#so this has been a major conundrum for me thus far

[local-magpie]

1/3/25 sketch page. no butts this time (sorry) but have a roper and a 17th century dog?

[leportraitducadavre]

Wiat stop omggg i’ve been reading these posts about the anti-Hinata Hyuga stuff and how she is infact privileged and ngl it lowkey hurt but also omfg???? I never realized how bad the Hyuga situation was or how Hinata is unable to pick a side, I just assumed she’d obviously dissolve the slavery practices because I see her as a good person(and i read too much fanfiction)

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA now i definitely need Hiashi to die in the war and for Neji to become leader(yeah no Hinata can’t lead to save her life) because it would be such a good step to take down the old system by replacing it with a Neji as a symbol of change. Media is making me go crazy again but that’s probably my room mold 😭😭😭😭

Also the Naruhina fan in me kinda wishes that Naruto learned sealing from Pervy sage because like imagine if they worked together to make a new Hyuga seal to actually protect the byakugan and then it gets worn as a clan marking, like the red fangs from the inuzuka and oh my god im so sorreybfor rambling all over this asks i just really really want more Hyuga content and for ny faves to be happy, also you are really well omg id love to have ur attention span for politics because i can barely understand my highschool civics like ibshoudl probably stop now-have a nice day!!!!!✨

Hello there,

It's okay to like a problematic character and it's okay to like a ship, the problem starts when people justify such problematic characteristics to make them "acceptable", like justifying Neji's treatment at the hands of the Main Family because he was "mean" to Hinata, despite him warning her about fighting him and asking her to forfeit multiple times.

I never realized how bad the Hyuga situation was or how Hinata is unable to pick a side

I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but Hinata chose a side. Ignoring the matter or not giving it the relevance that it has even after her cousin's speech during their match or his match vs. Naruto, is to actively support the system in place; she might truly believe that is for the "greater good," as so his Konoha's mantra, but it doesn't change the fact that she agrees with the practice.

I just assumed she’d obviously dissolve the slavery practices because I see her as a good person(and i read too much fanfiction)

I don't see her as a good person for the reasons mentioned above, no good person sees her uncle being tortured and her cousin being enslaved and believes to be the bigger victim in their dynamic. Furthermore, she did pretty much nothing for anyone who wasn't Naruto; being shy and quiet is not the same as being a good person; she never mentioned being kind-spirited and thus, unable to be a shinobi (like Chöji, which was a full small arc of his character when fighting the Sound Four), but rather, weak.

now i definitely need Hiashi to die in the war and for Neji to become leader

I understand your wish for Hiashi to die, but Neji succumbing to his fate put an end to the "Hyuga's conundrum" as that's an issue that involves Konoha in itself and not addressing it in Boruto would've been a major problem; furthermore, the problem wasn't just about stopping the Main Family from creating slaves but also them giving reparations to those they enslaved, like Neji. His death was also used to give Hinata a "moment" with Naruto.

(yeah no Hinata can’t lead to save her life)

She can't, not just because she's weak (Shikamaru doesn't shine because he's particularly strong, he isn't), but also because she often puts her wishes above the safety of those under her command (Koü Hyüga) and can't come up with a basic strategy to fight her opponents. She perhaps modeled her attack pattern following Naruto's (who mostly attacks before coming up with a strategy, as he often relies on overwhelming his enemies), as she often states to look up to him and has spied on him multiple times, but he's far more strong and has much more chakra (plus healing chakra) than her.

Also the Naruhina fan in me kinda wishes that Naruto learned sealing from Pervy sage

I'm not sure Jiraiya knew much about sealing techniques (we only see him erasing Orochimaru's seal), Minato learned from Kushina and not him. Tsunade is likely far more versed on the matter and she never even attempted to take Neji's seal off, so that's where the village stands on the matter.

have a nice day!!!!!✨

Thank you. You too.

[ultraflavour]

D&D Youtube is going to get real weird in 2024

I saw a kind of interesting video from the YouTube channel Treantmonk's Temple a little while back. I want to talk about it a little bit.

Without getting too much into it, the premise of the video is thus: It doesn't make sense to boycott D&D in retaliation for the layoffs, because if people stop buying Wizards products, it will lead to more layoffs.

I've already gone into why I think this is flawed reasoning in my previous post on this topic. But what's more interesting to me here is that this highlights a conundrum that every D&D YouTuber must be dealing with right now: that a weakening D&D brand is bad news if your own brand is tied to that game.

That anxiety was spelled out almost perfectly by the "Indestructible Boy Who Cried AI." His account on Twitter is private right now thanks to his little oopsie, but a very helpful Twitter user screenshotted this take:

Indestructible Boy here is railing at Wizards to delay the release of the Revised Core Rulebooks because he's anxious that a half-baked release in 2024 might cause "another 4E situation." And thus we arrive at the heart of the issue.

There is a certain breed of Brand Loyalist who sees the possibility of D&D becoming uncool again, and will do anything to stop it. Why, they might even go so far as to accuse Wizards of cutting corners on the book by using AI art!

Wouldn't these accusations hurt D&D's brand though? Maybe, but what would hurt D&D's brand even more would be a not-so-well-received Core Rulebook refresh in 2024 giving people yet another reason to abandon the game for newer, more exciting products.

Of course, the possibility of D&D losing all of its cultural cachet from one poor release is laughably small. It's an absolute powerhouse, and likely will continue to be.

However. What Indestructible Boy actually said was another 4E situation. A situation where, despite industry insiders agreeing that 4th Edition sold more books, it was Pathfinder that is widely agreed to have "won" that generation.

The Horror Scenario for D&D YouTubers

The thing I advocated for before was that the D&D community should redirect their spending toward rival products. This would spur competition in the TTRPG industry, create jobs for recently laid-off Wizards employees to fall back on, and give people more of an excuse to see what they've been missing in the broader TTRPG landscape. Plus, it incentivizes Hasbro to increase their investment in the D&D print team to repair their market position.

But if you're a D&D YouTuber, that scenario is an absolute nightmare. D&D might never slip to #2 in the polls, but it's also extremely possible that it loses its status as the "Majority game" if its rivals manage to grab a significant chunk of its player-base.

If the Revised Core Rulebooks turn out to be underwhelming, as the Indestructible Boy seems to fear it might, then D&D risks once again becoming uncool. And that is the apocalypse scenario that the D&D Brand Warriors would rather avoid.

The YouTuber's Dilemma

So now, if you're an online personality who has primarily covered D&D 5th Edition up until this point, you have to make a choice. Do you:

Continue to be a primarily D&D-based channel and hope that your commitment to the brand pays off in the long run?

Pivot to producing more genre-agnostic content, before you know where the chips are going to fall?

Use your platform to subtly bury D&D's burgeoning competition?

I don't actually know what the answer is here, honestly. Using your platform to promote games that your channel is not traditionally known for might be risky. But at the same time, if it turns out that the era of the "D&D Hegemony" is coming to a close, then handcuffing yourself to the railing might backfire if the ship starts going down.

And speaking of #3...

They Protec, But they also Attac

This is another video that I find utterly fascinating because it also presupposes the idea that if Daggerheart can't outsell D&D, then it's doomed to fail.

There's a term for this: Fantasy or D&D Heartbreaker. It's the idea that if your RPG doesn't have a shot at being #1, it shouldn't even bother trying. It assumes that the fans will always choose the market leader when it comes time to decide where to spend their gaming dollars and their time. The "losers," aka the "Heartbreakers" just end up collecting dust on the "unloved games shelf" at the local hobby store.

But the idea that your game is a failure if it can't "beat" D&D also reinforces the "One Game to Rule Them All" paradigm that many D&D YouTubers benefit greatly from. And this is where we see that there is a massive conflict of interest.

Here's another video from the Roll For Combat channel featuring Baron de Ropp where he spells it out much more plainly:

At about the 1:45 mark in the video, Baron says this: "In order to prevent the hobby itself from imploding, there has to be that one central pillar that everybody kind of gravitates to. Because otherwise, if you don't have that, the only thing that sticks around are the hardcores."

I don't want to seem like I'm dunking on Baron specifically, but he definitely seems to care a lot about that "Central Pillar" existing.

I have taken to calling this the "Election model" of TTRPGs, where even if there are more than a couple of candidates for the role of "President," only one of them can win. Whichever RPG is the "President" is the one that will receive the vast majority of coverage, and also the "Default" choice whenever the question of "What game are we playing next" comes up.

The "4E Situation" but Worse

I don't think the real fear is that D&D suddenly loses all of its brand awareness because of a couple of scandals. It's that D&D goes back to being "Just another game" like it was during the 90s. It used to be just as likely that your table was running something like Shadowrun, or Rifts, or Vampire: The Masquerade, or any number of other games.

In that "Fractured Landscape" scenario, it becomes very difficult for a YouTuber to make videos that appeal to the majority of the TTRPG audience, if you can't make assumptions about their playing habits. The safest bet continues to be D&D, since it will always have a thumb on the scale thanks to its cultural awareness.

But if the "4E situation" happens, it also means that D&D is no longer the default game that everyone is assumed to be playing. Your content is increasingly targeted towards beginners and casual fans, while the "Hardcores" have split off and are playing other games. The D&D-playing audience is divided, and that's the audience that these YouTubers depend on.

"Reasoned Criticism"

I don't know what the solution is here. What I do believe is that there will increasingly be a conflict of interest between Youtubers covering new upcoming games, and their need to protect the D&D brand which their own online presence depends on.

What I absolutely do not want to see are videos like the one I posted above, where people with primarily D&D-oriented content take a little sidebar to bury the competition. If you have a channel whose bread and butter is videos like "The Top 5 Multiclass options for Lizardfolk Druids," I don't want to see a video called "Why Fabula Ultima is mid, actually!" with a stock photo of some generically attractive person giving a big shrug.

Even if you're not paid directly by Hasbro to promote D&D, you benefit from doing it just the same, thanks to SEO and Algorithm placement on Youtube. So you don't have to disclose that you're being paid (because you're not) but you absolutely are making money off of the D&D brand, and that makes any talk about other RPGs, especially negative talk, a conflict of interest.

Well, anyways

The question of whether to stay committed to D&D as a brand, or diversify, is a legitimately difficult question that I don't think anyone has a real solid answer to.

A lot depends on how well the Revised Core Rulebooks are received in 2024. There are going to be big questions to answer with regards to what system to choose going forward: Stay on 5E? Switch to 5.5? And what about Tales of the Valiant? Then there's upcoming public playtests from both Daggerheart and the MCDM RPG.

How players choose to spend their money will significantly affect the D&D YouTube landscape. Those personalities will have to choose whether to dig their heels in on D&D, or diversify. Neither option seems safe at this point.

However, what we should absolutely not tolerate is any attempt by D&D personalities to "nudge" the TTRPG industry back into the loving arms of their chosen brand, away from its upcoming competitors.

If you are a person who's handcuffed your brand to the ship called "Dungeons & Dragons," you cannot be trusted to be objective about the TTRPG industry as a whole. Not until you have made the effort to talk about games outside of the D20 Fantasy sphere without the intention of dismissing them outright.

[starrynite7114]

Two Weeks (Miguel Galindo)

A/N: Tomorrow is my final and I think I’ve reached the point of a mental breakdown that you’re just numb to it. But no matter, positive thoughts all around and hoping my brain isn’t so mean anymore. But due to this, I needed a much needed distraction and finished part one of my Miguel mini series. He may be a little OOC, but I hope you all enjoy this lovely work of mine.

Everything is you, Snapshots, Misconstrued, and two requests will be posted within the next two weeks. 

Also may be adding Rio to my lovely writing list, we’ll see. 

This is my brain on procrastination, please forgive me. 

Love you all and I hope you lovelies are having an amazing week thus far!

Masterlist

Tagged list: @justahopelessssromantic​ : @ifoundmyhappythought​ : @carlaangel86​ : @marvelmaree​ : @woahitslucyylu​ : @encounterthepast​ : @enamoured-x​ : @whyisgmora​ : @briana-mishell24​ : @bribri-82​ : @briannab1234​ : @chibsytelford​ : @agirllovespasta​ : @twistnet​ : @everyhowlmarksthedead​ : @trulysuccubus​ : @jadert15​ : @sammskellington​ : @cind-in-real-life​ : @claytoncardenasbabymama​ : @sadeyesgf​ : @thickemadame​ : @summertimesadnesswithadashofsass​ : @gemini0410​ : @elcococruz​ : @samcrobae​ : @sesamepancakes​ : @iambabyharry​ : @blackmissfrizzle​ : @soamayansfangirl​ : @1-800-imagines​ : @phoenixhalliwell​ : @lady-pswrld​ : @dazzledamazon​  : @getyourcrayoncas​ : @fvckthisbxtchup​ : @lukealvxz​ : @scuzmunkie​ : @nakusaych9​ : @danie1432​ : @cocotheclown​ : @soaronmywings​ : @my-rosegold-soul​ : @buttercup812​ : @itskiranbitch​ : @angelreyesgirl​ : @sheeshgivemeabreak​ : @vicmackeybullshxt​ : @strawberrywritings​ : @cherry-icetea​  : @losolvidad0s​ : @brownsugarcoffy​ : @courtrae89​​ : @blessedboo​​ : @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind​​ : @fariesandwanderlust​​ : @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead​ : @xserenax-13​ : @whatupitshuff​ : @aquamento​ : @justvnash​ : @maddie-georges​ : @itskiranbitch​

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CREDIT TO THE ORIGINAL GIF CREATOR!

You couldn’t do this, you were at wits end. You wanted nothing more than to throw your work phone away as it constantly rang, constantly interfered with your life, sanity, sleep, and did you already say sanity? Just in case, your sanity. 

“If I ignore it, it never happened.” You looked at the clock and it was three in the morning, you had to be up in three hours to get ready for work to see this despicable man once more. 

The ringing stopped, a sigh of relief overtaking your body. Your eyes closed and yet again, it fucking rang.

“FUCK YOU MIGUEL GALINDO.”

You took a deep breath, gathering what remained of your sanity.

“Hello Mr. Galindo, what can I do for you at three in the morning?”

His chuckle rang across the phone, aggravating you more. “Ooh, Mr. Galindo? I’m in trouble, rightfully so. I apologize for calling you so early in the morning, but I’m in a bit of a conundrum.”

“Miguel, I am not picking you up from Alejandra’s place.”

“I gave Nestor the night off.” He argued.

“I’m technically off too you asshole!” You were one of the few who didn’t fear Miguel. You knew of his capabilities, but you figured you were far too valuable.

“Yes, I am fully aware of that, your nights are sacred. But you know I rarely call you on nights.” He countered.

“Correct that statement.”

“Anymore.” He corrected himself. 

“Miguel, why do you continue to meet this girl if you’re not interested in her?” Ever since his divorce with Emily two years ago, Miguel has been single and kept it that way. Which in hindsight was for the best. With the cartel, real estate, which he still headed with Emily, and the rebels, he had plenty of things to occupy his time. But you knew why he liked the causality of his relationship with Alejandra. 

