#slight edit for colonialism

[feyburner]

This is part of a longer thing I may post on ao3 at some point but here’s some silly little Jaytim texting AU. I use this format as a writing warmup.

EDIT: This has been posted on AO3.

[Unknown] »

Hey. This is Jason. 

I have a favor to ask. You can say no.

« tim

uh

1. i’m aware of how favors work  

2. what is it?

« tim

?

« tim

hey are you like. good

J »

Yeah fine 

Sry. Rethinking this maybe

« tim

what, do you need a kidney or something?

i can’t give you a kidney.

i don’t have any organs to spare.

J »

What ? 

« tim

what’s the favor?

J »

I wouldn’t ask if it wasnt important

I’d ask Roy but hes in star city 

or Kori but shes off world

I tried dickhead but hes in haven. Cant get away tonight

« tim

yeah jason i get it lol

J »

So Im currently in the cargo hold of a private yacht

« tim

what >?

J »

We’re caught in the storm thats hitting the city its a whole thing. 

« tim

are you in the cargo hold of your own volition or did someone put you there

J »

So I dont think I can get back t

No its on purpose

« tim

hang on. you’re in gotham bay right now? in a boat?  

jason this storm is really bad.

it’s already sunk a houseboat and a fishing boat at the marina

J »

I dont think I can get back totown toni

Christ you type fast 

Shut up for a sec. Clam down

Clam*

*Calm fuck me

Thought I was gnna be back tonight but bc of storm its not looking great.

Can you feed my sourdough starter 

« tim

what

J »

4511 overhill apt 6D 

Key under the neighbors mat. 6H

« tim

hey to clarify. “its not looking great” ← what does that mean

J »

Starter is on counter. in glass jar 

Should just need one feeindg. Maybe 2. depending 

« tim

on???

J »

On wwhen I get back?

« tim

so you do plan on coming back

J »

Yeah timothy I’m in a boat not the heart of Mount Doom

« tim

yeah? vaders not there? so that means everything’s fine? 

J »

Did you

jst say Vader

As in Darth

« tim

??? 

J »

Oh my god

« tim

jason are you in peril or what.

J »

No im not in “peril” lol.

Did you see the thing I said about my sourddough starter

It needs to be fed

« tim

wtf is a sourdough starter

nvm i googled it

J »

Its a live bacteria colony you use to m 

Oh ok

Yeah so it just needs 50g lukewarm water + 50g flour

Theres a scale next to the jar

Stir until it looks like hummus

Put lid back on

The end

« tim

the internet says if you put it in the fridge it doesn’t need daily feedings

J »

Sure. But that would mess up my bread schedule

« tim

your bread schedule 

J »

Man are gyou gonna fuckin feed Breadie Mercury or should I find someone else

« tim

im already en route. 

J »

Oh

Ok

Thank you.

Wtf dont text and motorbike  

« tim

how about you dont text and Sinking Boat

J »

Hey its not like I’m gonna cause a boat crash

« tim

i was stopped at a red light 😐

anwyay i’m at your place.

1. why do you not have a security system. when you said key under the neighbor’s mat i thought you were joking. 

2. how warm is lukewarm

J »

1. I’m the security system

« tim

just rolled my eyes so hard it actually physically hurt

J »

God youre annoying

2. ? Its lukewarm

« tim

ohhhhh thanks! that’s so helpful :) here i am trying not to murder your incredibly important bacteria colony that i just drove across town for but no thats great jason very descriptive thanks :) 

J »

Like warm but not too wram, nothing you’d want to take a bath in

Can you fucking

I TYPE SLOW.

« tim

ok.

[Image Attached]

he is fed

J »

Thanks man.

Sincerely.

« tim

so hows the cargo hold going

still intact i assume? 

J »

Mostly ya

« tim

pardon? 

J »

Slight leakage. Nothing major

« tim

oh? are you a boatologist now? 

i dont think you’re qualified to judge that?

J »

Moving right past “boatologist” out of the goodness of my heart.

Chill lol. If it was rly bad thered probably be some sort of alar

Hm.

« tim

did an alarm just start going off

J »

Dont worry about it

« tim

im not. 

did it though

also which yacht? im in the marinas scheduling dtabase

blue miracle, serendipity, carp-e diem? which one

« tim

jason?

« tim

if this is a joke it’s not funny

oh cool you’re not on comms either. great.

hey if youre dead again and i just fed your stupid starter for nothing im gonna be soooo mad just fyi

« tim

ugh.

*

J »

Hey

Thanks again for the

I’m not gonna say “save” bc I was doinf just fine on my own.

But thanks for the backup.

Lmk when youre home

Nope sorry lol you dont have to do that.

Night.

« tim

home

J »

Also I just saw your messaages from

Ah. 👍

From earlier. 

« tim

you mean from when you said “huh, this boat seems to be filling with water” and then disappeared? those messages? 

J »

Those were not my exact words.

« tim

right. your exact words contained somehow even less information 

J »

Shut up

I just wanted to 

You know. Youre the only one who jokes about it

The only one in the family I mean

your family, I mean

The bats.

« tim

? 

the only one who jokes about what

J »

Me being dead

« tim

oh. 

ok. well

its not like. actually funny to me. i was just annoyed. sorry i guess

J »

No thats not 

Tim. Shut up.

I dont mind. I like that one of you does. 

Its better than people talking around it. Like its this big shameful thing I did.

One of many

If I mention it in front of dickhead he does the face

the :~{ face

« tim

wow its uncanny

uh. for the record. 

i don’t think that’s the reason people talk around it

if im correct in thinking that by “people” you mean “one specific person whose name rhymes with Rat Can” 

 

J »

Yeah well

I just

Christ never mind. Im sorry. You are not the person to be sayign this to.

Im gonna shut the fuck up I think. 

Goodnight.

« tim

oh what, you can’t talk to me about being dead bc of that one time you tried to kill me? 

and failed btw :/ 

J »

Tim

Not to be so unchill

But you know how me being dead isnt actaully funny to you

« tim

…got it. sorry

J »

No. don’t apologize to me

Ever

I’m serious 

« tim

like for anything? 

what if i killed breadie mercury 

J »

You didnt. He is thriving

« tim

he is?

wait. really?

you can tell?

J »

[Image Attached]

Hes doubled in size since you fed him.

« tim

whoa

J »

Yup. Thanks again for thattoo.

*that too

Its stupid but hes kinda my son.

« tim

wouldn’t he technically be like, 10 billion sons

J »

He is my 10 billion sons.

« tim

lolol

wow. why am i so pleased hes thriving lol 

J »

Right

« tim

jeez

i was so worried about the water temp

google said lukewarm is 98-105 so i did 98 to be safe

J »

You used a thermometer? 

« tim

your instructions were vague!

i didnt want to kill your bacteria colony!

J »

Thanks Tim.

« tim

? you already said that lol

i gotta pass out btw

glad you didnt die: the sequel in a yacht

that would have been so cringe

night jason

J »

Night

*

J »

You up?

« tim

obviously

why

J »

Could use your eyes on something.

[Image Attached]

« tim

morse code but the dots and dashes are reversed and its spelling backwards in russian, ASTITP AYALEB AVD RTSIRP → PRISTR DVA BELAYA PTITSA → PIER TWO WHITE BIRD

J »

Bc it looks like morse but its not, its kind of scrambl 

Ok jesus christ . 

30 seconds? Seriously? Fuck me

Can I hire you? Jesus lol

« tim

that depends. do you pay more than batman?

J »

The fuck? Does he pay you guys now?

« tim

no.

J »

Then yes. I do pay more than batman.

« tim

how much more

J »

One coffee per codebreak? 

« tim

:\

J »

Two coffees per codebreak

Two and a loaf of sourdough

« tim

sourdough from breadie mercury?

J »

Ya

« tim

done

J »

Damn. I feel like you should have higher standards

« tim

i mean i was already gonna do it for free

now i have successfully negotiated coffee & sustenance 

im on a roll. nothing but Ws 

J »

Ws?

« tim

its young people slang you wouldn’t get it ❤️

J »

I am barely 3 years older htan you.

It could be argued, considering certain events, that we’re basically the same age.

« tim

and yet you text like an old, old man

J »

I do not

Would you rather I texted like “idk brb lmao roflcopter”

« tim

ROFLCOPTER?

oh my god. ohhhhhh jason. oh my god

that is absolutely not what the kids are saying these days. oh my god

J »

Ok you know what. At least I know Mount Doom isnt a Star Wars thing

« tim

? 

oh, is it star trek? 

J »

I’m 99% sure youre antagonizing me on purpose

But have you seriously not read or watched Lord of the Rings

« tim

no i have not.

J »

Hm.

« tim

what

J »

Nothing.

« tim

……….what

*

« tim

did you NARC on me

to BRUCE

about LORD OF THE RINGS?????

J »

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

« tim

WHY DO I NOW HAVE 3 SEPARATE SUNDAY AFTERNOON “HOUSE MEETINGS” BLOCKED OFF IN MY CALENDAR, JASON? 

WHY ARE THEY EACH 4 HOURS LONG?

WHY ARE THEY LABELED “CULTURAL EDUCATION (MANDATORY)”? 

J »

I can’t pretend to know what goes on in B’s mind.

That said, I have reason to believe he and Alfred take lotr pretty seriously.

« tim

its a TWELVE HOUR MOVIE

about GOBLINS

J »

I’m not gonna respond to that bc I know youre just lashing out.

« tim

if youve sentenced me to 12 hours of a movie i hate i’m gonna hack everything you own. 

im gonna mass text the entire cape wearers community the footage of that time condiment king kicked your ass so bad he felt guilty and offered to personally help you out of the mustard pool 

J »

What the fuck

How do you fuckig know about ?????? that???????? 

Not that ithahpened 

What hefuckk ??

« tim

ooooooooo you better hope i love these goblins!

J »

Why are you?? evil??

« tim

you should have killed me when you had the chance!!

sorry.

J »

Its ok. That one was pretty funny tbh.

Oh hm shouldnt have laughed just then. Bad timing on my part

Brb

« tim

uh

« tim

ok…….. getting reports of a “disturbance” at pier two…….. 

« tim

sorry were you texting me *mid-standoff* with the russian mafia

« tim

ugh.

*

« tim

you know tracking your location would be so much easier if i didn’t have to hack into your comm sys every time

luckily your encryption is garbage but still. its 2 minutes of my life i wont get back.

J »

Not sure I recall giving you permission to track my location?

« tim

oh i’m sorry. next time i will simply leave you to go down with a texas oil magnate’s incredibly tacky yacht, or get swiss cheesified by mobsters 

J »

Hey I wrapped up the russians myself 

« tim

yeah? 

J »

…

Yeah….

« tim

so you thought the 12-minute universal signal jam was the act of a benevolent god? 

J »

:-|

« tim

im just saying it would be significantly more efficient if you agreed to a tracker

just one little tracker. you wouldn’t even notice it’s there.

think of all the time and energy you’d save me

J »

I feel the need to point out that you don’t have to repeatedly hack my comms system.

« tim

i mean it’s that or monitor sightings on the gocitizen app

i have an algo that texts relevant pings to me, which is super helpful for when i want an inbox full of random people talking about how hot you are. less helpful for literally every other circumstance 

J »

Uh

What

« tim

how hot *red hood is. to clarify

in their opinion

the people’s opinion

J »

?

« tim

the people of gotham city

J »

The people of Gotham city do not think Red Hood is hot lol

« tim

wait 

i cant tell if you’re being serious

J »

Uh? Yeah Im being serious? Lol tf

Why would they think hes hot 

They dont think Batman is hot 

« tim

o…kay…

huh.

how to… hmm

J »

Like nightwing sure

And the girls. Bc of objectification of women

« tim

oh wow

J »

Red Robin. If i had to guess

But when people see Hood its definitely not… that kind of response lol

« tim

what kind of response, exactly

J »

You know like saying “Hey Hood youre hot” 

« tim

oh, wow. 

okay. ummm

hmm. one sec.

J »

?

« tim

check your email 

J »

Ok…? 

J »

Oh my fucking god.

« tim

yeah

J »

Oh my god?

« tim

yeah

J »

This document is fucking 45 pages long?

« tim

its everything from the past 30 days yeah

J »

The past

Whaht the fuck

Ok some of these people definitely got hit by Poison Ivy.

This is . Tim wtf. I havent even heard of some of this stuff. 

« tim

oof are you on page 14

J »

Im on page 3???

« tim

oh my god

J »

What the fuck

Please please tell me its not like this for Batman too

Tim

« tim

its not like this for batman :)

J »

Ok. Jesus. I would genuinely have to move cities.

« tim

its worse :)

J »

Oh what the fuck

Oh my fucking god page 14.

You get this shit TEXTED to you?????

Ohm ygod. You read this?????

« tim

i mean

no

i glance at it

for security purposes.

i dont like, read it read it

anyway did you seriously not know? haha

J »

No??? Again its not like people tell me

« tim

yeah but

like

theres a certain level of objectivity involved, here

yknow

sorry im trying to find a non awkward way to be like “have you looked in a mirror lately” 

« tim

sorry

that was in fact awkward!

nvm

just let me know if you’d be ok with the tracker. its fine if not

i was mostly joking about the hacking

J (From Work) »

No you weren’t.

« tim

no i wasnt

i dont mind though. its like a brain teaser

anyway im going dark for patrol, later

*

J (From Work) »

[Screenshot Attached]

[Screenshot Attached]

[Screenshot Attached]

[Screenshot Attached]

[Screenshot Attached]

Question. why is the average Gotham citizen a raging horndog 

« tim

oh my god

you know i can tell you searched “red robin hot” right

J (From Work) »

Figured it was only fair

[Screenshot Attached]

This persons got some mad zoom lens skills

I’d think it was you, if it wasnt, yknow, you

« tim

wow. that is certainly a photo of my ass

…a stellar photo of my ass. wow. 

do you have a direct link? i gotta send this to steph

J (From Work) »

goctz.app/user/3824973/post/29348230df3

Haha

I kinda thought you and blondie broke up

back on again?

« tim

no lol we are very much just friends

she has a thing going with someone who shall remain nameless but suffice to say it’s Going

anyway we just send each other gocitizen vigilante ass shots 

its a whole genre

they’re like trading cards

J (From Work) »

Guess everyone’s got a hobby?

« tim

the only rule is no nightwing

J (From Work) »

Do I want to know why

« tim

he accounts for a frankly overwhelming percentage of vigilante ass shots

so its too easy

you’d THINK we’d have a no-batman rule, because ew, but due to the cape and his sixth sense for cameras pointed at him, a qualifying shot is actually extremely rare. 

← only guy who ever managed to take quality photos of batman 

anyway, we put it to a vote. i lost.

J (From Work) »

A vote between you and Steph? 

You lost a 50/50 vote?

« tim

i dont wanna talk about it.

J (From Work) »

Right. 

So what I’m getting from this is you have Red Hood ass shots in your phone.

« tim

no

J (From Work) »

No?

« tim

well

J (From Work) »

Yeah?

« tim

we don’t like, save them

that would be weird

we just notify each other. professionally, as colleagues 

and keep an ongoing points tally

thats all

so i do not currently have photos of your ass in my phone. thank you

J (From Work) »

How many points is my ass worth

« tim

i hate everything about this conversation

J (From Work) »

Its 100% your own fault, answer the question

« tim

if you must know. 

points are awarded based on a series of objective scoring criteria.

J (From Work) »

Uh huh. Like what

« tim

technical excellence

composition. lighting and color balance. 

dynamism 

J (From Work) »

Dynamism…

« tim

creativity

umm

emotional impact

and 

subject matter

J (From Work) »

I see.

« tim

ok i know it sounds bad

J (From Work) »

It sounds fucking hysterical Im near tears 

« tim

but if you think abou

oh

okay, well, great

J (From Work) »

I’ll let you know if I stumble on any more. 

Or is that cheating

« tim

its totally cheating

please do

J (From Work) »

You got it red. 👍

« tim

:)

[spikedfearn]

I Said Just a Little Bit, Then I Got a Taste of It

Chapter II

bjorn x fem!reader

summary: After being transferred to another sector of Jackson's Star you reluctantly befriend a ragtag group of people with the exception of one cocky asshole who knows just how to get under your skin.

On the surface, you hate each other, but after experiencing a particularly harrowing event together, the two of you grow closer than anyone else could ever imagine.

warnings: secret friends with benefits, enemies to lovers, angst, alcohol/drug use, sexual themes, non-linear narrative, side rainkay, trauma bonding, near death experience, brief mention of child abuse, more tags to be added

a/n: a slight correction from the first chapter: I realized after I posted that I wrote Kay being under the influence when she runs after you when she is, in fact, pregnant in this au. I don't know how I whiffed that up when it's a relevant plot point to the story (ￗ﹏ￗ) either way though, I went back and edited the chapter but just in case anyone following this story didn't reread it after I made the changes, I wanted to put a disclaimer here!

tags: @asvtrials

wc: 3.3k

Masterlist Next Chapter

You remember the night the two of you first met with a stunning amount of clarity.

It took place a few weeks after your compulsory transfer, a result of the mines in sector two having been exhausted of all its valuable resources, the higher-ups deciding to split the colonists inhabiting it among the other five.

Truthfully, you still don't know how to feel about it. Sure, it sucks being uprooted from the only home you've ever known, forced to live in an alien environment, even if it is just another extension of the same colony.

But, on the other hand, it's sorta nice—starting over. Being relocated to somewhere no one knows you, your story. Able to shed your baggage and leave it behind, only bringing with the clothes on your back and the dog tags of your late mother, the only things that truly matter to you.

You're nearing the end of another one of your shifts, sweat gathered in the folds and creases of your body, watching sparks fly off the hard mineral you're drilling into when the girl next to you yanks down her face shield, narrowly turning away from the rock wall to bend over and vomit in the walkway instead.

It’s not unusual for people to get sick while working, the conditions down here are hazardous and the safety equipment provided does little to protect you from the harsh fumes and kicked-up debris. Still, you sympathize, knowing firsthand how miserable it is to try and push through til clock out time.

However the supervisors do not, one of the men patrolling the area to ensure endless labor shouting, “worker #1693! Why have you stopped working?”

The girl lifts her head in response to being reprimanded, the headlamp strapped to her hard hat illuminating the man looming over her, the head of the drill she was still holding stabbed into the soft earth beneath their feet, using it like an impromptu crutch.

“I'm sorry sir,” she coughs, voice rough from the stomach acid and bile she just spewed everywhere, “it's morning sickness—I'm pregnant.”

A wave of compassion comes crashing down over you, everyone else in the immediate vicinity paying no mind as they continue to excavate, wanting to avoid a scolding of their own. Not that you can blame any of them, insubordination at best results in hours lost and at worst, an automatic jail sentence, the only place somehow worse than the mines.

You want to turn a blind eye like the others but—you can't, feeling guilt gnaw at your conscience. Even in the limited light you can tell she's sick, skin pale and glistening with a fresh coat of sweat, chest spasming as she doubles back over and starts to dry heave.

“Well get back to it, we have a quota to fill!” He orders, growing increasingly agitated.

Almost instantly you find the words, “how long do you have left?” leaving your mouth before you can process what you're saying, watching as she looks back to find you.

“What was that?” She asks, using the back of her wrist to wipe the string of spit hanging from her lip, looking so small and so vulnerable, like she's on the verge of passing out. It's enough to make you commit to what you say next.

