dungeons is that the whole thing is for Sansa, some of them will have special requirements, but very few of them are crucial, they're just there so Sansa has a place and a trial to obtain Unique Items of game breaking power or ability.

"The last way to optimise her powers is one I don't think she'll take even though it has a lot of benefits. Going with a squad of soldiers into the Dreadfort's dungeon in order to confront the walking dead, with hit and run tactics slowly draining the population there. The main benefit and reason to do this is to harden and blood the soldiers to prepare them for the Long Night, so she should have the soldiers on rotation in order to expose as many as possible to the horrors to come."

Problem is the undead in the Dreadfort Dungeon aren't the same as the Wights and White Walkers, they can just be killed in the same ways. The idea of these kinds of fics is that by the time the Long Night Comes, Sansa and Arya can do most if the heavy lifting. You are right that Sansa wouldn't risk her people for some EXP though.

Sansa will be going back though, there's a pair of Shears and Needle in there.

"Also, the loot should be great. Perhaps another loom. But I would do it even for more bobbins. Or nothing at all."

Literally the Loom is a one off item. It is super powerful with what it can do in the context, so having more than one would ruin the power balance I've been trying to keep between Power Fantasy and OP Bullshit.

Someone of course pointed out that (Richard said Lyra, but responder said Lynna) Lyanna was currently literally 2 or 3 years old, she can't do shit. (they also brought up that 2 (actually 3) characters had already declined the super powers, because it included bad timeline memory downloads.) Guess how Richard took that?!

If you guessed "not well" you get a cookie!

Seriously, I was kind of annoyed at his review because^^^ reasons he was wrong about stuff, but also the arrogance of 'telling me how to optimize my character' was just, icky, so I was just going to ignore him.

But then he went (in response to the other reviewer):

"(snort) I think you need to recall what Lyanna Mormont is like at 10 years of age. She is a force and she is in charge. And what exactly is your objection, that Sansa needs consent or is preserving innocence?"

No moron, the objection is that she's literally 2 or 3 years old, what the fck is she going to do in her tiny little body? But yes, now that you mention it, Sansa (was assaulted and lost her bodily autonomy, she) would place a huge amount of importance on consent, it's one of the reasons she was so upset by Arya taking advantage of her sleepy state to get her to agree.

"Lyanna Mormont wouldn't care. Jon and Robb care, that's why their sister cares. Lyanna would never thank Sansa for trying to preserve her innocence, keep her ignorant, or keep her weak. She would be insulted."

Lyanna is literally 2 or 3 years old, she doesn't know enough to care or be insulted by not being told that she's lost the chance to remember several years of horrific shit before being violently murdered.

Also I notice you didn't say anything about the name correction. Got it wrong the first time did you?

"Which leaves only respecting Lyanna's will. Or her mother's will maybe. Or at least informing them of what she's decided to do before she does it so they can prepare. But Sansa gains nothing by not asking."

And what would she gain by asking? also nothing. Lyanna is 2 or 3 years old. Also the fic isn't about her. Why would Sansa even trust her? The child who thought she could judge Sansa for being unable to stab her way out of some horrible places? who scorned Sansa because she was femme? Because Sansa's strength isn't the same as hers so Lynna decided Sansa didn't have any?

Lynna chose Jon to lead the North over Sansa who had a better claim to the throne, Jon, who spent the entire 8th season saying how much he doesn't want to be king, Jon who legit just tried to walk away from the Command of the Nights Watch.

"And this brings up another issue, the fact Sansa never decided FOR Jon and Robb cuts both ways. She informed them of their choice and she let them make it."

"Sansa didn't keep them in the dark without informing them of the decision she was making for them, as you seem to want to do, since that definitely isn't the right thing to do. Mushroom management is a shit heap."

The boys were already aware that something was up, Sansa had nothing to gain by lying, and she made the offer before she realised the memories were a thing.

"The question to ask a toddler is "do you want to grow up?" it's not a difficult question to ask and it does have a meaningful answer. And that's the problem you have, because you already know Lyanna Mormont would say yes and you want her to say no. That's why you want the question never asked."

"You want to pretend that Lyanna Mormont, DEFINITELY in charge of bear island at 10 years of age, is a gormless wimp like 25 year old Jon Snow who refused to be king and refused to even THINK whether or not Daenerys would be a good queen by constantly uttering the refrain "she is my queen"."

Laynna was in charge because she was the last of her family, everyone else was lost fighting someone else's war. More importantly: she's not even part of the equation? Why would Sansa travel to Bear Island to ask a 2 or 3 year old if she wants to become an angry and traumatised 10 year old in a 2 or 3 year old body which will feel like a prison because she's not as tall or fast as she used to be, because she can't lift or climb or jump or ride or fight like she used to.

And for what? a few super powers she has to ask Sansa for? For mental trauma her family and friends cannot comprehend?

But no, have a look at the part where Richard really started to cross the line:

"No, Lyanna Mormont wants power, wants to grow up, that is obvious. And you're an obstacle in her way. She would hurt you for standing in her way, probably smashing a mace in your knees. And you're so weak that yes you would in fact be hurt by a 2 or 3 year old toddler. She killed a giant and she would have no problem killing you for daring to think you're a giant."

"Stand aside little man and let Lyanna Mormont have her glory."

Now I don't know what this guy's obsession is with Lyanna, but that sounded like a threat to me. Like, who tells people that a fiction character would physically maim or murder a real person just for pointing out said fictional character is 2 or 3 years old?

Lyanna doesn't want power? She's not that kind of person, even if she is fictional? More importantly:

Neither I nor the reviewer were 'standing in her way' because she's a fictional character who's not even in this fic!!!

But his behaviour was pretty shit, so I told him to knock it off or I was going to turn the review filters on.

That went about as well as you might expect.

So I was All:

[I don't know what you think you mean by 'optimize the character' but half of your assumptions are wrong, the rest run counter to my pre-existing plans and I don't care for your overall demeanour. I was prepared to leave your post be, but your recent reply is inappropriate and uses language which runs VERY close to sounding like a death threat, which I DO NOT APPRECIATE. I don't want to be 'that bitch', but I am going to ask you to please be respectful, or I will be turning on the comment filters.]

Because I don't Know if you know this but AO3 has three filters in the privacy tab of every story posted:

1] “Only show your work to registered users”

this means that you MUST be logged in to an AO3 account to even find it let alone read it

2] Disable Anonymous Comments

you Must be logged in to leave a comment

3] Enable Comment Moderation

doesn't matter what you say, with out Author OK, your review will not be showing up in the comment section.

(… tumblr just did that thing again where it refreshes in the middle of my thousands of words of text and loses all my stuff, it is literally making me want to kill myself. Because I have to retype all the responses from the next fcking section. It's my own fault for not just using a word document, but also: fck tumblr? For being stupid?)

So, from here Richard had three options:

1- Apologise and move one

2- say nothing and pretend it hadn't happened and move on

3- He went with this:

“Your Sansa Stark is weaker than canon Sansa Stark. It's true your Sansa Stark has a strictly higher level of ambition than Sansa Stark. But what she uses in order to achieve her goals, her resources, is weaker.”

“She uses actions, capabilities and skills. She uses embroidery, archery, learning (archery), she uses the people she already knows but not strangers. She uses and manipulates the people she can interact with, learn from, act upon. The level of people that is directly equal to skills.”“

She doesn't use language, nor does she use strangers. Strangers are the level of people that don't require interaction but DO require language to deal with. And your Sansa Stark's language is too weak. When she manipulates the maid in the Dreadfort, it's entirely accidentally and unintentionally.”

Sansa has seen what power does to people, she's seen what lies ahead for the manipulators of the world, she's been taught at the side of Cersei and Petyr, and she does not want to become them. For all the horrific things she's gone through, Sansa came out the other side with her compassion intact, possibly even stronger than before.

“She talks to Domeric only because she's already interacted with him, she's been healing him for days by that point. She fakes Green Dreaming to her father because she knows her language is inadequate and will achieve nothing. The way her father and mother treat her, they know mere words would be inadequate. And they would dismiss any words she said. "Haven't we told our children dreams can't hurt you?"”

She doesn't want to interact with Domeric, he looks like the man who violated her repeatedly, killed her brother and sacked her home. She wants to be as far away from him as possible. When she does end up interacting with him, despite being so sleep deprived it's a wonder she hadn't started hallucinating, she manages to win him over pretty easily.

She fakes Green Dreaming because “a god made me time travel” is not only a ridiculous concept but a foreign one as well. Why would Sansa tell her parents that when it would mean admitting to going through some horrific shit, to letting her family down and being let down by her family when Green Dreams are a known thing which explains her knowledge. It's not inadequacy, it's efficiency and an attempt to hide horrible things.

I need to point out that “Haven't we told our children that dreams can't hurt you?” is said by Catelyn in self-recrimination afterwards, and is said specifically to reference the reason Sansa might not have felt she could go to them with her problem was because it was based on dreams. Because what parent would take dreams as a serious threat unless they were a Nightmare on Elm Street survivor, especially since Green Seers have become so rare they've been relegated back to myths and stories by the time Jojen and Bran show up.

“Language requires actions such as mouthing, shouting, tonguing, but actions will never add up to language. Actions are necessary but NOT SUFFICIENT for language. This is why you can't write a single damned sentence with only actions. Try it, you won't be able to.”

I can't take this paragraph seriously if only because of the use of the word 'tonguing'. FFS, he sounds like a small child trying to convince people he's got a PhD. 'If I throw out some big words and phrase them right they'll sound 'academic' and I'll look smarter!

'I know this probably isn't what Richard meant but: Sign Language? Is literally all actions?

(Obviously real language requires thoughts and concepts to be communicated to be a language, but even the most primitive of body movements can express something: I'm hot, I'm hungry, I'm angry, etc. It might not be true language, but it is communication, which is the basis of language, the reason we made language in the first place.)

“Canon Sansa Stark had dreams, plans, and designs on what others have. She wanted to wed a prince, she had designs on the princess position. She wanted out of King's Landing. She wanted Winterfell. She wanted the Knights of the Vale to fight ... FOR HER.”

“People who had never met canon Sansa Stark in their entire lives fought and died for canon Sansa Stark's benefit. For the designs of a (her words) stupid girl. And sure, her initial designs were stupid. And they only rose up to being pathetic. But they were designs, they were dreams, they were plans.”

I need to talk about my interpretation of Sansa for a minute, because that's what I've been writing: my interpretation of Sansa.

Sansa was raised with an idea of how the world should be, not how it was. She was raised loved and protected and surrounded by men of honour. Fed stories of heroes, brave knights and valiant princes, where good always triumphed, or was romantically defeated and beautifully tragic.

She wasn't raised to expect dishonourable men and hidden motives, she wasn't raised expecting a (metaphorical) dagger in her back.

She didn't want the crown, she didn't want the throne, she wanted “the prince” from her stories, who would cherish her and care for her and give her a family filled with love. And yes the pretty dresses and the shiny jewels and the adoration and praise. But she never wanted power, that came later.