No strings attached.

No questions.

No commitments.

It fit his lifestyle.

“Because, I have needs and you know, she’s easy on the eyes.”

You begrudgingly got out of bed and made sure to sigh loudly. Miguel chuckled, and you just cussed his name in the three languages you knew. 

“Stop cussing me out in your head. Are you coming to get me?”

“I get the day off.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Better cuddle up then.”

“Fine, but we’re having breakfast then you can have your day off.”

“No work talk during breakfast or the ride home.”

Miguel groaned. “Deal.”

===========

You sat across from Miguel at this diner in San Diego, your usual spot whenever you picked him up from Alejandra’s. Miguel rarely indulged himself or let his real self out due to his obligations as a cartel head. He had a reputation to maintain, his playful and joking nature was hardly in display. But whenever he let himself be free, it was easy to see why Emily fell for him. 

You didn’t, but you could acknowledge why your asshole of a boss could be charming.

You dedicated ten years to Miguel. He taught you the ins and outs of business along with his illegal activities. If he was ever indicted, you knew you would be a target as well. Miguel always tried to keep you out of the cartel side of things, but that proved to be difficult. 

Straight out of college, twenty-two years young with your English major in hand, you applied for Miguel’s assistant position. What was supposed to be an in between job before doing a Master’s program turned into ten years of unfulfillment. You learned much from Miguel. He forced you to learn how to become a business woman, to think like him. You were the brain that wasn’t attached to him. 

But you had to walk away.

You were thirty-two years old, with nothing to your name. You wanted to be something. You couldn’t be his assistant forever. As much as he was a pain, you enjoyed working with Miguel, but you could still enjoy his friendship without working with him.

“Do you think I should involve myself in a relationship again? It doesn’t look good for my image if I remain unattached.” Miguel broke you out of your thoughts.

“True, but if you remain single, less people to worry about. Personal relationships in your line of work is hardly ideal.” This constitutes as business talk, but you’ll let it slide. 

“You’re right, and this is why you’re my right hand.” Miguel knew that technically belonged to Marcus or even Nestor, but he never made a decision without your input. He was just used to it. 

“I wanted to speak to you about something.”

“Go for it.” Miguel gave his full attention to her. “Are you finally going to confess your undying love for me?”

You know she liked playful Miguel, but when he was being this obnoxious, she liked hardened, cartel boss Miguel.

“Right, should I stab you now or later?” You rolled your eyes making Miguel laugh. “I’m going to look for a new secretary.”

“Sure, you need help?” Miguel hardly argued with you. He trusted your judgment after all.

“No, I’m resigning.”

===========

“She has to be in love with me.” Miguel paced back and forth in his office, a few hours after your breakfast.

Nestor watched his boss and closest friend, amused by his suggestion.

“Y/N?” It’s not that Nestor couldn’t see you falling for Miguel, but, that wasn’t it. “You’ve said it yourself that she’s far too bright to remain your assistant forever.”

“That was just insanity talk, of course I expect her to stay by my side.” Miguel stopped in front of Nestor. “She quit right after she picked me up from Alejandra’s. She hated picking me up from there and she never got along with Emily.”

“All circumstantial. You know she cherishes her sleep, most likely the reason she was annoyed. Second, Emily was always a bitch to her.” Emily never liked you since she thought you undermined her with Miguel, which was far from the truth. Nestor witnessed a majority of your fights and it was hardly pretty. “All circumstantial.”

“No, she’s jealous. I know it. No matter, I can get rid of Alejandra.”

Nestor shook his head. He knew this day would come, you spoke to him about it quite often recently. But he didn’t think it would be too soon. He also knew Miguel wouldn’t handle it well. It was hard for him to trust anyone and the fact the person he trusted most was going to leave? 

Miguel was at the first stage, denial. 

===========

You drove up the driveway of Miguel’s home the next morning, Nestor greeting you by your car.

“You had to drop that bombshell and take the day off?” Nestor shook his head. He loved Miguel, he did, but yesterday was full of theories and bullshit he didn’t want to partake in.

“Well if you’re didn’t take the night off then I could have told him later that morning.” You retorted, glaring at your friend.

“You’re punishing me for taking a personal day?”

“I’m not punishing you, I didn’t think he was going to go overboard with the theories.” Nestor texted you every fucking thing that Miguel had said. It went from you having a secret family, secret boyfriend to being in love with him, which was what he settled with.

“To be fair, I said it was all circumstantial.”

“And it is.” You handed your purse to Nestor. “I’m posting the job later and see if we get any candidates that are,”

You paused. “We’ll see if we can find people that are trustworthy.” It wasn’t about skills. It wasn’t about degrees. It was about being trustworthy.

“How can you even determine that?”

“I have good intuition.”

“Right, forgot, you're psychic.” He teased her. 

“Fuck you,” you playfully pushed him.

Nestor opened the door for you and you walked in finding Marcus and Miguel sitting around in the living room.

“There she is,” Miguel greeted you, giving you a hug and kissing your cheek. “How are you?”

“Good,” you gave him an odd look. “You ready, we have a packed day today.”

All three men were looking at you and you gave them a questioning look.

“Am I missing something?” 

“I got you something.” Miguel smiled, taking your hand in his. He led you through the house to the garage and before entering he requested for you to close your eyes. “If you got me a car, I swear to god.”

“Wait, why, did you not want a new car?” Miguel frowned. Materialistic items usually appeased women, it definitely kept Emily’s temper at bay when it was directed at him. But he should know how you were by now. Materialistic items rarely impressed you. He found it odd that the little things he did for you was what left the most impression. He got you a rose gold bracelet for your birthday and while you were thankful, he could tell it didn’t impress you much. He brought you lunch from your favorite restaurant, and it was like he gave you the world. 

Why the fuck did he get you a damn car? 

“I’m not Emily, Miguel, you can’t just wave a shiny thing in front of me and I’ll change my mind.” You crossed your arms across your chest. “Did you get me a car?”

“No,” he closed the door. 

Nestor refrained from laughing while Marcus just chuckled.

“You already bought it, might as well let me see.” You nodded your head towards the door.

Miguel indulged you and opened the door. Your mouth dropped. “You got me a Range Rover?” It was your dream car, one that you were saving up for, and now you had it. But you weren’t staying. “As much as I want the car, it’s not going to work. I’ll be posting the job later on today.” You saw that Nestor closed the door as soon as you said that. 

“This is ridiculous, why do you want to quit? Am I not compensating you enough?” Miguel was frustrated. He didn’t want you to leave. How could you leave? He compensated you well. Always made sure you were well taken care of and to top it off, you were basically the closest confidant he had. He trusted you with his life, there was no way he could find anyone he trusted as much as you. 

“I told you, it’s for personal reasons.” You didn’t understand why you had to give him a reason. In any other job, personal reasons would suffice. 

But this was different.

You knew change was not something Miguel was a fan of, he was meticulous and hardly deviated from his normal. He had a schedule and strictly followed it. When the plans deviated, it greatly irritated him, but you always found a way to soften the blow so he wasn’t inconvenienced. 

“I think I warrant more than a generic answer.”

“Miguel, I’ve been your assistant for ten years now. It’s just time for me to move on professionally. I couldn’t possibly be your assistant forever.”

“Are you in love with me?”

He blurted it out so quickly that even he was surprised he did. Miguel hardly said anything without thinking of it, but you were an anomaly to him. He spoke before he thought of his words with you.

“No, absolutely not.” You laughed. “No offense, you’re a good looking guy, but I also know you, so no, I’m not interested.”

“Why not?” Miguel was slightly appalled by your rejection of the idea of being in love with him. Was he not worthy? He was a catch if he said so himself. 

“What? What do you mean why not? I’m not interested, simple as that.” You could tell your rejection affected Miguel. Not everyone fell to his feet, especially not you. “Look, now that we got that theory out of the way, want to try another? Why is it so hard to believe I just want a better career?”

“I can provide that for you.” 

“Miguel, what can I possibly do in your organization that would be a promotion? I swear to god, if you say executive assistant.”

“Come on querida, give me more credit than that.” Miguel chuckled. “You can handle the developmental projects around Santo Padre. You could be my development manager.”

“No, absolutely not, I would have to work with Emily. She already thinks we're sleeping together, the last thing I want to do is deal with Emily.” 

“Y/N, come on, I’m sure I can find something in my organization that can fulfill this desire you have.” Miguel was not comfortable with the thought of losing you. He wasn’t willing to accept it.

“Miguel, we have to move on some time, you’ll be fine. I will find the most eligible candidate for this job. I promise.” You gave him a hug. 

You needed to do this. You couldn’t stay in this job forever, you had to move on.

“Hand them over.”

“What?”

You stuck your hand out. “You got me the car, it would be rude to not take it.”

===========

“She’s in love with me, it's the only logical reason.” Miguel was sitting down on the couch by the pool, nursing the whiskey in his hand.

“Did she not say she wasn’t?” Nestor wasn’t sure why they were talking about this again when Miguel already spoke to you. 

“She’s hiding it.”

“Look, I’m going to ask this at the risk of being killed by you, but out of pure curiosity, are you hoping she’s in love with you so you can confess some deep secret you’ve kept from her?” 

“No, absolutely not, I’m not interested in her, but if it keeps her by my side, I can be with her.”

Nestor gave Miguel an incredulous look, chuckling at his friend’s terrible idea. Though, he couldn’t help, but play Devil’s Advocate.

“You know what, you should pursue her.”

“Now you see what I’m seeing. She wouldn’t be able to say no to me. I know her like the back of my palm.” 

Nestor had to refrain from chuckling. This was going to be a fun two weeks. 

[chrysalispen]

#2 - Aberrant

Nero tol Scaeva/G’raha Tia. NSFW. 

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33640546/chapters/83652457 He is not sure what to think of the imperial capital, all told, other than he is embarrassed to admit how small it makes him feel. Many things make Nero Scaeva feel small, in all fairness: he is a rail-thin twelve-year-old boy, freshly arrived in the city from one of the poorest rural provinces in the Garlean Empire (and his family is poorer still). He is far more aware than most of his dull-witted peers of the world beyond his tiny village, a world that is vast and open and waiting for him to make his mark upon it. It does not take him long to decide - although he has enough of a survival instinct to keep it to himself - that he does not care much for his Emperor's city. It is uniform in its stark grey ugliness, and it sprawls for malms south of the high mountain pass that leads into the upper reaches of the Ilsabardian tundra, as if winter has unhinged its maw to vomit ceruleum, iron, and Solus zos Galvus' manifest destiny onto the rest of the continent.

All that being the case: his first sight of the Imperial Magitek Academy's administrative building is one Nero has dreamed about for the last two years. It is a fresh start and he is determined to make the most of it. A cursory glance is all Nero needs to know he is comfortably the youngest boy here; he can feel surprised stares from the older boys boring into his back as he lunges up the wide steps two at a time, a smugly confident smile spreading his lips and his favorite book clutched across his chest. Part of him worries at the fact that his robe is handmade rather than store-bought, patched in several places, and as ill-fitting as the threadbare jumper and breeches beneath them. The other students at his tiny village school had often derided him for wearing his sisters' hand-me-downs. But he will have to cross that bridge when he comes to it. He is far more likely to be teased for his age than his clothes, or so he hopes.

"Seven hells, there goes another one," he overhears the derisive scoff on his way into the foyer. "I didn't realize the Academy was starting an engineering initiative for nursery school."

Nero knows how to ignore inane remarks like that and simply does not react to it, but once he's passed out of sight of the two upperclassmen he ambles behind a hefty column to eavesdrop. Anyone who happens to glimpse him- if they notice him at all - will assume he is simply reviewing his upcoming class schedule.

"Another one?"

"You didn't hear? Word is Midas nan Garlond's son will be joining us this year. Smarter even than his old man, so they say. The most brilliant prodigy the Empire's ever seen."

Something in him rankles sharply at that. Just as with the state of his clothing, Nero is all too conscious that his village is poor and small and so is the rest of his province, relegated to some of the most inhospitable lands in the Empire save for one thin stretch of arable land: little grows there other than root vegetables and pigs. He would prefer not to be reminded of his fundamental disadvantage, pitted against some privileged highborn boy he has never chanced to meet. 

Most brilliant? Oh, we'll see about that, Garlond. We'll just see about that.

From this moment on, he vows, he refuses to be anything but first. ==

Nero tol Scaeva, former tribunus laticlavius of the XIVth Imperial Legion, now just another nameless imperial deserter (albeit one with a handsome price on his head), is honest enough to acknowledge that he has outfoxed himself. There is one major thorn in his side frequenting the Saint Coinach encampment. This one Nero cannot even blame on Garlond, for he has brought this particular circumstance (and conundrum) down upon his own head thinking to use her as readily as her allies. As amusing as it has been to watch Cid's cheeks turn crimson with suppressed anger every time Nero takes an opportunity to insinuate himself with the Eorzeans, the engineer finds he is often distracted from any given purpose, or scheme, or tomestone study, by the errant toss of honeyed hair and the herbal spiciness of a lavender sachet. One of these days he's going to dig that blasted bag of flower petals out of her bedroll and toss it into the godsdamned lake, to hell with the consequences. "You too, eh?"

He manages, somehow, not to jump. The interloper unfolds his arms and straightens his posture from its leaning position against a nearby wall, long since crumbled beyond recognition. A rueful smile plays upon the Miqo'te's full lips as his tail swishes idly from side to side."

Don't look so surprised, Tribunus," he says. "Nearly every time I see you, you're watching her. Someone was bound to notice eventually."

Like himself, G'raha Tia is an outlier- an outcast and misfit with a knowledge of Allagan history and folklore nearly as comprehensive and encyclopedic as Nero's own. And just as with all those long years ago upon his arrival at the Academy, his competitive nature is instantly irked by a sense that this upstart boy is stepping on his toes. Certain aspects of the man's personality -- his friendliness and his quick japes, his willingness to accept most people at face value -- remind him so much of Garlond that the sight of him sticks in Nero's craw almost as badly as though he were Cid given feline form. And yet every time they share a space, G'raha invariably treats him with the easy familiarity of an old friend. He is often the only one who does so. It is confusing, and Nero does not like to be on the back foot in his dealings with anyone. 

"Not that I begrudge you for it, of course," G'raha continues. "She's absolutely fascinating."

He makes a sound that he hopes is a disinterested grunt but the younger man doesn't appear to have noticed his own dismissal. His eyes, one crimson and one a deep teal blue, seem to sparkle in the feeble light of the afternoon. Nero groans inwardly.

"I wager she presented you and yours quite the puzzle." That smile has never once left his lips. Moreover, it has taken on a sly cast, and unaccountably Nero feels his hackles rise at the sight of it. That this boy would presume to know anything about him-- "A Garlean who can use magic? One they call the Warrior of Light, no less? Your emperor would no doubt take great interest in such an aberration."

Remarks he had made to himself not so very long ago, in truth, but hearing them from another's lips pings the edges of Nero's temper like the sting of tiny pebbles. He grits his teeth.