Pushing the goggles up and over your helmet and the face shield down and away your mouth to unmuffle your voice you repeat, “how long do you have left? Like—how many hours?”

“Four?” She answers, confused, the same supervisor that had warned her moments ago barking, “worker #1251, why aren't you working?!” The threatening buzz of a shock stick now being aimed towards you.

Four hours. You're in the last hour of your own shift, bone-tired and barely hanging on, adding another four after the fact might actually kill you.

With that in mind you find yourself volunteering, looking between her and the guard ready to taze the fuck out of both of you, “I can pick up her hours. Sir.” You tack on, albeit sarcastically.

Her eyes round out in surprise before the skin between her eyebrows wrinkle in confusion, understandably so. It's incredibly rare for a stranger to show humanity in a hellscape like this, where it's every man for himself.

“Why?” She asks, straightening her back out, hand coming up to cup her still flat stomach.

You shrug despite knowing exactly why, not that you'd share that with a complete stranger, replying, “don't worry about it,” before offering, “because I want to,” instead, hoping to avoid any follow up questions.

A pretty smile breaks out across her face, so big her eyes nearly disappear, turning the headlamp attached to her helmet off to get a proper look at you, “thank you so much. Really. I totally owe you one.”

“Sure,” you say, not intending to cash in on that favor at all. You don't want to owe anyone anything or them to owe you.

It's a dangerous thing—caring about someone or something on Jackson's Star. One of the only valuable lessons life in the colony has taught you. Better to lessen the weight of the emotional impact when they inevitably leave. Easier.

Your eyes follow her as she walks the path leading towards the exit, a cute little skip in her step. You can't help but smile, the muscles in your cheeks twitching at the foreign stretch of your mouth. You don't remember the last time you felt one of those on your lips.

The extra time doesn't end up killing you—which sucks, it could've been your ticket out of here.

Morbid humor aside, you can barely move as you head to the clock out station, summoning the last bit of strength you have to heave the drill up on top of the counter, ignoring the loud clang it makes when it hits the metal countertop. If they wanna dock you for the damage fine, you can't find it in you to give a fuck at the moment.

The lady behind the transparent partition checks your equipment back in, the clacking of the keys sounding loud without the constant drilling, being the last miner to leave.

“Worker #1251. Drill returned, no visible damage to report. Twenty hours logged.”

“Wait,” you interrupt, her fingers pausing above the keyboard, eyes still glued to the computer screen, “the four hours. Could you give them to the girl I covered for?”

She looks at you then, like you're high on the fumes circulating through the tunnels. Maybe you are, because who just volunteers to do hard labor? And for free? That and you still have to come back and clock in four hours from now.

“Are you sure?”

Though you don't hesitate to nod before verbalizing, “yeah,” your thoughts straying to the baby she's growing inside of her, “she’s gonna need the hours more than I do.”

It'll be the last nice thing you'll ever do, because you're never doing that shit again, offering to cover for someone else, for someone you don't even know.

Except—you do.

Because the morning sickness doesn't go away for the next two weeks, no matter how little she eats to try and combat it. And, regardless of the front you put on, you have a heart. A heart and a motive, one you plan to keep close to the chest whenever you step up and tell whatever supervisor nearby that you'll take on her workload only to transfer the hours to her at the end of the night.

Her name is Kay. You learn that after the third shift you cover for her when she comes up to you during everyone's designated lunch break, taking a seat on the bench next to you, far away from the others eating together.

You're reluctant to give her yours, preferring to just be a faceless number among the crowd, because knowing each other's names means familiarity, and familiarity means attachment. And you never intended for that to happen, wanting to just keep to yourself after the transfer but Kay looks a little crushed when you don't give it to her the first time she asks so, eventually, you do.

It's fine. It's just your name. This doesn't have to mean anything.

Except—it does.

Opens the door for Kay to start joining you for lunch, to stand next to you while you're working, to start asking you about yourself, wanting to befriend the angel that's come to her rescue the last few weeks. Her words, not yours.

You don't disclose much, keeping your past private the only thing keeping you safe from heartache. From that type of overwhelmingly raw pain only loss can bring and, while you've done your absolute best to pick up the pieces, you'll never be the same.

Shattered glass can be put back together but the cracks will always, always remain.

Kay seems to pick up on it because she doesn't broach the subject again, choosing to redirect her energy by trying to convince you to come hang out with her and her friends instead.

You reject her offer every time she asks, giving out your name is one thing, socializing outside of the mines is something else entirely, but Kay is persistent, annoyingly so. Begs you to come out for just one drink whenever you guys have downtime at work, giving you the puppy dog eyes while she does it, whining and stamping her foot when you inevitably turn her down.

You're sitting together during lunch one day, on the little metal bench you claimed the first night you started working in sector six, eating the same boring sandwich you make before the start of every shift.

However, for the first time in a long time, you feel good today, well-rested, chalking it up to not covering Kay’s shifts over the last three days.

She's roughly two months along and no longer vomiting on the job site, able to work her full shifts for the last seventy two hours, the worst of the morning sickness seemingly over. You're glad she's finally feeling better, and, if you're honest, a little relieved.

Not that Kay ever expected you to cover for her, you know her well enough now to realize that, can noticeably see the gratitude she radiates every time you volunteered, but you would've kept doing it, even if she stayed sick for the remainder of her pregnancy.

“Sooo,” Kay starts, drawing out the o, playing with the bendy straw sticking out of her apple juice box, “the gang and I are gonna hit up a bar tonight.”

“Cool,” you mutter, already seeing where this is going. It's the same tactic she's used the last dozen or so times she's invited you out. “Have fun.”

Kay pouts, her eyes big and pleading, “you should come with, it'll be fun. I'll even buy you a drink so I can properly thank you for easing my stress for a little while.”

“You don't have to thank me Kay,” you reply between bites of bologna, “I didn't do it for free beer.” A chuckle following after.

“C’moooon,” Kay bemoans, wiggling her shoulders for emphasis, “stop being such a buzzkill.”

“Can’t. That's who I am, Captain Buzzkill.” Your words slightly muffled by a napkin you use to wipe your mouth clean once you finish eating, crumpling it up along with the cellophane and brown paper bag you brought your sandwich in.

“Why are you the most stubborn person alive?” She whines, chucking her now empty juice box into a nearby waste bin.

“That’s probably not true.”

“Well you're up there! Now please just come out with us tonight. For me. And if you really don't have a good time I'll never ask again.”

“Never?” You ask, feeling your resolve slowly eroding away.

Her eyes glisten with newfound hope, nodding her head enthusiastically, “never ever.”

“Fine,” you relent, “but just one.”

If this is what it takes for her to stop bugging you about it you'll do it, just this once. Besides, you can slam a beer pretty quick if you're dead set on it.

You smile and roll your eyes at the squeal she makes, her arms wrapping around you to reel you in towards her chest, hands settling on your bicep, one on top of the other, her fingers creating wrinkles in the fabric of your shirt sleeve from how tight she's hugging you.

You awkwardly pat her forearm, not used to receiving affection, “but just one,” you reiterate. If you're gonna do this you're gonna do it on your terms and your terms only.

“Just one,” she echoes, rocking the two of you back and forth, the whistle of the horn above you signaling the end of your lunch break.

One turns into three.

You had every intention to leave after the first but, as much as you hate to admit it, you are having a good time.

Kay’s friends are cool, nice, having welcomed you in with ease, like they’ve known you for a while. In a way they do, Kay having told them about you, what you did for her. You don't think it's a big deal but they seem to think so, what with the warmth they show you from the outset.

“So you're the angel that's been helping my little sis out!” Tyler, Kay’s older brother, greets you cheerfully, pupils dilated from the alcohol, having already started without you, not that you actually care. “A proper little mutha’ Theresa in our midst!”

You snort at that, waving him off, “not really. She's pregnant. I'm not so, I thought I'd just help her out.”

“Well it's really sweet,” Rain chimes in, more reserved than the others, preferring to let everyone else talk. You can already tell the two of you will get along. “Which is pretty rare to find around here.”

Besides Tyler and Rain, there's Rain’s brother Andy and their friend Navarro. Andy, like Rain, is also on the quiet side, the programming he has installed a little outdated. Though Navarro, the resident techxpert, is working on an upgrade, building a chip out of scrap metal and wiring, she scavenges from the local scrapyard.

You're all crowded around one of the dozen or so tables taking up half the floor, the bar brimming with other colonists, knocking back beers or playing darts, the room filled with the sounds of laughter and chatter blending together. It's not a place you would choose to go on your own but it does add another layer of entertainment when you're with the right people.

“I guess,” you reply, cautiously agreeing with Rain, even though you know she's more than correct. It's just hard for you to accept compliments, you're just not used to hearing them and don't think very highly of yourself to begin with.

You finish off the rest of your drink, pulling your leather wallet out of the back pocket of your jeans to order another, but Tyler is quick to stop you.

“Nah—nah,” Tyler says, his hand lifting off the tabletop to wave you off, “don't even,” he pauses to turn away and burp before turning back around to face you again, “don't even trip. I got your tab covered.”

“You sure?” You ask, hesitating to put your money away. It's not like you all are compensated fairly for your slave labor. That and if you let him pay for your drinks, wouldn't you owe him then? No, you reason in your slightly tipsy state, he's paying you back for taking care of Kay, meaning you'll be even and no one will owe anyone anything.

So—you let him buy you more drinks, slowly but surely relaxing, thanks to the alcohol and the easygoing nature of those around you. It's clear how much he cares for Kay by how he's treating you.

It's endearing, you can't deny that. Apparently Rain and Tyler dated for a short period of time, just under a month before Rain realized she was really into Kay. But, instead of getting angry or jealous, Tyler just accepted it, even gave his blessing since Rain was better than the jerk that knocked his sister up anyway.

It's been a good night—a great one, better than you could've ever imagined, but something always has to come along and ruin it. Life just has a funny way of doing that.

“Bjorn, mate!” Tyler yells over the noise, looking towards the front door with his arm waving in the air, flagging someone over, “over here!”

That someone maneuvers around the crowd, appearing at Tyler's side in just under a minute, a grin splitting his face in two as he takes the empty seat next to him, swiping Tyler’s drink to wash down his excitement.

“Good night?” Tyler jokes, taking in Bjorn’s appearance, currently vibrating on the bar stool he's sitting on, his attention focused solely on his cousin.

“I'm fuckin’ buzzin’ mate! I finally beat that stupid fuckin’ level,” he begins, launching into a tirade about some game he's been playing for awhile, hands coming up to wildy gesticulate as he speaks.

Your eyes are automatically drawn to him, analyzing his side profile while he's distracted. He's attractive, probably one of the most attractive men you've ever laid eyes on. From his under plucked brows to the oceanic hue of his irises, the single silver hoop threaded through his ear and the silly little frowny face tattoo on his neck down to the plushness of his pretty pink lips, framed by just the right amount of facial hair. He's perfect. Perfect until he opens his big fucking mouth.

He finally registers who's sitting around the table, eyes angrily narrowing when he zeroes in on Andy, gaze flickering over to Rain, “why tha’ fuck did you bring this rust bucket ‘ere?”

“Bjorn,” both Rain and Tyler preemptively warn, like they know what's about to follow and they probably do, considering he's Tyler’s cousin. Rain takes the lead on this one, adding, “don’t start.”

“And why tha’ fuck not? Ya’ fuckin’ knew how I'd feel if he was ‘ere! Ida’ just stayed tha’ fuck home,” he hisses, accent made thicker by his anger.

Tyler pinches the bridge of his nose, looking exasperated by his cousin already, “we just wanted to come for a pint mate. All of us. No use losin’ your head over it.”

“Right. Right. No use. Just like this hunka junk synth.”

You’ve never had a filter, never needed one when you've grown up never having to consider someone else's feelings so you can't help but snark, “do you practice being an asshole in the mirror or does it just come naturally to you?”

You feel everyone’s eyes on you, probably taken aback by your intervention, not expecting you, a total stranger, to speak up on behalf of Andy. But—you've never been good at biting your tongue, never needed to when you only have yourself to worry about, overconfident in voicing your displeasure when you're the only one who'll be punished for it, unlike those with familial connections who talk back to the higher-ups.

“And who tha’ bloody fuck are you?” He spits, face souring like he's bit into a lemon, looking you up and down, from the flat tabletop that sits under your breasts up to your hairline.

“Not a piece of shit like you,” you retort, squeezing the unopened beer Tyler bought for you, hard enough to crease the label wrapped around the circumference of the glass.

“So!” Tyler interrupts, trying to change the subject, directing his attention to you, “why’d it take ya so long to come out and join us?”

Kay squeezes your knee under the table and Rain looks grateful, reassuring a somewhat confused Andy that he's more than welcome to be here, that he isn't bothering anyone that isn't a totally immature man baby.

“Not really my scene,” you answer, ignoring the crisp hiss of the carbon dioxide being released when you pop the lid on the glass bottle Tyler bought you.

“Oh! Not good enough for ya’ princess?” Bjorn mocks, still simmering with anger from his side of the table.

“No, just not good enough for you, asshat,” you flip him off, still pissed on behalf of Rain and Kay and any girl that has to interact with him, feeling Kay’s fingers curl around your shoulders like she's trying to stop you.

You decide to let it go, for now, despite how angry you are, for Kay, sticking it out until she warns you it's time to leave. Because other than that—fuck that guy

[estapa-edwards]

Ethan Edwards x y/n McRae anon here

Request-

Ethan getting teased for liking edits of y/n McRae on TikTok when she back up dances for Tate while she's on tour, but y/n goes to the Duke's Memorial Day weekend party thing they throw every year and y/n is teaching some of the girls there dances from tour for a TikTok video where Ethan just watches with a smile that y/n is having fun outside of touring with her sister and then have some kind of smut that you have some freedom/creativity

FAMOUS - E. EDWARDS

Ethan Edwards x reader

word count: 2.5k

requested? yes

warnings: use of y/n. slight smut

*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨*

Y/N McRae was the younger sister of Tate McRae, a rising star in the music industry. Tate's tours were electrifying, and Y/N had become an internet sensation in her own right, thanks to her mesmerizing dance moves as her sister’s backup dancer. Fans of Tate’s shows often posted TikTok videos of Y/N dancing, and Ethan had found himself captivated by her talent and charisma.

He had followed Y/N’s account for a while, enjoying the behind-the-scenes glimpses of tour life and the candid moments she shared with her followers. But it was the fan-made edits—those short, artfully crafted videos highlighting Y/N’s best dance moves and infectious smile—that Ethan couldn’t get enough of. He was so engrossed in them that he didn’t realize how obvious his infatuation had become.

It was a typical Friday afternoon at Central High, and Ethan was hanging out in the cafeteria with his friends. The usual banter and laughter filled the air, but today, the conversation had taken a different turn.

"Hey, Ethan, have you seen this new edit of Y/N McRae?" his friend Mark called out, holding up his phone.

Ethan’s heart skipped a beat. He tried to play it cool, but the heat creeping up his neck gave him away. "Uh, yeah, I think I saw that one," he mumbled.

Mark’s grin widened. "Dude, you’re totally obsessed with her. You’ve got, like, a dozen of her videos saved on your phone."

Ethan's friends burst into laughter, and he could feel his face turning crimson. He tried to brush it off with a chuckle. "Come on, guys, she's just a great dancer."

"Sure, sure," Sarah, one of the girls in their group, teased. "Admit it, Ethan. You’ve got a massive crush on Y/N."

The truth was, Ethan couldn’t deny it. There was something about Y/N that drew him in—the way she moved with such grace and confidence, the joy that radiated from her whenever she danced. He admired her from afar, knowing that someone like Y/N, always on the move and in the spotlight, was out of his league.

--- --- --- 

Every year, the Duke family threw a massive Memorial Day weekend party at their sprawling estate. It was the social event of the season, drawing students from all over the area. This year, Y/N had decided to take a break from the tour and join the festivities, much to Ethan’s surprise and excitement.

The Duke’s estate was buzzing with activity. The main house, a grand colonial-style mansion, was surrounded by acres of lush gardens, a pool, and a lake. The party had everything—music, food, games, and a sense of freedom that came with the beginning of summer.

Ethan arrived with his friends, trying to hide his anticipation. He knew Y/N would be there, and he couldn’t help but hope for a chance to talk to her. As the day went on, he mingled with his friends, played a few games of volleyball, and tried to enjoy himself. But his eyes kept wandering, searching for any sign of Y/N.

Finally, in the late afternoon, he spotted her near the pool. She was surrounded by a group of girls, all of them eagerly listening to her as she demonstrated some dance moves. Y/N’s laughter floated through the air, and Ethan couldn’t help but smile. She looked genuinely happy, free from the pressures of the tour.

Y/N caught sight of Ethan watching her and flashed him a bright smile. His heart leaped in his chest, and he awkwardly waved back. She gestured for him to come over, and he hesitated for a moment before walking towards her.

“Hey, Ethan!” Y/N greeted him warmly. “Do you want to join us? I’m teaching some of the girls a dance routine for a TikTok video.”

Ethan tried to keep his cool. “Sure, why not?”

Y/N’s energy was infectious. She led the group through a series of dance steps, patiently explaining each move and offering encouragement. Ethan found himself getting into the groove, his initial nervousness melting away. The girls giggled and cheered each other on, and even though Ethan wasn’t the best dancer, he was having a blast.

As the sun began to set, the group decided to film the TikTok video. They took several takes, laughing at their mistakes and celebrating when they finally nailed the routine. Y/N posted the video, and within minutes, it started to garner likes and comments.

“Thanks for joining us, Ethan,” Y/N said with a smile. “You’re a pretty good dancer.”

Ethan chuckled. “Thanks, but I think I’ll leave the professional dancing to you.”

Y/N laughed, a sound that made Ethan’s heart flutter. “Fair enough. But you did great.”

They spent the rest of the evening talking and getting to know each other. Ethan learned that Y/N was just as down-to-earth and fun-loving as she appeared online. She shared stories from the tour, and Ethan found himself hanging on her every word. As the night went on, they gravitated towards a quieter part of the garden, away from the main party.

--- --- ---

The moonlight cast a soft glow over the garden, creating an intimate atmosphere. Ethan and Y/N sat on a bench, the conversation flowing effortlessly between them. There was an undeniable chemistry, a magnetic pull that neither of them could ignore.

“So, what’s it like being on tour with your sister?” Ethan asked, genuinely curious.

“It’s amazing, but it can be exhausting,” Y/N admitted. “I love dancing and performing, but sometimes I just need a break, you know? That’s why I decided to come to this party. I needed to unwind and have some fun.”

“I’m glad you came,” Ethan said softly. “It’s been great getting to know you.”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled as she looked at him. “I’m glad I came too. It’s nice to meet someone who sees me as more than just ‘Tate’s sister.’”

Ethan’s heart swelled at her words. He wanted to tell her how much he admired her, how her videos had brightened his days, but he hesitated, afraid of coming on too strong.

Instead, he reached out and gently took her hand. “I see you, Y/N. You’re incredible.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, and for a moment, they were lost in each other’s gaze. The world around them faded away, leaving just the two of them in that moonlit garden.

The tension between them was palpable, a heady mix of anticipation and desire. Ethan could feel his pulse quickening, his senses heightened. Y/N’s hand was warm in his, and the way she looked at him made his heart race.