Later after she'd seen the cracks in the world and the grime beneath the gilding, when she'd learned friend and foe were often the same, that people with power would hurt her, use her, that she was nothing but a trophy to them.

Sansa wanted power because “if I'm the one with the power, then they can't hurt me any more, if I have the power I'll be safe, if I have the power then I can protect people, if I have the power I can stop people like that.”

But Sansa has never had power, it was always borrowed, an illusion that could vanish at one misstep. She had no money of her own, her blood made her valuable to others as a trade commodity, but gave her no personal power.

When people fought for her, it was never really about her.

Petyr gave her armies so he could win favour so he could use her as a proxy for her dead mother. Brienne fought to fulfil an oath to Sansa's dead mother.

The Men of the North fought for Winterfell, to get revenge on the Boltons. The Wildings followed Jon Snow. And when it was over, it was Jon who was crowned king, not Sansa the one who had to talk him into getting back their home in the first place.

Her parents and Robb fought for her, but their armies fought for House Stark, for the insult Sansa and Arya's capture and Ned's death presented.

“Your Sansa Stark has no plans, has no dreams, and certainly has no designs. She doesn't use language, because her language is too weak and has no power. She doesn't use her emotions or feelings because they are brittle and far too weak to be used. Weaker even than the emotions and feelings of a stupid girl. She doesn't use her mind or intellect because she doesn't cogitate. She uses skills and ONLY skills. To try to fake everything else.”

It's odd that he says this when he started off this response by saying my Sansa was more ambitious than canon Sansa.

First of all: I thought I was making it fairly clear that her goals were: save her family, save the North, stop the White Walkers.

Her dreams are to never be beholden to another man ever again.

Sansa wants her family alive, she wants to be safe and she wants to be free of all the political manipulations she had to sit through in the first timeline.

Second of all: Richard has clearly never been assaulted in his life in any way and I am so fcking happy for him. Really.

Look, people who suffer long term trauma, (or short term, it doesn't matter how long really) are not magically okay afterwards. The idea that sexual assault makes femme women strong is disgusting and so toxically prevalent in movies and shows and books these days its... horrific. You'll notice butch women like Arya aren't typically assaulted to be strong, because they're already so 'manly'. It was a genuine surprise when they tried to have Brienne assaulted, but that was more about showing how much of a 'good guy' Jaime was than Brienne.

You can really tell in several places that the tv series had non-con fetishists on staff.

Sansa is so brittle now, because she feels safe enough to let herself feel the fear she wasn't able to earlier, to work through the panic and the anger and all the emotions she couldn't before.

“Your Sansa Stark plans to use skills in order to change the world. And since it's obvious the world isn't run by woodcutters or farmers or archers or anyone else defined by their SKILLS, she will fail. She will fail abysmally, totally and catastrophically. She hasn't got the slightest sliver of a chance.”

Quick tally: Sansa has managed to convince her parents she had knowledge of the future, put them on track to realising Petyr Baelish was stealing from the Crown, got Stannis curious in Dragonstone, came up with a plan to gain favour for the North by helping to pay of part of the Crown's debt and has begun working on a plan to ensure more food is available for the Northerners when Winter arrives.

Not to mention, (and you'd easily miss this): Sansa has begun influencing a shift in the young women of the North who had previously been influenced by the South.

The thing is, Richard seems convinced its about the looting and the grinding, 'kill enough stuff and you become a God!' but it's not.

“So you stacked the deck in her favor. You put a high tier deity on her side. Now Sansa has a slim chance to squeak out a win, using the power she's borrowing. But here's the thing, it will never be HER win because it isn't HER power, it isn't HER plans. Your Sansa Stark has no plans, but her deity does, even if they're stupid plans of puerile amusement-seeking. So IF there is a victory at the end, it will never be Sansa Stark's victory, it will be her deity's. Because she is only a pawn, a tool, a peon, a minion.”

Richard doesn't seem to understand what the introduction of Arya's God means for the lore. The amount of death from the wars is causing Bad Things in the back ground of the original timeline.

Sansa isn't the Being's pawn, she's their start player, the Being is a sponsor who's giving Sansa the chance and resources to be greater than she was. It's not about 'puerile amusement-seeking', but how do you tell a young woman who's gone through what Sansa's gone through that the fate of the entire human race is in her hands, that if she fails it won't just be her family that falls.

If Sansa thinks the Being just wants amusement, then Sansa will act as she pleases and hope it's good enough, which puts her closer in line with saving the world than if she's actually trying to save the world, because that is a much bigger task than 'stop the issues that got my family killed'.

The Being is only victorious if Sansa is, it's their shared victory.

Now up until this point Richard has been an arrogant tool, but it might almost seem like he's being reasonable. This is where he loses the plot and just starts back on his favourite fall back: threatening people with violence.

“Now generally, when an author writes a protagonist who is a pawn, a tool, a peon and a minion of a higher power, when they write a protagonist who is WEAK, it's because they themselves are weak. Generally doesn't mean universally however, so I had to know. And now I do. You are weak Jasper.”

“You want to convince me of something Jasper. You want to convince me that I'm wrong, that my opinion is wrong, that my position is wrong, you want me to change my mind, you want me to know my plans and judgment are wrong. Because they're in conflict with yours. But how do you achieve this? By threatening me with your borrowed power. Exactly like your Sansa Stark.”

Did he have to google the list of synonyms there?

I don't know what it is about being referred to by name, but it bugs me that he chose to use only a portion of my pen-name like we were somehow familiar, rather than not using my name or referring to me as OP or something along those lines.

Also I really have to disagree that only weak people write about people being weak, but I don't think his opinions of weak and strong match with mine either.

He is wrong, but more importantly: he threatened someone with violence for daring to correct him.

I wasn't threatening him, I was warning him to stop being an asshole or I would disable anonymous commenting.

“You do this because you're weak. And what do we call weak people who complain about strong people's actions when they are the bitches of higher powers? We call them exactly what you "don't want to be", we call them bitches. You are a bitch to higher powers and you bitch about higher powers like me. You bitch about people who can use their intellects. And for a good reason too.”

“You fear my attitude because I am the bitch slapper. I slap little bitches like you all fucking day long every single day. It doesn't matter to me who it is, whether it's my own friends who are bitching, I slap them for it. And you will never ever convince me that you're right. Because you're weak. And because I don't respect bitches.”

Look, I've seen enough therapists of different varieties to pull off some impressive psych 101 bullshit so I can tell you right now: Richard is a man who has never held any real authority in his life, he has mediocre skills at best and often feels talked down to because he feels more entitled than he is and no one treats him like a god for breathing. He refuses to back down when wrong even in the face of evidence and then he pouts because the world didn't shift to match his delusions.

The worst part is I know this, and I know I shouldn't let this bother me. But it does. But it shouldn't and I can tell him to his 'face' via review reply why he's wrong, or he'll know it bothers me, then he'll feel validated, even though he's wrong. And he'll probably threaten someone with more violence and then I really will have to disable anon comments and effectively punish some readers who did nothing wrong.

“So what are you going to do to me that I care about? Stop me from reading your fic? You don't have that power. Stop writing it so that I can no longer learn how your mind works, my ulterior motive? That would be cutting your nose to spite your face. You would suffer far out of proportion to me. I would just move on to some other author. Report me? Go ahead, I don't care. Really, we're done here, so have a nice life.”

Yes I do, literally the first of the privacy filters would stop you from reading, but that would hurt my other readers who don't have an account.

'Ulterior motive'? Buddy, you apparently don't understand how any mind works.

Again: if you don't care why bring it up?

Are you really leaving though? Do you promise?!

“The only thing you could ever do to me is surprise me by ceasing to be a weak little bitch. Or even resolving to not be one. This would invalidate all of my predictions by rising to my implied challenge. That's what I like, win-win. (lol) I'm not holding my breath though.”

I don't have anything to prove to this douche tool and it bothers me that this is bothering me so much!!!! The worst part is, this review came at a time when my attention for the fic was flagging, so I'll never know if it was really this review or not that made me stop writing for the past few months?

Those of you with an AO3 account who drop by my profile to see if I wrote anything interesting may have noticed my recent 'for archive users only' locked fic. I can confirm that yes: to mental detox this review I went and watched a Chinese Xianxia drama that has become my new hyper-focus. Almost 100 plot bunnies are being posted into the locked fic in an effort to purge it rom my brain so I can get back to what I was doing. It seems to be working. I wrote about 1000 words for Episode: Sisterhood this week, so the chapter is almost done. At last!

#just blog stuff #i’m just bitching now #absolute aggro #swearing #op would like to die #not winx or alt con related #i'm just really angry about it even though I know I should know better #eleven pages of op being an angry incoherent mess

2 notes · View notes

krixwell-liveblogs · 6 years ago

Text

Check out this post. Wildbow talks about his life on reddit. This explains so much about Taylor’s school experience. No Worm spoilers

This sounds interesting. I’ve frequently wondered about how Wildbow’s life shaped this story.

Let’s take a look.

Redditors who have opted out of a standard approach to life (study then full time work, mortgage etc), please share your stories. What are the best and worst things about your lifestyle, and do you have any regrets?

Well, the title is already intriguing.

Hermit writer here.

Born hard of hearing, went to a regular school. Struggled in middle school. Struggled in high school. Kids who were in my class in kindergarten were in my classes all the way through to grade ten, with the elementary/middle school and high school being a stone's throw from one another.

I kind of knew about the hard of hearing bit already. I can’t find the ask that told me about it, though (it was probably before I stopped using screenshots for asks).

So far this sounds relatively normal, except for that part. But I’m guessing he’s going to elaborate a bit on the struggles surrounding his school life and hearing problems?

In grade 10, after years of bullying and a peer group that had established who was 'in' and who was 'out' when I was knee-high, tired of struggling, I was walking down the halls and I found myself wondering when the last time I'd even opened my mouth in school was.

Oh wow.

I stopped dead in my tracks, just paralyzed by loneliness. I asked myself what the point was, couldn't come up with an answer, resumed walking, went out the side door of the school and went home.

This clearly parallels a few of the last times we saw Taylor at Winslow High.

The start of me just not going to school for that entire year. Nobody noticed.

Damn. He really did write all that from experience. It took a while for Taylor’s absence to get noted, too.

Taylor’s absence getting noted at all actually seems like a fantasy compared to this.

I got caught at the end of the year, did the same thing the next year, got caught only at the end.

What the hell sort of attendance routines did this school have? Clearly not good ones.

Ended up going to an Alternative school (Self study), proved to myself that I had it in me when I got 3 years of studying done in 8 months, won two awards... and then had to go back to my old school for what was essentially grade 13, where I struggled.

Huh. Well done.

People learn in very different ways. Some people can do this much more effectively than learning in a group. Some people are like me and can’t make themselves keep up the effort required to self study, or learn better from lectures than reading.

Some people learn by observing their surroundings while flying.