This is your own fault for teasing her the way you did, a part of him chides. Now you can't let it lie.

"I do not recall asking for your observations, paltry and superficial as they are." He draws his dignity about him like a cloak. "And I would prefer not to trifle with such distractions. There is still much work for us to complete ere Garlond's useful little friend finds her way to the top of the tower."

"Come now, Master Scaeva, it's all right to admit it, you know." 

"Admit what?" His grin, brash and insolent, seems to split his face in twain with his mirth. 

"You like the Warrior of Light."

Nero scoffs, "Lies and vicious slander."

"Is it?"

"I detest her."

The man only laughs, the sound of it light and melodious and infuriating. "No need to dissemble, Nero. I assure you none here would think less of you for your infatuation-"

"Seven hells, I am not infatuated with the woman!" 

"-as from her deeds I personally find her to be a lady more than worthy of your high regard."

Thoroughly annoyed now, Nero retorts: "So then, what brings you to speak to me thus? Have you come to have a jest at my expense?" 

Once again he is on the defensive. His usual humor seems to have deserted him now that there is no Garlond present to visibly and loudly scorn, and it is in that moment Nero realizes just how emotionally taxing it has been to conceal his bitterness. It has festered for years, as he watched lesser men laud the 'young prodigy of magitek' all the more for his desertion and sometimes even misattributing Nero's own accomplishments and inventions to the damnable man. He hadn't really meant to let all those years of suppressed resentment pour out of him at the Praetorium in front of anyone present to listen, but it seems that once let loose there was no stopping his anger. Now it seems to be trying to fly free at every turn despite all attempts to maintain the jester's mask, his pride be damned.

What surprises him, when his eyes meet G'raha's, is the raw sympathy he sees there rather than censure. 

"No," the Miqo'te says. "But I did come to ask if you'd like to join me tonight."

"Why?"

The question is out before he can stifle his surprise. G'raha shrugs. 

"Why not? For one, I'm in the mood for company - your company, specifically. And you seem like you could use the 'distraction,' so-called, for all you insist otherwise."

==

He isn't sure why he agreed to it, even now. Extroverted as he seems, Nero tol Scaeva is both an iconoclast and quite content with his relative solitude.

And yet here he is, folded on his knees across the rough homespun bedroll with his fists curling into the linens and his deep groans vibrating against the lumpen pillow, the corner of which sits clenched between his teeth, and the only sound in the closeness of the tent beyond their heavy breathing is the wet slap of bared flesh. For all his diminutive stature, G'raha Tia is not a small man and even with his preparations the stretch of his girth burns, teetering just on the pleasurable side of uncomfortable with each rolling oil-slicked thrust. It makes Nero think of other nights, cold nights buried beneath blankets with a hot mouth on him and biting down on his knuckles to stifle the noise when-

Fingers dig furrows into one of his lean flanks and break the skin with their scratching. The sharp sting of it is a pleasant counterpoint to this hot and tightening ache, especially when G'raha tilts Nero's hips and adjusts his angle and the wide, flared head inside him grinds against his prostate. 

Nero spits another muffled curse into the pillow.

They are not taking many pains to be discreet, as he is well aware. He is just as aware that Rammbroes or the eikon-slayer could walk in at any time and see him like this: arse up and face pressed into rough hemp and saliva soaking into G'raha Tia's pillow, his face deeply flushed and his hair a sweat-dampened, tousled disaster. It's a distinct possibility and one he doesn't currently give a single damn about whatsoever. He is so hard it hurts and each heartbeat pounding through his temples echoes itself in the heavy, ponderous throbbing between his legs. 

He unclenches one fist from the bedding to squirm beneath his weight, then swipes his fingers hastily over his own leaking head and along his shaft before taking himself in hand. The angle is somewhat awkward and if he stays that way too long his arm will go numb, but Nero is undeterred in the heat of the moment. He rocks his hips back to meet the Miqo'te's powerful and increasingly rapid thrusts while stroking himself as best he can manage. 

It is over in what is probably moments but feels like years of drowning in steadily increasing pressure, the tightness in his balls and heat spearing down his spine and into his cock in the brace of seconds before he spills. Seed spurts over his clenched fingers and drips into the bedroll, and in a matter of moments he hears G'raha moan and his pace stutters and slows before stilling entirely. Neither speaks for long moments as they try to catch their breath. Nero relaxes his grip, then frees his arm just before the pins and needles sensation begins to set into his fingers.

"Let me get you something," G'raha mutters hoarsely. "You're-"

He doesn't need to finish the sentence but it still hangs between them as he sits back on his haunches to rummage in a nearby knapsack. Nero rolls onto his back with his ears still ringing and his heart beating as furiously as if it were the aftermath of a skirmish, and accepts the scrap offered him with a brief nod. Right now they're both too nose-blind to take note of the combined scent of sweat and musk. In a few minutes, he will collect his clothing and go find a likely place for a late-night wash before retiring to his own bedroll as if this had never transpired.

But that will come later. For the moment they lie next to each other, hip to shoulder to knee (as much as their notable height difference will allow), staring at the peaked corners of the tent. Nero is the first to break the silence.

"I don't think my head has been this empty in years," he says, and G'raha chuckles. 

"Your thoughts are your own worst enemy. I understand the feeling." His tail, draped over Nero's knee, beats a soft and lazy tattoo against his calf. "I suspect Aurelia would too if she knew."

"I doubt very much the eikon-slayer would care enough to commiserate."

"Why do you say that?"

Nero drawls, "Attempting to capture her on multiple occasions while using her as a test subject for Project Ultima will not have endeared me to her good graces, I suspect."

"You should give her a chance."

"History would indicate that course of action to be unwise. She despises me."

"Ah, so it's not that you despise her, you think she despises you." G'raha props himself up on one elbow. His brows lift and drop, and that wry half-smile returns. "That shouldn't matter. I took a chance on you tonight," he says, "and I was clearly right to do it."

"So you say," Nero's retort is dismissive on its face, but G'raha seems wholly unaffected by his scorn. 

"You're very unusual. A strange man indeed," he says. "Not at all what I would have expected of a Garlean. Cid isn't either, but you're a cut beyond even him. And as such, I wager you're well familiar with what it means to be alone- but so am I. So is she." Sadness lurks in the depths of his eyes, narrows the corners of his smile. "Everyone needs friends, Nero. Even you. And Aurelia... well, let's just say I don't believe the two of you are so very different." 

He almost objects but something stays his tongue. Entertaining tumble or not, easygoing demeanor or not, G'raha does not know him nor his history. He does not know what it is to live off the Empire's dregs, to scrape one's way to the top while leaving parts of oneself behind. Carving away the bits that don't quite fit into the gears, and even the rough shape made acceptable enough to fit can still never run as smoothly as the rest of the machine. 

Nero tol Scaeva has done perfectly well these last thirty-four years by himself. His scraping and cutting and striving earned him a career and relative renown. He doesn't need to complicate matters with friends. He doesn't need friends at all, not to get what he wants.

And watching as G'raha Tia's features relax and he drifts off into a contented doze, Nero almost wishes that were untrue.

[consumeconstantly]

Small Buff Girl Sightings Ch. 1

Summary: The first thought that comes to mind as he looks at the scene in front of him is: wow, she’s cute. The second thought is: holy shit, did she just flip a six foot, two hundred fifty pound man into the ground without blinking an eye? 

Thank goodness there’s time for second… and third.. And fourth impressions? 

Seriously, how many creepy people and criminals does this girl deal with on a daily basis?

1(you are here) | 2 | 3 | ao3

________________________________________________________

Damian Wayne is sure that if his elder siblings were watching him right now, they would be screeching at him to go help the girl. But-- well. His siblings and his father aren’t watching, and he isn’t sure whether or not the girl needs his help. The weirdly hooded man who is rapidly closing in on her might just live in the same direction. Surely, this time, his instincts are wrong. He’s only following them for peace of mind. Nothing is going to happen.

Otherwise known as: Damian isn’t particularly feeling up to saving another girl outside of his Robin costume and then being come on to. Why girls always have to have a Thing for people who saved them, Damian will never understand. He can’t imagine attempting a relationship with somebody who saved him, though admittedly the pool of candidates of people who are superior to him in capability is small, and far too annoying or old for him to ever consider dating them. And even thinking about having a relationship with somebody who couldn’t take care of themselves gives him the chills.

This leads to a very contemplative two minutes of walking the same path that the girl and the hooded person were taking-- he is not following them--until the girl who is being stalked darts into an alleyway. Of course, the hooded person follows her. 

Is she trying to get herself killed? Damian can’t believe the sheer idiocy of the girl. At least the last girl he saved hadn’t done anything as stupid; her attacker cornered her near her home. Gotham girls know better than to duck into random alleyways. There is too much crime in Gotham for anybody with self respect to be so dumb.

With a sigh, and a wish that his brothers and father hadn’t beat a moral conscious into him, he lopes over to the alleyway, expecting to have to break up whatever futile struggle the girl put up with her stalker, or maybe even knock out the guy because by now, she must either be unconscious or on her way to other unpleasant circumstances.

Except.

By the time he gets over to the alleyway, the girl walks out unscathed, phone pressed to her cheek. 

“Yes, you should check 12th arrondissement, two streets down from the Opera Bastille. He’s 6 foot, blonde haired and brown eyed. Wearing a grey hoodie and adidas.” The girl brushes past him, blinked at his appearance, then continued on the phone. “No problem, officer.”

Damian looks into the alleyway and there the man is, head lolled to one side. Unconscious, probably. His hands are tied up with a pink plastic zip tie. He looks out of the alleyway, eyes trailing after the girl who just left. She barely reaches his shoulder. Maybe, Damian thinks drily, Parisian girls are different. 

At least Damian won’t get another adoring fangirl today.

#

Damian is sitting at a coffee shop across from the Louvre. It’s overpriced, and the coffee tastes awful, but it’s still coffee, and he’s tired. He’s here to check out the akuma that the Paris media keep reporting about, even though the Justice league of America shouldn’t have to deal with Europe’s problems, and also largely believed that it was a publicity stunt on Mayor Bourgeois' behalf. 

Now, the Justice League of America isn’t really sure what is happening, but surely it can’t be that bad if the city has no damage, right? 

What a joke. Damian has been here three days (count them-- three) and he is almost sure that he has been transported into some alternate dimension where some little kid’s imagination went wild and plopped the ever loving conundrum of Paris, France into Damian’s hands. 

On the first day he arrived, there was a pigeon akuma-- apparently, one of the more frequent ones that popped up. Ladybug-- one of two consistent Parisian Heroes-- made quick work of him once she arrived on the scene, but it took her a while to arrive. Almost a whole half hour. Which meant that the streets of Paris were filled with bird poop and flooded with more pigeons than Damian knew existed, and he lived in Gotham. The other hero, Chat Noir, arrived after Ladybug, but handled the situation more warily. He later found out that this was due to the superhero being allergic to feathers, as witnessed by a video on this site called the Ladyblog.

Due to some freak magic power called the Miraculous Cure that Ladybug called after her battles, the streets had been blessedly cleaned, and the pigeons flew back to their mostly hidden existence. The world was right, once more. Then, on the second day, he tried and failed to save that weird girl who knocked out a man who had a good hundred pounds on her. He’s not sure that tried and failed is applicable to the situation, as the girl seemed competent enough to take care of an issue like that on her own. 

Today, another akuma appeared. His name is Deliverer, a postman who had one too many customers complain about a package not being delivered in a timely manner.

Damian isn’t really sure how he felt about having people turning into villains over such trivial things. He is also no longer sure whether he is the best choice for this mission. His emotions tend to run hot, and there is the chance that he might become compromised. Because if there are people out there turning into villains over not being able to feed some pigeons, there is no way that Damian’s own annoyance with his family and the random people on the streets won’t be taken advantage of. However, out of his family, it’s not like there’s any better choice. Dick, maybe, but he’s busy with Kor’i and his daughter, and they won’t want to move to France. And he doubts that the superheroes of Paris want a metahuman trying to solve the case in Paris after seeing how much damage a normal citizen can do when akumatized.

It only takes ten minutes for Ladybug and Chat Noir to arrive on the scene this time. Whether it is because it is a new akuma, or whether it is because they were closer to the scene of the crime, Damian can only guess. He thinks it to be a combination of the two; Mr. Pigeon is a very common akuma and the people deal with his issues quite often, thus he is probably lower on the priority list. The heroes have their own lives to deal with, Damian is sure.

In any case, Damian rushes to the akuma when he gets an alert from the Ladyblog and is able to catch the tail end of a battle where Ladybug doesn’t even have to use her Lucky Charm. She just takes the clipboard after some bizarre yoyo moves and snaps the clipboard over her knee. When the butterfly flies out of the clipboard, she purifies it. Easy breezy, and no involvement from Chat Noir, yet again. The cat looks tired and Ladybug says something to him, her posture reminiscent of a mother scolding her child, after which he flees the scene.

Then, Damian gets caught up in a wave of exhaustion. Forgoing sleep for the past two days trying to catch himself up on the situation in Paris before making any major reports back to the league will do that. He needs coffee, badly, which is why he finds himself in this tourist trap coffee shop with some of the worst coffee-- wait. That girl seems familiar.

He spends a few seconds trying to place her. Short, pig-tails, part asian, blue hair and blue eyes. The girl he saw coming out of the alleyway yesterday. Of course. She is on her phone walking slowly and frowning, purse hanging at her side. Damian traces her movements. She is naturally graceful, but closes in on herself. He looks a little closer. Her eyes look red. Perhaps she is dealing with the aftermath of yesterday’s situation.

From the side, a guy darts out at her, reaching for her purse. The girl drops her phone to the floor in shock, clutches her purse, and then side-swipes the guy. A hand to his neck, a foot to his knees, and then her arms pulling his behind his back. She pulls a zip tie from her purse and ties his hands up, then picks up her phone almost exasperatedly and before calling someone. 

Vaguely curious, Damian picks up his coffee and approaches the girl and criminal. Several others have done the same, only to be waved off with a blindingly bright smile and a yes, she’s fine, thank you very much.

“Need help?” More of a courtesy than anything else. 

“No thanks, Monsieur.” The girl looks down at the time on her phone, then scrunches her face up. Freckles dot her pale skin. A text message alert from her phone causes her to scowl, and she looks down at her phone, then back up at Damian. 

“Actually, could you do me a favor? I’ve really got to get back with my class, and I don’t really want to leave this guy in the middle of the street like this. I just called the police, and they should be here any minute. Stay with him?”

It’s not like his research on Ladybug and Chat Noir can’t wait a few minutes. 

“Sure.”

Then, the girl runs off without another glance backwards. True to her word, the police do arrive a few minutes later. 

“Where’s the girl that called?” The policeman asked with a furrowed brow. 

“She had to leave.” Damian eyes the man, who has barely looked at him. The policeman is assessing the scene, taking in the handiwork of the pigtailed girl.

“Half-asian, blue eyes, freckles?” 

“Yes.” 