Without thinking, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a soft, tentative kiss. Y/N responded immediately, her lips moving against his with a hunger that matched his own. The kiss deepened, growing more passionate as they gave in to the emotions that had been building all day.

Ethan’s hands moved to Y/N’s waist, pulling her closer as their kiss intensified. Y/N’s fingers threaded through his hair, her touch sending shivers down his spine. They broke apart only long enough to catch their breath, their foreheads resting together as they smiled at each other.

“Ethan,” Y/N whispered, her voice filled with longing.

“Yeah?” he replied, his voice husky with desire.

“Do you want to get out of here?” she asked, her eyes dark with intent.

Ethan’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes,” he said without hesitation.

They quietly slipped away from the party, finding their way to a secluded part of the estate. The air was cool and fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers. They found a small gazebo, its privacy offering the perfect retreat.

Once inside, Ethan couldn’t keep his hands off Y/N. He kissed her deeply, his hands exploring the curves of her body. Y/N responded with equal fervor, her touch igniting a fire within him. They stumbled to the bench in the center of the gazebo, their kisses growing more urgent.

Ethan’s hands roamed under Y/N’s shirt, his fingers grazing her soft skin. She moaned into his mouth, her own hands tugging at his clothes. They quickly shed their garments, their need for each other overpowering any sense of decorum.

Ethan’s lips trailed down Y/N’s neck, savoring the taste of her skin. He took his time, worshiping her body with his mouth and hands. Y/N writhed beneath him, her breathy moans spurring him on. He wanted to memorize every inch of her, to make this moment unforgettable.

When he finally entered her, they both gasped at the sensation. They moved together in a rhythm that felt natural, their bodies perfectly in sync. The world around them ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them and the intense pleasure they shared.

Their movements grew more frantic, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Ethan could feel himself nearing the edge, and he could tell Y/N was close too. With one final thrust, they both tumbled over the edge, their cries of ecstasy filling the night air.

--- --- --- 

Ethan and Y/N lay together in the gazebo, their bodies entwined as they caught their breath. The cool night air felt refreshing against their heated skin. Ethan looked down at Y/N, her hair spread out like a halo, and he couldn't help but smile. She was even more beautiful in this moment, flushed and glowing from their shared experience.

"That was..." Ethan began, but words seemed inadequate to describe what he was feeling.

"Yeah," Y/N agreed, her voice soft and content. She snuggled closer to him, her head resting on his chest. "It was amazing."

Ethan gently stroked her hair, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment. He never imagined that the girl he admired from afar would be lying in his arms, but here she was, and it felt right.

"Y/N," he said after a while, "I don't want this to be just a one-time thing."

Y/N lifted her head to look at him, her eyes searching his. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I want to see you again," Ethan confessed. "I want to get to know you even more, spend time with you. Not just here, but after the tour, too."

Y/N's expression softened, and she smiled. "I'd like that, Ethan. I'd like that a lot."

They shared another tender kiss, sealing their promise to each other. For the first time in a long while, Ethan felt a sense of contentment and hope for the future. He knew that their paths wouldn't always be easy, with Y/N's demanding tour schedule and his own commitments, but he was willing to make it work.

--- --- ---

The next morning, the party was winding down, and guests were starting to leave. Ethan and Y/N had reluctantly parted ways to avoid suspicion, but they exchanged knowing smiles whenever their paths crossed. As they prepared to leave, they made plans to meet up again soon.

Back at school, Ethan's friends immediately noticed a change in him. He was more cheerful and relaxed, a permanent smile on his face. It didn't take long for them to figure out the reason.

"So, Ethan," Mark said with a sly grin, "did you have a good time at the party?"

Ethan chuckled. "Yeah, you could say that."

Sarah nudged him playfully. "Come on, spill the details. We saw you with Y/N McRae."

Ethan's smile widened. "Let's just say it was a night to remember."

His friends cheered and patted him on the back, but Ethan's thoughts were already elsewhere. He couldn't wait to see Y/N again, to explore the connection they had discovered. It was more than just physical attraction—there was a genuine bond that had formed between them, and he was eager to see where it would lead.

--- --- ---

Over the next few weeks, Ethan and Y/N stayed in touch through texts and video calls. They shared their days, their dreams, and their struggles, growing closer with each conversation. Y/N confided in Ethan about the pressures of living in her sister's shadow and her own aspirations to break out as a solo performer. Ethan, in turn, opened up about his fears and ambitions, finding in Y/N a supportive and understanding confidante.

One evening, after a particularly long day of practice, Y/N called Ethan. She looked tired but happy, a smile lighting up her face when she saw him.

"Hey, Ethan," she greeted him. "I miss you."

"I miss you too," Ethan replied, his heart swelling with affection. "How was practice?"

"Exhausting, but worth it," Y/N said with a yawn. "We’re working on some new routines, and I can’t wait for you to see them."

"I’m sure they’ll be amazing," Ethan said. "You’re incredible, Y/N. Don’t ever forget that."

Y/N’s eyes softened. "Thank you, Ethan. Your support means everything to me."

They talked for hours, sharing stories and laughing until late into the night. Even though they were miles apart, they felt closer than ever. Their connection was growing stronger, built on mutual respect, admiration, and an undeniable spark that neither could ignore.

As the tour progressed, Ethan and Y/N counted down the days until they could see each other again. Finally, the tour brought Y/N back to their hometown for a concert, and Ethan couldn’t have been more excited.

On the night of the concert, Ethan arrived early, eager to watch Y/N perform. The energy in the arena was electric, and the crowd roared with excitement as Tate and her dancers took the stage. Ethan’s eyes were glued to Y/N, mesmerized by her movements and the sheer joy she exuded while dancing.

After the show, Ethan made his way backstage, his heart pounding with anticipation. Y/N spotted him and rushed over, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug.

"Ethan!" she exclaimed, her eyes shining with happiness. "I’m so glad you came!"

"I wouldn’t miss it for the world," Ethan replied, holding her close. "You were incredible out there."

"Thank you," Y/N said, pulling back slightly to look at him. "Come on, I want you to meet the rest of the crew."

Ethan spent the evening getting to know Y/N’s fellow dancers and the rest of the tour crew. They welcomed him warmly, and he quickly felt like part of the family. It was clear that Y/N was well-loved and respected by everyone, and Ethan couldn’t have been prouder.

As the night went on, Ethan and Y/N found a quiet corner to talk. They sat close together, their hands intertwined as they shared their thoughts and feelings.

"Ethan," Y/N said softly, "I’ve been thinking a lot about us. About what happens when the tour ends."

Ethan’s heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I want us to be together," Y/N said, her eyes earnest. "I don’t want this to be just a fleeting thing. I want to make it work, no matter what."

Ethan squeezed her hand. "I feel the same way, Y/N. I’m willing to do whatever it takes."

Y/N smiled, relief and happiness washing over her. "Good. Because I’m not ready to let you go."

They shared a tender kiss, sealing their commitment to each other.

[phyrestartr]

HOUND | Miguel x M!Reader

Geneticist!Miguel x Guard!Reader Part 1 W/C: 2.5K | Part 1 of 2

Slight NSFW, zombie AU, apocalypse AU, mentions of exploitation and abuse, body horror, gore, immoral research and experiments, power imbalance, reader is a criminal, miguel is a scientist, dark themes, part 2 ends on a positive note, reader is morally grey, bottom!miguel, top!reader, sorry there's lore lol

Note: Wanted to post this bad boy in full, but the second half sorely needs some revising T-T It should be finished and up fairly soon, though! I hope this is ~intriguing~ for those who like darker stuff! Also I did a light edit on this part, but I really just want to get it out so lol sorry if things sound stupid/don't make sense asdjkf;l

--

There exists a cure.

That's what Alchemax declared. And it was the truth, just not the full truth. Not something the public would be happy with, anyway. 

The so-called "cure" was…unreliable, only recoding the RNA of select individuals for a reason that Alchemax's geneticists struggled to identify for the longest time. But after combing through the files of each expendable inmate and finding similarities, it became clear: those who'd been in the presence of nuclear energy, or high amounts of radiation, were suitable candidates for the vaccine. 

"Guess it's a good thing we didn't shut down those mines," Aaron had sneered at the board meeting. "Otherwise we wouldn't have the army of immune mutants running around for us." 

Miguel rolled his eyes. Sure, the idiot wasn't wrong, but he was taking it too far; plenty had died because of their experiments, and plenty more of the "immune" were sure to die with the unknown side effects of whatever the vaccine was bound to show in a matter of years (or in mere months, if they were unlucky). 

"It's a start," Miguel begrudgingly added. "But intentionally damaging civilian RNA with radiation, and then repairing it with S-2099, especially when we're not aware of any side effects yet? The UN won't have it. Can't imagine civilians would love it either." 

"Well, it's either get bit and die, stay afraid and die, or get painlessly exposed to a blast of radiation and then maybe die if 2099 doesn't fix them like we think," Liv offered with a shrug. "I, for one, would be honoured to die in the name of science." 

Miguel coolly looked over at her. "Thanks for volunteering." 

Liv's expression twisted. The energy in the room would've exploded if it hadn't been for Stone's interjection. 

"We will not be commencing civilian trials. Not until success rates increase with approved subjects provided by the state." The man spoke so steadily, so reasonably, like sacrificing the lives of orange jumpsuits meant nothing. 

They were dismissed soon after. Screens flickered out, holograms faded, and Miguel found himself alone with the other few scientists left at their Nueva York location. 

He stayed seated, vaguely aware of the others filtering out and murmuring amongst themselves, but his thoughts demanded his attention–he knew, even if the government didn't approve of essentially soft-nuking colonies of survivors, that Tyler Stone would find a way to do it, and would label it an accident. The man, his birth father, was ruthless, cold, calculated– 

"Sir?" A voice, your voice, cut through the silence. Miguel looked over his shoulder and found you still waiting, standing perfectly still by the door. 

"Sorry, I was just…" Miguel sighed and rubbed his face before standing. "Nevermind. Don't worry about it." 

Of course, you didn't say anything, instead nodding wordlessly and following your ward out of the room. Each step you took was punctuated by the shifting of your firearm against your thigh and the heavy thumps of your boots against the polished floors. Miguel used to hate your presence, think it unnecessary, but soon he grew to feel comfortable with you as his shadow. 

You, his powerful, mutant guard dog. 

"I can't fucking believe what this is turning into," Miguel muttered on the way to his quarters. "Too many unanswered questions, too many risks. And they don't care? We haven't even run further simulations yet–and we can run simulations with different alpha rays and different subject samples. It'd be harmless." The door hissed open and Miguel walked in, sorely wishing he could slam the door for once. Why did everything have to be automated? 

"In. Now," Miguel called when you stopped short of his residence. You obeyed, wandering inside before the door slid to a close behind you, and locked. 

You had reason to be nervous, Miguel knew that, too. Each key scientist in the building was assigned one of your kind, one of the immune mutants, and were free to do what they wanted with them. Sex, torture, chores–all of it was on the table. All of it had been asked of your kind. Done by your kind. Miguel figured that was why you kept a wall up. You hardly spoke, didn't request anything, never complained–all in an effort to keep the peace between you and your owner.

Miguel threw his white coat aside before stalking up to you. "Let me see," he mumbled as he held your jaw and tilted your head as he shone the light from his phone into your eye. 

Your pupils reacted at twice the speed of a normal human's, growing into the tiniest of pin pricks when the bright white flare assaulted your senses. Your eye twitched the slightest bit, but you remained still for Miguel. 

"Reactive. Not dead. That's good." He put his phone away, and examined the scarlet blotches contrasting against the natural hue of your iris. It was a relatively new side effect experienced by most of your batch, but you were amongst the more severe cases, if not the most severe case. Most of his peers didn't seem concerned by it, and Miguel could understand, seeing as it appeared to only be cosmetic, but the increased reactivity of your pupil accompanied with the bloody colour intrigued Miguel enough to keep tabs on it. 

"Any changes lately? To appetite, sleep, anything?" He asked as he let go of your jaw, nearly smiling as you tried to follow his touch for a moment longer like a sleepy cat. "Maybe neediness?" Miguel teased. 

You huffed lightly through your nose and looked around the main room of Miguel's living space. "Tired, I guess." 

Miguel's nerves smoothed with the sandpaper scratch of your voice. "Tired. Might be the anemia again. We'll draw blood tomorrow, see if you need supplements or another infusion." Miguel found himself mumbling now, going on about your health and your changes, wondering out loud what the best course of action would be to help you adjust to whatever was happening to your body, but you didn't say anything. You never did unless provoked. 

Miguel decided to provoke. He needed to speak, to be spoken to, to hear someone else’s voice right now. "What do you think about all this?" He called from the bathroom after washing up for the night. He poked his head out a moment later when you didn’t comment. 

“I know you were listening,” he prodded again over the toothbrush jammed into the side of his mouth. “The other ones don’t, but you do. I can tell by that look you get.” he waited for you to respond while he brushed his teeth, but you didn’t. You hadn’t moved from your post by his front door, actually, stood against the wall, arms crossed and staring forward like you were listening to everything beyond the door. Miguel wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen you sit down. He didn’t know if you’d ever laid down before. 

After he finished washing up for the night, he decided to try again. 

“You really gonna keep me in the dark?” Miguel asked as he walked up to you, arms crossed as well. He couldn’t help but feel smaller and smaller the longer he waited in silence, waited to hear your gravelled voice. He couldn’t grasp why he was so desperate for a friend suddenly, but he was. He really was, and he wasn’t finding it in you. 

“Forget it. Doesn’t matter anyway,” Miguel mumbled, turning away from you and rubbing his face tiredly. 

“Don't have much of an opinion.”

“What?” Miguel turned back around, brows raised as he waited for you to continue. Your gaze peeled from the ceiling and fell to him, like you were waiting for a reprimand of sorts, but Miguel wouldn’t, not when he tried so hard to get a peep out of you.

You shrugged and looked elsewhere. “Don't care what happens to civilians. Not my problem.” 

“It's the world's problem,” Miguel suggested. He didn't want to start an argument, but he didn't want you to feel so blasé about the fate of everything. “The more civilians that get infected, the more the world loses.” 

“Thought that was a good thing. Last I heard, the world was pretty overpopulated.” You said it so easily. Miguel would have shrugged it off if he didn't know about the blood on your hands, the crimes you'd committed, the evidence that you really, truly, did not give a shit about humanity. 

Miguel scoffed, a bitter, bewildered sort of thing. “Y'know, I used to pity you for this,” he started, gesturing to the soldiered-out state of yourself, “but you might be less human than those things out there.” 

“Probably.” 

“You don't even care,” Miguel laughed again. “Did you care when you killed that family?” 

“An eye for an eye,” you replied. 

“Right, right. Then what about your daughter? Did you care when–” the world spun before his back cracked against the wall. He grabbed your wrist and squeezed when your hands fisted in his shirt, ready to trigger your kill switch with one click of a button on his ring, but he didn't need to; you simply held him there, boring holes into his skull with your diamond-tipped stare. 

“You jokers don't know when to quit,” you said. “Always have to drag a kid into the equation, ‘n then act so fucking shocked when you end up dead ‘cause of it.” A sigh slipped past your lips as you leaned in. Miguel wanted to meet you halfway. “Fuckers like you make murderers out of men like me.”

Oh. The violence rippling through your crackling voice went straight down, into the pit below Miguel's stomach and coiled into something frightfully decadent. He wanted your hands around his neck. He wanted you to mutter more threats into his ear. He wanted–

He wanted you. 

“Let me touch you,” Miguel blurted. “Your skin.” You gave a reaction then, eyes blinking away shock and throat clearing with a strangled grunt, but you didn’t say no. You didn’t reject him. In fact, you looked him up and down in question, curiosity peeking through piercing eyes. 

“You're a deranged fuck, aren't you? Getting all hot ‘n bothered from a threat.” You reached for the straps of your kevlar vest, then, and Miguel’s nerves jolted with the sound of the buckles clicking loose. 

He scrambled to you and held your hands. He wanted to do it himself, to unwrap your bindings and see what laid beneath. Your hands fell, and Miguel took over. 

The warmth bleeding from your clothes intoxicated him. He fumbled with your gear, eager to get to the base of your tight, black shirt and rip it off, but you didn’t try to take over for him–you watched, patient like a dog, letting your master doff your armour at his leisure (or, rather, his frantic, desperate pace). Miguel appreciated it. He wondered if you knew he'd snap if you tried to interfere. 

Soon, your chest was bare. Exposed for him, dotted with memories of cruel bites, bullets, knives and surgical scars all over taught, humming skin. Man shouldn’t be allowed to touch you, Miguel thought. The imperfections were so gloriously human. You were so perfectly alive, standing here with him, breathing, emanating heat, allowing him to do what he pleased–he was the luckiest man on Earth. 

Miguel couldn’t look you in the eyes as his broad palm pressed against your chest, right over the rhythm of your soul. His pants strained and tightened more as his touch wandered through the valleys of firm muscle; what did the rest of you look like? What did you look like when you fought, or when you fucked? 

His hand slipped down to the tight adonis belt cinching your waist, and then lower, following the trail of fine hair disappearing beneath the waistband peeking above your cargos. The bunching and folding of thick material melted Miguel's mind in a vat of suggestion and insatiability–were you really that big, or was that fabric just making it an illusion? 

He didn't need to wait to find out, though, not when you guided his hand down over the very real curve of your goods packed away. And, yes, you were big. Miguel's eyes snapped up to yours. A smug look greeted him.

“Looked like you needed some encouragement.”

Miguel might have laughed if his heart weren't suffocating him, climbing up his throat. Your clothed cock under his hand was ruining his cognitive functions too, to be fair. 

His fingers, long, clumsy things, hurried at your buttons and the zipper keeping everything in check. Miguel's ears filled with the rhythmic drumming of desire when he finally got the damn thing undone, but you grabbed his wrist. You stopped him. 

Miguel scoffed out a held breath and tried to wrench free, but your grip held firm. “You can't back out after–” But when he looked at you, he froze still; your expression electrified the senses, the slightest narrowing and shifting of uneasy eyes freezing Miguel colder and colder by the second. 

“Bathroom. Now.” You popped just one of those buttons back into place before turning to the door. 

“Wh–” But you shoved him, hard, and sent him stumbling into the sterile white space as explosive carnage rippled through the room in his wake. The thing collided into you seconds after you'd gotten your charge out of the blast zone. 

It was big. A mass of human features and flesh and maybe something else weighing on a hulking frame. You barked a name, maybe the name of one of your fellow watch dogs, but it didn't change the thing's trajectory as it tore towards Miguel on all fours like a hound out of hell.

But you were quicker. You grabbed it by the nape and ripped it off its warpath with too much effort, just narrowly avoiding it barreling into the attached room by seconds. Its momentum, forced toward the wall, threw it into a dizzied tantrum; limbs flailed, mouths gnashed, and a symphony of mismatched voices wailed from their putrid prison. 

Miguel's body locked. What ifs plagued him, suddenly. If it got him. If it bit him. If you hadn't been there. What if–

“Close the damn door,” you demanded, and your voice sounded a bit shaky, too. Miguel looked at your broad back as you stood bravely in the way of the beast and its target. “Doctor–” 

“I–but you–?” Miguel stumbled and choked on his words and his reasoning. He didn't want you to fight. He didn't want to die. He didn't want you to die. Miguel hit the button to make it closed, but the door stalled halfway.