I worked retail and found it fine. But family wanted me to go to University and figure myself out.

I’m currently working retail, taking a break from the educational system and buying time to figure out what to study.

I went to University and I struggled.

Guys, I’m sensing a theme here.

I spent a long, long time trying to figure out why I struggled, why I was tired all the time, and it took a kind of confluence of events before I realized what should've been obvious. I found the social stuff hard and I was exhausted after a day of listening because I'm severely to profoundly deaf.

Oh yeah, that makes a ton of sense. It’s like how focusing is exhausting when you have trouble doing that, how reading without glasses you need tires out your eyes and brain, etc.

Honestly, it’s a little surprising that I haven’t (explicitly) met a hard of hearing character in Worm yet. Maybe later? Oh wait, there was that deaf waitress at the villain pub in Hive.

Beyond that, the 'path' just isn't for me. The systems and institutions just grind me down. The idea of a 9 to 5 is death to me. These things are built and streamlined for the average person, and between disability and a fairly extreme degree of introversion, I'm far from that average.

That is very fair. There’s definitely a brand of ableism in that system.

In the end, I stepped off the path. I'd been writing a thing online as a side project and the reception was good, so I decided to leave school earlier than planned, use the savings I had, stretch things as far as I could, and work when I could (with a family friend when he needed the help and had the cash to spare, doing some landscaping, drywall installation, house painting, all prepping houses for sale in a boom market) to stretch things further.

This would be too early for that thing online to be Worm, right?

It just occurred to me that I have no idea how old Wildbow is.

And I wrote as seriously as I could while people close to me told me that I didn't deserve to 'get lucky' and have the writing work out because I hadn't seen University all the way through, or openly expressed doubts and disappointments.

Yikes.

Fuck that noise. Writing is tons of effort!

But you know, it worked out in the end. I wrote the equivalent of 20 books in 2.4 years, wrote another 10 for my next series in the ensuing 1.2 years, and I've kept up a similar pace over the last 7 years and two months.

Especially when you’re this coddamn productive!

That’s 8.33 books a year!

I started writing mid- 2011, left school at the start of 2012, went full-time-paying-the-bills in 2014 with an income around minimum wage. I moved to a small town (no car, nothing fancy) that same year. I'm now closer to the average Canadian wage. It's been two chapters a week (2.5 if crowdfunding money is enough) since the beginning.

Oh, I suppose that means it would be Worm after all.

When was this written... huh, yesterday? Well, that explains why this hasn’t been sent to me before.

Writing being Wildbow’s only/main income makes me feel even more right about my decision to set things up so that some of the money from my Patreon goes to Wildbow. It’s not that big a portion of his income (apparently average Canadian wage is 986 CAD or 755 USD per week, and I chip in with about 3.26 CAD or 2.50 USD per week), but it’s something.

My reality: I can go a week or two without really talking to anyone that isn't a cashier.

Sounds a bit lonely in the long run, but as a fellow introvert (or maybe I’m an ambivert, in the systems where that’s actually a thing), I get it - it also does sound pretty good. Especially if you’ve got internet people to casually interact with at your own leisure.

Every two months or so I go to a relative's to dogsit while they're on vacation or to see someone for their birthday, and that gives me most of my fill of socialization and companionship.

Nice!

I don't have a car, so it's usually walking or taking the train to another city, and using public transpo there. I subsisted on a rice and beans diet for a good stretch, one $15 video game bought in a year, and my level of expenses hasn't really risen that much from that point. I eat better and buy a couple more things, but nothing major.

So I guess this would be somewhere between average and reserved?

I don’t know. Being Norwegian spoils me on these things.

60%+ of what I earn goes to savings, which gives me security when my income could fluctuate or disappear at any time.

Oh, that’s smart. I suppose writing would be a bit of a risky business, what with writer’s block, audience fluctuations, sudden drops in popularity because something you wrote didn’t go over as well as you thought it would, etc.

My schedule is entirely my own, which usually amounts to 2.5 15+ hour workdays a week and another 5-10 hours a week spent managing community, finances, and exchanging emails with tv/movie studios, publishers or startups.

I was going to talk about the long but few workdays, but tv/movie studios excuse me what

Is a TV series version of something Wildbow wrote (Worm or otherwise) a serious possibility right now?? :o

Best things - I love what I do. I love creating, I love my reader's tears, I love my readers being horrified.

This is really important. You gotta enjoy what you do.

I get to make monsters and be surprised by what my characters do. Many of my fans are just the absolute coolest people - people I'm now insanely glad to have met and include in my life. There's amazing fanart of my work out there, music, people have gotten tattoos. Tattoos. That's insane.

People have permanently, painfully painted their appreciation of your work into their bodies, Wildbow!

The bad- I'm an online content creator, and it's impossible to convey just how toxic the toxic elements of a fandom can get and how negative the negative aspects can get, and how much it can affect you.

That is true. There will always be a toxic side, and I can imagine works like Worm would attract a lot of the edgy sort.

I've seen 20 online content creators either break down or remark on the effect it has, and it's wholly accurate- and my audience isn't even ~that~ large.

Yeah, it doesn’t take that many people to start brewing fandom sides like this.

This is multiplied by the fact that writing is lonely as a profession (I know too many writers who can't even talk to their life partners about their work) and it can be hard to find perspective or balance as you take it all in, when you don't have people to communicate with.

Robert Jordan used his wife as a beta reader or editor of sorts. She was there to tell him when something he wrote didn’t quite come across, to make up for the fact that he couldn’t tell. After all, he knew what he meant by that one line.

On a similar note, some casual dating would be nice, and living in a small town for economical reasons doesn't leave me with a large dating pool, and at this point I'm not even sure if I could or should inflict myself on someone.

Oof.

There are way too many people who think like that. I hope you find happiness with someone who sees you for the good bean you are, Wildbow.

I'm healthy, groomed, I can hold a conversation, I'm just pretty set in my introverted ways.

...relatable, though.

But still, I’m pretty sure there are people out there for us, who not only tolerate but appreciate the introvert lifestyle.

Hell, both of my crushes have been very introverted, even compared to myself, so I know those people exist because I’m among them.

On another, less social note, there is the fact that as an online content creator, you can't really take breaks. Or you can, but it costs. Consistency and frequency of updates are god, and a hiatus is a death knell.

No wonder he criticized me on this that one time. In his situation, it matters a lot.

I don't even know what an effective vacation would entail, because I feel like finding my stride again would cost more than I gained from having the break. So it's been seven years and two months without a vacation, writing a short book every month.

Damn.

You deserve so many props, Wildbow.

...at some point here I started talking to Wildbow, just like I do to Taylor and other Worm characters. Well, at least this time there’s actually a chance he’s going to read this sometime, if he hasn’t dropped my blog.

I just hope he doesn’t think it’s weird that I’m liveblogging his life story.

It makes for a very strange sort of burnout, when I love it so much, I can still regularly put out some great work to acclaim and praise, but am nonetheless worn down around the edges.

That does not sound healthy.

No regrets. This is me. This is what I'm built for.

As long as you feel it’s right for you, this is good. :)

I could do with less negativity from some fans and getting regular good nights of sleep (the deafness comes with insomnia by way of terminal tinnitus), but both of those just come with the territory.

Ouch.

I feel you on the sleep front (ADD has its ways of messing with your ability to fall asleep too), but tinnitus sounds like a particularly annoying way to be inflicted with it.

I've been telling family for the last year that I'll move to a city with more going on than (as my elderly neighbor phrased it) drinking and meth, where there's classes to take, a possible dating pool, and/or activities that could break me out of my hermit shell... but my current apartment is amazing and cheap, with the nicest landlords ever. It's just in a do-nothing town. I haven't found anything remotely competitive, even taking 'cheap' off the table.

I’ve lived in small-ish towns all my life. It’s pretty nice, especially as an introvert.

So that's where I'm at.

Thank you, Wildbow. This was an interesting read. I feel like I know you a bit better now. :)

(Again, if you’re reading this, I hope it wasn’t too weird to see me liveblogging this.)

#Worm #krixwell liveblogs #Arc 14 #chapter 14.11 #14.11 bet #asks #wildbow's life #mlp:fim #i tried to keep references and jokes out of this

27 notes · View notes

hour13 · 6 years ago

Text

The Tower

A note before reading:

Back in 2015-2016, a few friends and I were planning to work together on writing a serial story about a team of people known as The Scrap Hounds who roamed a post-apocalyptic wasteland. We built an amazing world and a few great characters, but unfortunately things fell apart. Before the collapse, I wrote The Tower, which was originally going to be released in six weekly installments.

The Tower is set in the Durante Desert, a land trying to reclaim itself after being the battlefield between two powerful nations, Myrora (MERE-Ore-Uh or Mai-ROAR-Uh, depending on inflection) and Sideah (Sih-day-uh). The Scrap Hounds are a team of junkers who wander that desert collecting scrap from battlefields, wrecks, and abandoned towns and selling the raw metal to the settlements they come across. The Scrap Hounds travel around the desert in The Land Whale a large vehicle colloquially known as a trawler.

The Tower

Writing by Tim Carroll

The character of Torva is a creation of Miles Rodgers

The world of the Scrap Hounds was a collaboration, see end of story for credits.

Part 1

If you’re of the mind to listen, the sounds of the Durante Desert at sunset can form a sort of symphony. The buzz of insects finding their way home to their hives, the distant howls of coyotes, the percussive rattle of scorpions, the crackle of campfires, and, of course, the slow steady rumble of trawlers moving through the desert.

Tonight, there is one more sound - if you listen closely enough - a quiet hiss, a gasp of compressed air, as an artist presses on his canister of spray paint. His canvas- a tower, hundreds of feet tall- his painting, hardly a painting but a story. A tadpole, swimming out of the flames of hell, to become a frog, live its life, and eventually be reincarnated as something greater.

There were no entrances to the tower, at least none accessible above the shifting sands. The only reason the Scrap Hounds had bothered to stop at all was because a zeppelin had crashed at the tower’s base nearly a week ago.

Unfortunately someone else had gotten there first. The zeppelin had already been stripped down, the crew members buried, and everything of value taken.

Another sound filled the night, a drumbeat, something pounding against the desert sands. Selak raised an eyebrow, but did not turn around, as the seven-foot-tall armored man approached him from behind.

“Hello, Torva.” The artist called, shaking a can of green paint.

“Hello, Selak.” Torva replied, his voice a deep reverberating bass. The armored man tilted his head to the side as he took a long look at the painting. “Reincarnation,” he said, after a short pause.

“You got it.” Selak smiled.

“What did a frog do to merit being reincarnated?”

“Lived a good life as a frog?” Selak offered, leaning against a pile of scrap, “I imagine the bar’s pretty low for them. Eat flies, lay lots of eggs, respect the natural order.”

“Then neither of us would merit reincarnation.” Torva observed.

Selak raised an eyebrow, “You don’t think we’re good people?”

“We do not respect the natural order.” Torva clarified, “Few humans do.”