The policeman handcuffs the criminal. “That poor girl. She always seems to attract these street thugs. It’s really a blessing that she can take care of herself.”

This piques Damian’s interest. “This happens often?”

“She’s almost like an urban legend, at this point. Whenever we find a criminal tied up with a neon pink zip tie, we know it’s her. A real shame, too. She’s such a nice girl.”

He’s not sure if nice was the word to use. She looked slightly stressed and harried. Polite enough, but she certainly has no trouble putting guys twice her size down. 

“Well, thank you for your help.” The policeman tips his cap and makes his way to the patrol car. 

Damian goes back to drinking his coffee and scrolling through the Ladyblog on his phone.

#

“I’ve heard you do this quite often.” Damian appears at the girl’s side like a ghost, but she doesn’t jump. Doesn’t even flinch. Just takes a step back to reposition herself and gives him a side eye. Tactically, a good decision if he is another potential attacker. She created just enough distance that it would make it harder to attack her, but had moved in a smooth fashion that said she wasn’t going to run and was prepared to stand her ground. Her body half faces him, like she is ready to put up her guard at any moment.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” 

Her victim this time is unconscious. Damian isn’t exactly sure what happened, but the quivering girl only a few feet away from them made him think that the girl in front of him has a bit of vigilante in her, because it is clear that this time she hadn’t acted in self defense. 

In an act of goodwill, Damian takes his hands out of his pockets slowly, showing that he doesn’t have anything to hide. In response, the girl-- who Damian mentally decides to call Pigtails, since she’s had the same ridiculously childish hairstyle for their past three encounters-- relaxes, just a little, and turns her attention to the crying girl instead. 

“Do you want me to call the police?” 

Pigtails eyes flicker towards the man on the ground, who is what Damian approximates to be six foot three and two hundred and fifty pounds, and then towards the crying girl looks to be in her mid twenties.

Pigtails hasn’t tied this one up, yet, but she has flipped him onto his stomach. Judging by the lingering look that she gives the man’s unbound hands, and the ziptie that she pulls out of her small purse, she’s ready and willing to tie him up at the slightest movement, or at the other girl’s command. 

“I’m going to tie him up, okay?”

The other girl manages a yes, please. And so, Pigtails brandishes her ziptie, directs Damian to call the police; tell them they’re on Barbes Boulevard.

Damian assesses the situation before the operator comes on. The would-be victim is somewhere around twenty four, is slender and full of what his brother, Dick, would call French girl charm before getting hit by Cass or Barbara. She has brown hair that’s a mess on the left side of her hair, probably from the man grabbing her on that side, and is lightly tanned. There are bruises on her wrist and on her cheek that are quite visible and continuing to darken. 

Now that Pigtails has tied him up, Damian nudges the man’s face with his foot to see what he looks like. Average looking at best, and he reeks of alcohol. Damian crinkles his nose. Midday drinking is not a good look on anyone. His clothes are also cheap. Fast fashion, but bad.

Then, there’s Pigtails herself. Evidently she trusted him enough to look after the brute, because after giving him a once over and nodding, she goes over to the other girl to comfort her. Damian is sure that Pigtails can’t be much older than himself, but he's not sure. She has a sort of timelessness about her, between the lightness in her step and the sharp, intelligent look in her eyes. Her sense of fashion is simple but chic, and whatever she is wearing looks pretty high end. Designer, even. 

After relaying the information that he has gathered to the operator, he is told to please wait there with the victim and the attacker, and if he could have the other party involved stay there as well, that would be fantastic.

Pigtails is surprisingly good at calming people down. The other girl seemed seconds away from a complete breakdown and was rocking back and forth, muttering to herself before Pigtails started talking to her. Already, the other girl’s crying turns to hiccups, and then stops. She is then embraced by Pigtails, circles rubbed soothingly on her back, and a gentle smile that makes Damian purse his lips. He doesn’t see that kind of smile often in Gotham. Everybody is harder there, less willing to help. If they see somebody in danger, most times citizens hurry on their way because they don’t want to get involved. When citizens do get involved, their aftercare is fairly rough, if there is any aftercare at all. Even as a vigilante, Robin didn’t often comfort victims afterwards. He helped them to police stations or the hospital occasionally, but never stopped to talk with them.

By the time the police get there, Pigtails has the girl standing with a watery smile on her face. What a feat. Damian wonders, briefly, if having Pigtails’ social capabilities would help victims back in Gotham. 

“Ah, Marinette,” the police officer smiles warmly. “We meet again.”

“Officer Raincomprix,” Pigtails inclines her head. 

The officer is of stocky build, red headed and green-eyed. He cuffs the man, lugs him to the back seat of his cruiser, locks the door, and then comes back out. “I’d like to take your statements, now.”

Damian learns that the attacker, Fraser Barbot, was in several of Nicolette Deanne’s master classes this year. Both were studying business with an emphasis on fashion, which resulted in a lot of time spent together. Fraser thought that a relationship was the inevitable next step. She refused, because besides their master’s emphasis, they didn’t really have much in common. She also just wasn’t interested in him. He became slightly more hostile to her after her rejection. Then, as the months went by, they started vying for a lot of the same job opportunities. Nicolette had gotten the most prestigious one, and had many other companies attempting to persuade her into joining their business instead. Fraser had gotten very few, and was convinced that Nicolette had stolen those job opportunities away from him, had seduced her potential employers, and asked her why she wouldn’t do him if she was so willing to put out. 

That was when Marinette had come in. She was walking to a fabric store when she heard the commotion and saw Fraser hitting Nicolette. By the time she got over to them, Nicolette had already acquired several bruises on her arms, shoulder, and face. After arriving, she promptly knocked him out. 

By the time the three of them finish their statements, nearly ten minutes have passed, and Officer Raincomprix bids them farewell. 

“If you ever feel like you’re in danger again, Miss Deanne, feel free to call. Since you want to press charges, we’ll be in contact with you soon. Call us if more than three days go by without hearing from us. A taxi has been called for you, so you can get wherever you were going in peace.” 

Officer Raincomprix turns to Marinette and Damian with a slightly sunnier disposition. “And thank you two for helping. Especially you, Miss Dupain-Cheng. If you ever change your mind about wanting to go into law enforcement, just give me a call. I should really have Sabrina do whatever training you’re doing, because it’s clearly effective!”

Marinette laughs. “The bakery is magic. Between lifting bags of flour, running around the city for deliveries, and Maman’s cooking, anybody could do what I do. I’ve heard a lot of good things about the studio down the street from our school, though, so you could have her look into that.”

This, Damian thinks, is such a bald-faced lie he almost chokes on his own spit. There is no sort of magic food that imbues a person with the ability to fight like Pigtails does and lifting flour bags in a bakery doesn’t suddenly allow people to take down people with ease. She has to have had some professional training, though if he is being honest, her movements feel like they have more of an origin in street fighting than they do in any martial arts. 

She’s remarkably good at lying, mixing jokes with statements that had the possibility of truth. Maybe Damian is just being paranoid. Maybe she trained at some studio that she didn’t want to mention and the studio taught amazing self defense. Maybe she is just an excellent study. Somehow, Damian doubts that was the truth of the matter, but there isn’t much of a reason for Damian to spend his precious time determining the reason why this girl lies to policemen. It’s her business. It doesn’t concern him.

Then, Officer Raincomprix heads back to the police cruiser and Nicolette gets into the taxi she ordered for herself, looking worlds better. Marinette turns to him with a smile. The smile is so blindingly bright and pure that he suspects it lets the girl get away with a lot of things. “Thanks for the save. It was a lot easier to calm Nicolette down since you handled the call. I’m Marinette, it’s nice to meet you.”

Damian nods in return to her wave and smile. “No problem. I guess this answers my earlier question. You do get caught up with criminals quite often.”

She flushes, and it makes the freckles on her pale skin show even more. “What do you mean by that?”

“You seemed to be on very good terms with that police officer.”

“Oh, that. He’s a classmate’s dad. I’ve seen him around plenty of times.” She waves him off.

A very good liar, indeed. Pigtails keeps to half truths and vague statements. Damian gets the feeling that she definitely saw him more often in the capacity of a police officer than he did as a friend’s father. Understandable to lie to him, though. He is just a stranger, and he certainly doesn’t go around telling every person on the street his life story. Maybe Pigtails values privacy, just like he does.

The movement of the police cruiser catches his eye. Fraser has woken up, and he is not happy about being handcuffed in a police cruiser; they can hear him screaming at Officer Raincomprix from the street. Marinette’s eyes jump to the cruiser as well, eyes narrowing as she sees a butterfly approach the cruiser.

“Oh, for--” Marinette glances at Damian, at the butterfly, and then at Fraser. She makes a split decision. “Come on, let’s get out of here. This is not going to be pretty.”

“What do you--” Pigtails is pulling his arm with more strength than he thought possible. If this is just her pulling him, it’s no small wonder that she fares so easily against all her opponents. She definitely has strength behind her small frame.

“Fraser is probably going to get akumatized and we have to get you to the nearest shelter. Then, you’re going to wait there until the all-clear alert is given, got it?” She pushes him into a building, says by way of explanation to the bewildered looking employees, “Akuma,” and  then rushes off, saying, “I’m going to go home, because clearly I’m not going to be able to go shopping for fabric today.”

Damian doesn’t stay in the shelter that Pigtails has so kindly guided him to, and there are a few people who look at him in confusion; people should be entering the building if there’s an akuma attack, not leaving. But Damian has a job to do and watching the battles up close is much better than watching the footage on the Ladyblog, which, in recent years, has turned into little more than poor speculations and attempts to stoke relationships between heroes that haven’t been used in years. When he looks at the information the website had up years ago, Damian finds a bunch of interviews that clearly haven’t been fact checked done with a girl named Lila, who is in the class he’s going to be transferring into, and despite the fact that they’ve been taken down since then, he doesn’t trust most of the Ladyblog’s information without video evidence. Not the most reliable news source about akuma, however, most other blogs he found didn’t have any videos taken up close. The older footage of past battles on the Ladyblog were pretty good quality, but they had gotten worse and worse, which meant that Damian and the Justice League didn’t have a clear picture about the heroes’ or villain’s capabilities. 

By the time Damian arrives, back on the scene, Ladybug is already there in her red and black spotted glory. She has pulled Officer Raincomprix to safety.

“I am Shackled! Burdened by unfair double standards that allow incompetent tramps to get jobs before other, clearly more superior candidates do and by the corrupt justice system that wants me to go to jail, I desire what I should have been given to begin with! The affections of ladies clearly below me, and jobs that were made for me.” Convenient. If every villain explains their modus operandi to the heroes, it is probably easier to take them down. “Give me your Miraculous, Ladybug!”

The hero scoffs, avoids the chains that Shackled controls, and crouches atop a car a fairly good distance away. 

Chat Noir lands, quick to make a pun. “If you feel so tied down by society, why don’t you just bug off? No woman wants to deal with somebody who has such a su-paw-riority complex.”

Ladybug rolls her eyes, but allows the pun. “Chat Noir’s right. You need to get taught a lesson on ethics and morality. If a woman got a job and you didn’t, that just means she’s better than you. Your interviewers probably saw that you had an awful attitude and work ethic. Nobody wants such a toxic person in their work environment.”

“Don’t you mean clawful, m’lady?”

“Chat,” Ladybug reprimands. She tosses her yoyo in the air. “Let’s get this over with. Dealing with misogynistic akumas is annoying. Just talking to them uses up all of my common sense.”

She throws her yoyo in the air, and calls, “Lucky Charm!”

A pack of zipties falls from the sky. Ladybug groans. “You have got to be kidding me. Zip ties? Really? You couldn’t have given me anything else? This is going to take forever. Chat, grab some of his chains and zip tie them together.”

“You’ve got to be yanking my chain, m’lady. We can just take him out without using the Lucky Charm.”

“No, the akuma is in the chain that’s between his handcuffs. And we can’t get there unless we immobilize all of these.” She gestures around wildly, then begins the process of grabbing chains and zip tying them together. As she continues to tie more and more together, it begins to get harder and harder for Shackled to move them as he wants, and a butterfly mask flashes over the akuma’s face. 

After almost thirty minutes of tying and avoiding the few free flying chains that there are left, Chat Noir and Ladybug finally get all of the chains in one messy bundle that is too heavy for Shackled to control. At one point in the battle, Ladybug darts towards Chat Noir, a concerned look on her face, but he brushes her off and they continue working. Chat Noir cataclysms the chain between Shackled’s hands, and sure enough, a butterfly flies out. Damian watches as Ladybug shoves the butterfly into her yoyo and feels his eye twitch as the black-purple butterfly comes out white. He hates magic. It makes things so much more complicated than they should be.

“Bien Joue,” the two superheroes say to each other before heading off in opposite directions. 

Damian sticks to his first thought. Whatever is going on in Paris is definitely the equivalent of some kid having a series of very weird dreams.

______________________________________________________________________

All the way up to ch 4 is already posted on ao3! I’ll be posting this fic daily up until i catch up :) also how do you decide where to put the keep reading for all you experienced tumblr users? idk where a good place to break is

Next

[hamliet]

hi hamliet! i just finished dostoyevsky's demons! i was wondering if you could write a little about kirillov, stepan, and stavrogin: it seems like kirillov's thinking and stepan's final speech are the two messages the novel really wants to impart to the reader, but i felt like they were somewhat at odds with one another? kirillov was all about the will of man, while stepan was about God. which one is "right"? and what's stavrogin's final death and overall arc about? thank you so much!

Hello Anon!! Thank you for the ask about my favorite novel, and such an exciting ask too! *breaks into a happy dance*

So I would caution against the interpretation that Dostoyevsky wanted to endorse Kirillov’s message, because I think the opposite is the case. Dostoyevsky is fundamentally existentialist; however, he despised nihilism (as each of his major works take it apart that is present in each of his major works), and that is thus reflected in the framing of Kirillov’s ideas, which were born out of bitter despair. Kirillov, you see, did not want to die.

He simply wanted to matter. 

However, he was not convinced he did, despite how kind and genuinely good he was. He begs before his death:

“Let it be comfort. God is necessary and so must exist… But I know He doesn’t and can’t… Surely you must understand that a man with two such ideas can’t go on living?”

For Kirillov, God is the Russian Orthodox version, the one Dostoyevsky very much believed in (in his later years anyways, including when he wrote his major works) as well. Thus, what Kirillov is saying here is that he wants to believe in some kind of sense in this world, a divine maker who is watching over them, who cares about them--but when he looks at the world and how terrible it is, when he sees little children being insulted, when he sees people killing innocents like Shatov, he does not have a way of comprising that with the existence of a loving God. It’s a well known conundrum in theology: the problem of evil. 