“Fuck it.” Barbs burst from your fingertips and dug into the door, forcing it to bend to your will and close. Miguel didn't like how you disappeared inch by inch. He didn't like seeing that thing behind you get up. He didn't like that look you gave him just before the door snapped shut. 

The next few minutes passed like years.

[herebecritters]

I’ve got a ton of lore writings in the works and there’s a lot of little terms used by treefolk and by the trio. So here’s a handy guide in case anyone needs it.

THIS IS A LIVING DOCUMENT. There are sure to be edits and additions as time goes on.

Timeline

Dino-Sore Days

Period of time at the End of the Cretaceous Period before the meteor hit and the Death Curse began.

First Civilization

Period of time directly after the Meteor Strike and the Isles were formed. Cities built around the new Gods. Ends in extermination.

300 Year Colony

Period of time 66 million years after First Civilizations eradication. Years 1698 to 1998. Ends in extermination.

Current Era

Modern HTF as we know it.

Common knowledge

(Terms that most treefolks on the Isles will be familiar with)

The Isles: Also known as “The Isles of Da-rí-šè”, is a lush, multi-biomed cluster of islands hidden in the middle of the ocean and encompassed by a 66million year old Immortality Curse.

Critters/Treefolk: Sentient inhabitants of the world. Anthromorphic animals. Or “People” for lack of a better term.

Simple Beasts: Animals and creatures that live in the world who are not anthropomorphic characters. Pets, wildlife, ect.

Death Curse: The never ending loop of dying and regeneration experienced only within The Isles.

Blacking out: The sensation of losing consciousness and being unable to recall the specification of one’s own death on the Isles.

Death Hangover: The feeling one experiences when waking up alive after a death. Feelings of mental haze, disassociation, and a slight queasiness. Like you woke from a nightmare that you know you had but can’t seem to recall the details of it.

the Outside world/the real world/back home: No official word for this but many Treefolk tend to refer to the world and and their old life outside the Isles from time to time. As distant and far away as it now may seem to them…

Perma’d: the state of being dead without revival. Permanently dead.

Trio Terms

(Terms used among the trio or during the time of First Civilization and before.)

Holidays

(Holidays Celebrated during the First Civilization Era and still regarded by the Trio in private)

Day of Two Suns: New Year for the Critters of the First Civilization. Anniversary and Celebration of the day that the chixulub meteor hit the earth and ended the reign of the “Titans”. Transition from Spring into Summer.

Festival of Shedding: Summer into Autumn harvest festival and feast.

Nesting Day: Preparation of Autumn to Winter. Preparing the nest of Ki for the colder months.

Festival of Frogs: Winter into Spring festival when the frogs come out of hibernation.

Union: Solar Eclipse celebration

Bleeding Night: Lunar Eclipse Ritual to revive Theia from death with a chosen sacrifice.

Theology and Myths

Theia: The moon; deity of the Night and watcher of the small folk and critters.

Sâmâs: The Sun; deity of the Day

Ki: The Earth; Child of Theia and Sâmâs, asleep in the core of the planet.

Alagtila: The Idol of Life

Alagkana: The Idol of Misfortune

Alagumuna: The Idol of Blood

Dingirtila: Formal Title for the God of Life

Dingirkana: Formal Title for the God of Misfortune

Dingirumuna: Formal Title for the God of Blood

Egalkana: Temple of Misfortune

Egaltila: Temple of Life

Egalumuna: Temple of Blood

Mushhush: The name of Nergals monster form

Umamumurgu: Ancient beast of Rage and Fire sent by Sâmâs to protect the children of Theia from the Titans.

The World of the Curse

The Blood: Concentrated Suffering in the form of blood. Gives the idols their power.

The Wells: Underground rivers and lakes where the Blood is held. How full they are determines the amount of power the idols have.

Burrows: Series of tunnels deep below the Isles leading to the wells and to the Trios private chambers.

Hibernation: State of stasis where the trio can go long periods of time of inactivity to conserve Blood.

Ludari: “The Eternal People” The term used to describe the people who lived during the First Civilization before the Rebellion.

Lukurra: “Outsiders” Those who are not one of the three Idols. This term replaced Ludari after the rebellion.

Titans: The dinosaurs, pterosaurs, plesiosaurs, mosasaurs and other giant reptiles that went extinct after the meteorite hit.

Bonus

[scorchedpawswcrp]

I have a question about the adoptables - If we win the character are we allowed to make slight edits to the initial design description? For example if someone won Coyotestar and they wanted to add more white to her design other than the white paws in the description, would that be permitted? Such as adding a white belly or a white patch of fur on her chest, etc. or another example changing eye colors?

So, in regards to changing the designs of adoptables, we have decided that that is not something we are comfortable with in our server.

We’re putting a lot of time and effort designing these adopts with their backgrounds and the common traits of their respective colonies in mind, and although we’re going to leave a lot of things up to the person who adopts them, the visual design is not one of those aspects, otherwise we wouldn’t make a design for it, y’know?

If you want to have full control over a cat’s design, we recommend creating an OC and applying with them instead, that way you have the creative freedom to make them to your liking while still using ideas from the standard appearance from each colony to help guide you in design choices!

We hope you understand!

[tues-dayy]

It took way too long, but I finally settled on how I want to draw the Groovatronians. Glad I did because they're some of my favorite characters in the episode.

More thoughts on these characters and Groovatronians below!:

For the Groovitronian look, I was inspired mostly by crystals (because of all the glass, so much glass) and also by the strata visible in rocks [example below]. The colors come from the lighting and make-up of the episode, mostly.

In the episode, Groovatron V and the Groovatronians are characterized by their 'sexiness' and 'danger.' I did my best to try and put those elements into their designs.

The crystals growing from their skin grow to sharp points naturally, though most Groovatronians sharpen them for appearances. The sharper the crystals, the more alluring they are. Clothes typically do not cover the shoulders because that is where crystals commonly emerge. Crystals may also grow on the back of hands, back of the calves, and on the lower back. The crystals on their heads are seen on most Groovatronians, it's a sign of illness and extreme deficiencies if the crystals never begin to grow in childhood. The amount of crystals tends to be two, but it's not unheard of for some to be born with more or just the one. The length of these crystals varies; longer crystals are associated with the higher ranking Groovatronians and shorter crystals with the majority of the population.

Groovatronian ears are highly-sensitive, sometimes to a painful degree. To combat the pain, the Groovatronians have made ear coverings that help protect the most sensitive of ears. With how common they are, they are decorated and personalized. It keeps with how most Groovatronians like to decorate themselves with gold, considering that it's a commonly found metal.

Claire and Trisha are half-Groovatronian (via their mother's side) and half-Bajoran (via their father's side). The two of them were raised on a federation colony (unnamed so far) and lived fairly normal, intertwined lives. Their father was a federation scientist, though he died early in their childhood (around 8 or so). They were raised by their mother (a civilian nurse) who did her best to raise them Groovatronian, despite being so far from Groovatron V.

Claire had always had dreams of space travel and she dedicated herself to getting into the academy. When she eventually left for Earth to attend the campus in San Francisco, Trisha and their mother went back to Groovatron V. On Earth, Claire stayed with family members from her father's side that worked in the area which eventually led her to being more immersed in her Bajoran heritage than her sister. The distance meant for sparse conversation between Claire and Trisha and a slight loosening of their bond.

Eventually, Claire graduated and she got a position on the Harmony. Around the same time, coincidentally, Trisha got her first job as an intern.

The differences in Claire and Trisha's markings, despite they fact that they are identical twins, is the same thing that happens with freckles on identical twins. The layout of things like freckles and moles (and thus the twins' markings) aren't embedded in your dna.

The crystal colors is a matter of varying environments. Claire was far from Groovatron V while Trisha was right in that environment, so the colors of their crystals (while the same general color) are different in saturation and brightness. The stress experienced throughout the academy and then on the Harmony doesn't help the color either.

A little edit of the Claire & Trisha art because the quote (from Amber Fossey) makes me think of them too much.

[fruitiestsyrup]

I feel it must be stressed, again, that understanding the actions of Hamas in response to continued Israeli aggression over the 15 years Gaza has been treated like an open-air prison--and going back further than that the systematic displacement and ethnic cleansing of Palestinians starting in 1880 with the purchases of land from absentee Ottoman landlords that those Palestinians were forced to vacate--is not the same as condoning them. Unrestrained violence against a population's civilians is absolutely not worthy of support or solidarity, regardless of who is engaging in it. It is part of the playbook of settler colonialism that innocents are put on the front line against any retaliatory violence executed out of desperation such that disproportionate violence can be justified in response to it.

But Hamas are not heroic. They're not freedom fighters. They're not soldiers of light. They are a gang of thugs running an open-air prison who massacred the other political blocs in Gaza after Israel signal boosted them, because of course using the US strategy of funding religious extremists to remove leftist opposition didn't work, as usual. They are holocaust deniers, they disseminate the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, they deliberately conflate Jewish identity with Israeli identity to justify total extermination of that religious bloc, they're vehemently anti-LGBT. They are not good people.

Now that I've said the obvious, I feel it should also be mentioned that a lot of shit that Israeli news orgs have spat out about Hamas' treatment of civilians is false. Do not fall for the beheading babies shit. Shani Louk is alive, if in critical condition with a traumatic brain injury and is being looked after in a Gazan hospital. From a lot of the reports, it appears that Hamas did not, at all, expect this kind of lacking resistance from the IDF (because of course Netanhayu moved a bunch of soldiers from the South to go oppress the West Bank some more even after being told that this would happen), and so they've penetrated much further into Israel than they intended and are now terrified of the level of reprisal that might be levelled in response. The foreign nationals were likely initially mistaken for Israelis, and when Hamas checked, they realised that they were wrong and they've been moved away from the front lines as hostages for leverage. They have threatened to start shooting hostages but given such an act would be an utter death sentence for them with no hope at all of any mercy, no matter how slight, I sincerely doubt that is the case.

You need to understand though that the murder and abuse (this is not, specifically, rape, considering that this has not yet been confirmed) of Israeli citizens is the logical conclusion of treating an entire population like animals: they lash out like cornered animals desperately. They are people, and people driven to desperation will do horrible, terrible things.

I can't condone it, but I do understand it.

Edit: and if you're going to come onto this post and talk about how decolonisation is always violent I am going to boot you into the fucking sun. No, it's not, have you heard of the Land Back Advocates for the Native Americans who are the end state of what this treatment of the Palestinians will result in?

[thallium81]

I just made an accidental discovery about the Russian version of the Vrungel book and my head is whirling. Back when I read the English translation from 1981, I thought to myself, “For a globe-trotting book written in the 30’s, it’s only slightly racist instead of being really racist!”

Well, today I was looking up the official illustrations made by one of the main artists of the cartoon for one edition of the book which I found on a website that posted the whole book’s text in Russian. As I was scrolling through the pictures, I saw a few that I couldn’t recognize as being based on any text, so I used Google Translate to see if there was more text that wasn’t included in the English version.

Sure enough, the Russian version has two extra chapters taking place after the Hawaii and Brazil stops where Vrungel, Lom, and Fuchs go to Australia and meet Admiral Kusaki there.

I hope you’re sitting down, cause what I’m about to write is gonna sound insane, and Google Translate isn’t 100% accurate, but one of Kusaki’s schemes is to dress up in blackface, call himself “Uncle Tom”, and call Vrungel “master”, and Vrungel exposes him by making his makeup melt in the sun during a game of golf.

Now, this whole thing is clearly portraying Kusaki as being an absolute fucking moron, and Vrungel reiterates his previous opinion from when he was talking about the Italian fascists that imperialism is bad. Still, it’s just… so much…

Oh, but that’s not all! Afterwards, Vrungel, Lom, and Fuchs met up with some Aboriginal Australians (whom the book refers to as being black because I don’t think people back then made a distinction), and lemme tell ya, the illustrations that go along with this section are grotesque, but to my slight relief it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. First, Vrungel meets an Aboriginal man dressed up very stereotypically in a museum, and they have a chat where the man states that he’s educated, but it’s hard for him to get good-paying work and so he dresses up in the part of a “savage”. Then, later that night, Vrungel sees Lom sitting at a campfire with some Aboriginals and assumes they’re cannibals, but it was a misunderstanding, Lom was just having a pleasant conversation with them.

So basically, I can see why these sections were taken out for the English translation, and they didn’t even do much for the plot anyway except to further solidify Kusaki as the villain, although to the book’s credit, it was probably fairly progressive-ish for the 30’s or whenever it was written, doing the bare minimum of saying that colonialism is bad. Those drawings absolutely didn’t help, they make things look so much worse.

Side note, reading this version of the book might have answered a question I had while reading the English translation. The original Russian version was first written in 1937 and finished in 1939, but the section with Banditto has Vrungel make an indirect reference to Benito Mussolini’s death by hanging which happened in the 40’s, which left me quite confused. I believe now that both the English translation and the Russian version I read today were a later edition of the book that changed some things, because the latter version also included an extra part at the very end going “Hey for this new edition Captain Vrungel wants me to include definitions for the nautical terminology for all you landlubbers”. Just thought I’d mention that.

[evilrat-sabre]

For CTT, I have SO MANY QUESTIONS!!!

how did tango learn to consider himself a monster?

His subspecies description says that his type of false spine doesn't kill their host, but rather finds an already dead body, how did the body die?

From what I gather, false spines are fairly solitary. Does tango even know his species? If so, how? What does he know?

Ohhh keep asking I am all here for it!

I will respond to this a little out of order if you permit me.

At first I just wanted to note, that I am very bad at updating my notes lol, so some things I said In earlier posts may be debunked in the future(I have a lot of things planned, but as this is an AU, new ideas sometimes come and I find them better than old ones)

When I say that the False-Spine spine doesn't kill their host, this is a big exaggeration of the word "kill", because well yes they first find a dead body, but they carry the zombie virus, So they kinda of kill entire civilizations, without direct Killing it. Then they just feast in the bodies and Live in the one they find most comfortable.

(One thing that I have to do, but I can only do in a computer and always forget, is slightly edit that text that talks about the False-Spine, It was very early in the brain rot that I wrote it, and I feel like it doesn't reflect the entire scope of the species now)

Are the False-Spine spine a solitary species? I think you can say that yes. When an infestation of False-Spine happens, normally it starts with two or three False-spines, but they don't act in colony like let me say bees, they just get together for procreation purposes and then leave to do their own things, AK. Eat, sleep and repeat (Like hamsters)

Did Tango ever met another False-Spine? Thank god no. The next thing I am gonna say is a slight spoiler for chapter 4 so be aware.

SPOILER FOR CHAPTER 4 STARTES HERE (I will put a note where it ends)

As I said this is something that will be revealed in CTT Chapter 4 (That I am writing for more than 1 month at this point and getting slightly crazed because it doesn't end It's almost done all I need to do is write the last pov)

False-Spine are a terrifying mob because the way they transform players in Zombies as a way of gathering food is by scrambling the player code, fucking with it and doing Irreparable damage to them.

Tango may be a False-spine, but He is a player nonetheless, The False-Spine are not an intelligent mob at all, the first thing a wild nom player False-spine would do meeting Tango is looking direct at his code(the equivalent of his soul) and then straight up try to kill him.

SPOILER FOR CHAPTER 4 END HERE

The only information Tango has of his own species are reports from other people, and it doesn't paint a good picture at all.

Okay now for the last one

How did Tango learn to consider himself a monster?

Ohh this is a fun one.

Before I start Talking about this, I just want to say: I pretend to write a one shot about this in the future, but as I don't have anything written or even a date to start writing, I will not mark this as spoilers.

In my master post I mentioned that Tango spent a lot of time in single player worlds trying to learn how to be a player, but what I evade to say is what happened before this.

Tango Spawned in a residential World

(quick world building: A residential world is a multiplayer world where players live in groups like you would in a city in real life)

Tango Spawned in an era where the Nom-Human player movements in search for equality are all time big and this makes those that are more vocal about their bigotry against their existence become even more aggressive.

One thing I have to mention too is that players live a fucking long time, like a lot. So all of this happened a long time ago and don't reflect anymore with widespread view in the regular hubs, nowadays nom-humans make 80% of the population, but it was not the case when Tango first came to be.

So Tango first had to adapt to being a freshly spawned player in a world that is very vocal against his existence and as his spawn is practically a glitch by the way he spawned. He spawned in a no spawn world, It was not supposed to players spawn there at all (just be born, because there is no great code fix for it), so because of that he became homeless for some time, until someone (A bug hybrid AK. The only oc I dared make for CTT) took pity on him and put him inside her house and taught him about what being a Bug player means, their sounds, their greetings. (Even if Tango isn't the same as her, she adopted him in her culture), she too is the one who taught him how to do make up, and how to hide (because it was needed to survive).

Basically he first had contact with someone that is a Bug player and is proud of what she is. So how did he come to hate himself? Well, she died. They were attacked and she died protecting him. It is after this that he goes to his single player words, where he internalized the guilty, the anger, and without someone to talk he put it all in himself, because if they were normal human players, she would be alive and he would not be alone. So he learns how to be human, how to hide and how to lie. And when he goes back to the multiplayer scenario, no one knows what he really is and he prefers it that way.

And I think this is all for now! Thx for asking and engaging with brain rot!

[rocknrollarticles]

Rory Gallagher: A Rap On The Road

HOT PRESS (December 18, 1981) Vol 5, No 25 The Rory Gallagher Interview Prose by John Waters

Sidenote: this is about 4800 words, so maybe have a little time set aside to read it. The only edits I made were changing "Donal" to "Dónal" and adding the missing "s" to "Keith Richards".

You could say that I’m excited! When I collected my first ever pay packet back in ‘74, I went straight out and flogged it on the complete Rory Gallagher back catalogue and a couple of Taste albums to boot! For the next week, I remember, I was hungry, but very very happy!

Rory Gallagher has always declined to become involved in the excesses that often seem to prevail in the rock ‘n’ roll market place. In his music, and his public persona, he has steadfastly refused to make concessions of any kind in the dir­ection of either commerciality or of fash­ion. He has remained his own man, doing his own thing, doing it well, and being successful. And while other (often less worthy and exalted) musicians have cut themselves off from their followers – isolating themselves in an aloof cocoon of bodyguards and hangers on Gallagher has always remained approachable, famil­iar, touchable.

To me, Rory has always seemed to be the antithesis of the Star Symbol for this reason, paradoxically, he has always been a hero of mine.

Yeah! You could say that I’m excited. To see Gallagher playing live is always a thrill in itself, but on this jaunt I’ll catch the final two gigs of his 1981 tour of British universities, tonight at Birmingham University, and tomorrow at Brunei in Uxbridge, London – and also meet and talk to Rory. In addition, it’s my first overseas assignment for The World’s Most Fortnightly Rock Paper and it will also be my first time to fly in an aeroplane. To mark the occasion, a colony of butterflies have organized an aeronautics display in the pit of my stomach!

And it’s still half an hour to lift off.

Later. Birmingham University: a vener­able, rambling building, with huge, oaken doors, stained glass windows, mountainous staircases and vast mazes of dimly lit corridors with contraceptive dispensing machines that never work! It’s the kind of building in which you walk half a mile to find the toilet, only to discover when you get there that it’s about twenty feet from where you started out!