“Maybe that’s a design feature.” Selak replied, filling in the frog’s body, “If humans respected the natural order, we’d have too many people reaching nirvana and nowhere near enough people being reincarnated as insects.”

“Perhaps,” Torva observed, as he pressed a button on his shoulder blade, igniting a floodlight that illuminated the dark picture. Selak cleared his throat. “How’s Blue doing?”

“I do not believe he will suffer any lasting harm.”

“The scorpion didn’t pierce a lung?”

“That is correct,” Torva replied, stepping forward, “The greater danger is the poison.”

“It was just a baby, right? Painful, not lethal.”

Torva shook his head, “An adolescent.”

Selak bit his lip, “You can cure that right?”

“Our supplies are low. I have done what I can, but we will need to leave at first light to make it to Anodar. There I will be able to purchase the medicine he needs.”

“Sounds good.”

Torva paused. Selak sighed.

“But you need me for something?” The artist asked, “Look I know you want to chew me out, but what happened was a complete accident, scorpions shouldn’t have been inside the main hatch, the kid—”

Torva raised his hand, “I am not here to chastise you.” He cleared his throat, “There is a cave not far from here. The recent winds have cleared away dunes that were blocking the entrance. Initial exploration suggests it may lead to the tower’s entrance.”

“But tomorrow we’re leaving?”

“Correct. At first light.” Torva repeated.

“So if we wanted to know what’s inside this thing, we’d have to do it right now.”

“Also correct.”

“And you’re proposing a night mission, into an unknown, possibly trap-filled tower, in the hopes of gathering information about the old world or finding useful and/or pricy artifacts.”

“For the third time, correct.”

Selak grabbed his paint supplies from the ground and threw them into a canvas bag over his shoulder. “I’ll get my kit.” He said, “Meet you outside the cave in ten. I’m in.”

Part 2

If you’re of the mind to look, there is a beauty to nights in the Durante Desert. The winds tend to die down, allowing one to appreciate the endless rolling dunes, watched over by a thousand twinkling stars. But be careful, many have made the mistake of assuming that night’s reduced risk of dehydration and exposure meant a reduced risk of death. It is night time when the most dangerous of creatures in the Durante Desert hunt – whether they be the giant scorpions out to secure sleeping prey, brigands out to catch their targets unaware, or the mutants lurking beneath the sands, hoping to catch a glimpse of the surface.

There is beauty to be found in the Durante Desert, but there is far more danger.

Selak tried not to get distracted by the scenery as he approached the mouth of the cave. He had tossed away his painter’s smock in favor of his exploration outfit. A black flak jacket – spraypainted with shark scales and an open shark mouth on the torso. Inside the dozen or so pockets were every tool he might need for a night outing: chemical flares, lockpicking equipment, and – his personal favorite – the grapple gun.

Torva was waiting outside the cave, wearing a different evo-suit than before. Although few other junkers noticed – most were too scared of the behemoth to pay much attention – the scientist’s suit varied from day to day, with pieces removed and added as Torva saw fit.

“I didn’t know you liked the mollusk suit.” Selak said as he approached. The suit’s back was painted with a design of a golden crustacean shell, the creature’s appendages reaching so they rested upon Torva’s own arms.”

“It is good for spelunking, and I appreciate the design aesthetic.”

“Was that a compliment?” Selak asked.

“It was.”

Torva touched his shoulder, and an instant later, a floodlight illuminated the path in front of them. The two set off into the cave.

“So I am a mollusk, because I am armored and collect things.” Torva observed, “Do you have an animal for each of us?”

“I believe that each of you have an animal.”

“Fair enough, what is Alexa?”

“A hawk.”

Torva tilted his head to the side, “Is that not the animal you attributed to your ex?”

“First off, she’s not my ‘ex.’” Selak corrected, “And, second, there’s no reason that two people can’t have the same animal.”

“So, I’m a mollusk for my nature. Alexa is a hawk for hers. Why are you a shark?”

“You don’t think it suits me?”

“You are not a predator.”

“Have I not told you this story?” Selak asked, “The origin of my necklace?” Selak reached into the neck of his suit and pulled out a two-inch long shark-tooth attached to a piece of scarlet rope.

“You have not.”

“Really?” Selak asked, replacing the necklace, “Okay, well, brace yourself. Way back – maybe a hundred years ago at this point – my family used to live on the south shore. My great-grandfather was a fisherman and a mechanic, and he was damn fine at both of those jobs from what I hear. Now, one day my gramps was out fishing when he caught the attention of a massive shark. The thing, attacked his boat, damn near destroyed it, and nearly killed my great-grandpa. Luckily, gramps kept a spear lying around and was able to fend off the animal until he made it back to harbor.”

“I see…” Torva murmured, running his hand along the preternaturally smooth cavern walls.

“Great-Gramps and the shark fought at least a half-dozen more times over the course of the next two years. Each conflict was bloodier and more dangerous than the last. Grandpa lost two of the fingers on his left hand, the shark lost several of its teeth and part of its dorsal fin.

Great Grampa dreaded seeing the shark, because he knew deep in his gut that the conflict would only end when one of them died.

But that all changed one summer night. There had been a massive storm, the kind where trees are ripped out of the ground and thrown around like toys. And worse, about five miles off shore, an oil tanker was damaged, and was going to sink unless someone intervened.

But it wasn’t just the people that were in danger; everything in the ocean was at risk. If that tanker capsized, the entire shoreline would be devastated.

My grandfather was the only one with the expertise to go out and repair the tanker, but every boat on the shoreline had been wrecked. There was no way they’d be able to get to it in time.

That’s when the shark rose up out of the water near the shore, and allowed my grandpa onto its back. Together they swam over to the tanker and grandpa was able to repair it in the nick of time. Every person on the boat and every fish in the water was saved.

There was no more fighting after that. My great-grandfather and the shark remained friends, and when it died, grandfather gave the shark a funeral, and took several of its teeth in memory of their friendship.” Selak reached for his necklace again, “That’s why I wear this.”

“Do you believe that story?” Torva asked.

Selak shrugged, “It was told to me by people I trust.”

Torva coughed, “So you are not decorated in honor of all sharks, but one in particular.”

“The shark went against its nature, and joined with its enemy for the greater good. Their rivalry, their language barrier, their species barrier. None of it mattered. I think there’s a lesson we can learn from that.”

“The shark went against its nature…” Torva mused, “Per our earlier conversation, neither your ancestor nor that shark would reach heaven, they would both be reincarnated.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Selak mused, “The world is a better place with animals like that, no matter what form their in.”

“Or perhaps we were wrong to assume that going against one’s nature was a bad thing.”

“Or maybe we—” Selak stopped mid-sentence as the two came across a stone door.

Torva knelt down and rapped his metal knuckles against it. “Granite,” he muttered, “At least three inches thick.”

Selak ran his hands over the door, engraved into it, at head height, was an insignia. “You recognize this?”

Torva nodded. “Have you ever heard of Dr. Alarus?”

“No…” Selak paused, “Wait. You’ve mentioned him before.”

“Her.” Torva corrected, “Dr. Olivia Alarus was one of the directors of the Myroran militarized science wing, specializing in genetic research. She had many projects, but her most infamous involved modifying humans in the hopes of creating the perfect soldier.”

“How’d that work out?”

“For the subjects: very poorly. Many died in her experiments, many more were crippled. It is said that the few “successes” if you choose to call them that – were used in combat operations, forced to act against their will.”

“What happened to her?”

“One night, there was a prison break at her facility. A few of the mutants broke loose and were able to free their brethren. They captured Dr. Alarus and tortured her to death.”

Selak shivered. “Do you believe that story?”

“It was told to me by people whom I trust.”

“So what’s that got to do with this symbol?”

“It is the insignia of her lab.”

“Could she be here?”

“Unlikely. Even if she had been able to escape from her lab that night, I doubt she would hide in such a noticeable dwelling. In addition to her former test subjects, there are many who want her dead. Those in the public who believe she must answer for her crimes and those in the Myroran military who she has shamed.”

“Fucking Hell.” Selak let out a low whistle, “So what’s the symbol for her lab doing all the way out here. We’re what two hundred-something miles from the Myroran border?”

“I do not know.” Torva replied, as he ignited a blow torch “But it is my intention to find out.”

Part 3

If you’re of the mind to search, there’s a history to the Durante Desert – a tale of heroism, honor, betrayal, and blood-stained sand. But be warned, any investigation into writings about the desert will lead a researcher through a labyrinth of bias, misinformation, and pride. The Myrorans and Sideans both hold each other accountable for the attacks that reduced nearly a third of the land into a wasteland. Even the rare scholars who truly are impartial are confounded by the conflicting reports. Were there two factions in the war, before it was disrupted by the rebels? Or were there as many as five? Was the rebellion truly motivated by a desire for national sovereignty? Or was it, like so many things, motivated by greed?

The answers to many of these questions, like so much of the desert itself, are buried deep beneath the sands.

***

Selak took a few steps back as Torva knelt down and set to work on the door. The acetylene torch in the scientist’s hands lit up the cave like a miniature sun, and even a half-dozen feet away, Selak could feel the prickle of perspiration on his forehead.

“Hey, Torva?” Selak shouted over the tool’s hissing, “How exactly do you intend to melt through a stone door?”

“Stone does not melt, Selak.” Torva replied, not looking away from his work, “But locks are not made of stone.”

“So you’re melting the hinges?” Selak asked, “And then we’ll kick it down. “

“Precisely.” Torva grunted.

“So how is this different than a door made out of metal?” Selak asked, “Wouldn’t that be easier to work with?”

“You, of all people, do not need a lecture on symbolism nor aesthetics.”

Before Selak could reply, Torva turned off his torch, and slammed his armored shoulder into the door, knocking it off its weakened hinges. The stone door toppled forward, groaning like a dying beast as it did so, but an instant before it hit the floor, Selak heard a second sound, one that he had heard far too often in his life: the sound of a bowstring being pulled back.

“TORVA!” Selak shouted. Acting on instinct, Selak kicked at the back of the scientist’s knees, knocking him- along with his exosuit – to the ground. As his partner fell, Selak dove to the earth as well. The two Scrap Hounds hit the ground simultaneously, as an iron crossbow bolt, crackling with electricity, sailed over their heads.

“ROLL!” Selak shouted, as he and Torva tumbled to opposite sides of the doorway, where a layer of stone stood between them and their attacker. Less than a half-second later a second crossbow bolt hit the ground between them, sending a flurry of blue sparks into the air. They had a foot-and a half of room on either side of the door. Room to breathe, but not much else.

Torva reached for his periscope while, Selak reached into his jacket pocket for a compact mirror. The two peered around the corner. There wasn’t a human in sight. Just a large auto-loading crossbow resting on a table, with a tangle of wires attached, some of them leading to a black orb resting beside it.

“What the hell?”

“An automated firing system.” Torva observed, retracting his periscope, “Rare to see one functioning. The ocular technology they used was known to be problematic.”