Demons is entirely about the evil humans beings are capable of when they become possessed by ideologies--yet, Demons also implies that people need to believe in something. Look at Stavrogin and his despair and aimless actions. Look at Pyotr and how his selfishness literally destroys an entire town, including a good man (Shatov) who had forgiven his wife and loved her despite what she had done to him. As Kirillov says:

“Man has done nothing but invent God so as to go on living, and not kill himself; that’s the whole of universal history up till now. I am the first one in the whole history of mankind who would not invent God. Let them know it once for all…

“I am awfully unhappy, for I’m awfully afraid. Terror is the curse of man.… But I will assert my will, I am bound to believe that I don’t believe. I will begin and will make an end of it and open the door, and will save. That’s the only thing that will save mankind and will re-create the next generation physically; for with his present physical nature man can’t get on without his former God, I believe. For three years I’ve been seeking for the attribute of my godhead and I’ve found it; the attribute of my godhead is self-will! That’s all I can do to prove in the highest point my independence and my new terrible freedom. For it is very terrible. I am killing myself to prove my independence and my new terrible freedom.”

Kirillov is terrified to be alone and to be worthless. If there is no God, he believes he is both. However, if he can be brought to utterly control his own life, setting a precedent, that will “save” people by showing them freedom. It’s not a sane theory (Kirillov is decidedly unstable), but it reflects his desperate desire to grasp at meaning in his life, to make himself count. It’s why he even agrees to die and write a note that will help his friends when he does (without knowing Pyotr’s evil schemes). 

But the thing is, Kirillov killing himself is an act of nihilism. He does not want to die, as evidenced by how terrified he is during that scene, how he literally bites down on Pyotr’s finger and nearly severs it, because he is so desperately angry that Pyotr is forcing him to do this. And his death accomplishes nothing. There is no freedom and no salvation that comes from him killing himself; not for Pyotr, not for Liza, not for Nikolai, not for anyone. 

His death was empty. But his life, his very human fears and need to live, to be worth something, his stunning kindness in a novel that is fundamentally cruel--that is what matters to the reader. His death can’t be regarded as anything other than a tragedy, which is why I’d say that Dostoyevesky is showing the faults in his ideas (while exploring them with empathy) rather than endorsing them. 

So, onto Stepan. Remember when I said it was Russian Orthodox Christianity? The faith element is present in all of Dostoyevsky’s works, and is integral to them. I do think Dostoyevsky is endorsing Stepan’s final speech:

“My friends,” he said, “God is necessary to me, if only because He is the only being whom one can love eternally.”...“My immortality is necessary if only because God will not be guilty of injustice and extinguish altogether the flame of love for Him once kindled in my heart. And what is more precious than love? Love is higher than existence, love is the crown of existence; and how is it possible that existence should not be under its dominance? If I have once loved Him and rejoiced in my love, is it possible that He should extinguish me and my joy and bring me to nothingness again? If there is a God, then I am immortal..”

“There is a God, Stepan Trofimovitch, I assure you there is,” Varvara Petrovna implored him. “Give it up, drop all your foolishness for once in your life!” 

...

“Oh, I should dearly like to live again!” he exclaimed with an extraordinary rush of energy. “Every minute, every instant of life ought to be a blessing to man … they ought to be, they certainly ought to be! It’s the duty of man to make it so; that’s the law of his nature, which always exists even if hidden.… Oh, I wish I could see Petrusha … and all of them …"...

“The mere fact of the ever present idea that there exists something infinitely more just and more happy than I am fills me through and through with tender ecstasy—and glorifies me—oh, whoever I may be, whatever I have done! What is far more essential for man than personal happiness is to know and to believe at every instant that there is somewhere a perfect and serene happiness for all men and for everything.… The one essential condition of human existence is that man should always be able to bow down before something infinitely great. If men are deprived of the infinitely great they will not go on living and will die of despair. The Infinite and the Eternal are as essential for man as the little planet on which he dwells. My friends, all, all: hail to the Great Idea! The Eternal, Infinite Idea! It is essential to every man, whoever he may be, to bow down before what is the Great Idea. Even the stupidest man needs something great. Petrusha … oh, how I want to see them all again! They don’t know, they don’t know that that same Eternal, Grand Idea lies in them all!”

Stepan’s ideas are repeated in The Brothers Karamazov and in The Dream of a Ridiculous Man (a fantastic short story!). Dostoyevsky was very much not just an existentialist and a Christian, but a humanist: he believed this life on earth was incomparably valuable, but also the next life was, as well (in contrast to assuming this life is worthless in light of the next, as many theologies in Christianity will proclaim). Stepan is expressing now that the purpose of life is to live and to love--which is meaningful for Stepan’s character and the novel as a whole in two ways: firstly, because Stepan’s denial of his love for Varvara led to a lot of pain and suffering for both of them (as Varvara setting him up with Dasha is what provoked Stepan to beg his son to visit him), and secondly, Stepan’s abandonment of Pyotr as a child is a direct catalyst of the person Pyotr has become. His failure to love his son well is what led to all this tragedy. He now sees it, but it is too late for him to remedy in this life. However, not all is lost: he has a second life he anticipates, and he dies with his love, Varvara, with him, assuring him that there is a hereafter. 

On the subject of failure to parent and messed-up children: Stavrogin. He is one of Dostoyevsky’s most complex and disturbing characters. On the one hand, Stavrogin knows right and wrong better than most in the cast; on the other hand, he acts contrary to it because Stavrogin wants to believe that there is no right and wrong, and hence he does more and more ‘wrong’ things in an almost subconscious way to... well, prove his philosophy, like Kirillov, but also to punish himself because much like Kirillov’s beliefs were founded on a contradiction, so are Stavrogin’s. (Shatov says that Stavrogin lives to morally torment himself, and notably he’s the first character who loses his enamorment with Stavorigin, hence I trust his viewpoint.) Also, Stavrogin tells Tikhon that his philosophy is that there is “neither good nor evil,” yet he proves this by acting on things that torment him. 

The whole reason people project onto Stavrogin and are drawn to his charisma is because he is empty inside, making him ripe for projection. He is capable of much good and has done some good, but he also is capable of evil (as all characters and people are). Keep in mind that most of the evil Stavrogin is responsible for is through passive means (he foils Stepan here): what he doesn’t do is perhaps more devastating than what he does do. He allows evil to reign and to draw to its tragic conclusions. He sleeps with Liza knowing it will destroy her, but Liza pursued him heavily. He allows Matryosha to commit suicide after he assaults her. He allows Shatov’s death, his wife’s murder, Kirillov’s suicide. He could take action and prevent any of these things, could have even taken responsibility for his evil treatment of Matryosha, but he does not. Instead, he allows her to punish herself because it allows him to continue in his complacent, passively nihilistic philosophy--in fact, it reinforces his philosophy. Good and evil are thus pointless and only lead to ruin, right? These ideas about morality lead to tragedy! He can thus do whatever he wants! (For example, he cites Matryosha believing she has sinned against God--when he’s the one who hurt her--as her reason for her suicide; ie it’s her belief that is the culprit more so than he himself.) 

Except, Stavrogin’s moral nihilism fails him. Because in the end, Stavrogin cannot out run his conscience, and commits suicide. Good and evil might just be ideas, or they might not be, but he cannot escape how he feels about them. His feelings are real, and through hurting others he hurts himself, and he cannot live on with such feelings. Society may shape our ideas of what’s right and wrong and it may be twisted and hurt us (for example, Dostoyevsky surely felt society treated women unfairly, especially in matters of sexuality, as we see in how society ruins Liza and Matryosha), but we also cannot heal without each other (for example, Shatov forgiving his wife, and Stepan being able to die with Varvara; in contrast, Stavrogin isolates himself and dies). 

So, yeah. I hope that was helpful and not too rambly. Feel free to ask any more questions on the novel/for clarification! 

[turnaboutimagines]

s/o and miles getting in a heated debate about what the best episode of steel samurai is except the argument ends up playing out like a courtroom debate. maya and pearl get brought in to "testify". phoenix wants to leave.

idk the gang goes to get some ramen and this happens!  I took some creative liberties for blocking purposes, but I tried to stay true to the request.  ^^  this is super silly and long and I had a lot of fun writing it out, but i hope that’s what you were looking for, pal.Setting for this one is between 3 and 4 during a hypothetical visit from Maya and Pearl. 

“That sure was tasty!”  Maya claps her hands in front of her, looking all too pleased with herself.  You give her a disbelieving look, as Edgeworth, Pearl, Phoenix, and you were all only halfway finished with your bowls.

You see a spark light up her eyes and you’re uncertain if it’s mischief or genuine interest.  “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask for a while now, but what’s your favorite Steel Samurai episode?”

“That’s… a really hard question,” you say with a small sigh, mulling it over for several moments as you set down your utensils.  “I suppose… it’d probably be the episode where the Pink Princess meets the Steel Samurai properly for the first time?  The fighting scene climax of it is especially iconic, plus it was just a really well made episode…”

“Ooh, that’s a good one!  The way they use their super special combo move for the first time together is super cool!  The Evil Magistrate totally didn’t see it coming!”

You’re about to ask which one is Maya’s favorite when you become aware of your significant other’s glare from across the table… and it’s directed at you.  Raising a brow, you turn to him and can practically see the veins popping out of Miles’s forehead as he restrains himself from getting involved in this conversation.  Clearly, you’ve said something he disagrees with, but he’s still so reserved about his Steel Samaniac status… unlike you and Maya.

“Do you have something you’d like to say, Miles?”

His eye twitches for a moment before he turns away with a scowl on his face.  “Ngh… no, of course not.  Why would I have anything to say about a simple children’s show?”

“Come on, Mr. Edgeworth!” Maya says with a Cheshire grin. “You did say that you were a big fan of his work and later got an autograph from him, too!”

His face flushes at the accusation and his pointer finger begins to tap away.  “I-I did no such thing…!”

You snort, knowing full well that he has it framed in his bedroom, and he gives you a rather stern glare, warning you to not breathe a word of it.  Still, you have his attention and perhaps you could still rope him into this because you are curious about whatever it was he’d gotten so worked up about…

“Well, I only asked because you looked like there was something you wanted to say and I was simply curious.  Still am, actually.”

“Hmph…  Well, I suppose there was something, actually…”

“Oh?”

“…The episode you cited involves the Pink Princess, which anyone would know is not from the original series, Steel Samurai: Warrior of Neo Olde Tokyo.  And thus is an invalid answer to the question Ms. Fey posed.”  He shakes his head, giving you a smug little shrug.

“But the Pink Princess is the immediate, spiritual successor to the original Steel Samurai show!  It’s a part of the cinematic universe, so… I don’t see why it shouldn’t count?  Plus, I still think it’s a better episode than any of the ones in the original series…”

This is the first he’s heard of this opinion of yours and he frowns, gesturing at you with his pointer finger rather emphatically as he speaks, “Well, from what I’ve heard from critics of children’s media, the finale episode of Steel Samurai: Warrior of Neo Olde Tokyo ended up being a masterpiece—in spite of all the issues with production leading up to its release.  Additionally, the critical final battle with the Evil Magistrate of the series was hailed as a phenomenal climax.”

“But the scene in which he gets to battle side-by-side with the Pink Princess for the first time holds so much more plot significance than another close call with the Evil Magistrate!  Even if that’s one of the most significant interactions between them, it’s still not comparable…!  They finally find each other and find a true sense of family and belonging!  It’s the major moment of that series for that reason!!!”

“Objection!”  Miles leans on his forearm across the table, grimacing as he launches into a rant, “It’s not just ‘another close call’…!  The moral conundrum the Steel Samurai is placed in that fight is essential to his character growth for his appearances in the Pink Princess series and it sets the stage for their interactions with the Evil Magistrate, as well.  It adds significantly more complexity and layers to the story than the episode you’re incorrectly suggesting is superior.”

“How could you say that!?” you ask, slamming a hand down on the table.  “The relationship between the Steel Samurai and the Pink Princess is the key to both of their character arcs!  The themes established in that episode are far more prevalent in later seasons, plus it marks the beginning of their better later arcs…  I get that you—erm, critics—prefer the original series because it came first, but the other series have a definite improvement in writing quality!”

As the two of you glare each other down, Phoenix continues to loudly slurp down his noodles—wishing that he hadn’t agreed to… whatever this group meal has become.  He’ll have to pick Trucy up from school pretty soon, so at least he has that excuse to leave and spirit the Feys away from your bizarre lovers’ quarrel.  Edgeworth’s covering the bill anyways

You finally break the stare down by turning to Maya right before Edgeworth was going to refute your counter argument.  “You started this with your question!  So, which one do you think is better?  We need you to testify to break the tie.”

She freezes, wide-eyed at your question before finishing slurping up her noodles and flashing you both another smile. “Neither!”

“N-Neither?!”  Miles and you both shout in a unison of disbelief.

He recovers before you do, crossing his arms over his chest as he delivers an unintentional glare at her.  “Ms. Fey, what do you mean by ‘neither’?  In terms of emotional significance, those are the two episodes with the greatest impact…”

“Those two are both all right, I guess, but my favorite’s the episode where the Steel Samurai busts into the Evil Magistrate’s headquarters to save the Pink Princess after she’s been kidnapped,” she says, balling her hands into fists with a determined look on her face, absolutely unfazed.  “Only to find that she’s already busted herself out and is wiping the floor with his henchmen!  It’s the best fight scene and it shows how awesome the Pink Princess is!”  

“…And what about you, Pearl?” you ask, hoping that you’d have a tie breaker yet.  “Which do you think is the best episode?”

Pearl wilts under your’s and Edgeworth’s expectant gazes, she looks toward Maya for courage.  “O-Oh, um… I-I have to agree with Mystic Maya from what I’ve seen.  We’ve watched that episode a few times and it’s, um, very good.”

You and Miles simply stare at them both, absolutely dismayed that you’d both.

The young girl bites her thumb, sensing that she’s only worsened the situation and turns to Phoenix in the hopes that he’d save the day again.  “U-Um, but what about you, Mr. Wright?  What do you think?”

Maya waves a hand before Phoenix could so much as get a peep out.  “He’s still as much of an old fart as always, he’s only ever seen a few of the episodes and doesn’t even appreciate how cool it is”—she puffs out her cheeks as she continues—”but he’s been watching Sailor Moon with Trucy, which isn’t fair!  Steel Samurai’s a way cooler show!”

“…Well, it sounds to me like Maya won this argument, two-to-one, and earned some more noodles to boot,” Phoenix says with a small chuckle before standing up and ignoring Maya’s comments, glad for an excuse to finally leave.  “But speaking of Trucy… I believe it’s time that we get going.  I need to pick her up on our way back to the agency.”

Wait, noodles?  You look down and realize that she has, indeed, swiped both your noodles and your boyfriend’s while you’d been arguing.  While the two of you stare in shock at the place where your food had been only minutes ago, the three of them get up.  Maya and Pearl wave at you and say their goodbyes, but neither of you really process it in your confused surprise.

Phoenix lingers for a few more moments, flashing his old rival a lazy grin once he looks up at him.  “And here I thought you didn’t like the Steel Samurai, Edgeworth.

Miles’s face flushes red, finger beginning to tap away at the crook of his elbow as he averts his gaze once more.  “I…!  Nnnghrk… this was entrapment.”