Gallagher is in his dressing room when we arrive signing autographs for a couple of stray fans.

His appearance is engagingly scruffy, look­ing marginally more like an unmade bed than I do. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt; his hair is uncombed, his face unshaven. He seems slightly heavier than before, his face is fuller. Apart from this he has changed little since first I saw him, back in his Taste days.

At Rory’s suggestion, together with his brother and manager, Dónal, we adjourn to a nearby watering hole for a drink.

Down in the Gun Barrel, for that is the hostelry’s handle, we talk about Irish bands – De Dannan, U2, Bagatelle, The Bogey Boys – and it transpires that Rory’s as up-to-date on what’s happening as I am.

He admires Moving Hearts a lot, but thinks they’re beginning to be hounded for their polit­ical opinions. He defends their right to hold such beliefs and to state them in their music without constantly having to justify themselves. Nobody, he points out, questions the right of The Clash to state what are often much more superficial and less passionately held viewpoints.

By now pre gig tension is mounting. Back in the dressing room, there’s a guy who writes for the college magazine, who would like to interview Rory. His name is Damien. He’s from Omagh, a definite plus! He’s only heard of Taste from his father - a slight minus!

Rory agrees to being interviewed, however, and Damien proceeds to interrogate him about the lack of ‘Irishness’ in his material. Gallagher is cautious, and also, I suspect, slightly hurt by the tone of the question.

“Everyone knows where I’m from,” he de­clares. “And I’m proud of it, but what are you supposed to do to prove it?”

In fact, as it becomes abundantly clear to me as the weekend progresses, any criticism of Rory in the matter of consciousness of his Irish identity is manifestly undeserved. Among the most abiding memories of the trip is the way he would talk animatedly and knowledgably about Ireland, about the political situation; about, for instance, the performance of the Coalition or the lack of it; about his disappointment with the seemingly unconditional support which has been given it by the “independent” deputies especially by Dr. Noel Browne, of whom Rory is a long time admirer.

“I think he was just trying to hinge on this business of writing the great epic Irish rock song,” Rory says of his interviewer afterwards.

Does he, I wonder, have a definite stance to­wards politics, and if so, does he think it should manifest itself in his music?

“I'm not mad about political parties or pol­iticians generally,” he says. “I hate the whole system and all the rest of it. But that attitude gives you the great cop out. So that’s one side of the coin!

“On the other hand, if you have a serious discussion about the way history goes, you tend to say, well, certain people were not as bad as certain other people! Put it this way: I’m inter­ested in modern history, so therefore I’m inter­ested in modern politics; but I also know the baloney, and the crockery, and the jive and the crap that goes on.”

Does he not think his music should reflect this view?

“It’s hard to say. Most rock ‘n’ roll music is pretty apolitical. I dunno, I just do what I do. I’m not into proclamations!!”

So much for the politics, on to the poetry, the gig! Normally, I would say, a staid, almost gloomy environment, tonight the university hall is stuffed to its ancient rafters. The atmosphere is electrifying.

“I opened the door to go in,” said Dónal Gallagher afterwards, “and five people fell out!”

And he was not exaggerating!

Support band, The Rookies, have been off the stage for about twenty minutes when the lights go down, and a mighty cheer goes up. Gerry McAvoy runs on. Suddenly newest mem­ber Brendan O’Neill (whose recruitment means that it’s now an all-Irish-band – he’s from Bel­fast) is behind the drum kit. Last of all comes Gallagher, battered Strat dangling, racing on hands aloft in salute.

From here on, it’s Blitzville!

It is nothing short of incredible to think how many great songs Gallagher has written. Apart from the as yet-unreleased material that he performs, he has a vast repertoire of older stuff to draw from. So much so, in fact, that while the old favourites like “Last Of The Independents,” “Shadow Play,” “Philby,” “Tattoo’d Lady,” “Brute Force And Ignor­ance,” “Wayward Child” and “Bullfrog Blues” are coming thick and fast – it’s only afterwards that you think of all the equally good songs that he’s actually left out.

Nor has he lost any of his flair for histrionics: grimacing, strutting and tearing round the stage; or sustaining a note and tossing his plectrum six feet in the air during “Moonchild", catching it and playing on; or indulging in a bout of dueling guitars with Gerry McAvoy during “Calling Card”; or stopping singing, now and then, when he gets to a chorus, gesturing with his eyes - and the crowd comes in on cue with the hookline!

His song introductions are minimal, being confined to the occasional “here’s a little up-tempo number, hope you enjoy this one, thank you!” or some such understatement! There is a tremendous natural empathy between Rory and his audience, which eliminates the need for any explanations, introductions or other chit­chat.

One of the highlights of his shows has always been the acoustic set. Tonight is no ex­ception, and though unfortunately he no longer performs my personal favourite “Too Much Al­cohol,” nevertheless the two songs featured – “Out On The Western Plain” and a Louisiana Red song called “Ride On Red” maintain the high standard.

The others come back on and it’s more rockers – “Philby” and a blistering “Shadow Play” after which Rory unstraps his guitar, yells the familiar “thanksamillion” farewell, shakes a few hands at the front, waves goodbye and disappears.

A thousand years later, he comes back (no snow rope encores here!) and launches into “Last Of The Independents.” He disappears again, but comes back for a thundering “Secret Agent” which explodes into “Bullfrog Blues.” Then he waves goodbye again and is gone, this time for good.

Afterwards it’s meet the fans time. It takes Rory the best part of an hour to get through the long line of people stretching down the narrow corridor leading to his dressing room. He’s in no hurry. Leisurely he signs autographs, shakes hands, talks about guitars or gadgets, greeting each new arrival with a friendly “how­ya doin,” are ye alright!

I notice two Japanese girls standing near the dressing room. Later I’m informed that one of them, Mitsumi, is the secretary of the Rory Gallagher fan club. They both attend most of the band’s gigs: “Anywhere from Tokyo to London” as Rory puts it. Each night they bring along a little present for Rory - tonight it’s an exotic box of chocolate biscuits.

When the last hand has been shook, and the last album cover signed, we climb into Dónal’s Jensen and speed off through the night (do I sound like Julie Boyd?!) in the direction of London, the scene of tomorrow night’s gig. The plot is that I interview Rory in the car on the way; but a few miles down the road, fate and a flat tyre intervene, and as we discover the spare is also flat, Rory and I end up in the near­by “Watford Gap," a late night diner, while Dónal goes off in search of a garageman to re­pair the puncture.

Rory informs me that back in the old days “The Watford Gap” used to be a great meeting place for bands in the early hours of the morn­ing, after gigs. Nowadays, he jokes, bands might not like to be seen here “without their make­up!”

The restaurant, seemingly in the past a somewhat sleazy joint, has recently been re­novated. Rory jokes that he hopes the fact that it’s been “Ritzed up” doesn’t mean that the eggs are less greasy! (He needn’t have worried!) Like myself he’s a martyr for the health foods I don't think!! He orders a big plate of saus­age, bacon, eggs, beans and chips. I do likewise (though minus the eggs) and we sit down at one at one of the nice new tables, to eat and to talk.

I enquire how he came across new drummer Brendan O’Neill, who replaced Ted McKenna some months back, Ted, I understand, is now playing with Greg Lake, as indeed is Gary Moore.

“Well, I’ve known Brendan for a couple of years,” explains Rory. “He’s been living in Lon­don, and, in fact, he was the first drummer that Gerry used to play with in Belfast, and he was working with this jazz rock group called Swift, so I didn’t even know he was into playing this kind of music, but as luck would have it we played together and it worked out fine. He’d kind of gone through the jazz rock thing phase, and seemingly was interested in playing … (laughs) … whatever it is we play. I hate putting a title on it any more!”

Speak of the Devil. Brendan and Gerry, who have been traveling in another car, arrive with Peter, the band’s road manager.

It transpires that Brendan once played with an Irish showband, The Real McCoy, and this brings forth a store of showband stories, which we swap happily for half an hour. All of them unfortunately are unprintable due to the laws of libel! Sorry!

This conversation prompts me to ask Rory later if there was ever a time when he could have been sucked in irreversibly into the show­band trap. (He did, after all, spend a couple of years playing with the Impact Showband at home in Cork, while he was still at school.)

“Not really. I was extremely determined to get out, because after playing Jim Reeves’ numbers secula seculorum, you’d (shakes head)…naw!!

“Let’s put it this way,” he adds. “Mathematically it’s possible I could’ve ended up playing in a showband, but knowing myself it wouldn’t have happened. I had my fill of them up to here. When I left the showbands for good, I said ‘that’s it!’ No Way!!

“I was only there really about two years, but in that two years I got around the country, and did the Lent tour of England a couple of times. (Note for English readers: the Lent tour was a traditional annual part of Irish showbands life. The dance halls were closed during the six week’s preceding Easter, a “penance”, you see, which was strictly enforced by the Catholic hierarchy – and consequently the bands had to go to England for the duration in order to make a living!)

“And I was in Spain once too, so it was an experience and I was stuck in school, so I couldn’t complain!

“It was still a thrill to actually plug into an AC 30 Vox amp, y’know (laughs). It’s only when you start getting more serious about the music you want to play and don’t want to play, y’know. You don’t want to be going around do­ing covers of ‘Hucklebuck’ or covers of Jim Reeves, or covers of anything, really!

“You had good showbands and bad ones of course. You had a good brass section with The Plattermen, good singers with The Fresh­men, or a certain band would be terrible, but the sax player or the guitar player would be great. You’d always get that in showbands.

“But the band I was in, I mean I tried to push them into doin’ as much Chuck Berry or R‘n’B ish kind of things as possible. We used to do things like ‘Slow Down,’ ‘Nadine,’ ‘Johnny B. Goode,’ all those sort of things. So that would keep me relatively happy. But then we’d still have to do the stuff in between, a couple of pop ones, a couple of country ones, y’know.

“Of course there’s a certain amount of crack in the showbands. There’s an amazing amount of fun that goes on and carry on. But if you’re playing five hours a night and half the time you’re just plonking away, it gets claustro­phobic! And if the other musicians don’t relate to the sort of music you’re fond of its frustrat­ing.

“That’s not to say that you can be too high ‘n’ mighty. I mean the showband players have every right to work in a band like that, and they’re happy doin’ it. And you can be very cynical about it but by the same token, you have to give them credit. They’re playing music – they’re playing dance music, and they’re en­tertaining people, and I’m the first one to knock them for six but y’know, who am I to dictate?

“It’s up to yourself whether you want to go off and starve in Hamburg, or starve in London for a while, and wait for a break that is a long time coming. That's the way it goes!”

Brunel University, Uxbridge, the scene of Saturday night’s gig is a fairly mod­ern complex (or at least what I saw of it was) on the outskirts of London, in fact it’s just a plectrum’s throw away from Heathrow Airport.

Unfortunately the night is marred straight away by an instance of bureaucracy gone wild. Because they’ve got a bee in their bonnet about some previous visiting act doing damage to the dressing rooms, the college authorities are re­fusing to allow the band to have the use of this facility. As a result, Rory, Gerry and Brendan must change in of all places - a squash court!

Thus, when Rory and I sit down before the gig to conduct, as he puts it, the “meat and pot­atoes” of the interview, ensconced in two arm­chairs placed by a Super Ser in the centre of the court, and dwarfed by the sheer vastness of the environment (not to mention frozen), we could be two forlorn characters plucked straight out of some fanciful Beckett scenario, bent on some surreal existentialist spree!

In actual fact, we’re bent over a tape-recorder, and what follows is a veritable valley of questions and answers.

His new album, he reveals, is to be called “Jinx.”

Rory: “Yeah, we’ve got it recorded, it just needs mixing. It was supposed to have been re­leased in late autumn, but we were too late in finishing it. And then the tour came up, so trying to rush it out for Christmas, type of thing, would’ve been silly, because it’d just get lost in the shuffle, and you mightn’t even have done it properly, y’know. So this way is better!”

Having heard a number of the songs last night, the stomping ‘Double Vision’, the bluesy ‘Ride On Red’, to name but two, I can vouch for their quality, but what about the other songs which have not, as yet, been assimilated into the set?

“Well, let’s see. There’s a song, called ‘Loose Talk’ which we haven’t done on stage. There’s a song, called ‘Signals’, which you haven’t heard it’s a spacey, kinda fast one.

“There’s the song ‘Jinxed’ itself, which is quite slow kind of Latin blues type of feel to it. It has a kind of Latin American beat, but it’s actually a blues number. It’s quite interesting y’know, with tom toms and stuff, and it’s got a couple of saxes on it as well... it’s got quite a spooky atmosphere, that one!

“There’s a song we’ve been doing called ‘The Devil Made Me Do It’, a very fast Eddie Cochran sort of thing, not quite rockabilly, but a very fast sort of driving one. And then there’s ‘Easy Come, Easy Go’ which is a kind of a minor … I’d call it a ballad, really, but it’s a blues ballad something in the vein of ‘A Million Miles Away’. That type of stuff!”

Immediate plans involve mixing the album and hitting the road again in the New Year. There’ll be continental gigs, some in Britain to coincide with the release of the album and in Ireland around Easter, if current projections are met.

“But next year, our main aim is to try to get back to the States, and be a bit more active there,” he adds.

Gallagher obviously has lost none of his commitment to touring, in fact, he spends on average, between six and eight months on the road each year. In the past twelve months, for instance, the band has visited Australia, New Zealand and France, and also played two dates in Greece, one an open air gig in Athens, the second indoors at Salonika.

As Greece - what with the repressive junta regime that existed there up to the recent election, has never exactly been on the beaten track as far as touring rock bands are concerned (the last band to perform there were The Roll­ing Stones... in 1967!!), one might have expected some enthusiasm. In fact, at the Athens gig, there was a full scale riot!

“They expected fifteen thousand people,” explains Rory, “and that’s serious! And I said ‘well, they must be kidding!!’ I didn’t realize that you could have that amount, but as it turned out, there was twice that many, or there­abouts, but half of them were outside, and either they supposedly gate crashed, or else the police over reacted because the audience were all up on their feet.

“It was a great gig really if I say so myself and, all of a sudden, the police started getting a little heavy with the audience, things started getting a little bit hard, y’know. We were just playin’ away it really only all happened after the encore. The crowd were grand, but y’see they don’t have all that many big shows like that, and I suppose the police were nervous. There was the election coming up, as well, in two weeks or something, so I think they used the concert as an example to show how they could keep control of a crowd, or something like that

“The trouble in a situation like that is: if you get too much of the strong armed approach towards a couple of fans, it’s seen, and it goes through the auditorium or the arena very fast. Naturally enough, when the word gets out, it gets very nasty, and if you’ve got guys there with riot gear on, and stuff like that, it makes matters seem worse.

“People were hurt (300, in fact), I dunno, I only heard the reports afterwards. A couple of the police were hurt, and quite a few of the audience.

“They all made it home somehow or other, but I think they burned down a few cafes on the way!! But that’s not in my fault!”

Were there any repercussions for the band?

“We had to move lightly on our feet, be­cause there was a hint that I might be held as some sort of a trouble maker. They were talking of putting off the show in Salonika, after Athens, but that went of fairly well, there was no problem.”

Would he go back there?

“Ah I would yeah. Sure. I wouldn’t go back if the junta were back in power, but I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

Will he be let go back?

“Well the Socialists actually won the election out there, so I think it’ll be all right. I think it was just a nervous situation, y’know.”

Quick change of direction: does he listen much to current music?

“I'm all ears, all the time! I could reasonably claim to be fairly aware of all kinds of music. I can’t say I’m all that switched on by a lot of recent stuff, but if I’m going to criticize something, I like to actually know what I’m talking about!”

Has there been anything at all recently, that he particularly liked?

“Lemme see… I’m thinking too hard so ob­viously there hasn’t been anything. I like the Stray Cats, I liked their first album – I’m not that daft about the second one though. Costello I like a lot, but I don’t regard him as being that new at this point.”

How did he feel about Costello’s recent foray into the world of country music?

“Well I’m a country fan myself, but not of the sweeter stuff. I like Johnny Paycheck and Waylon Jennings, and I thought he was gonna do something like that, but in fact he went for the sweet stuff, the strings and voices. And the producer, Billy Sherrill, even though that TV programme (recent ITV documentary about the making of Costello’s album in Nashville - shown as part of the “South Bank Show” series) gave the impression that he was into orchestrations and all that sort of thing, on the other records he just doesn’t have all that stuff!

“Nevertheless it was a worthwhile project –you’d wonder though whether he’d have got a better result by just goin’ into a studio with Nick Lowe and a steel player, and just goin’ for more of a honky tonk sound.”

What other music does he listen to?

“In any particular week, I listen to … I could be listening to rhythm ‘n’ blues tonight, and to­morrow I could be listening to fairly contem­porary stuff. I used to listen to a lot of jazz, but not so much any more.

“I still like music that sounds fairly human, I suppose that’s a corny way of putting it. But I’m not keen on – I’m not against synthes­izers, but y’know the current wave of bands, I’m not keen on them, the New Romantics, and stuff like that, it doesn’t appeal to me! I tend to still have lot of respect for the more traditional names like Dylan and the Stones and people like that!”

Does he have an ideal rock ‘n’ roll person?

“Well I mean Keith Richards, might be the obvious modern day, ultimate rock ‘n’ roll figure or Chuck Berry, I imagine, or Jerry Lee. There’s loads of them y’see (laughs) but I don’t really believe in, this thing of making…”

What about Elvis Presley?

“Oh yeah, I’d personally strangle that guy (Albert Goldman) who’s written that new book. I haven’t read it all, but I read the ex­tracts in Rolling Stone. He couldn’t have written that book if Elvis was still alive, because of the laws of libel the dead can’t come back and sue! Y’know? Hopefully though, Elvis will haunt him yet with a bit of luck!!

“No one’s above having their lives reviewed and written about, and so on, but y’know, how can you sit down and say something like ‘as Elvis lay on his bed, he thought to himself… Or, as Elvis said to himself as he walked onto the Vegas stage for the last time’. That’s fict­ion!

“If Charlie Gillet had written it, or Greil Marcus, or one of those fellows, somebody who likes rock ‘n’ roll, but this guy actually likes Benny Goodman. He was on TV recently, being interviewed, and he said that Elvis was only basically a good copyist of demo discs and he just wrote him off! And that’s not on! I’d be surprised if he even has an album at home. I mean that’s where I’d draw the line. If Elvis did good things or bad things – well everyone has gotta answer for themselves, but you must remember that Elvis had to live in a very… there wasn't much allowance. It was a very strict society. Keith Richard can get away with almost anything now, or Jagger or any of these people. Society is going that way now, and that's fine! But people expected Elvis o be perfect all of the time, y’know!

“I think too much has been made of turning rock ‘n’ roll figures into some sort of deities, of elevating them too much. Everyone likes praise, and everyone likes to see certain artists admired y’know, or held in esteem. But if it’s taken too far I think it gets a bit lopsided, particularly if you know one or two of them, if that’s not a prim thing to say and you know they’re only human, and they can only do a certain job.”

Is this why Rory has always ensured that he remained approachable? Or does he think about it at all?