“Fascinating,” Selak hissed, “You got any grenades?”

“I brought none.” Torva replied, “I was not expecting this kind of resistance.”

“Looks like we’re gonna have to improvise.” Selak muttered, “Problematic ocular technology, right? Is that big black thing its eye?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“So let’s blind it.” Selak replied, grabbing a spray paint can and a long thin nozzle from his jacket, and fastening them together. Carefully, Selak squeezed the trigger, spraying an arc of green paint over the machine’s electronic eye.

Torva removed the gauntlet of his exo-suit and waved the empty metal arm in front of the egress. No more bolts came out. “It is disabled.” Torva replied, reattaching his glove.

Cautiously, Selak shined his flashlight over the entryway. “You see any other traps?”

“Negative.” Torva answered, as he approached the crossbow. “Exquisite work.” He muttered.

“I like how ‘exquisite’ for you, doesn’t preclude ‘deadly.” Selak replied, running his hands along the metal walls.

“It is good that we did not use grenades.”

“Why? You want to take it home with us?”

“No.” Torva answered, “This device was only able to work because it has spent much of the past decade in darkness. A month out in the desert, or an hour out in a sandstorm, would render it inoperable.”

“So why was it good that we didn’t use grenades?”

“These power cells,” Torva said, tapping two yellow and black squares with his metallic forefinger, “are what kept this system functional for so long. They are Myroran military technology. Exceedingly rare. If disrupted by an attack of sufficient force, they would create an explosion powerful enough to destroy this room, possibly even this cavern.”

“And they decided to attach these to their defensive formation without any sort of protection?”

“Perhaps they anticipated an attack by an opponent who did have grenades.”

“Oh…”

“This was most likely an off-site storage facility.” Torva said, as much to himself as to Selak. “The hidden entrance and defensive machinery would be intended to keep out raiders, as guards for such a far off facility would be unfeasible.”

“But why here?”

“Field testing of Alarus’s mutants must have taken place in the area. This was most likely a facility for holding them and experimenting on them pre and post battle.”

“Would they still be here?”

“Unlikely.” Torva replied, “The mutants used for battle were too valuable to be left to rot and too dangerous to leave to their own devices.”

“So how does this thing differentiate friend from foe?”

“On its own, this device would be incapable of doing.” Torva replied pointing to the half-melted mechanism beside the door. “If a member of the Myroran high command were to have come here, they would have needed a transmitter to ensure their safe entry.”

“Press a button. Open the stone door. Disarm the crossbow.”

“Yes.” Torva nodded, “Although…”

“Something the matter?”

“This crossbow appears to be a recent addition, the security system most likely originally used a firearm.”

“Which leaves us with three options.” Selak replied, “Option one: The scientists here got bored one day, and decided to see if the motion tracker would work with different long-range weapons.” “Unlikely.” Torva replied, “The scientists who worked here were corrupt, but not stupid. Tampering with defensive equipment would have been tantamount to risking their own lives in an attack.”

“Option two. The gun was damaged in a raid, and they replaced it with a crossbow for whatever reason. ”

“Possible, although there is no reason that they would not have replaced the old weapon with a similar one.”

“Which brings us to option three.” Selak said, “Which judging from the lack of bullet holes in these walls, I like best. The gun failed due to mechanical issues over the years. Eventually someone found the weapon and replaced it because they wanted to use this place as their new hideout.”

Torva searched the room. “That would appear to be most likely.”

“You do know what that means?” Selak asked, reaching for his pistol.

“Yes,” Torva replied, “It means we may not be alone.”

Part 4

If you’re of the mind to dig, there’s a world buried beneath Durante. When the first shots of the war echoed over the sands, many of the desert’s denizens fled. Some ran off to the southern shores, and began new lives as fishermen. Others headed north to try their hands tilling the fertile plains. But there were a few who took a different approach; they fled downward.

Lying underneath many towns in Durante is a spiderweb of catacombs. During the war, these undercities had a thousand uses, housing black markets, hiding families, and allowing rebel soldiers to outmaneuver and escape their opponents.

Most of the tunnels have been preserved since the war. Many homeowners enjoy having a secret room beneath their cellar.

And of course, there are the rumored-few, who liked their subterranean home so much, that they chose to never return to the surface.

***

The metal catacombs echoed with each step the pair took further into the lab.

“I guess the stealth approach is out of the question.” Selak shrugged,

“Stealth has never been my strong suit.” Torva replied, as he examined the scratch marks on the walls.

“That’s okay,” Selak replied, “I’ll just be sure to hide behind you if they jump out and shoot at us.”

“That is hardly shark behavior,” Torva observed, “Would it not make more sense for you to charge ahead, so that I could use your corpse as a shield when you die, as my patron animal would suggest.”

“Only if you’re comfortable living in my corpse after this is over.”

“I doubt that I would…” Torva paused in mid-sentence, and knelt down.

“Something wrong?”

“This floor is made of iron.” Torva observed, rapping his knuckles against a section of the floor with four inch-long scratches, “And these gouges were not made by a machine.”

“A wild animal?” Selak suggested.

“Nothing natural could have done this,” Torva replied as he rose to his feet,

“Could a mutant do something like this?”

“If the stories are to be believed, Alarus’s mutants were capable of far stranger things.”

“There are bullet holes in the wall,” Selak said, “You think there was a battle in this hallway?”

“That would seem to be the case,” Torva nodded, “We should continue.”

Less than a minute later, the hallway came to an abrupt end, with a stone staircase leading upwards into the darkness.

“It seems we have reached the base of the tower.”

“Well, let’s get climbing.” Selak replied, walking up the stairs.

The two walked up the concrete steps. Selak listened closely after each step, trying to listen for any telltale signs that the stairs might come crashing down beneath him and his partner. About five steps before the next level, the artist held up a hand, “Hey Torva, you smell something.”

The scientist shook his head, “I do not. What do you smell?””

Selak sniffed the air, “Do you know what hibiscus is?”

“I am familiar with the flower,” Torva responded, “Not with its smell.”

“It smells like that… and…. and sweat.”

Torva shrugged, as the two arrived at the first floor. The pair shined flashlights over the room.

“Holy lord…” Selak muttered as he stared at his surroundings. The room was three-stories tall and looked to be made of iron and stone. Stacked three-high in a dozen rows in front of him was over a hundred prison-cells, with catwalks running back and forth between them.

Selak shivered. Torva turned to his partner. “Are you well, Selak?”

“I’m fine,” Selak said, as he began walking, “Let’s just keep moving, it’s freezing in here.”

There was not much to see in each cell. Nothing more than a cot for sleeping and a large bucket for excrement.

“Strange…” Torva said, as he peered into the nearest of the cell, “All of these cells appear to have been used, but there are different accommodations for different subjects. Perhaps another experiment?”

“I doubt it.” Selak replied, testing the lock on the nearest door. It swung open with a shrill squeak.

“Oh?”

“You’re thinking too much like a scientist, Torva, and not enough like a warden. These weren’t subjects, they were prisoners.”

“Why would that-“

“If you’re in charge of prisoners –” Selak interrupted, running his hands along the bars, “If you keep people in cages for a living, what is the one thing you fear most?”

“Those people breaking out.” Torva surmised, kicking a loose screw into the darkness, “Those people putting you in a cage of your own.”

“An uprising.” Selak concluded.

“And the distribution of blankets prevents an uprising?”

“In order to rebel against a more powerful foe, you need two things: numbers and unity. Historically prisoners have always had the former. It’s just not practical to have an equal number of guards and prisoners.”

“So they take away their unity?” Torva asked, ducking under a low-hanging catwalk.

“That’s where the blankets come in.” Selak explained, “In any group of people, there are gonna be the popular ones. The ones who everyone likes. The ones who could inspire a rebellion.”

“And you take away their blankets?”

“No,” Selak replied, “Those are the people you give blankets to.”

“I do not follow…”

“Imagine you’re a prisoner, and you see that the man in the cell next to you just got a nice warm blanket. What’s the first thing you ask?”

Torva paused, “I would ask “Why?””

“Exactly. Why are they getting special treatment? Are they secretly working with the warden? Can I trust them?”

“Preventing a rebellion with a few square yards of wool.” Torva concluded.

“And that’s just the start of what guards can do with blankets. Give them to obedient prisoners on a cold night. Take them all away as a form of mass punishment if one person starts stirring up trouble…”

“Where did you learn so much about managing prisoners?”

“I…” Selak coughed, “I’ve had a few friends who’ve done their time behind bars.”

“You would think that prisoners would learn that they are being manipulated.”

“Easier said than done,” Selak replied, “To have an uprising you don’t just need one person to go against their nature, but dozens, maybe even hundreds.”

“A mental revolution.” Torva agreed, as the two came across a steel door at the far end of the room.

“Hey, Torva,” Selak shouted, pointing at the walls – which were lined with steel fans, “Is there any reason they’d need to keep this room cold?” What’s with all the air conditioners?”

Torva shook his head, “I have no idea. Perhaps they kept these rooms freezing to improve their use of blanket tactics.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“What name would you suggest?”

“Blanket tactics sounds a little too whimsical for my tastes.” Selak replied, “I’d call it what it is: torture.”

The pair arrived at a set of double doors on the opposite side of the room.

“No lock,” Selak observed as he pulled open the door.

The next room was also three-stories high, and looked to be an infirmary. Rows of cots lined the walls, with medical devices lying next to them. Everything else seemed to be made of bare metal: The walls, the floor, the cabinets that covered the far wall.

“Looks like they expected to have a ton of wounded.”

Torva shook his head, “These beds are not equipped for emergency care. And if one truly harbored concerns about the safety of the injured they would not put their infirmary so far from the entrance. This was where they gave the mutants their treatment.”

“Treatment?”

“Most mutants are unstable. The genome is a tool for gods, not man. Most mutants required significant medical care in order to survive from battle to battle. Alarus considered it a small price to pay.”

“This woman keeps sounding better and better.” Selak mumbled, wrenching open one of the cabinets. “You think you can do anything with this stuff.”

Torva looked over the contents of the cabinet. “Antibiotics…” he mused, “Blood thinners… bandages… “Torva grinned, “We’re in luck. Not only should we be able to refill the Whale’s infirmary, but we will have a surplus to sell at the next trading post.”

“Looks like the hounds will be eating pretty well for the next couple weeks.”

“Why? Did you see something that would get you off of cooking duty?”

“That’s cold, Torva.”

The scientist laughed, as the two approached the door at the far side of the room. “Wait a minute…” Selak stopped dead.

“What is it?”

“Those prison cells, they were made of iron… just like the floor.”

“Yes,” Torva replied, “Why… oh dear…”

“If a mutant could tear through the floor, why couldn’t he pry apart his cell?”

The two scrap hounds exchanged glances.

“Something is not right.” Torva murmured.

Selak nodded as he opened the final door. A staff kitchen with a large wooden table in the center. In front of each of the dozen place settings was a black metallic box.