“Ha ha…sure.  Well, I’ll see you guys around, then…  Thanks again for the food.”

He leaves the two of you alone and a few moments of before you both share a chuckle over the ridiculous events that had just unfolded.  When the laughter dies down, you reach a hand across the table as a peace offering.

“Truce?”

“…Truce… for the moment, at least,” he admits w, gently taking your hand in his own and giving it an absurdly formal shake.  It’s simultaneously very endearing, but frustrating because you know when he says ‘for the moment,’ he means it.

Not having any reason to linger since your meals had been polished off for you, you decide to head back to his place to spend the rest of his rare day off having a Steel Samurai marathon… and continuing your argument in private as you started by rewatching the two episodes in question, purely for evidence, of course!

[burning-clutch]

The Phantom Always Rings Twice

Read on A03: Here Pairings: None Trigger Warnings: None Total word count: 3301 Author: @burning-clutch (Team Ghost) Prompt by:  Dalv-co-official  AO3: betelgeuse

It started with small things. Little things that could be misconstrued as happenstance and coincidence, and then it evolved into something more, something bigger. And, well, William Lancer always did love a good mystery novel.

------

 It started with small things. Little things that could be misconstrued as happenstance and coincidence. Things that could be written off easily with little thought or without really thinking into it too hard.

 And while William Lancer took notice of the oddities and inconsistencies that seemed to fill one Daniel Fenton’s life, he couldn’t piece together exactly what was happening within the greater story.

 A story that he wanted to see unfold fully.

 It was like a mystery novel in a way. One would need to read through each chapter, each paragraph carefully to be able to find the breadcrumb trail left by the author to be able to figure out the final twist at the end in its entirety. As of now, he only had the pieces that were left out in the open.

 The pieces he had seen that were left behind to be seen were large and obvious, meant to throw one off the trail of the deeper lore in the pages. With glaring arrows and flashing lights, they were meant to attract your attention so that you failed to notice the tiny crumb on the floor just off to the side.

 And it worked well for a time until he had started to take notice of the crumbs. He had looked away from the glitz and offered a story on the platter and taken notice of something small, insignificant. A bruise under the boy's eye, a small garish yellow thing. He had the boy in the morning and noticed it as he went around to collect the homework he’d assigned, and of course, Fenton hadn’t done it. When he had seen the boy once again later that day the bruise was gone. There was no indication that there was any makeup used to hide it either.

 After that point, the teacher had made a point to follow the breadcrumbs. The small bits of the trail that were left behind to indicate something more. He had gotten a taste, and he wanted more. He had to solve the conundrum that was presented before him.

 So, he watched. He listened. He learned and he researched.

 He saw the boy limping to through the lunch line, but had not seen any instance of bullying that would have caused it, and once again by the time the boy was in his class once again that day, no semblance of it ever had happened.

 Abuse at home was quickly ruled out as a good portion of the things that happen to him seem to be at the school.

 He had tried to confront the boy about him clutching his chest and his rattling breaths, as though he had broken a rib or some other such thing, and simply was waved off.                  “I’m a clutz, I fell down the stairs” Daniel had said to his inquiry, dodging the question smoothly. He had seen the boy many a time simply stumble over his feet on flat ground, so tripping downstairs was not something too outlandish to believe.

 And yet in the same breath, he had also seen the teen pull off amazing feats of coordination when he believed no one was watching him. How he gracefully slid around corners to escape the quarterback’s cajoling, or how he had leaped over a railing into the back garden of the school, rolling to disperse the energy in such a way any master of parkour would be proud to see.

 He would entertain the idea of seeming smaller then he was, too. He had noticed it during a presentation when Daniel came to the front of the class. When Dashiel stuck out a foot to try to trip Daniel. Daniel’s eyes flickered for the briefest of moments to the other’s leg before hooking his ankle and preforming a marvellous pratfall. But as he lay prone on the ground he was stretched out showing his full height.

 When he regained himself and moved to the front of the class once again, Daniel had curved his back and dropped his shoulders inward, doing a wondrous impression of the hunchback of Notre Dame.

 Why would Daniel want to appear smaller? Surely appearing larger would help stop those such as Dashiel from bothering him as much, so why? What purpose did this serve?

 Then, of course, there was the matter he had seen the other’s attempt to trip him up, and instead of simply walking over the trap, he fell into it headfirst, let the class laughed at him before continuing on with whatever charade he deemed necessary to fulfil.

 Why bother with such nonsensical things when he could have easily rolled jumped or any other manner of things to avoid making himself into a laughing stock. Perhaps he didn’t like attention then?

 Well, it would be a simple theory to test. William had dabbled in sciences before majoring in English and history after all...

 Putting the attention on Daniel was an easy feat. A simple manner or pointing out his lacking marks and offering a simple way to make up the credit. A public speaking competition or a talent show. Surprisingly the teen had chosen to help out with the talent show. A Stagehand true, but still. He had no problem running out onto the stage to check microphones were working, plugged in correctly, or had good battery depending on what was being used.

 The eyes on him didn’t seem to hinder his performance, so long as he had a purpose to hone in on… so why?

 Perhaps the opposite then? Did he enjoy the attention and figured that being a laughing stock was a way to be noticed? Well, that theory was quickly squashed when he saw the teen have his clothes get stolen in Gym, and doused in pink dye turning his usually white shirt a rather flamboyant shade of flamingo.

 All eyes were certainly on him.

 Still, the teen spent a good portion of that school day hiding within his friend’s hoodie and opted to wear his Gym shorts. It was the middle of February so it was still rather cold. And with only a hoodie Daniel still braved the outdoors with little notice.

 And that was his next crumb.

 The boy didn’t seem to notice the cold.  

 The teacher had seen the teen arrive at the school the following week when a freak blizzard popped up, wearing no coat and very little protection beyond that from the frigid temperatures outside.

 He had heard of people being ‘warm blooded’ and not having the cold climate bother them too much but this was within the realm of ludacrisy! Surely his body was under duress of some kind! Was he ill?

 When asked once again Daniel had waved off his concern, “I’m good. I’m not sick just a little sleepy is all” He had deferred once again pushing off the concern and offering an easy way out, a fake map on a silver platter that he was expected to follow.

 He took the offering. If for no other reason then to throw the teen off the notion that he may be tracing his footsteps.

 It seemed to have worked as intended, though the boy still seemed ill at ease in the classroom. He had noticed Daniel shiver and for the briefest of seconds, he could have sworn he’d seen the boy’s breath.

 Sure the classroom was chilly, the school board being too cheap to allow them to turn up the heat any higher than the current brisk twenty celsius, but that was still far above where one would start to see the condensation of someone’s breath.

 He was drawn out of the musings of this current conundrum by the very topic of his brain’s musings. Hand shooting high as he wiggles in his seat, Daniel looked determined suddenly, and flighty. This was not a new occurrence either. Since the start of the youngest Fenton’s schooling career, he had been randomly ditching class. Sometimes it would be brief, entertaining the simplest of needs it would seem, other times he would not be seen for hours by any teacher in the school only to come back a while later dishevelled and out of breath as though he had run a marathon.

 William sighed and waved Daniel off. It was no use disallowing the boy to exit. He would simply leave the first chance he was given to take his leave. This has happened not only to himself but other members of the staff it seemed.

 Daniel could be as quiet as a mouse when he needed to be.

 His next trail on the line of crumbs was much larger, much more succulent. Almost like a cake crumb instead of a bread crumb. It was sweetened with honey and made him crave the full buffet table all the more.

 Hm, perhaps he should break for lunch… that was many more food allusions then usual. He must be hungry.

   As he made his way down the hall once again he saw, Daniel. He was not in his morning classroom today, though that was hardly a surprise, given the boy’s record… still, he couldn’t deny the interest he had taken in this scenario. Dashiel had cornered Michiel threatening him with a ‘beat down’ which made the man frown deeply.

 He hated how much their school funding relied on the sports departments to do well. What he wouldn’t give to have a few new books in the school. Prefibily something from the twenty-first century.

 Of course, this meant that Dashiel was able to get away with almost anything being how well he performed on the field, carrying the Casper High Ravens to the playoffs. As such a warning would be the most he could really receive for ‘roughhousing’ as it were…

 Still, before he could step in, Daniel did, dryly commenting on Dashiel’s brain capacity and quipping out a few other rather boorish insults. “What’s the matter Dash? Is your shoe size larger than your IQ?” Dashiel threw a textbook towards Daniel who ducked, only causing himself to draw more ire. “Ha, what was that? Ya missed me! Honestly, a star quarterback and can’t hit the broad side of a barn!”

 With that Daniel took off, thus getting the larger teen to give chase and letting the poor hapless nerd go in favour of a more fit target. All in all not too much by itself, but William had found the conjoining piece after classes were done and he was heading to his car.

 There was a ghost attack. Nothing new there, as they were rather common around the school, being as there was always a large congregation of people. Ghosts seemed to hit those places the most frequently after all. The leading theory was that they had more chances to gain their food source from the emotions of humans.

 This was also the main point of controversy for why Phantom was not a hero but more akin to an animal protecting its food source. Regardless of the reason, William had seen first hand the ghostly teen do his routine and had to admit, things would often be much worse without the Phantom ‘protecting his food source’ all the time.

 Regardless that thought was neither here nor there as he snapped himself out of his musings to watch for an opening to speed away in his hatchback and try his best not to damage his already thrice repaired vehicle.

 The ghosts twisted and turned around one another in a ballet that could be something akin to a world war two era dog fight, as Phantom blasted the hunter ghost from behind only to zip away from the other’s shots or expertly deflect them.

 In a way, it was mesmerizing to watch the ariel promenade, as the two spun and did their sword’s dance along the razor blade of death. However, that was not what caught his attention today. No, it was the words being spewed back and forth between the ghosts.

 “What’s the matter, Skulker? Is your shoe size larger than your IQ?” Phantom laughed out before dodging around a laser of some kind. “Ha, what was that? Ya missed me! Honestly, Zone’s greatest hunter? You can’t hit the broad side of a barn!” He quipped before flying skyward leading the ghost away from the school building by drawing the ire…

 William Lancer was not a man who was unobservant or unintelligent, and he was also not a man to ignore such coincidences such as this. Not only was it the words spoken from the ghost, but it was the      way     it was spoken as well that gave him pause. The same inflection and same tone he had heard on Daniel just a few hours prior.

 And the more he focused on it the more similarities he found.

 They had the same voice when they spoke. An easy enough fact to find and notice when compared side by side. A discussion in English class on media reporting, under the ruse of looking at the language used by the newscast, and a recording of a night's broadcast where Phantom was clearly picked up by the microphones. He had told the kids he wanted them to do a piece of mock news, a report on something in their life using the wording examples they had seen.

 The video played and he paused it right after Phantom’s smile and cheesy eighties slogan of ‘don’t do drugs’ was finished hamming up into the camera. It was then he called on Daniel to see what the teen noticed in the language used. And sure enough, the voices sounded identical, save for the echo like Phantom was talking into a tin can, but never the less it was a clue.

 And when he started looking into other things that would compare the meek child in his class to the ghostly hero that flew, fought and patrolled the town well… he became worried.

 When Daniel stood up straight, he was the same height as Phantom. When Daniel was forced to wear a proper Gym uniform, one where he couldn’t hide in a hoodie or long sleeved shirt, he was the same build. Then there were more subtle things, like the pair having the same laugh and same facial features, same windswept hair, same well… almost everything.

 But what does that mean then for Daniel? He had seen ghosts that have a shapeshifting ability before, most notably that awful ghostly therapist and the assistant they had brought in. So did that mean Daniel was a ghost? What were the implications of his death then? And when had it happened…?

 His true lucky break came when he was taking over from the principal, and thus was not teaching his classes for the day. He was in the back staff storage closet, a small tight area with notebooks, chalk, and markers in a narrow L shape. He was simply taking inventory, a dreaded procedure that he had little doubt was left to him purposefully for when Iroshima had to attend the meeting with the school board.

 Regardless he was in the furthest section from the door around the tight corner when he heard it. The door opened and in stumbled Daniel Fenton. The teen heaved a sigh of relief, and just as he was about to reprimand Daniel for such delinquent behaviour, it happened.

 The truth, the piece he had been theorizing and grasping at, laid out before him.

 A bolt of light erupted from the teen’s waist in a hoop of iridescent stardust. It shone and glowed brightly as though someone had suddenly turned on a sun lamp. The ring split and diverged up and down, travelling quickly across the boy’s body in a ripple of power. As the rings passed the human guise of the teen it revealed a familiar jumpsuit, and even more familiar ghost beneath...

 He could only watch bewildered as Phantom, no, Daniel took flight and headed off through the ceiling of the closet. He had been right? He had been right! Oh lord, he had been right…

 Being right had never felt more wrong…

 This teenager, this child… he truly dd carry the world on his shoulders, or at least the town. The boy who would sometimes limp to class and ignore his lectures on doing his homework to secure a relatively well off future, or at least a decent college acceptance… He had always looked as though nothing he said mattered, and well, he supposed given what he knows now that’s not far from the truth.

 Why would a child who was already dead, passed on and returned, care about his future as a human? Why would it ever be something that Daniel would take seriously when he literally had no future on this earth?

 Though it still begged the question why was he still bothering with school at all? Wouldn’t it be better to live as a ghost? He could patrol, fight and, well, do whatever it is that ghosts do in their spare time, all without the worry of his human habits and responsibilities getting in the way of his clearly favoured ghostly ones.

 Though the more he thought on it the more he realized that this new line of questioning was not as complicated as he was tempted to make it out to be. Daniel had died and was a teen who never got to grow up. Perhaps that was all he was trying to do?

 Despite the limitations on his body, or perhaps lack thereof, he wanted to still be a teen. He wanted to spend time with his family and friends and experience the life that had been taken from him.

 He was given the chance to allow him such simple mercies after all. It would make sense he would take it.

 From that standpoint suddenly Phantom’s aggression and heroism took on a much sadder note. One of a teen that simply wanted the others of his breed to leave him be so he may fulfill whatever obsession is keeping him grounded here, experiencing life.

 And perhaps that’s what all the ghosts really wanted. From the Box Ghost to the King of the realm of the dead. Perhaps that’s what connected them all? To live out the rest of the life that had gotten taken from them from whatever it was that took it. Be it a fire disease injury or… whatever had taken Daniel.

 Wiliam appreciated the new standpoint and views he had gained. He was a teacher after all, and part of that was due to the love of learning he had that thrived in his very soul. It did make him wonder though. If he were to be struck down, would he have the strength of will to continue? To push past his own death to try and regain some semblance of what was taken from him?

 Somehow he doubted it.

 Yet at the same time, he was alright with that notion. He was making a difference here and now and planned to for many years to come. Though for right now he would do his best to help the ghost boy in his homeroom class to live out his purpose. A makeup test here, extra credit there, and with any luck, the ghost would be able to graduate and live out the life he had lost.

 After all, William Lancer was a teacher at heart, a mentor.