“Ah not really. I mean I don’t see myself as approachable all of the time. But I just try to keep a wee bit of… I try to keep my feet some­what on the ground. I suppose I – I’m getting into analyzing myself now (laughs) which I don’t really like, but I mean, I have avoided certain trappings of the thing because I think they ruin rock ‘n’ roll or whatever we play. The mess people’s heads up, and it’s a hard enough business as it is! I like to keep a certain amount of control of what I do, and you’ve to make sacrifices for that you have to cut down your stardom (grimaces) ambitions. At least this way you can attempt to make fairly decent music - make decent albums, and play for the fun of it without getting too carried away!”

Saturday night’s gig goes off well. There is marginally more room to move than the night before, but as the venue is at least twice the size of the Birmingham one, there is probably in fact a larger attendance.

Afterwards Rory, Dónal, Pasquale (who handles the band’s continental promotions) and I head into town to eat, and proceed to assault our respective brains with consecutive bottles of Carlsberg Special and sundry other beverages.

I’m struck, as indeed I was many times throughout the last couple of days, by the wide range of Rory’s interests. For perhaps four or five hours he talks about everything under the sun - music, venues, movies, tennis, politics, Elvis, religion, spies and music. And they’re just the things I can remember!

Much later, Dónal drops me back to my hotel, where I should be able to grab about twenty minutes sleep before catching my early morning flight.

Packing a suitcase, I reflect on what a spec­ial kind of person Rory Gallagher is: what an amiable, interesting companion and what a down to earth human being. And what a superb musician as well.

And it dawns on me again just how well that first pay packet was spent.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

would have too much to say that inevitably repeatedly breaking things up into tweets wouldn't be a pain but already going back like, lets check out andor episode one again in full true connoisseur mode and i'm not pressed if i make it into a proper in order rewatch, also when the bonus for me is that i'm always more likely to better keep track of names or faces or pick up on something that was supposed to be like a straightforward plot moment or whatever else, right, though i didn't have any especial problem with that. anyways i'm just already like oh this entire first sequence fucks, and i didn't really go into this that skeptically but do remember like yeah first time around it was like with this intro premise alone like ah i see this fucks then

like first of all an initial shot choice that is stylish, which tells us that there will be stylishness. fun that the couple evil [police procedural] characters are great at being pathetic zero charisma soaking creepy & wet disgusting in their own special ways, but cassian is getting rained on all the time he's cutting the plumbing line he swam here soaking wet literal treatment

things feeling figuratively and literally grounded (walking, only seeing that walkway, streetview, no soaring establishing shot to show This Isn't Your Ordinary City (scifi edition)) like, also still clear enough it's scifi but really with the Magical Realism type of approach, which i do imagine i enjoy more

the scoring is so good. BANGER of a track used when walking into the bar, also used later when dropped into the introduction of his beach getaway new life scene, brief as it is. the sexy edm style track, and it Is also like "well i mean. sure then" getting so far into this scene before it's evident like oh you're not actually here to have sex. pretty flirtatious w/this proprieter but it's like, maybe discreetly acting natural, maybe just acting naturally for real and it's just like that, we've all been there re Blend In, Follow Their Lead as a rule for operating anywhere ever, presumably relevant here, the Everyone's Wary nature of the whole series....tbt talking about jyn like yeah idk maybe her brand of wariness that's not charismaticly intense enough nor closed offedly intense enough is like, itself confusing or whatever but absolute "what's not to get or like" sense from me, and naturally cassian cropping up like it's your wary kindred spirit

anyways then having fun in there. looking at the required sexy hologram dancer like hmm they're a little space androgynous. a little space gnc af. the guys who are just immediately pissed off b/c the supposed new customer is getting preference. the delay after the proprieter lady is like Behave to them and cassian looks at her, then them. his immediate brooking no nonsense w/the two as soon as they're all hostile mode at him about all of it, at least in terms of like, not playing it utterly neutral. the It's Political times of him asking about a woman from kenari, proprieter lady going for both a) how about this other planet of origin and [names an inferred similar feature] as well as this kind of establishes already that [from kenari] can be space racially profiled, since cassian doesn't have to explicitly confirm that's where he's from too, and her inferring this is a Preference that can be catered to around physical features, and certainly once cassian's Wanted about this, the urgency around maarva & co asking who they've ever told that cassian's from kenari is sure like ah, space borders, space immigration, space [indeed the racial profiling when the soaking is he creepy or wet pathetic heinous cop pulls up an Image], the repeated like space colonialism and space indigeneity and space resource extraction that gets to come up more with [i've been in this fight since i was six years old] flashbacks....it's great like, the magical realism aspect where it's like [yeah Real Life but slight au] feeling immediately relevantly recognizable and as viscerally dramatic as you'd want, like, everyone's daily lives involving this inherent lack of safety that can turn into the stress of imminent danger on a dime. also the eventual b) asking if he's a Boyfriend or Husband like, space gender, magical realism style where it's like of course the space misogyny power disparity they'd be on the lookout for, might be vulnerable to a partner who is a space man. oh and then also the shift when he says it's his sister he's looking for, from more guarded to sympathetic when it's like, the context then isn't the woman's vulnerability being heightened if this is someone here out of like, a possessive angle, and rather that he's now not only presumably sympathetic to her as well, but potentially some of that vulnerability being extrapolated to him as well. which is not inaccurate

obsessed w/the Long Shot where cassian's getting held up by the two company sentry guys and it's him close up center frame slightly from above and just tearing it up acting while we only hear the other two for a good while until they wander in out of focus, that at first we also can't see and thus can't immediately Know they're talking to him....as well as again establishing like, yeah this is a prequel where we know our protagonist won't die no matter how [people are definitely dying] the situations are, yeah we know he's cool action guy even, but he's not operating in a story here where it's all about his protracted solo epic action sequences, he wants to avoid those, other people want to avoid those, everyone's better off operating more stealth mode if they can help it, but also that it doesn't matter to him that We know he's not gonna die, he doesn't know it, and Everyone knowing those stakes and reacting to the stress rather than being like stoic too epic to be at all fazed badasses. d luna crushing it, everyone's great but yeah sure acting as hell huh

also this time around i was just so much more noticeably affected by like oh i feel bad for this guy who's realizing his buddy who also sucks is dead and now that he's in over his head majorly life and death....everyone acting in every part is just going ham like bevy of these varied performances in varied roles and nobody dropping the ball in the least. while it's obvious too that like, feels bad for the panicky source in rogue one intro as well but cassian can't give much away then b/c he's not the protagonist and it's all very mysterious at this point. and that in addition to upping the surprise, it's presumably nonzero meant to be a kindness from him to take the time to comfort the guy before then blowing him away. whereas here the guy sees it coming and like, really brought this upon yourselves and you made this potentially life or death for cassian from the start, as he was aware, but this time it's like yeah cassian wasn't expecting that to turn into [bad luck, that headbutt killed you. and/or also the fall] and is Not so mysterious to us so can be clearly surprised and less than thrilled about things as well....but feels apropos that also w/ this intro of these two rando sentry guys from the bar who the proprietor was like yeah they're not really cops but they annoyingly like to act like it, it can be a bit more genuinely pathetic vs the Pathetic(tm) quality of the like imperial space feds characters. like oh i do feel bad for this guy and all the time he has here to plead for his life :( but doesn't feel like it's meant to be some [dun dunnn?] moment re cassian b/c it's like, tells us the stakes, tells us he's not fucking around and Will shoot someone but we've also been told he's not like here to be, or feel, badass invincible, is not unaffected by fear of death nor of having killed someone / death in general, but also Will be blowing you away if need be, also speaking to like, he's run calculations before abt like, whaddaya gonna do, what are the risks and which are you willing to take, and obviously has fought before and if he's ever killed someone before it wouldn't be surprising, some like "my god i've never done that before / now i'm out for blood, never look back" factor does not seem to be relevant. but fr was fun to be surprised by like oh i feel bad for this guy this time around lol noticeably much more than affected me the first time around. true [oops in over your head] vibes but which also then speak to like, yeah probably would've stopped pretending to be cops, just feels like yeah he's more distant from [uh oh, attention from Empire cops now] figures so it's like, ah, you bring it upon yourself but. i'm not quite sure what got me this time around lol, again i guess just more ability to focus on details and thee moment b/c i'm not like, needing to intently devote my attention to potentially following names and faces and plotlines b/c it's the opening scene here and don't get lost before things even happen. maybe it's having subtitles on where i'm all the more sure of the dialogue and him talking about "we'll go in together" has me like "there but for your fucking around, no need for this, i remember the vaguely friendly acknowledgment before your egos were bruised and you got hostile about it and escalated it to This" maybe it's even him offering a story and phrasing it like "we played too hard in hitting" when i have this like, vulnerable association lol like if anyone's upset / distressed enough And there's the immediate proximity / presence of something meant to be like, purely fun, where even talking about Playing may be enough to be like oh no lol, even when that's not really what happened. again, the acting from everyone, maybe it's just focusing all the more on that, wherein truly epic seeming distressed and miserable, maybe it also helps that we also get shots of more diego luna acting which is also to the effect of: pretty distressed and miserable, soaking wet. i dunno but i'm like hell yeah being all the more caught up in whatever.

also that this was like, oh a seeming potential thread establishment? and of course "whoops killed two guys" is indeed an established thread, the [looking for his sister] remaining latent as the setup to that inciting event and otherwise like, just something he does, characterization and [backstory thread] relevant, but only that. and yet, the way that opening scenes are generally meant to do, this whole sequence conveying plenty about how things are going to be, establishing overall contexts, thee vibe, that the soundtrack fucks, that nobody's messing around here in the least like. just as these first minutes didn't have to go so hard, so neither will the rest of the series have had to. i also didn't have to say all this or post at all but i get hype and when i have anything to say i really do. no concision. oh shit and we end with like the directional reverse of the first opening stylish shot but w/cassian in frame as well yeahh boyyee

[rjalker]

oh wait nvm I already edited this one before.

The World Behind the Moon

By Paul Ernst

around 7k words long.

Professor Dorn Wichter waited anxiously for the slight vibration that should announce that the projectile-shaped shell had entered the new planet's atmosphere.

"Have we struck it yet?" asked Joyce, a tall blond young man with the shoulders of an athlete and the broad brow and square chin of one who combines dreams with action. He made his way painfully toward Wichter. It was the first time he had attempted to move since the shell had passed the neutral point—that belt midway between the moon and the world behind it, where the pull of gravity of each satellite was neutralized by the other. They, and all the loose objects in the shell, had floated uncomfortably about the middle of the chamber for half an hour or so, gradually settling down again; until now it was possible, with care, to walk.

"Have we struck it?" he repeated, leaning over the professor's shoulder and staring at the resistance gauge.

"No." Absently Wichter took off his spectacles and polished them. "There's not a trace of resistance yet."

They gazed out the bow window toward the vast disc, like a serrated, pock-marked plate of blue ice, that was the planet Zeud—discovered and named by them. The same thought was in the mind of each. Suppose there were no atmosphere surrounding Zeud to cushion their descent into the hundred-mile crater that yawned to receive them?

"Well," said Joyce after a time, "we're taking no more of a chance here than we did when we pointed our nose toward the moon. We were almost sure that was no atmosphere there—which meant we'd nose dive into the rocks at five thousand miles an hour. On Zeud there might be anything." His eyes shone. "How wonderful that there should be such a planet, unsuspected during all the centuries men have been studying the heavens!"

Wichter nodded agreement. It was indeed wonderful. But what was more wonderful was its present discovery: for that would never have transpired had not he and Joyce succeeded in their attempt to fly to the moon. From there, after following the sun in its slow journey around to the lost side of the lunar globe—that face which the earth has never yet observed—they had seen shining in the near distance the great ball which they had christened Zeud.

Astronomical calculations had soon described the mysterious hidden satellite. It was almost a twin to the moon; a very little smaller, and less than eighty thousand miles away. Its rotation was nearly similar, which made its days not quite sixteen of our earthly days. It was of approximately the weight, per cubic mile, of Earth. And there it whirled, directly in a line with the earth and the moon, moving as the moon moved so that it was ever out of sight beyond it, as a dime would be out of sight if placed in a direct line behind a penny.

Zeud, the new satellite, the world beyond the moon! In their excitement at its discovery, Joyce and Wichter had left the moon—which they had found to be as dead and cold as it had been surmised to be—and returned summarily to Earth. They had replenished their supplies and their oxygen tanks, and had come back—to circle around the moon and point the sharp prow of the shell toward Zeud. The gift of the moon to Earth was a dubious one; but the gift of a possibly living planet-colony to mankind might be the solution of the overcrowded conditions of the terrestial sphere!

"Speed, three thousand miles an hour," computed Wichter. "Distance to Zeud, nine hundred and eighty miles. If we don't strike a few atoms of hydrogen or something soon we're going to drill this nearest crater a little deeper!"

Joyce nodded grimly. At two thousand miles from Earth there had still been enough hydrogen traces in the ether to give purchase to the explosions of their water-motor. At six hundred miles from the moon they had run into a sparse gaseous belt that had enabled them to change direction and slow their speed. They had hoped to find hydrogen at a thousand or twelve hundred miles from Zeud.

"Eight hundred and thirty miles," commented Wichter, his slender, bent body tensed. "Eight hundred miles—ah!"

A thrumming sound came to their ears as the shell quivered, imperceptibly almost, but unmistakeably, at the touch of some faint resistance outside in space.

"We've struck it, Joyce. And it's much denser than the moon's, even as we'd hoped. There'll be life on Zeud, my boy, unless I'm vastly mistaken. You'd better look to the motor now."

Joyce went to the water-motor. This was a curious, but extremely simple affair. There was a glass box, ribbed with polished steel, about the size and shape of a cigar box, which was full of water. Leading away from this, to the bow and stern of the shell, were two small pipes. The pipes were greatly thickened for a period of three feet or so, directly under the little tank, and were braced by bed-plates so heavy as to look all out of proportion. Around the thickened parts of the pipes were coils of heavy, insulated copper wire. There were no valves nor cylinders, no revolving parts: that was all there was to the "motor."

Joyce didn't yet understand the device. The water dripped from the tank, drop by drop, to be abruptly disintegrated, made into an explosive, by being subjected to a powerful magnetic field induced in the coils by a generator in the bow of the shell. As each drop of water passed into the pipes, and was instantaneously broken up, there was a violent but controlled explosion—and the shell was kicked another hundred miles ahead on its journey. That was all Joyce knew about it.

He threw the bow switch. There was a soft shock as the motor exhausted through the forward tube, slowing their speed.

"Turn on the outside generator propellers," ordered Wichter. "I think our batteries are getting low."

Joyce slipped the tiny, slim-bladed propellers into gear. They began to turn, slowly at first in the almost non-existent atmosphere.

"Four hundred miles," announced Wichter. "How's the temperature?"

Joyce stepped to the thermometer that registered the heat of the outer wall. "Nine hundred degrees," he said.

"Cut down to a thousand miles an hour," commanded Wichter. "Five hundred as soon as the motor will catch that much. I'll keep our course straight toward this crater. It's in wells like that, that we'll find livable air—if we're right in believing there is such a thing on Zeud."

Joyce glanced at the thermometer. It still registered hundreds of degrees, though their speed had been materially reduced.

"I guess there's livable air, all right," he said. "It's pretty thick outside already."

The professor smiled. "Another theory vindicated. I was sure that Zeud, swinging on the outside of the Earth-moon-Zeud chain and hence traveling at a faster rate, would pick up most of the moon's atmosphere over a period of millions of years. Also it must have been shielded by the moon, to some extent, against the constant small atmospheric leakage most celestial globes are subject to. Just the same, when we land, we'll test conditions with a rat or two."

At a signal from him, Joyce checked their speed to four hundred miles an hour, then to two hundred, and then, as they descended below the highest rim of the circular cliffs of the crater, almost to a full stop. They floated toward the surface of Zeud, watching with breathless interest the panorama that unfolded beneath them.

They were nosing toward a spot that was being favored with the Zeudian sunrise. Sharp and clear the light rays slanted down, illuminating about half the crater's floor and leaving the cliff protected half in dim shadow.

The illuminated part of the giant pit was as bizarre as the landscape of a nightmare. There were purplish trees, immense beyond belief. There were broad, smooth pools of inky black fluid that was oily and troubled in spots as though disturbed by some moving things under the surface. There were bare, rocky patches where the stones, the long drippings of ancient lava flow, were spread like bleaching gray skeletons of monsters. And over all, rising from pools and bare ground and jungle alike, was a thin, miasmic mist.

Sustained by the slow, steady exhaust of the motor, rising a little with each partly muffled explosion and sinking a little further in each interval, they settled toward a bare, lava strewn spot that appealed to Wichter as being a good landing place. With a last hiss, and a grinding jar, they grounded. Joyce opened the switch to cut off the generator.

"Now let's see what the air's like," said Wichter, lifting down a small cage in which was penned an active rat.

He opened a double panel in the shell's hull, and freed the little animal. In an agony of suspense they watched it as it leaped onto the bare lava and halted a moment....

"Seems to like it," said Joyce, drawing a great breath.

The rat, as though intoxicated by its sudden freedom, raced away out of sight, covering eight or ten feet at a bound, its legs scurrying ludicrously in empty air during its short flights.

"That means that we can dispense with oxygen helmets—and that we'd better take our guns," said Wichter, his voice tense, his eyes snapping behind his glasses.

He stepped to the gun rack. In this were half a dozen air-guns. Long and of very small bore, they discharged a tiny steel shell in which was a liquid of his invention that, about a second after the heat of its forced passage through the rifle barrel, expanded instantly in gaseous form to millions of times its liquid bulk. It was the most powerful explosive yet found, but one that was beautifully safe to carry inasmuch as it could be exploded only by heat.

"Are we ready?" he said, handing a gun to Joyce. "Then—let's go!"

But for a breath or two they hesitated before opening the heavy double door in the side of the hull, savoring to the full the immensity of the moment.

The rapture of the explorer who is the first to set foot on a vast new continent was theirs, magnified a hundredfold. For they were the first to set foot on a vast new planet! An entire new world, containing heaven alone knew what forms of life, what monstrous or infinitesimal creatures, lay before them. Even the profound awe they had experienced when landing on the moon was dwarfed by the solemnity of this occasion; just as it is less soul stirring to discover an arctic continent which is perpetually cased in barren ice, than to discover a continent which is warmly fruitful and, probably, teeming with life.

Still wordless, too stirred to speak, they opened the vault-like door and stepped out—into a humid heat which was like that of their own tropical regions, but not so unendurable.

In their short stay on the moon, during which they had taken several walks in their insulated suits, they had become somewhat accustomed to the decreased weight of their bodies due to the lesser gravity, so that here, where their weight was even less, they did not make any blunders of stepping twenty feet instead of a yard.

Walking warily, glancing alertly in all directions to guard against any strange animals that might rush out to destroy them, they moved toward the nearest stretch of jungle.

The first thing that arrested their attention was the size of the trees they were approaching. They had got some idea of their hugeness from the shell, but viewed from ground level they loomed even larger. Eight hundred, a thousand feet they reared their mighty tops, with trunks hundreds of feet in circumference; living pyramids whose bases wove together to make an impenetrable ceiling over the jungle floor. The leaves were thick and bloated like cactus growths, and their color was a pronounced lavender.

"We must take back several of those leaves," said Wichter, his scientific soul filled with cold excitement.

"I wish we could take back some of this air, too." Joyce filled his lungs to capacity. "Isn't it great? Like wine! It almost counteracts the effects of the heat."