“Audio logs.” Torva said, picking up the closest one in his hands. “Numbered one through twelve.”

“Looks like there’s a story here after all.” Selak said

“Not only that,” Torva replied, “But someone here wanted the story to be known.”

“Well then,” Selak replied, leaning against the nearest chair, “How about you and I oblige them.”

Part 5

If you’re of the mind to care, there is a desperation in the Durante Desert. The ceasefire brought an end to the war, but it was only the beginning of the true struggle. For some, every day is a fight to survive. Farmers hack away at the dirt, trying to raise a profitable crop. Junkers search through piles of wreckage hoping to find something to sell. Architects throw structures together praying that they’ll survive the next sandstorm. Some have called life in the Durante desert a constant sprint to stay ahead of the next disaster: A marathon that may never have an end.

---

“Status report: Day 16.” The recorder on the metal table buzzed, “This is Senior Researcher Richard Parvus. Yesterday, Dr. Alarus returned to Myrora to continue work on Centurion III. As of today, I am the director of all operations here at Site 14 and all further status reports shall come from me. Our current priority for all personnel is ensuring the total obedience of subjects. In addition to usual mass humanoid containment protocol, we are using both subliminal and explicit instruction to convince them that they cannot survive in sunlight without regular injections of Pherendalin. We are also using pheromone therapy to aid in containment. The entirety of the prison is filled with pheromone mixture 21-B-epsilon, which dulls the strength and mental fortitude of our subject population.

Field testing will be scheduled when have ensured complete control of our prisoners. Nothing further to report.”

“Disgusting,” Torva hissed, his hands clenched around the steel table.

“Do you have any idea what happened to this asshole?”

Torva shook his head, “His name is unfamiliar to me.”

“Is there any news on what happened to Alarus’s aides after the war?”

“Only rumors.” Torva replied, “It is impossible to separate fact from fiction.”

“What do you believe?”

“I believe that Alarus’s aides were removed from public record and transferred to other projects by the Myroran government. Myrora would not let valuable assets rot in prison or be taken by the enemy.”

“Amazing…” Selak mumbled as he reached to press the play button on the next tape. “Wait a sec,” He drew his hands back. “Pheromones… those are released from sweat right?”

“In many cases, yes.”

“Could that be why this place smells like sweat? Artificial pheromones?”

Torva scratched his chin. Or at least approximated the gesture through his exo-suit. “That would make sense. It would also explain the excess of ventilation in the prison room.”

“Just a thought.” Selak shrugged as he pressed play on the second recorder.

“Status report: Day 29.” Parvus’s voice droned, “This is Director Richard Parvus. Another pair of mutants died today. The fault rests solely with Dr. Bakir, who prescribed insulin at the average level needed for a homo Sapien, not a homo Servus. I have informed him that a similar mistake will result in him sleeping with the mutants.” Parvus laughed before continuing.

“We have lost 7 percent of our mutants since our arrival at Site 14. I have decided to accelerate the schedule for field testing. Our first operation will not be conducted in ten days, as was previously scheduled, but in three. We will also be using forty mutants instead of twenty. That is all.”

Selak and Torva looked at each other. A bead of cold sweat rolled down the artist’s forehead.

“We do not have to continue,” Torva intoned.

“Someone set this up for us,” Selak gestured at the table, “Maybe not us specifically, but someone wanted their story known. We have an obligation to listen.”

“Very well.” Torva replied, pressing play on the next recorder.

“Status report: Day 34. This is Director Richard Parvus. All subjects have been returned to their cells. Confirmed Sidean casualties: 436. Confirmed subject casualties: 22. Field testing indicates that our mutants’ lack of ranged weaponry was a hindrance on the battlefield. However, as-expected, hormonal injections did insure the complete obedience of subjects. Our next testing date is set for a week from now, we will use 60 mutants on the battlefield. That is all.”

“Hey Torva, not sure if this is outside of your expertise…” Selak turned to his partner.

“Yes?”

“How the hell do you control someone with injections?”

Torva cleared his throat, “There are certain brain states that can be induced with the right combination of hormones and neuromodulators. If one had been mutated or conditioned to have one of those brain states associated with complete obedience, then it would be possible to use hormones as a form of mind control.”

“Injectable obedience…” Selak mused, “And just when I thought these bastards couldn’t sink any lower.”

“They would most likely have needed some sort of pheromone failsafe to prevent the mutants from taking orders from the enemy. Possibly there was--”

“I know I brought it up,” Selak interrupted, with a shiver, “but is it okay if we end this conversation?”

Torva nodded, and reached for the next audio log.

“Status report: Day 42. This is director Richard Parvus. Our latest field expedition was an overwhelming success. Confirmed Sidean Casualties: 286. Confirmed Subject casualties: Merely 8. Unfortunately, a new problem has arisen. Some of our subjects appear to be developing a resistance to pherendalin. This has led to six of our mutants developing severe UV burns on the battlefield. We will increase dosage, from 20 ccs to 25 for those showing signs of acquired immunity.

I have consulted with command and they are interested in a more aggressive pace of field testing. Recent reports have come in of a Sidean Motor Pool, 60 kilometers to our north. In three days’ time we will deploy 80 mutants to that base. If the ensuing massacre doesn’t convince command we’re deserving of more funding, nothing will.”

Torva and Selak looked at each other.

“Funding?” Selak hissed, slamming his fist into the table.

Torva took a step back involuntarily.

“Winning a war? I get it.” Selak said, pacing back and forth, “Advancing science? I get it. But just earning funding!? I can’t fucking believe—" Selak’s words were interrupted by the sound of pounding coming from the wall next to him, “What the hell was that?”

“Machinery?” Torva suggested.

“Why would it still be running?” Selak asked.

“Perhaps they left more equipment than just their defenses running on advanced batteries”

“Perhaps…” Selak said, “But the war ended—what a decade ago? Did they just forget about this place?”

“If these logs are anything to go by, then this seems to be a place well worth forgetting.” Torva tapped the play button on the next recorder.

“Status Report Day 45. This is Director Richard Parvus. We deployed seventy-six of our mutants to the field today, along with twenty-eight of our guards and scientists. We are currently running on a skeleton crew of scientists. I remained behind to supervise experimentation of the seven mutants who were deemed unfit for battle.

Unfortunately, due to being understaffed, we were unable to stop Subject 44 from escaping before her third injection of Nafaltin. Subject 44 broke from her restraints and self-terminated by throwing herself into the metal gears of the ventilation machinery. As a result…” Dr. Parvus paused,” Oh… shit.” The doctor nearly screamed, his voice notably higher “The vents are down, that means…” A crash sounded on the recording.

A second voice – a man’s - rang out on the recording, “Forget something, Dick?”

“Stand back!” Parvus shouted,

“Or what?” The second voice asked, “Richie, I’ve watched dozens of my brothers and sisters die slowly and painfully at your orders. So for the sake of science, I think it would be best if you experience that—”

A gun shot rang out on the recording, and then a sound like a body being thrown to the floor. A second later a crack sounded – the unmistakable sound of a bone breaking- and then another- and then another. An agonizing minute later the screaming stopped. Followed by the sound of someone standing up.

“Is this thing still recording?” The second man said, “Did this guy honestly do daily monologues... How did he end them? There was a few second pause on the recording. “Uh…. That’s all folks.”

Torva and Selak stared at each other in silence.

Simultaneously, they reached for the next play button.

“Status Report,” The voice of the man from the last recording began, “Day uh… yesterday plus one. This is Markov Karazden.” Markov paused. “Uh… Updates: Richard Parvus is dead. Seeing as this is a science report, I would like you to know that, according to the very scientific experiment I conducted yesterday, he lasted nearly a dozen bone breakings before dying.”

“For those wondering how this miraculous escape occurred, well there’s only one person to thank. Melanie knew that she was dying -- only had a couple of days left. Yesterday she broke free during testing and jumped into the vents. She – her body – clogged up the machinery. Since our blood has the vish- visco- stickiness of resin, they weren’t able to clean out the machine fast enough. Without the vents they didn’t have the damn pheromones to keep us contained. Tomorrow night, they’ll be bringing our brothers and sisters back in groups of about a dozen at a time. They’re expecting that this place will still be run by Parvus. Oh boy, do we have a surprise in store for them.

The recording clicked and the two scrap hounds stared at each other.

“An uprising.” Torva not-quite chuckled. “Blanket tactics appear to have been insufficient after all.”

“You think this is funny?” Selak asked,

“Funny? No.” Torva replied, “But it is fitting.”

“Fitting?”

“After all he has done, do you truly believe that Richard Parvus deserved to go gentle into the good night? That he deserved anything less than what he received?”

“What he deserved was to learn the error of his ways and try to amend them.” Selak responded. “His mutilated corpse doesn’t serve any purpose?”

“And how would you ‘show him the error of his ways,’ Torva asked, “Mind-Control Hormones of your own?”

“Torturing people to death isn’t something we should be cheering on.” Selak replied, “Violence just begets more violence.”

“Said the ex-mercenary.”

“Said the human being.” Selak corrected.

“That is even less of an argument.” Torva responded, “I have spent years watching humans kill each other over minor slights and insults. This is perhaps the most just killing I have ever witnessed.”

“Saying that it’s the ‘most just killing’ is like saying that you’ve seen ‘the smartest buzzard’ or ‘the strongest housefly.’ A killing being more just than usual doesn’t suddenly make it justice.”

“So you would prefer Parvus to be alive?”

“No,” Selak shook his head, “I just wish things could have been different.”

“Things are as they are, Selak.” Torva replied, “Now shall we listen to the next recording.”

“Please.”

Torva tapped the play button.

“Status report day 1.” Markov’s voice rang out, “Yes, we restarted the calendar. The battle for research facility 14 is over. Confirmed shithead deaths: 29. Confirmed mutant deaths: 2. Damn, I went ahead and spoiled the ending. So sorry, let me set the scene.

The scientists and guards were coming back from the Sidean motor pool. There had been a massacre there, a ton of vehicles and equipment stolen. They even managed to lift a few crates of champagne for the lab. I don’t know why there was champagne at the motor pool… is champagne something people keep at military bases… whatever… probably not important. Anyway, they figured this was their big break; three ‘victories’ couldn’t be a coincidence. They figured a grant – you know, money for scientific research - was coming that would make them all filthy rich… oh yeah, and it would help their research, but I think we all know where their priorities were lying.

Anyway, they had already started drinking the champagne when they walked the first group of mutants back, and you could tell that they were hurrying things along. Ten guards and scientists escorted the first group of fifteen mutants in. They’re so busy talking and hi-fiving that they don’t notice how faint the smell of pheromones was. They only realize what’s going on when we jumped on them from above. We went straight for arteries and vein just like they had taught us. A few managed to grab their guns, but let’s face it, they designed us too well. Two bullets hit me in the solar plexus and I didn’t even feel it.