 He was happy that he could just play a bit part in the background of the stories his students were living. A small thread in the tapestry that weaved their lives.

 What more could a teacher ask for then to see his students succeed? After all, even dead teenagers seem to need help time and again.

   -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 Complete

 Total word count: 3301

[kitsoa]

The Duality of Ven

Speculation of a Potential Split-Personality Plot Twist

I’m a big Ventus fan, and Ven’s involvement with Khux has been a maddening scenario for me because a lot of the time, it feels like his role is laying the groundwork for whatever tie-in khux has with the next chapter in the kh saga. He’s an observing force meant to bring the questions to the forefront of the main characters. After all, we’d know what his deal is by now right? 

Well dissatisfaction with that line of thought can probably be traced in the Ven is the Murderer theories that have risen in alarm and it is from there that I found myself captivated with the idea that something major is happening with Ventus in the khux story. And I think it’s gonna hit us upside the head honestly.

This is not a “Ven is the Murderer theory”. I’m actually not in that camp, but if this helps the believers so be it. No, I’m gonna compile my walk through of the idea that Ven’s got a split-personality. And I’m probably gonna walk through my speculation on how that ties in with the logic of the greater plot of khux and the circumstantial evidence left in our understanding of Ven’s future in the series. 

We’ll start from the beginning, analyze Ven’s character, connect that to the process that drives the theory, speculate some details, take a stab as to why and finally glance at some circumstantial hints. You know, a long post.

A Heart Half Dark

The birth of most all of Ventus’ suspicion theories lies in the fact that we have had a glimpse of the exact ratio of dark and light in his heart. The BBS scene shows at least a third of his heart was gouged out but Xehanort’s experiment to create Vanitas. As this is a lot of darkness, the train of thought is to conclude that Ven must be hiding something. It’s the reason Ven’s got a following as a suspect in Strel’s murder. 

I don’t necessarily see this capacity for darkness as indicative of Ven’s guilt of course. But alongside other hints in the narrative, we are forced to consider that this darkness in him is not something to dismiss, both based on Vanitas post-split and the mysteries presented in the age of Fairy tales.

We are in search of this potent darkness. We begin with the evidence of Ven’s personality and we watch the conclusions unfold alongside what I believe are hints at this possibility. 

What is “In-Character”

Ventus does not have a lot of scenes as a complete person which makes this aspect of the analysis something worth returning to, but if I had to make a blanket statement on Ventus’s pre-split personality... it’s that it really didn’t change much at all. 

We’ve known this for a hot minute. In the flashback of Xehanort’s experiment, Ventus is pleading in frightened surrender. He doesn’t believe he is strong enough and he collapses at the impressive threat. This is the image of a frail, sensitive personality that persists post-split. So frail that it makes him weaker than a minority portion of his heart. But say it’s the amnesia. Let’s look at Ventus before the time-jump. 

He is introduced as a lonely, down-on-his-luck key wielder. He is soft spoken. A follower with low self-esteem. This much is true in his very first scene. He doesn’t understand why he was chosen as he does not have excellent rankings. He expresses his wonderment and surprise at the prospect of having friends. 

This pretty much matches up with the short glimpse of pre-split, post-amnesia Ven (uh... the khux amnesia not the trauma amnesia gdi nomura). 

Ventus is timid. So much that when he stands up for a strong belief, it surprises and amuses everyone in the room. Overall, this is not the personality of a selfish, cruel, albeit very troubled dark personality that would eventually create Vanitas. I’ll get into why he may potentially have these strong values and the impressions this entire plot could lead toward in the narrative but let’s parse it down to this.

Ven’s personality doesn’t match up to create Vanitas. It’s too night and day.

Opposing Argument: “It’s an act”

The potential of Ven’s khux personality being an act for the sake of some kind of ruse is troubling for a multitude of reasons. First of all, it’s too good of an act. He’s got the self deprecation and he’s made no suspicious moves or actions for it to be logically foreshadowed. But let’s say he’s as good as he seems-- the only suspicious error he’s made thus far is...

“Failing to read the rulebook”. Which, is a very grave error. Like one that wouldn’t happen with an honest, strategic infiltration. I’ll get back to this exact error later. But if he’s a lying liar, he’d be too good to make this mistake.

Finally, if it’s an act we have a conundrum as to where exactly post-split Ventus’ personality derives from. It’s far too similar to his khux behavior and we know for a fact that post-split Ventus is an honest good boy. That’s his personality, albeit with some childhood amnesia.

Manifestation of Darkness

Khux Ven has darkness, that much is undeniable, but how does it manifest? 

Well it’s worth considering how darkness manifests naturally in a person in kh. Riku is the best example, harboring jealousy, rage, and a lust for power to manifest his darker powers. We also know that loneliness, sadness, and isolation are a form of darkness as seen with Aqua. These are natural and only when those emotions take over do we have the heartless phenomenon and corruption jazz happening. 

So where is Ven’s darkness?

Well, it’s very likely suppressed. Like we are talking more suppressed than Sora’s darkness. Missing Ache is probably the greatest indication of a very real, very crippling habit of shoving one’s bad feelings in box and this is because of the keyblade’s symbolism and history. See, it’s not just there to give him another connection to Roxas. 

Missing Ache is a keyblade from Day’s that Roxas wields and it fits right along with the depressing themes of everything Nobody we’ve become used to. But the name is important. For a Nobody, who doesn’t feel anything-- being unable to feel the heartache of pain is just another reminder of what isn’t there. The keyblade is touting the power of the pain that is missing. A bit of a conundrum for a Nobody but ultimately indicative of their real and growing hearts or even their desire to have hearts (even the pain they come with).

So for Ventus to wield Missing Ache kind of suggests that he’s missing some kind of pain. He’s not feeling something. And knowing that pain often buds darkness we can assume that this missing ache is the very darkness in his heart that we know he harbors. Ven has gone through some things, even before Khux introduced him and that pain has been suppressed in his heart so much that his keyblade reflects that absence. 

Gameplay wise, Missing Ache is a rather dark leaning keyblade in khux from my understanding (this part is not my forte) so that supports it’s name more so than anything. Because when you start pushing down darkness and refusing to feel it or let it pass, it logically finds outlets to escape (think of anti-form and rage form for Sora).

A Darkling Conundrum

As Khux has established, Darklings are Keyblade wielders who have succumbed to darkness. They are basically a heartless variation that is unique in that they have more sentience than a typical heartless with the ability to speak and less mindlessness. They are visually distinct and there have been nods to their appearance in modern examples of keyblade wielders bathed in darkness suggesting a universal darkling transformation process. 

So say, Ventus has been suppressing his darkness big time. It grows and festers, becoming stronger. We don’t know what exacerbates his darkness (though I do think there are hints as to what his shtick is) but it’s probably persisting and we know this isn’t healthy. But it creates a very interesting conundrum.

If Ven’s refusing to feel the pain of his darkness, if he’s rejecting it so much that he’s ignoring it to this point, he’d theoretically be unable to actually succumb to it. It wouldn’t go away, it would just... get stronger. And now his heart has this paradox. Ven should be a Darkling. But he isn’t.

So this is my speculation. Instead, a second personality develops. Ven doesn’t fall to darkness, but the overwhelming strength of the darkness in his heart hijacks his heart and that other self is born. This is basically Ven’s Darkling self. And in a narrative this dark personality will most likely have goals. But Ven basically lives alongside this other personality with a questionable level of awareness of said personality. 

An Enemy Within

A second personality, a heart that is basically a Darkling in human skin, logically wants to act upon the heartless-like instinct we see from the former keykids in the previous entries. And while that is vague at best, it does not see the light favorably and seeks conflict. But the best way to devise the ambitions of Ven’s secret personality we have to wonder what kind of darkness actually created it. 

(the above hilariously compiled by @twilightsthorn on twitter)

And Ven paints that picture very clear. 

Loneliness. 

I speculate that Ven is the product of the Daybreak Town system. We see this with Skuld’s story with Ephemer, and Strelitzia. The keykids of Daybreak Town have this superficial concept of friendship. Making allies to complete missions and moving on without any real friendship or connections. It’s a culture like this that completely ignores someone like Ventus who clearly has not been able to keep a party and feel the connections of friendship. He’s lonely. And that pain’s probably stirred resentment against his fellows and the system. Maybe even Daybreak Town in general.

An Inner Battle. 

So one of the aspects about Ven’s personality is his very strong pacifism. Something that also doesn’t mesh well with the Daybreak Town system or the system that the New Leaders are tasked to put into place.

He reacts dramatically to the concept of PvP. The idea of pointing keyblades at each other is unthinkable. And as I’ve noticed before, his atypical keyblade stance enforces this unwillingness to fight.

By wielding his keyblade in the reverse-grip he is incapable of pointing his keyblade at another. It’s a part of his belief system. A very dedicated. Very honest belief system. Which brings me back to the most suspicious things Ven’s ever done.

The rulebook thing. He specifically ‘fails’ to read the passage about the PvP. And while his flimsy defense paints him as a lazy reader, you could also read it as Ven having disliked the idea so much that he simply... suppressed it. Now it’s up in the air how much Ven is aware of this personality. The other possibility is that the pacifism comes in response to his knowing that the darkness in him desires that kind of combat. 

Enemy Without

And this brings us to the ultimate conclusion of this second personality. It becomes Vanitas, through and through. Meaning that at the time of his split, Vanitas was essentially already a separate entity born from Ventus’ heart. Even Xehanort’s verbiage supports this.

‘Riven’ means ‘to be split from.’ Which makes sense as he is a broken off piece of Ven’s heart but it can also suggest that it was already there and attached to the whole to begin with. But now that he’s split from the body and light half of his heart, Vanitas begins to prove his strong association with Darklings. 

His darkness suit, in much the same way as Riku and Anti-Aqua, hearkens to the visual design of the Darklings-- (the black and red, textured hands, and tattered clothes, though anti-aqua fits this link the best). 

And if the speculation about Missing Ache is logical, this darkness comes from a stark sense of loneliness and a rejection that Ven buries and refuses to feel, meaning Vanitas bears all of that pain and it consumes the entire personality as darkness would consume the heart of a whole person. 

A pain that is Ventus’s through and through.

While this aspect of the theory is almost pure speculation, I draw this connection to place Vanitas and this dark personality of Ven’s on a side in the khux conflict. At this moment the darkness has served no purpose in machinations of MoM, Ava, Brain, or the mysterious murderer, but the darklings move about nevertheless. Despite being pulled by more basic instincts, the Darklings and any associated force can’t be underestimated as either having a goal or being manipulated toward someone else’s goal. 

Sleeper Agent

‘Peace is but a dream’ and the Darklings are still an at large, unaffiliated force in khux. The connection with Ven’s dark side would add a substantive face and power player to the entire narrative. It either gives them an edge, provides a leader, or simply infiltrates the system needed to consume the most lux. And from my perspective, the most advantageous thing the forces of dark could do is start the keyblade war (again). Where best to do that than from inside the Union’s sworn to prevent that from happening?

It’s an inside job. An infiltration. This is where you start to wonder if Ven is the outsider in the group-- The Virus in the Master’s system. Honestly, I don’t think any of this turning true would conclude that necessarily. See, for all we know MoM could be invoking the war even with the intent on ‘stopping the wars for good’. I wouldn’t put it past him to set the Dandelion’s up for a sham scenario so planting a Darkling Agent into the Union Leaders is on the table for him to have authored. But from the ‘dark perspective’ (for the record, I don’t think the darkness is a conniving force) Ven partially falling to darkness would work in the interest of all things dark and make him an ‘agent’. But I consider it more happenstance than actual scheming.

Thematic Associations

aka: less concrete forms of support or hints

Box Art Proximity

So we know there’s a ton of secrets hidden in the kh3 cover, one of which most amusingly being the Nomura’s cat, standing guard next to Ven as a reference to Chirithy. But I’m more interested in Ven’s proximity to the Darkling as well. We never get a complete idea of the Darkling’s symbolic purpose and I still think it’s up in the air, but it it’s drawing a connection to the Dandelion under it’s gaze, that would be indicative of it’s purpose. 

Void Gear Symbolism

I am not alone in seeing Void Gear as a potential reference to the clock tower of Daybreak Town. From here things become speculation central but knowing the Darkling’s desire to consume the light and the value of instigating the Keyblade War in that ambition, Vanitas’ essential homage to the clock tower is potential a nod to his goal, or perhaps success in using that clock for it’s fated purpose: which is to toll the start of the war. 

Ven’s Character Design

Since we understand that Nomura is clearly working backwards, we can’t take his character design as hard evidence that he’s got a split personality but I do think it’s worthy to serve as corroboration. Ven has a unique black and white theme with his jacket that perfectly represents 2 equal halves-- 2 selves. Yes, he’s fashioned to be the light half to an equal dark half, but you might think he’d be styled more toward the white/light colors to contrast with Vanitas’s dark color scheme. They would then appropriately compliment each other as a pair then. But Ven holds the body of the complete being. The original being that was styled symbolically to represent two equal halves and his former incarnation in khux is consistent. 

Ven’s Actions Going Forward 

Now again, Ven’s awareness of this second personality and the exact nature of it’s ability to interact is still in question but there’s a lot of a angles it could take. For example, it could be a body hijacker, acting and moving things toward a specific goal at opportune times, potentially acting as the Ven we know in temporary situations. This means that we can start being suspicious of who is in control of Ven’s body at a given time.

Then there’s the more passive method which simply has the personality observing and gaining strength through Ven’s suffering until it finally breaks free at some crucial time. This means we can expect a surprising twist when things get heated.

Whether he’s aware of it or not, Ven’s behavior should be considered separate from this force. It has the double benefit of keeping Ven’s hands clean.

Finally we have to consider the reasons for Ven’s selection in the Union Leaders. At first I thought maybe a second personality could create this double life for Ven that would qualify him with the arbitrary powerful keykid excuse for the position. But with a more passive role being just as viable, there’s a very good chance that MoM selected Ven with the intention of creating tension or tempting the rise of darkness with the Daybreak Town experiment. Whether MoM is earnestly trying to prevent the endless cycle of darkness destroying and light reviving the world or simply trying to invoke it for his own gain, we can at least be assured that there’s no sacrifice he wont make. This is assuming Ven is one of the selected and not the impostor (But I’m pretty sure Brain’s the impostor).

This is ultimately why I kind of dub Ven as a ‘sleeper agent.’ While harboring this second personality, he could very well be the infiltration of the forces of darkness which until this point have behaved as a mindless force of nature. Be it circumstance or not, he is for all intents and purposes a ‘sleeper agent’ in that regard. And while I don’t personally believe this makes Ven the murder of Strelitzia, I do think this makes him capable of anything.

Conclusion:

There’s a lot of speculation but the mystery is very much there and I think there’s enough to assume that the question of Ven’s darkness is very much something we need to be asking. Now we have additional strands this idea could branch into consider what this means for Ven’s role in creating the X-blade and may explain why he was so specifically poised to be the vessel for that project. And then we have to wonder what this means for Ven’s future. Was it a good thing that Xehanort separated Vanitas? Is Vanitas redeemable? What does it mean for Ven to get his memory about this back? 