"There's more oxygen in it than in our own," surmised Wichter. "My God! What's that!"

They halted for an instant. From the depths of the lavender jungle had come an ear shattering, screaming hiss, as though some monstrous serpent were in its death agony.

They waited to hear if the noise would be repeated. It wasn't. Dubiously they started on again.

"We'd better not go in there too far," said Joyce. "If we didn't come out again it would cost Earth a new planet. No one else knows the secret of your water-motor."

"Oh, nothing living can stand against these guns of ours," replied Wichter confidently. "And that noise might not have been caused by anything living. It might have been steam escaping from some volcanic crevice."

They started cautiously down a well defined, hard packed trail through thorny lavender underbrush. As they went, Joyce blazed marks on various tree trunks marking the direction back to the shell. The tough fibres exuded a bluish liquid from the cuts that bubbled slowly like blood.

To the right and left of them were cup-shaped bushes that looked like traps; and that their looks were not deceiving was proved by a muffled, bleating cry that rose from the compressed leaves of one of them they passed. Sluggish, blind crawling things like three-foot slugs flowed across their path and among the tree trunks, leaving viscous trails of slime behind them. And there were larger things....

"Careful," said Wichter suddenly, coming to a halt and peering into the gloom at their right.

"What did you see?" whispered Joyce.

Wichter shook his head. The gigantic, two-legged, purplish figure he had dimly made out in the steamy dark, had moved away. "I don't know. It looked a little like a giant ape."

They halted and took stock of their situation, mechanically wiping perspiration from their streaming faces, and pondering as to whether or not they should turn back. Joyce, who was far from being a coward, thought they should.

"In this undergrowth," he pointed out, "we might be rushed before we could even fire our guns. And we're nearly a mile from the shell."

But Wichter was like an eager child.

"We'll press on just a little," he urged. "To that clear spot in front of us." He pointed along the trail to where sunlight was blazing down through an opening in the trees. "As soon as we see what's there, we'll go back."

With a shrug, Joyce followed the eager little man down the weird trail under the lavender trees. In a few moments they had reached the clearing which was Wichter's goal. They halted on its edge, gazing at it with awe and repulsion.

It was a circular quagmire of festering black mud about a hundred yards across. Near at hand they could see the mud heaving, very slowly, as though abysmal forms of life were tunneling along just under the surface. They glanced toward the center of the bog, which was occupied by one of the smooth black pools, and cried aloud at what they saw.

At the brink of the pool was lying a gigantic creature like a great, thick snake—a snake with a lizard's head, and a series of many-jointed, scaled legs running down its powerful length. Its mouth was gaping open to reveal hundreds of needle-sharp, backward pointing teeth. Its legs and thick, stubbed tail were threshing feebly in the mud as though it were in distress; and its eyes, so small as to be invisible in its repulsive head, were glazed and dull.

"Was that what we heard back a ways?" wondered Joyce.

"Probably," said Wichter. His eyes shone as he gazed at the nightmare shape. Impulsively he took a step toward the stirring mud.

"Don't be entirely insane," snapped Joyce, catching his arm.

"I must see it closer," said Wichter, tugging to be free.

"Then we'll climb a tree and look down on it. We'll probably be safer up off the ground anyway."

They ascended the nearest jungle giant—whose rubbery bark was so ringed and scored as to be as easy to climb as a staircase—to the first great bough, about fifty feet from the ground, and edged out till they hung over the rim of the quagmire. From there, with the aid of their binoculars, they expected to see the dying monster in every detail. But when they looked toward the pool it was not in sight!

"Were we seeing things?" exclaimed Wichter, rubbing his glasses. "I'd have sworn it was lying there!"

"It was," said Joyce grimly. "Look at the pool. That'll tell you where it went."

The black, secretive surface was bubbling and waving as though, down in its depths, a terrific fight were taking place.

"Something came up and dragged our ten-legged lizard down to its den. Then that something's brothers got onto the fact that a feast was being held, and rushed in. That pool would be no place for a before-breakfast dip!"

Wichter started to say something in reply, then gazed, hypnotized, at the opposite wall of the jungle.

From the dense screen of lavender foliage stretched a glistening, scale-armored neck, as thick as a man's body at its thinnest point, which was just behind a tremendous-jawed crocodilian head. It tapered back for a distance of at least thirty feet, to merge into a body as big as that of a terrestial whale, that was supported by four squat, ponderous legs.

Moving with surprising rapidity, the enormous thing slid into the mud and began ploughing a way, belly deep, toward the pool. Shapeless, slow-writhing forms were cast up in its wake, to quiver for a moment in the sunlight and then melt below the mud again.

One of the bloated, formless mud-crawlers was snapped up in the huge jaws with an abrupt plunge of the long neck, and the monster began to feed, hog-like, slobbering over the loathsome carcass.

Wichter shook his head, half in fanatical eagerness, half in despair. "I'd like to stay and see more," he said with a sigh, "but if that's the kind of creatures we're apt to encounter in the Zeudian jungle, we'd better be going at once—"

"Sh-h!" snapped Joyce. Then, in a barely audible whisper: "I think the thing heard your voice!"

The monster had abruptly ceased its feeding. Its head, thrust high in the air, was waving inquisitively from side to side. Suddenly it expelled the air from its vast lungs in a roaring cough—and started directly for their tree.

"Shoot!" cried Wichter, raising his gun.

Moving with the speed of an express train, the monster had almost got to their overhanging branch before they could pull the triggers. Both shells imbedded themselves in the enormous chest, just as the long neck reached up for them. And at once things began to happen with cataclysmic rapidity.

Almost with their impact the shells exploded. The monster stopped, with a great hole torn in its body. Then, dying on its feet, it thrust its great head up and its huge jaws crunched over the branch to which its two puny destroyers were clinging.

With all its dozens of tons of weight, it jerked in a gargantuan death agony. The tree, enormous as it was, shook with it, and the branch itself was tossed as though in a hurricane.

There was a splintering sound. Wichter and Joyce dropped their guns to cling more tightly to the bole of the drooping branch that was their only security. The guns glanced off the mountainous body—and, with a last convulsion of the mighty legs, were swept underneath!

The monster was still at last, its insensate jaws yet gripping the bough. The two men looked at each other in speechless consternation. The shell a mile off through the dreadful jungle.... Themselves, helpless without their guns....

"Well," said Joyce at last. "I guess we'd better be on our way. Waiting here, thinking it over, won't help any. Lucky there's no night, for a couple of weeks at least, to come stealing down on us."

He started down the great trunk, with Wichter following close behind. Walking as rapidly as they could, they hurried back along the tunneled trail toward their shell.

They hadn't covered a hundred yards when they heard a mighty crashing of underbrush behind them. Glancing back, they saw tooth-studded jaws gaping cavernously at the end of a thirty-foot neck—little, dead-looking eyes glaring at them—a hundred-foot body smashing its way over the trap-bushes and through tangles of vines and down-drooping branches.

"The mate to the thing we killed back there!" Joyce panted. "Run, for God's sake!"

Wichter needed no urging. He hadn't an ounce of fear in his spare, small body. But he had an overwhelming desire to get back to Earth and deliver his message. He was trembling as he raced after Joyce, thirty feet to a bound, ducking his head to avoid hitting the thick lavender foliage that roofed the trail.

"One of us must get through!" he panted over and over. "One of us must make it!"

It was speedily apparent that they could never outrun their pursuer. The reaching jaws were only a few yards behind them now.

"You go," called Joyce, sobbing for breath. He slowed his pace deliberately.

"No—you—" Wichter slowed too. In a frenzy, Joyce shoved him along the trail.

"I tell you—"

He got no further. In front of them, where there had appeared to be solid ground, they suddenly saw a yawning pit. Desperately, they tried to veer aside, but they were too close. Their last long birdlike leap carried them over the edge. They fell, far down, into a deep chasm, splashing into a shallow pool of water.

A few clods of earth cascaded after them as the monster above dug its great splay feet into the ground and checked its rush in time to keep from falling after them. Then the top of the pit slowly darkened as a covering of some sort slid across it. They were in a prison as profoundly quiet and utterly black as a tomb.

“Dorn," shouted Joyce. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," came a voice in the near darkness. "And you?"

"I'm still in one piece as far as I can feel." There was a splashing noise. He waded toward it and in a moment his outstretched hand touched the professor's shoulder.

"This is a fine mess," he observed shakily. "We got away from those tooth-lined jaws, all right, but I'm wondering if we're much better off than we would have been if we hadn't escaped."

"I'm wondering the same thing." Wichter's voice was strained. "Did you see the way the top of the pit closed above us? That means we're in a trap. And a most ingenious trap it is, too! The roof of it is camouflaged until it looks exactly like the rest of the trail floor. The water in here is just shallow enough to let large animals break their necks when they fall in and just deep enough to preserve small animals—like ourselves—alive. We're in the hands of some sort of reasoning, intelligent beings, Joyce!"

"In that case," said Joyce with a shudder, "we'd better do our best to get out of here!"

But this was found to be impossible. They couldn't climb up out of the pit, and nowhere could they feel any openings in the walls. Only smooth, impenetrable stone met their questing fingers.

"It looks as though we're in to stay," said Joyce finally. "At least until our Zeudian hosts, whatever kind of creatures they may be, come and take us out. What'll we do then? Sail in and die fighting? Or go peaceably along with them—assuming we aren't killed at once—on the chance that we can make a break later?"

"I'd advise the latter," answered Wichter. "There is a small animal on our own planet whose example might be a good one for us to follow. That's the 'possum." He stopped abruptly, and gripped Joyce's arm.

From the opposite side of the pit came a grating sound. A crack of greenish light appeared, low down near the water. This widened jerkily as though a door were being hoisted by some sort of pulley arrangement. The walls of the pit began to glow faintly with reflected light.

"Down," breathed Wichter.

Noiselessly they let themselves sink into the water until they were floating, eyes closed and motionless, on the surface. Playing dead to the best of their ability, they waited for what might happen next.

They heard a splashing near the open rock door. The splashing neared them, and high-pitched hissing syllables came to their ears—variegated sounds that resembled excited conversation in some unknown language.

Joyce felt himself touched by something, and it was all he could do to keep from shouting aloud and springing to his feet at the contact.

He'd had no idea, of course, what might be the nature of their captors, but he had imagined them as man-like, to some extent at least. And the touch of his hand, or flipper, or whatever it was, indicated that they were not!

They were cold-blooded, reptilian things, for the flesh that had touched him was cold; as clammy and repulsive as the belly of a dead fish. So repulsive was that flesh that, when he presently felt himself lifted high up and roughly carried, he shuddered in spite of himself at the contact.

Instantly the thing that bore him stopped. Joyce held his breath. He felt an excruciating, stabbing pain in his arm, after which the journey through the water was resumed. Stubbornly he kept up his pretence of lifelessness.

The splashing ceased, and he heard flat wet feet slapping along on dry rock, indicating that they had emerged from the pit. Then he sank into real unconsciousness.

The next thing he knew was that he was lying on smooth, bare rock in a perfect bedlam of noises. Howls and grunts, snuffling coughs and snarls beat at his ear-drums. It was as though he had fallen into a vast cage in which were hundreds of savage, excited animals—animals, however, that in spite of their excitement and ferocity were surprisingly motionless, for he heard no scraping of claws, or padding of feet.

Cautiously he opened his eyes....

He was in a large cave, the walls of which were glowing with greenish, phosphorescent light. Strewn about the floor were seemingly dead carcasses of animals. And what carcasses there were! Blubber-coated things that looked like giant tadpoles, gazelle-like creatures with a single, long slim horn growing from delicate small skulls, four-legged beasts and six-legged ones, animals with furry hides and crawlers with scaled coverings—several hundred assorted specimens of the smaller life of Zeud lay stretched out in seeming lifelessness.

But they were not dead, these bizarre beasts of another world. They lived, and were animated with the frenzied fear of trapped things. Joyce could see the tortured heaving of their furred and scaled sides as they panted with terror. And from their throats issued the outlandish noises he had heard. They were alive enough—only they seemed unable to move!

There was nothing in his range of vision that might conceivably be the beings that had captured them, so Joyce started to lift his head and look around at the rest of the cavern. He found that he could not move. He tried again, and his body was as unresponsive as a log. In fact, he couldn't feel his body at all! In growing terror, he concentrated all his will on moving his arm. It was as limp as a rag.

He relaxed, momentarily in the grip of stark, blind panic. He was as helpless as the howling things around him! He was numbed, completely paralyzed into immobility!

The professor's voice—a weak, uncertain voice—sounded from behind him. "Joyce! Joyce!"

He found that he could talk, that the paralysis that gripped the rest of his muscles had not extended to the vocal cords. "Dorn! Thank God you're alive! I couldn't see you, and I thought—"

"I'm alive, but that's about all," said Wichter. "I—I can't move."

"Neither can I. We've been drugged in some manner—just as all the other animals in here have been drugged. I must have got my dose in the pit. I was cut, or stabbed, in the arm."

Joyce stopped talking as he suddenly heard steps, like human footsteps yet weirdly different—flap-flapping sounds as though awkward flippers were slapping along the rock floor toward them. The steps stopped within a few feet of them; then, after what seemed hours, they sounded again, this time in front of him.

He opened his eyes, cautiously, barely moving his eyelids, and saw at last, in every hideous detail, one of the super-beasts that had captured Wichter and himself.

It was a horrible cartoon of a man, the thing that stood there in the greenish glow of the cave. Nine or ten feet high, it loomed; hairless, with a faintly iridescent, purplish hide. A thick, cylindrical trunk sloped into a neck only a little smaller than the body itself. Set on this was a bony, ugly head that was split clear across by lipless jaws. There was no nose, only slanted holes like the nostrils of an animal; and over these were set pale, expressionless, pupil-less eyes. The arms were short and thick and ended in bifurcated lumps of flesh like swollen hands encased in old-fashioned mittens. The legs were also grotesquely short, and the feet mere shapeless flaps.

It was standing near one of the smaller animals, apparently regarding it closely. Observing it himself, Joyce saw that it was moving a little. As though coming out of a coma, it was raising its bizarre head and trying to get on its feet.

Leisurely the two-legged monster bent over it. Two long fangs gleamed in the lipless mouth. These were buried in the neck of the reviving beast—and instantly it sank back into immobility.

Having reduced it to helplessness—the monster ate it! The lipless jaws gaped widely. The shapeless hands forced in the head of the animal. The throat muscles expanded hugely: and in less than a minute it had swallowed its living prey as a boa-constrictor swallows a monkey.

Joyce closed his eyes, feeling weak and nauseated. He didn't open them again till long after he had heard the last of the awkward, flapping footsteps.

"Could you see it?" asked Wichter, who was lying so closely behind him that he couldn't observe the monstrous Zeudian. "What did it do? What was it like?"

Joyce told him of the way the creature had fed. "We are evidently in their provision room," he concluded. "They keep some of their food alive, it seems.... Well, it's a quick death."

"Tell me more about the way the other animal moved, just before it was eaten."

"There isn't much to tell," said Joyce wearily. "It didn't move long after those fangs were sunk into it."

"But don't you see!" There was sudden hope in Wichter's voice. "That means that the effect of the poison, which is apparently injected by those fangs, wears off after a time. And in that case—"

"In that case," Joyce interjected, "we'd have only an unknown army of ten-foot Zeudians, the problem of finding a way to the surface of the ground again, and the lack of any kind of weapons, to keep us from escaping!"

"We're not quite weaponless, though," the professor whispered back. "Over in a corner there's a pile of the long, slender horns that sprout from the heads of some of these creatures. Evidently the Zeudians cut them out, or break them off before eating that particular type of animal. They'd be as good as lances, if we could get hold of them."

Joyce said nothing, but hope began to beat in his own breast. He had noticed a significant happening during the age-long hours in the commissary cave. Most of the Zeudians had entered from the direction of the pit. But one had come in through an opening in the opposite side. And this one had blinked pale eyes as though dazzled from bright sunlight—and was bearing some large, woody looking tubers that seemed to have been freshly uprooted! There was a good chance, thought Joyce, that that opening led to a tunnel up to the world above!

He drew a deep breath—and felt a dim pain in his back, caused by the cramping position in which he had lain for so long.

He could have shouted aloud with the thrill of that discovery. This was the first time he had felt his body at all! Did it mean that the effect of the poison was wearing off—that it wasn't as lastingly paralyzing to his earthly nerve centers as to those of Zeudian creatures around them? He flexed the muscles of his leg. The leg moved a fraction of an inch.

"Dorn!" he called softly, "I can move a little! Can you?"

"Yes," Wichter answered, "I've been able to wriggle my fingers for several minutes. I think I could walk in an hour or two."

"Then pray for that hour or two. It might mean our escape!" Joyce told him of the seldom used entrance that he thought led to the open air. "I'm sure it goes to the surface, Dorn. Those woody looking tubers had been freshly picked."

Three of the two-legged monsters came in just then. They relapsed into lifeless silence. There was a horrible moment as the three paused over them longer than any of the others had. Was it obvious that the effects of the numbing poison was wearing off? Would they be bitten again—or eaten?

The Zeudians finally moved on, hissing and clicking to each other. Eventually the cold-blooded things fed, and dragged lethargically out of the cave in the direction of the pit.

With every passing minute Joyce could feel life pouring back into his numbed body. His cramped muscles were in agony now—a pain that gave him fierce pleasure. At last, risking observation, he lifted his head and then struggled to a sitting position and looked around.

No Zeudian was in sight. Evidently they were too sure of their poison glands to post a guard over them. He listened intently, and could hear no dragging footsteps. He turned to Wichter, who had followed his example and was sitting up, feebly rubbing his body to restore circulation.

"Now's our chance," he whispered. "Stand up and walk a little to steady your legs, while I go over and get us a couple of those sharp horns. Then we'll see where that entrance of mine goes!"

He walked to the pile of bones and horns in the corner and selected two of the longest and slimmest of the ivory-like things. Just as he had rejoined Wichter he heard the sound with which he was now so grimly familiar—flapping, awkward footsteps. Wildly he signaled the professor. They dropped in their tracks, just as the approaching monster stumped into the cave.

For an instant he dared hope that their movement had gone unobserved, but his hope was rudely shattered. He heard a sharp hiss: heard the Zeudian flap toward them at double-quick time. Abandoning all pretense, he sprang to his feet just as the thing reached him, its fangs gleaming wickedly in the greenish light.

He leaped to the side, going twenty feet or more with the press of his Earth muscles against the reduced gravity. The creature rushed on toward the professor. That game little man crouched and awaited its onslaught. But Joyce had sprung back again before the two could clash.

He raised the long horn and plunged it into the smooth, purplish back. Again and again he drove it home, as the monster writhed under him. It had enormous vitality. Gashed and dripping, it yet struggled on, attempting to encircle Joyce with its stubby arms. Once it succeeded, and he felt his ribs crack as it contracted its powerful body. But a final stroke finished the savage fight. He got up and, with an incoherent cry to Wichter, raced toward the opening on which they pinned their hopes of reaching the upper air.

Hissing cries and the thudding of many feet came to them just as they reached the arched mouth of the passage. But the cries, and the constant pandemonium of the paralysed animals died behind them as they bounded along the tunnel.

They emerged at last into the sunlight they had never expected to see again, beside one of the great lavender trees. They paused an instant to try to get their bearings.