Maybe twenty minutes later another group of guards came in, this time without any mutants, I could tell they were worried. One of them had even ripped the big-ass gun off of the security device they have behind the stone door. If we had had more time, I would have loved to have cleaned up all the blood, but we didn’t have that so the second they walked into the room, they saw the bodies of their comrades, and then we shot them before they could run screaming back.

We weighed our options after that. We could either wait to see if any more of them would walk in, or we could head out to where the rest of our brothers were being kept outside. Alicia had the bright idea to put on the clothing of some of the guards, before we left the building. It worked out well enough. We were able to get the jump on the last few scientists, and escort the rest of our brothers inside before sunrise.

There are 58 of us remaining. Tomorrow we’re going to make plans for how to free the rest of the prisoners across Myrora.”

The recording ended.

The pounding in the room next door resumed, louder than before. The two looked at each other.

Selak turned to his partner, “You sure you’ve never heard of this place?” He shouted over the din.

“I have not.’ Torva replied, “Though there is another possibility.”

The pounding stopped.

Selak shrugged, trying to look more casual than he felt, “Go on.”

“Earlier I told you the story of Alarus.” Torva continued.

“But she wasn’t here. At least not during the uprising.”

“What if the two stories-- Alarus’s death and the prison break - have become conflated over time?”

“It’s possible,” Selak scratched his chin, “But then we have to acknowledge another possibility.”

“Which is?”

“That Alarus is still out there somewhere.”

Torva shivered, “I pray, for the world’s sake, that that is not the case.”

A silence descended, as the two looked at each other.

“Shall we go on?” Selak asked, gesturing towards the next recording.

“Please.” Torva replied. Selak nodded and pushed the button.

“Day 3. Markov Karazden. You know the drill. Yesterday we took it upon ourselves to clean up the bodies. All of us know damn well what happens to those who hang around rotting corpses. We burned the lot in the incinerator and mopped up the blood. We then proceeded to celebrate, seeing as the doctors were kind enough to supply us with shitloads of champagne before their passing.”

Markov sighed. “We have a problem though. Because of my medical training, I’ve been put in charge of inventory. It doesn’t look good. In fact, it looks like the reason the reason the doctors were sending us out to fight so much was that they were running low on medical supplies.”

Markov sighed again. “We don’t have enough to last us the month.

The other problem is Pherendalin – which is spelled with a P-H, by the way. Pherendalin is a chemical compound with a unique folding… you know what, I won’t bore you with details. It’s an injection, and we need it if we want to step out of the compound without being cooked alive by the sun. They gave it to us every time we left the base, and now it looks like it’s losing its effectiveness. Even if it was at full strength, there’s not nearly enough for us to all leave together. We’re looking into jury-rigging some exo-suits for some of our more resistant brothers, but those aren’t exactly easy to make.

Honestly, even without the guards, this place might still be our prison.”

Selak shook his head… “Goddammit…”

Torva reached a hand out. Selak batted it aside.

“God Fucking Dammit.” Selak hissed, “Why the hell would they do that. The scientists. We’re in a fucking desert. Why would you want troops that burn in the sunlight?

“It’s like you said earlier, Selak.” Torva replied, “The one thing all jailers fear is prisoners getting out of their cage. It makes sense to have a last resort—”

“And their government funded this? A project that would leave them broken for the rest of their lives? How can you be okay with this?”

“I am far from okay with this,” Torva growled and Selak flinched. “I am merely inured to the horrors.”

“You…”

“Believe me, If I had had the chance, I would have been happy to kill Alarus and all her ilk with my own hands. If the Rebels had ever managed to eke out a victory on Myroran soil, I would have been happy to go there, hammer in hand for the chance of breaking the bodies of anyone who has abused science for an atrocity like this!”

“Torva…”

“I understand why the rebels accepted the terms of the ceasefire, but every day there is a part of me that wishes they had not.”

“You wish that we’d attacked Myrora!? Do you have any idea-- ”

“You have travelled with me for less six months, Selak.” Torva interrupted, “Do not presume to understand my reasons.”

“I’m sorry,” Selak said, stunned “I--

“I accept your apology,” Torva interrupted, “Please play the next log.”

Day 7, Markov said in a defeated tone, “There was… another fight today. It was worse than yesterday’s. Christine… dammit… she killed Kaine, bashed his skull against a wall.

I… We don’t know what to do with her. Some of us suggested killing her, but I’m not willing to institute capital punishment. Others suggested locking her in a cell, but unless we use the doctors’ pheromones it’s not gonna keep her in.

It wasn’t her fault. Not entirely. We were designed to be aggressive, and without any sort of balances we’re slipping. We’re losing our minds. All of us. Little things are making me angry, and I know I’m not the only one. If we don’t come up with a plan soon, we’re gonna end up killing each other.

Some of my brothers are suggesting we take as much pherendalin as we can, and see if we can make it to the Myroran border. ‘A few massacres’ they say, ‘and they’ll never mess with mutants again.’ I told them absolutely not. I’m not going to have the blood of children on my hands, Myroran or otherwise. We need to maintain control. We are more than living weapons”

The recording clicked off.

Torva turned to his partner, “I should not have yelled at you.” He said somberly.

“I understand.” Selak said, “But thank you.”

Torva tilted his head to the side. “This may be the ultimate test of our earlier conversation.”

“How do you figure?”

“The nature of these people is clear. To kill without end. Now, they have to choose, to rise above it or to give in.”

“I don’t see this as a contest.”

“How you see it is irrelevant.” Torva said, “What matters is how it is.” Torva clicked play on the next recorder.

“Day 8,” Markov’s voice crackled, it sounded almost as if he were crying, “Christine’s dead… she… she shoved a metal pipe into her heart. I tried to give her a second chance, told her that we would trust her, but the others… they wouldn’t stop giving her shit about Derek… I mean, I know she killed him but...”

Markov sniffled, “I guess it doesn’t matter now. We need to get out of here, there’s no other way. The others and I have been through our supplies. Food is no concern of ours, as a result of our “condition.” Markov spat the word like a curse, “But our medical needs can’t be met forever. There’s not enough pherendalin for us to leave, but there is enough to stock an away party. We’re going to draw lots tomorrow for eight of us. There’s enough Pherendalin to last them each three weeks, more if they’re able to find caves to hide in during the day.” Selak reached for the next recorder, but Torva grabbed his wrist.

“What the hell?” Selak asked, jerking his hand free.

“I’m curious,” Torva asked, “What would you have done with Christine?”

“The murderer?”

“Yes, would you have allowed her to go free or would you have done something else.”

“I’d have killed her,” Selak sighed.

“Why the sudden change of—“

“It’s not a change of heart.” Selak replied, “It’s a change of situations. Us junkers, we’re privileged. If a fight breaks out between us and a rival team, we don’t have to end it with killing, we do have other options.”

“And what if it’s not a fight between the Scrap Hounds and another team. What if a Scrap Hound kills another Scrap Hound?”

“We’d have to look at the circumstances.” Selak said

“And you’d feel that way if you were the one that were killed.”

“I don’t know what you guys are going to make of my death,” Selak replied, “But I hope to God it never gets used as a reason to hurt others.”

“Fascinating,” Torva replied,

“Fascinating?” Selak asked, “What am I, a test subject?”

“Not everything has to be an experiment for me to find it fascinating.”

“Is that what my life philosophy is to you?” Selak asked, “An idle curiosity?”

“No.” Torva replied, “What’s curious to me is that you have managed to survive so many combat encounters with such a philosophy.”

“Not everyone wants to kill, Tor.” Selak said, “Some people will take any opportunity to avoid killing. They’ll make a deal with anyone to have one less face staring back at them when they close their eyes.”

“Is that what you see when you close your eyes?”

“Just play the damn tape.”

Torva nodded and pressed the play button on the penultimate recorder.

“Day 10. This morning everyone wrote their name on a scrap of paper and we threw them all into a bucket. We shook it up and drew eight names. Sylvia, Raith, Colin, Esther, Jacob, Noah, Nina, and Reggie were chosen as our team. They left this afternoon. Markov sighed. Some people wanted to draw it out, to throw them a goodbye party. But let’s face it, if we waited any longer we wouldn’t have been able to send them away.

Their departure was emotional anyway. Esther was sobbing when I hugged her goodbye. I told her that I would see her again, but deep down, I don’t know if that’s true.

And then, before they could even walk out the door. Another fight broke out. I don’t even know what the cause was, but it was ten times more violent than the one a few days ago. Three more of us were killed. Nobody from the away team. Thank God, I don’t think we can draw any more lots. I don’t know what to do. I’m not going to force martial law on my own people. My brothers and sisters…” A sound rang out like Markov punching a wall.

“God Fucking DAMNIT! When we sealed the entrance – replaced the turret with that electric crossbow, I thought it would keep us safe. But it won’t... I don’t think anything will.” The recorder clicked off.

“Before we go on,” Torva said, “I thought I should tell you something.”

“What’s that?”

“Selak, you said a few minutes ago that you hoped that no one uses your death as an excuse to kill someone.”

“Yeah?” Selak replied, “Is that so weird?”

“I will not honor that request.” Torva said, “If someone kills you, I will kill them. I will break their body with my hammer, slowly and painfully, until they at last exsanguinate.”

“You wouldn’t honor my last request?”

“The desires of the dead should not outweigh those of the living. As such, your desire for me to show mercy will not trump my desire to not live in the same world as your killer.”

“It’s more than honoring my last request.”

“How so?”

“If I die, and you guys go on a roaring rampage of revenge, we’re gonna need someone who keeps the Hounds from becoming a full-on mercenary outfit. And that someone’s gonna have to be you.”

“You think I would be a good choice for that?”

“Good? Hell no,” Selak grinned, “Best… probably. But don’t worry about it. I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.”

“No one ever does.” Torva replied, as he pressed down on the final play button.

“Day 17.” Markov gasped. “I am leaving this message with claws covered in blood. I’m pacing through the halls of this prison, praying that I’m not alone, praying that just one of my brothers or sisters survived that fight. I’ve been dragging bodies to the incinerator, washing away the blood stains as if removing the evidence will make them all come back. That last fight… it wasn’t even intentional. Kylie stepped on Sam’s foot. That was all it took. We’re powder kegs. FUCKING POWDER KEGS!!!!”

Markov took a few deep breaths “Sorry… I can feel myself slipping. I’ve burned the last of the bodies, washed away the last bits of my brothers’ blood. But I’m still searching. Praying.

Every time I turn a corner, I see ghosts, my brothers, my sisters, the scientists, the soldiers, my family, my classmates, the people I killed, all of them screaming at me, sobbing, wailing in agony…

It’s too much.

I’m locking myself in the inner sanctum. I’ll take the books, the supplies, and a healthy dose of sedatives to keep my aggression in check. Maybe there’s a cure for our condition. I don’t need to eat; as long as I can inject myself with those hypernutritional supplements I should be able to last for years. I’ll last for as long as it takes to find the cure for our condition. I WILL see the sun again. No matter how long it takes.

Before I lock myself in, I’m leaving some recording on the table in the meeting room. This one and ten others. Mostly mine, but a few of the asshole’s as well. I’ve labeled them 1 through eleven.

Come to think of it, if you’re hearing this than you probably know all that by now.” Markov gave a weak laugh, “Well that’s how the recorders got there, whoever you are.

You know, I suppose I should give you a message, if I’m not there to greet you in person.

If you’re a member of the away team, coming back after days, weeks, maybe even yeas. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, that more of us couldn’t survive. But I want you to know that from the bottom of my heart I am happy that you did.

If you’re a member of the FUCKING MYRORAN GOVERNMENT.” Markov caught his breath before continuing, “I hope the atrocities committed here have made you realize…” Markov gasped, “Made you realize how horrific mutating human beings truly is. I know how important the war is to you, but if you continue down this road, there will be a day of reckoning. Someday there will be an uprising that you can’t contain. And when that day comes, there will be hell to pay. Stick to non-living weapons.”

Markov sighed,” I suppose there’s a possibility that you’re just a stranger. A man who wandered into a secret lab, or a Sidean raiding an enemy facility. I’m sorry, I’m not here to greet you, but I implore you to learn the lesson of what happened here.

PEOPLE… AREN’T… WEAPONS.”

The recorder clicked off and the two Scrap Hounds eyed each other in silence.

“Lord…” Selak said, after a couple of seconds, “I can’t believe it...”

“It’s—” Torva’s words were drowned out as the pounding resumed in the next room, louder and more insistent than before. Selak’s mouth fell open as the realization dawned.

“Torva?” Selak asked rising to his feet, “Is what he said possible? About not needing food?”

“Theoretically, yes,” Torva replied, “Although it would not be pleasant.” Torva paused, “You don’t think…”

Selak nodded, as he reached for his pistol, “What if that’s not a machine that’s making that noise.”

Part 6

If you’re of the mind to feel, the Durante Desert is a wounded land. The war cut a bloody swath across the landscape and the people of Durante, leaving a scar that may never truly heal. For three decades, blood and fire poured over this land; culture, landmarks, and scientific advancements, were all destroyed in a mad quest for victory.

Hate burns in this land as brightly as the sun above. For some, the anger is concealed: The shopkeeper whose price raises by the slightest of margins whenever a Myroran enters his store. For others the anger is a badge, proudly worn: The veteran who sits at the Sidean border, sharpening his knife, and waiting for the day the ceasefire wavers.

***

The artist and the scientist stood on opposite sides of the steel door that led into the lab’s final room. Selak held a pistol in one hand and checked the door’s handle with the other. “Unlocked,” Selak half-whispered, “He’s not sealed in there.”

Torva nodded as he flicked the switch on his electrode hammer. An instant later it’s metal tip crackled with electricity that made the hairs on Selak’s arm stand on end.

“Okay, Torva,” Selak hissed over the sound of crashing on the opposite side of the door, “No matter what state he’s in, we should try and talk things out first. There’s no need to spill any more blood here.”

“I am ready to negotiate if he is mentally stable.” Torva replied, “Are you ready to fight if he is not?”

Selak sighed.

“Are you?” Torva repeated.

“Yes, Torva,” Selak said, “I am.”

“Good,” Torva replied, “If I make contact with my hammer, he should be stunned. It will not last long, but while his muscles are seizing, you will have time to shoot him in the head. Any other bullet wound will not be able to stop him! Do not attempt an incapacitating shot!”

“I know!” Selak grimaced.

“Good.” Torva answered, “Then let’s go in.”

Selak nodded and pushed open the door. The second his hand made contact, the metal clanging on the other end stopped. In silence, the two Scrap Hounds entered the next room.

It was a chemical lab, or at least it looked like it had been one once. The dilapidated shelves clinging to the walls were covered in beakers and broken glass. Textbooks, their covers and pages shredded. Torva eyed a few of the stray pages with interest.

“Think we could put off reading till later?” Selak asked, “Maybe a time when we’re not in danger?”

Torva nodded, as the two walked into an adjoining hallway. At the far end of the hallway was a man-sized scientific instrument, with three of the batteries they had seen at the entrance attached to it. Selak looked at the machine, and tilted his head to the side.

“So what does this—” Selak jumped, back as the machine sprung to life, releasing a flurry of sparks into the air as its metal innards ground together filling the hallway with the pounding drumbeat from before.

“It is an industrial-grade pestle.” Torva shouted over the din, “It is used for crushing medicines that are stored as minerals, but administered as powders!”

“So this is what’s been making the pounding?” Selak shouted back.

“It would seem so,” Torva replied as the two rounded a corner, “But if that is the case then where is—” Torva stopped midsentence.

“Well…” Selak cleared his throat… “Fuck…”

The man was shirtless, exposing his grey skin under the dull fluorescent lights. He was propped up against the wall, a recorder in one hand and a pistol in the other. His shoulder-length greying hair did little to conceal the olive-sized hole in his head, a wound filled with a grey-black mixture of dried blood and congealed brain.

Torva knelt down beside him.

“How long has he been like this?” Selak asked.

Torva shook his head, “Difficult to say given his mutations. Several years at a minimum.”

Selak reached for the recorder in Markov’s hands and rested his finger on the play button. He glanced at Torva, who nodded solemnly.

If you’re listening to this… well… If you’re listening to this than I guess you can see for yourself what’s happened. Markov’s voice was raspy and far weaker than before, as if every word was a challenge for him to force out, I… I found a cure for the Pherendalin problem. I’ve developed an injection to make my body fold proteins differently. I’d essentially be able to produce Pherendalin naturally. I’d need semi-regular injections, but I’d be able to make a lifetime’s supply with just the materials in the lab.

I’d be cured… Markov let out a soft sob.

But I know that I can’t do that. I know what I’m like unsedated. My anger isn’t a flame in my chest anymore; it’s a wildfire, uncontrollable and deadly. I wouldn’t be able to return to polite society. I wouldn’t be able to return anywhere.

Markov cleared his throat. I am done fighting the inevitable. Out of the corner of my eyes, I still see my brothers and sisters, but they are no longer angry. They are calling me home.

I realize that these are my last words. Another sob escaped from Markov, “So I guess… I guess I should make it count.” A weak chuckle. “I remember back – was it weeks? Months? Maybe even years ago, when Regis suggested we take what was left of the Pherendalin and go on a killing rampage. Get to the border and kill as many Myrorans as we could before the sun cooked us alive. Markov let out a wet hacking cough.

I don’t regret telling him no. And I hate the Myrorans. I hate them so damn much. But more than anything else…

I hate the war. I hate what it made this broken world into. An orgy of blood and violence.

Whoever you are. Thank you for listening to my story. The story of my brothers. Do not let it die here. Let it be free. This war is a cancer on the land. Do not take part in it. Bring it to an end. Markov let out a weak chuckle and flicked off the pistol’s safety. I guess that’s all I have to say. It’s time for me to move on to the next life. I hope that when I get there, I’ll get to see the sun again. Or, at the very least, I hope that it’s warm.

The recorder clicked off, Selak and Torva glanced at each other.

“What now?” Torva asked.

“Now,” Selak sighed, “Now, I think it’s time to head home.”

***

It took the artist and the scientist nearly a dozen trips to get everything they needed from the tower. Together they sorted through the medical supplies, dragged out the most functional machines and batteries, sorted through the remnants of the textbooks, and pried as many armloads of iron bars as they could from the prison cells.

The prison incinerator was broken beyond repair. So as Torva removed the last of its functional parts, Selak returned to Markov’s body and carried him away from the lab. The emaciated corpse was uncomfortably light in the artist’s arms as he walked out of the cave into the desert night.

As Torva sealed away the last of the supplies in the Land Whale’s storage, Selak found a rocky outcropping at the base of the mural he had been painting earlier, where he laid out pieces of dried wood, rubber, and strips of old bandages from the tower. He laid down Markov’s body, and sprinkled it with gasoline, before igniting a match and pressing it against his dried skin. It ignited instantly, the crimson flames illuminating the mural like a flare.

“Did the others approve your appropriation of the Whale’s gasoline?” Torva asked as he approached from behind.

“They can take it out of my next paycheck,” Selak replied, “Markov said he wanted to be warm, I think we should honor that.”

Torva nodded, and for a moment the two stared in silence at the crackling flames.

“You have been uncharacteristically quiet since we found him.” Torva observed.

“I thought you’d be celebrating.” Selak replied.

“I like to think that I am not as cold as the metal exo-suit lets on.”

Selak sighed, “It feels… hollow.”

“What does?”

“Tonight.” Selak said, “Everything we learned. The mutants broke free, they escaped their imprisonment, but still they all died. They never got to be free again. Even Markov, he kept his sanity all those weeks alone, even managed to find the cure. But then he killed himself for the benefit of people who will never know his sacrifice. ”

“What about the away party?” Torva suggested,

“It’s been years, Tor. If they ever came back they would have moved Markov’s body. They’re either dead or living in a cave somewhere in fear of the sun.”

Torva rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “There were good things about today.”

“Such as…?”

“The batteries we took will be useful to us for years to come.” Torva replied, “The medical supplies will save lives in every town we come across for the next month. The textbooks we salvaged will make worthy additions to the libraries in Dura. And that is to say nothing of the value of the scrap we took from the prison cells.”

Selak shook his head, “Forgive me if I still feel sad.”

“I would never hold that against you,” Torva replied, as he walked away from the pyre, “After all, it is your nature.”

---

If you’re of the mind to listen, there is a story in the Durante Desert. A tale of junkers and jailbirds, love and loss, brotherhood and blood. A story of a broken world and its denizens. A story of murder and manipulation, of greed and guilt, of hedonism and heartbreak. A story of those who gave their lives for causes greater than themselves and those who lost their lives for reasons they couldn’t comprehend. A story of exploration and exploitation.

A story as dark as the desert night.

But as bright as the sunrise that comes after.

Notes on the Scrap Hounds

As said in the opening, the world of the Scrap Hounds was a result of a five-part collaboration. The five of us (in alphabetical order) were Talia Loeb, Derek Mull, Karlo Panganiban, Miles Rodgers, and myself. I won’t try and piece together who is responsible for what or whose vision is most clearly represented.

Each of us created a character for the Scrap Hounds that we would take creative control over. Torva was designed by Miles Rodgers and Selak by myself. If you want to read up on how Torva met Selak and some of their early adventurers, let me know and I’ll see about asking Miles to let me put up a few of his stories on here.

I have a few extra short stories set in this world that I may put up just for the hell of it, but I should specify that they’re all 2-4 pages, nothing on the scale of The Tower.

Champagne – the bubbly wine – is referenced several times in the story. I went back and forth as to whether or not to change it since this story takes place in a world where the Champagne region of France never existed. I eventually decided that it wasn’t a linguistic rabbit hole worth going down. They drink Champagne in Durante. They also speak English. I offer neither excuse nor apology.

#tim carroll #fiction #short story #scrap hounds #prose

1 note · View note