"This way," panted Joyce as he saw, on a hard-packed path ahead of them, one of the trail-marks he had blazed.

Down the trail they raced, toward their space shell. Fortunately they met none of the tremendous animals that infested the jungles; and their journey to the clearing in which the shell was lying was accomplished without accident.

"We're safe now," gasped Wichter, as they came in sight of the bare lava patch. "We can outrun them five feet to their one!"

They burst into the clearing—and halted abruptly. Surrounding the shell, stumping curiously about it and touching it with their shapeless hands, were dozens of the Zeudians.

"My God!" groaned Joyce. "There must be at least a hundred of them! We're lost for certain now!"

They stared with hopeless longing at the vehicle that, if only they could reach it, could carry them back to Earth. Then they turned to each other and clasped hands, without a word. The same thought was in the mind of each—to rush at the swarming monsters and fight till they were killed. There was absolutely no chance of winning through to the shell, but it was infinitely better to die fighting than be swallowed alive.

So engrossed were the Zeudians by the strange thing that had fallen into their province, that Joyce and Wichter got within a hundred feet of them before they turned their pale eyes in their direction. Then, baring their fangs, they streamed toward the Earth men, just as the pursuing Zeudians entered the clearing from the jungle trail.

The two prepared to die as effectively as possible. Each grasped his lace-like horn tightly. The professor mechanically adjusted his glasses more firmly on his nose....

With his move, the narrowing circle of Zeudians halted. A violent clamor broke out among them. They glared at the two, but made no further step toward them.

"What in the world—" began Wichter bewilderedly.

"Your glasses!" Joyce shouted, gripping his shoulder. "When you moved them, they all stopped! They must be afraid of them, somehow. Take them clear off and see what happens."

Wichter removed his spectacles, and swung them in his hand, peering near-sightedly at the crowding Zeudians.

Their reaction to his simple move was remarkable! Hisses of consternation came from their lipless mouths. They faced each other uneasily, waving their stubby arms and covering their own eyes as though suddenly afraid they would lose them.

Taking advantage of their indecision, Joyce and Wichter walked boldly toward them. They moved aside, forming a reluctant lane. Some of the Zeudians in the rear shoved to close in on them, but the ones in front held them back. It wasn't until the two were nearly through that the lane began to straggle into a threatening circle around them again. The Zeudians were evidently becoming reassured by the fact that Wichter continued to see all right in spite of the little strange creature's alarming act of removing his eyes.

"Do it again," breathed Joyce, perspiration beading his forehead as the giants moved closed, their fangs tentatively bared for the numbing poison stroke.

Wichter popped his glasses on, then jerked them off with a cry, as though he were suffering intensely. Once more the Zeudians faltered and drew back, feeling at their own eyes.

"Run!" cried Joyce. And they raced for the haven of the shell.

The Zeudians swarmed after them, snarling and hissing. Barely ahead of the nearest, Joyce and Wichter dove into the open panel. They slammed it closed just as a powerful, stubby arm reached after them. There was a screaming hiss, and a cold, cartilagenous lump of flesh dropped to the floor of the shell—half the monster's hand, sheared off between the sharp edge of the door and the metal hull.

Joyce threw in the generator switch. With a soft roar the water-motor exploded into action, sending the shell far into the sky.

"When we return," said Joyce, adding a final thousand miles an hour to their speed before they should fly free of the atmosphere of Zeud, "I think we'd better come at the head of an army, equipped with air-guns and explosive bombs."

"And with glasses," added the professor, taking off his spectacles and gazing at them as though seeing them for the first time.

[blackfoy]

Asteria: Yellow Diamond (Part 5)

It does not take long of no contact, both via communications and any gems they sent, for Yellow Diamond herself to show up to earth to dispel the crazy rumors going around and fuss Pink about her disaster of a colony. They have heard rumors about the situation, but all of them seem so outlandish that they disbelieve all of them. Yellow barges in demanding to speak to Pink, and to her frustration the gems bring her to another gem instead. To her shock and disbelief she finds out that some of the rumors were indeed true. Not wanting to believe that Pink is gone Yellow throws a fit, intending on shattering this gem that for some reason manages to strike fear in her, but she is no match for Asteria who just bubbles her before she can do any damage. Yellow manages to pop it once or twice in fits of rage, but Asteria just makes thicker ones in its place.

She is brought to the correct room and restrained. There is also a camera that Asteria turns on. The video will be edited later to look like it was stolen and then leaked out so that it can be seen without pinning the blame on any particular gem that it got out. Yellow Diamond starts her Taming full of anger and frustration and just a slight bit of fear. But a slight bit for a diamond is unusual enough that it might as well have been ocean deep. Asteria starts her work, slowly and steadily trying to bring Yellow into a state of calm.

Yellow is having none of it, and her struggle quickly starts to make it look like she is in pain. Her thrashing gets less angry and more desperate or instinctual, actively having to fight the new Diamond's song. She is more immune than most as she is another Diamond, but it still affects her and Asteria's song is like no other in this world. After a while of Yellow stubbornly putting up as much of a fight as she could, Asteria started to kiss little packets of information over to her. Each time she did this was jarring for Yellow, forcing her to stop her thrashing and fighting for a few moments each time as she blinks through the information and shock. Along with that the information itself becomes more and more distressing.

Over the course of several kisses Asteria shows Yellow not only that Pink is dead, but that she didn't think they would care if she died. She thought they had not cared about her, and therefore would not give much care for her death. She had agreed with Rose Quartz, had tried to get them to stop the colonization, but they had thought she was just being difficult. And now she was gone, her power given to make this new being. She was truly gone, and never coming back. As good as shattered. All because she thought they didn't care. That they would prefer a Pink Diamond of greater power, that they would listen to someone of greater power. The only thing Yellow could think of was that she had been right. Asteria did not keep pushing for calm as Yellow broke, dismissing her helmet and running claws through her hair as she sobbed out her regretful anguish. Yellow sobbed and cried and screamed for a long time, frightening any gem near enough to hear her.

Eventually, after her cries had started to slow from exhaustion, Asteria once more pressed a soothing calming song into the larger Diamond's gem. This time Yellow welcomed it, letting her turbulent mind be calmed and allowing her form to go lax. Asteria whispered soothing nothings and encouragement to her, occasionally giving her a less distressing kiss. Nothing much so soon, but small things like Pink's joy at seeing the simple beauty of a flower, and Rose's determination to protect the Earth's beauty in its unique life.

Eventually Yellow was coaxed into moving, and brought to a room with a soft place to lie down big enough for a Diamond. Yellow faceplanted into the closest thing gems had to a mattress and let herself fall deep into the well of the other Diamond's power. Asteria knows that Yellow is hiding from her emotions, but seeing as she has already cried once and Asteria would not let her hide forever, she let the larger gem be for now. She visited every once in a while to pull Yellow out, introducing her to the ideas of things like fusions and organic life and free will from a more positive perspective, adding restraints if needed while the other Diamond was made to work through at least some of her emotions, before she was submerged back into the calm. The process was helpful for many reasons, and Yellow didn't fight as much as she had been expecting. The poor thing hasn't had a proper break in millennia. She also took the time to remove some of the Diamond's clothes, her gloves and heels taking priority after the helmet. It wasn't much on the outside, but Asteria could tell it helped to make Yellow Diamond both more physically comfortable and more emotionally vulnerable.

Yellow lay on the plush surface in the quiet room provided to her, floating in the calm nothingness of the new Diamond's power. She had come here with the intent of bringing things back to order, by force if necessary, but instead she had learned a horrible truth that left her world in pieces. It had not taken long for the new Diamond to go from an enemy to an ally. She could not handle the weight of her grief, her anger, her horrible bitter self-lothing. Here, deep within the soothing song of the other gem, only the slightest touch of it could reach her. She knew it would not last forever, but for the time being she cherished the time she had before she had to face the consequences of her actions. She knew once she came out there was nothing she could do to soothe the ache of what her negligence had lost.

(Direct inspirational quote) "You either get bitter or you get better. It's that simple. You either take what has been dealt to you and allow it to make you a better person, or you allow it to tear you down. The choice does not belong to fate, it belongs to you." Yellow doesn't fight Asteria even when she does things that make her mad because she understands that this is what Pink died for. To make them, to make her, listen to what she had to say. Asteria will absolutely chain Yellow down if she throws a fit over what she is trying to tell her, and Yellow can't stay mad for long because she is upset at herself and ashamed that the other Diamond has to resort to such measures just for Yellow to hear her out.

At some point Yellow is in a deep almost coma-like state because she discharging lightning to the point she's hurting herself. Asteria makes special restraints to syphon the electricity away before it could cause damage and keeps Yellow deep under so that she can't feel it. Between the glowing restraints, the Diamond's blank eyes, and the small twitches from the electricity, any onlooker is petrified by the sight.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

[2fakind]

Machine Girl (specifically mgultra)

god damn i am loving it and squeezing all the joy i can from it

as the number of elements in the mg music set approaches infinity, we reach a perfect blend of visceral transcendance

thoughts words

the transitions between different vibes are not as jarring in this one. it's something. i am neutral about this. it probably works for the album being overall lighter but i kinda hope its not a precedent

i love how theyre still doing fun stuff with their audio. it makes my starved autism mind so happy to imagine editing to stuff like "sick!!!" 2:22. on the topic of "sick!!!", the lyrics are just as funny as theyve been prior. funny isn't a good way to put it, but i know what i mean and so does one other person - funny in the way that meaning is very apparent and jumps out at me but i still want to think about it. talk about land with an eviction notice. is that about landlords or colonialism, is it drawing a parallel, idk, it's funny.

"nu nu meta phenomena" 0:17 also makes me laugh every time it comes up. the chorus? (the part where they chant "nu nu meta phenomena") is also really good but i can't *just* be nice about something without some additional autistic comment.

"motherfather" i actually hadn't heard this before album release, holy shit don't give matt a guitar she'll fucking kill us all IM THE ONE YOU CANT DESTROY!!!!! there's a lot of characteristics of this one i just love love love being my current self. the slight gender feeling tm (not sure what else to call that. patent pending), the spiteful rejection of (suicide, but that's just me), the back and forth tonal shift. i love it so

did they reuse the "see you in hell" soundbyte from "fuck your guns" at the start of "psychic attack"?

i was not expecting a song called "ass2mars" to sweep me off my feet but they managed regardless. and the best thing is that i dont even really know why? i think the instrumentation, especially in terms of how their sound synergize are at their peak in this album and specifically this song. but is that it? there's gotta be more to it...

i love that they keep making songs for chill ass mfs. before it was "nwofka skullboy" and "dance in the fire" now its "grindhouse" and "just because you can"

i don't really have critical or analytical thoughts. i'm just enjoying my time with mgultra and i guess i'm too mentally disparaged to start a journal or some such

[tilbageidanmark]

MOVIES I WATCHED THIS WEEK (#191):

2 BY ELEM KLIMOV:

🍿 THE GROOM, my second film by Elem Klimov (after 'Larisa'). This is a sweet early film (1960) about a boy who helps a little girl pass a math test.

🍿 First watch: His tragic epic COME AND SEE (1985), long considered one of the greatest anti-war movies ever made. I'm not big on movies that deal with genocide, cruel atrocities and brutal suffering, so I avoided it until now, but the time had come.

"And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, "Come and see!" And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth."

It ranks as #41 on the ‘Sight & Sound’ 2022 list of ‘Directors’ 100 Greatest Films of All Time'. (There are still 14 on this list that I haven't seen, and I'm going to watch them soon).

🍿

BLADE RUNNER, THE AQUAREL EDITION was an obsessive labor of life project, made by one Anders Ramsell. He painted 12,597 aquarelle paintings of 'Blade Runner', shot by shot, and edited the entire film down to 35 minutes. it took two years of painstaking work, all done in his spare time after work each night. (Screenshot Above). The video made some impact on the internet in 2012, but after a while, all copies of it disappeared from the web. Now it suddenly re-surfaced again. For fans of the original Rick Deckard.

🍿

2 BY BRITISH DIRECTOR BENJAMIN CARON:

🍿 SHARPER is a new, old-fashioned and 'sharp' crime mystery with a changing prospective. It lays out as good of a 'Confidence Game' as Stephen Frears's 'The Grifters', David Mamet's 'The Spanish Prisoner' and David Fincher's 'The Game'. It starts building slow, and ends with a somehow-predictable conclusion, but the many twists along the way are done with verve and smooth hand. And now I want to continue on a bender with similar con-men and women. Where should I start?

For anybody planning to watch this, please approach it without expectations, and don't read anything about it in advance. 8/10.

🍿 The spectacular slight-of-hand in 'Sharper' is probably born out of director Caron involvement with British 'Mentalist' Derren Brown! He directed many of his filmed performances, f. ex. DERREN BROWN: ENIGMA. No idea how he does his impossible tricks!

I used to watch many of his "Magic" shows, and enjoyed him tremendously. I wonder why he's not more popular (except maybe in England). By now, he also posted 740 of his events on his YouTube channel, including this 2019 Ted Talk.

“Darren Brown walked, so that Derek Delgaudio could run…”

🍿

ZAMA, my second opaque, exhausting hallucination by Lucrecia Martel. Like her debut 'La Ciénaga', which is considered to be "the greatest Argentinian film of all time", it's a low-key, mysterious fable. A painful Kafkaesque period piece, a descent from dark helplessness to final hopelessness. A 18 century magistrate is suspended at a remote colonial post, waiting for a letter from his superior, hoping it will announce his transfer so that he can reunite with his family. But nothing good will happen to him. It's humiliating and poetically bleak. The trailer doesn't translate the ennui. [*Female Director*]

🍿

SOME DUDE NAMED JIM CUMMINGS X 3:

🍿THE LAST STOP IN YUMA COUNTY is a new, indie fun thriller, which could have been so much better, if its director was not so young. It has a stylized, powerful opening, telling of 2 Arizona bank robbers stranded in a desert diner with no gas in their car. It turns into a dark black-comedy after the first act, and ends with an all-out 'Mexican standoff' that leaves every single character in the movie dead (except of one crying baby). Gene Jones repeats his role as the Gas Station Proprietor from 'No country'. The best review I read was only 3 words: "Tarantino from Temu".

🍿 In FOLLOWERS (2023) two stereotypical LA-women meet randomly as they walk their dogs and start getting into each other personal lives. But maybe their chance encounter wasn't that random... It's seldom you encounter such super-irritating people, so unbearably-cringe from the very first uncomfortable line of dialogue. Their small time conversations and creepy mannerism were anxiety-inducing. [*Female Director*]

🍿THE LAST BRUNCH, directed by this Jim Cummings, is a terrible, cringey parody of Tim Robinson' "I Think You Should Leave" sketch, if you can imagine that. 1/10.

🍿

LOVE ME TONIGHT, my 2nd Rouben Mamoulian musical (after 'Silk Stockings'.) It opens with a creative sequence of a Parisian street as it wakes up to life, and it's from here that the song 'Isn’t It Romantic' originated [after which it re-plays it about 10 times...] But the class difference trope of a lowly tailor among the powdered-wig aristocrats, and fruity Maurice Chevalier as a romantic lead, were cheesy and conventional. 1932 was still pre-code, but already deep into the Great Depression, so Paramount dished out a fairy tale about princesses, and palaces, and footmen, where every door was 10-15 meter tall.

🍿

MARSHAL CURRY X 2:

🍿 I've seen his 'Street Fight' doc before, about Cory Booker's election. His THE NEIGHBOR’S WINDOW won the 2020 Oscars for short films. A New Yorker couple with 3 kids watch with envy their new neighbors across the street, having sex, and having fun - until they don't. Kind of like 'Rear window' for our times, but without the murder.

🍿 A NIGHT AT THE GARDEN featured powerful archival footage from February 1939, when 20,000 Nazi-Americans rallied in Madison Square Garden to celebrate fascism. It was produced by Laura Poitras and was offered without comment. In 2017, when it was made, it must have been revelatory to many, who didn't know about this before. The shock from Trump's ascent to power forced the world to realize that he did not invent his vile worldview, it's been there all alone.

🍿

My first political film by British Peter Watkins PUNISHMENT PARK [Also, definitely, my last one]. It's a 1971 mockumentary, done in a Cinéma vérité style, about two groups of counterculture types. One group is being hunted down in Death Valley by a fascist team of National Guards, and the other hippies are being tried in a makeshift kangaroo court for exercising "Un-American" values. On the background of the resistance to the Vietnam War, it's the 'Pigs' and the 'Establishment' vs. the liberals and the feminists. So the political bent had everything I believed in myself during that time: Radical, revolutionary, anti-capitalistic, pacifist. But as a searing piece of agitprop it was unwatchable: Didactic propaganda, amateurish, jerky, rambling, but mostly: boring. 1/10.

🍿

Not a huge fan of the Adam Sandler (I don't think I've seen half a dozen of his famous comedies over the years), but his latest stand up, LOVE YOU, was enchanting. Directed by one of the Safdie Brothers (I still did not finish their 'Uncut gems') it's sweet and laid back, with a stray dog running into the stage, lots of juvenile humor, and absurd stories, about blowing a balloon, a 1-foot man, Etc. The most enjoyable parts however were the funky musical bits, especially the Elvis Impersonator, and the brilliant Ode to Comedians which wrapped it up.

🍿

YouTube film essay pioneers 'Every Frame a Painting' is back! Everybody's favorite Tony Zhou (and Taylor Ramos!) posted a new essay THE SUSTAINED TWO-SHOT, and a trailer for their first film The Second! How exciting! When they suddenly stopped producing terrific videos 8 years ago, they penned a thoughtful 'Postmortem' piece (which included many samples of how they made them, included this The Spielberg Oner.) Looking forward for more.

This is in contrast to the average YT video by less talented essayists, for example, How Ralph Fiennes Perfected Amon Goeth in 'Schindler’s List'. I mean, it's all there, just not very good.

🍿

A BUNCH OF SHORTS:

🍿 FOR THE FIRST TIME is a 1967 Cuban documentary about a mobile projectionist who travels to an isolated mountain village and sets up an evening of cinema. They chose to show Chaplin's 'Modern time', the first movie that any of the villagers had ever seen. Some of them say that they have no idea what 'a movie' is. It's similar to the later Spanish drama 'Spirit of the beehive'.

🍿 BREAD (1918) is another tragic story of an unfortunate woman exploited by men because she's desperately poor. Like the Lois Weber's 'Shoes' that I saw recently, it too was made by a woman pioneer, Ida May Park, and like it, it was selected for the NFR, (even though only a 1/3 of it remained). [*Female Director*]

🍿 NELLY'S STORY is a sad German short about a little girl who locks her mom out of the house on her 9th birthday, as the mom tries to shoot an Instagram story of that celebration. Painfully personal... 8/10.

🍿 THE HERO (1994) is an award-winning Mexican animation about a man who sees a girl in a crowded subway station that he believes is trying to commit suicide. Dark Bill Plympton style.

🍿 MY DAD IS 100 YEARS OLD, my first art-documentary by Canadian Guy Maddin. It is more of an Isabella Rossellini homage, in that she wrote it and discusses her father's life and work. It made me want to see more of Roberto Rossellini movies, not necessarily Maddin's.

🍿

THROW-BACK TO THE ADORA ART PROJECT:  

Happy birthday, Adora.

🍿  

(ALL MY FILM REVIEWS - HERE).