Overall, I have my eye on Ven. He’s still a good boy in my eyes. But he could be the very thing that brings the khux world into chaos. 

(A big thanks to @kaweebo​ for some of those screencaps)

[frankcmcclanahaniii]

BALM FOR UNBELIEVERS

CORONAVIRUS, CONFIRMATION BIAS AND MASON BEES: BALM FOR UNBELIEVERS This spring, just before the most restrictive social distancing measures were imposed, I was invited by an old friend (who is a doctor) to join him in a long walk. In accordance with the rules at that time we took two cars (to avoid contact) and I followed him. For the first time I noticed his license plate which read “John 9 1-3”. As we walked separated a safe distance we talked about coronavirus and its effect on the world. It was a beautiful day. When I returned home I printed out a copy of John 9 1-7 because that is what came up when I googled John 9 1-3. Like most Americans my age, I was raised a Christian, but many years ago I became a doubter and skeptic. In my youth my biblical knowledge came from the King James Version so that is what I googled. Here is the text: 9 And as Jesus passed by, he saw a man which was blind from his birth. 2 And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind? 3 Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him. 4 I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work. 5 As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world. 6 When he had thus spoken, he spat on the ground, and made clay of the spittle, and he anointed the eyes of the blind man with the clay, 7 And said unto him, Go, wash in the pool of Siloam, (which is by interpretation, Sent.) He went his way therefore, and washed, and came seeing. I was troubled by this text. In particular I was troubled by the notion that a man might be born blind “…that the works of God should be made manifest in him.” But in the context of the rest of the passage, since Jesus worked the miracle that made him see, I thought that perhaps the miracle he worked was the “manifestation” intended. But that also led to more troubles, because neither Jesus nor God cures all ailments, which conditions God permits if not causes (if the text is taken literally, “that the works of God should be made manifest in [them].”) So, I did what I often do from habit when faced with a conundrum, and condensed it into a sonnet. Here is the sonnet: JOHN 9 1-7 When asked about a man born blind Jesus replied it was no sin Of anyone had stricken him But rather God’s revealed design. He spat on clay and bade him find The fount of faith where sight begins The man did so and saw wherein We learn the power of faith and mind. As now coronavirus kills The knowledge sin is not to blame Seems pale placebo all the same; And if these deaths are not His will The virus spreads and kills without Awareness what we think about. I sent this sonnet to my friend. He did not like it. My friend is something of a modern saint, and so, too kind to be harshly critical, but also highly educated, a voracious reader, and steeped in biblical knowledge far deeper than my own, who said simply “I do not think you have fully appreciated the passage.” He noted that my sonnet went beyond the verses borne by his license plate, and he also pointed out that at the time John was written, it was common knowledge that if something bad happened, like a child born blind, it was automatically assumed that the defect was punishment for some sin, by some person. So, he suggested that I think about the first three verses and perhaps I would gain a deeper understanding of the rest. I then consulted my wife, who like my friend has a much deeper understanding of the Bible. I told her about the license plate and showed her the copy of John 9 1-7 that I had printed and asked her what the license plate means. She said immediately “It’s not your fault.” She explained it was a perfect license plate for our mutual friend, who treats cancer patients, many of whom believe that their cancer is their fault. I asked her about “…but that the works of God should be made manifest in him…” and she said that was unsettling, but that perhaps in a different version of the Bible, a different phrase might be substituted. She looked it up in a few more recent versions, but said that it was not fundamentally different. We both then concluded that perhaps the phrase was merely introductory to the miracle that Jesus performed, in the sense that the man’s blindness occurred as the occasion for Jesus to restore his sight. This small illumination led me to rethink the sonnet. So, I revised it as follows: JOHN 9 1-7 When asked about a man born blind Jesus replied it was no sin By anyone had stricken him But rather God’s revealed design. He spat on clay and bade him find The fount of faith where sight begins The man did so and saw wherein We learn the power of faith on mind. Now as coronavirus kills The faithless and the faithful too Perhaps the light of God shines through The sacrificial deeds some will Perform, laying down their lives to be If not the light, the way to see. I sent this revision to my friend, who, in his saintly way, said it was still not quite right. He suggested that I remember Dr. Rieux from Camus’ The Plague, and also look up Anne Bradstreet and another (to me) obscure theologian who had written about the purpose of suffering in life. I tend to balk at suggestions of this sort because, as a contrarian and an unbeliever, I have taught myself to be content with infinity rather than eternity. In place of the eternal continuation of a finite human life in some imagined afterlife, I accept that I and all human beings are finite and will never be infinite. Infinity, like the God who can do all things, is beyond all finite creatures, and inherently unlike them. I do not believe that any of us will ever be infinite because if we were, we would ourselves be some sort of god, but no longer human. As it happens, I have written another sonnet on this subject although not directly related. Here it is: TONE DEAF If I were God, I would not need The love of all or any men Nor would I crave their reverence No more than other men like me Demand obedience from bees Or daily prayers from hills of ants Nor ponder proper punishments Of beetles for their blasphemies. My prophets, though, might well mistake The messages they thought they heard; Just as the brilliant mockingbird Must improvise the sounds we make There might be countless disconnects In what I meant and they detect. As I thought about this, I realized that both my friend and I, like all humans, are susceptible to confirmation bias that governs more than we either consciously recognize, our ability to process information. His confirmation bias is to impose the axioms of his deep and abiding faith on his very considerable powers of reasoning. And mine is to doubt with the same axiomatic force. And as I thought about it, I realized that neither bias is right or wrong, true or false; they are just different perspectives on the same human problem, which is to find a satisfactory model for extracting meaning and happiness from the time we are allotted. I would like to digress now to two kinds of bees, honey bees and mason bees. Honey bees are social creatures, whose world is the hive. Each hive has one queen and countless workers, rather like human societies typically have a leader and followers. Honey bee hives are all genetically the same, and recognize each other as the same, just as they recognize the difference of any honey bees that are not from their hive. They will defend the hive against other bees or any other predator, but their main activity is to gather pollen to produce honey which sustains the hive in winter. Mason bees, by contrast, are solitary. Each female mason bee gathers pollen to sustain the larvae that grow from the eggs she deposits in tubes or crevices. When enough pollen has been deposited to sustain one larva, she lays one egg and seals it up with mud. She repeats this process five times, and then moves to another tube or crevice. She continues doing so until she dies. I do not know how mason bees distribute males and females in their tubes, but the male bees seem to hatch first, so that they can fertilize the first female mason bees that hatch. Mason bees are early pollinators. They hatch before most honey bees are active and so pollinate the earliest blooming fruits and flowers. The mason bees die around the time the honey bees are most active. Between them (and with the help of bumblebees) they ensure that all blossoms are pollinated and the territories they occupy are fruitful. These two bees are also analogous to my friend, who is communitarian, extraverted and a believer, and me, who is contrarian, introverted and a doubter. My friend is deeply interested in such questions as the purpose of human suffering and how a just and equitable society might be designed. I am deeply interested in individual freedom and how the power of the majority or the collective might be restrained. We overlap, of course, and in fact agree on many matters. You could make labels to characterize our different perspectives, and the labels you chose would reflect your own confirmation biases, probably favorable to one, and derogatory to the other. But you could label my friend a honey bee, and me a mason bee, and the designation would not be particularly biased at all. Both types of bees coexist in harmony, without conflict, just like my friend and myself. Both types of bees are useful, and probably necessary, or they would not be here, as they have been for eons longer than there have been humans. I believe the same is true of my friend and myself, who have both been successful, productive citizens who have each made contributions to our society. I have not intentionally done anything I am aware of to bring grief or suffering to any other person and I am absolutely confident that my friend has not either. I am no doubt guilty of indifference, and my friend may be too, but not that I know of. My point is simply that neither of our different perspectives, nor the confirmation biases that inhere in them, have made us deserving of favorable or derogatory labels. So, to bring it all back to the second sonnet, it is a compromise. I do not want to change it to unravel the divine purpose in human suffering as my friend might, because it would be a honey bee sonnet written by a mason bee. He persuaded me to change the sestet from a cynical commentary on a God whose existence I doubt to an observation that any person who encounters any stranger stricken or in need, can help, as some will help, both believers and doubters. That is a logos even a mason bee can believe. © 2020 frankcmcclanahaniii

[chanoyu-to-wa]

Nampō Roku, Book 5 (9):  the Round Tray¹, with a Display of the Chaire, Dai, [and] Chawan.

9) Maru-bon ・ chaire ・ dai ・ chawan kazari [丸盆・茶入・臺・茶碗飾]².

[The writing reads: (from the right) shita jo-jō (下如常)³; kono kazari maru-bon (h)e chaire to chashaku to narabe kazaru-koto mo ari (此飾丸盆ヘ茶入ト茶杓ト並ベカザルコトモアリ)⁴, cha tate-yō betsu-gi nashi (茶立ヤウ別義ナシ)⁵, hadaka-temmoku mo kaku no gotoki kazaru nari (ハダカ天目モ如此カザルナリ)⁶, chawan okurare-shi-shu nado aru toki no hiraki ni mo yoshi (茶碗贈ラレシ衆ナドアル時ノヒラキニモヨシ)⁷.]

[The writing reads:  maru-bon no uchi kaku no gotoki mo (丸盆ノ内如此モ).]

_________________________

◎ In Shibayama Fugen’s commentary, the second sketch (in which the maru-bon with just the chaire and chashaku displayed on it) is shown below the daisu.  This version is shown below.

    Since this can be confusing (the second sketch actually is supposed to substitute for the depiction of the maru-bon that is shown above the daisu) -- particularly with respect to the kane (the sketch, as it is oriented*, seems to show the chaire associated with the kane to the left of the central kane†), I decided to separate the second sketch completely from the first.

    In this installment we will look at two very different arrangements, the second of which gave rise to another possible variation.  This whole idea surely must be difficult -- perhaps even disconcerting, or annoying -- for the modern practitioner of chanoyu, who has been trained to expect not only standardization, but even for his school to specify the exact type of utensils that should be used for any given temae‡.  But what has to be understood very clearly -- by the reader of Book Five of the Nampō Roku -- is that each of these different variants was originally championed by one early chajin (and his circle), and they came to be collected together only when Jōō bought the original utensils to add to his collection (together with which he was also made aware of the way they were used -- probably by observing this in practice, since the usual way to sell things in that period was to use them to serve tea first, and then intimate to the guest the host’s desire of selling them).  So it was not really a case of deciding which of these procedures the host might use on any given occasion (this is a completely modern way of looking at things), but understanding that, in the early days, people usually owned only one of each of the necessary things, and that those things represented the best that they could acquire** -- whether high-quality karamono tea utensils, or local objects (originally made for some other purpose) that were pressed into serving for this new purpose.  Very few were able to assemble a collection that resembled what they were used to using back on the continent††, and most chajin were forced to use an amalgam of imported and local objects when serving tea, and doing so according to their own lights, highlighting or downplaying the role of each piece, as was felt best.  Thus:

◦ in one case the originator of one of the temae that are under discussion here owned a respectable temmoku and chaire, and arranged them on his naka maru-bon, in a humble attempt at recreating the gokushin-temae;

◦ in another, he may have owned a chaire (albeit, not one of the highest rank) that still had previously been treasured by a respected master of an earlier generation, who had provided it with a special chashaku (so that the chashaku was considered at least the equal of the chaire, if not actually its superior);

◦ and, in a third case, the person owned not only a respectable chaire and a special chashaku, but also a temmoku of which he was proud (even if the bowl was not quite of a rank equal to the other thigns), and wished to display all of them on his daisu, yet making a concession to their differences, created the third arrangement that is described by Shibayama Fugen.

    Thus, three different temae arose out of the same original idea of the naka maru-bon.  This is how the different temae arose, and this is how the practice of chanoyu evolved from something resembling the usage described in the first daisu arrangement, to the complex temae landscape that we see today.

    While the original naka maru-bon measured 1-shaku 2-sun 3-bu in diameter (approximately 37.3 cm), a tray 1-shaku 2-sun (36.4) in diameter could (and was historically) used in the same way -- since the additional 3-bu had no impact on either the diameter of the foot (1-shaku 2-sun) or the rim (also 1-shaku 2-sun) of the tray (the band was found in the middle of the sides, which were perpendicular to the floor)‡‡. ___________ *The sketch was probably added later.

†Though it could also be interpreted to show how the chaire and chashaku are arranged on the tray during the temae -- though, again, since it is located in front of the furo, this would make things even stranger.

‡For example, a mage-mono mizusashi must be used for bon-date [盆立, 盆點], or when serving tea in a dai-temmoku; or a black Raku chawan must be used for koicha and a red Raku chawan when serving usucha.  None of these rules predates the modern menjō-based system of tea training (and, indeed, usually lack anything resembling historical precedent, at least in so far as the Jōō-Rikyū period is concerned).

**The first generation of chajin who arrived in Japan from Korea, did so under extreme duress -- often throwing themselves into a boat and pushing off from shore as the Ming army began to advance on their settlement.  These people arrived in Japan literally with nothing but the clothes on their backs.  So that soon, what few imported utensils were available, were all bought up, and they had to improvise and innovate if they wished to continue to practice chanoyu in their new land.  Thus, a majority of these chajin considered themselves lucky if they had one utensil of which they could be proud -- and, if so, they created their temae to highlight it.  This situation continued until the end of the fifteenth century, at which time the first generation had begun to die off.  So from the end of the fifteenth century, to the second or third decade of the sixteenth, we see a sort of consolidation, where the objects that had been treasured by the earlier generation were accumulating in fewer and fewer hands, which finally allowed someone like Jōō to arise and amass his extraordinary collection of sixty meibutsu utensils (along with many, many others that were not accorded said title).

††Even though it appears that the idea of wabi had already come into existence during the first half of the fifteenth century.

‡‡That said, if the tray has a rim that flares or curves outward from the foot -- as is commonly seen in trays made for chanoyu today -- the reader must understand that, in such a case, the tray has to be positioned relative to the rim, rather than the foot (as is described in these posts) -- since the original naka maru-bon had perpendicular sides.

¹Round tray.

    Maru-bon [丸盆].  This arrangement employs the naka maru-bon [中丸盆], as in the previous several cases.  The naka maru-bon appears to have been the most popular tray to use among the machi-shū chajin of the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries -- and these several arrangements (in this post, the preceding ones, and the next) show how it was used at a time when the daisu was the usual way to serve tea.

²Maru-bon ・ chaire ・ dai ・ chawan kazari [丸盆・茶入・臺・茶碗飾].

    “Maru-bon, [on which are displayed] the chaire, the dai*, and the chawan.”

    While specific mention of a temmoku-chawan is made in the kaki-ire [書入], it would also be possible to use another sort of bowl -- albeit provided with an appropriate chawan-dai* -- for this arrangement. ___________ *While certain schools customarily place other sorts of chawan (such as a Raku-chawan) on top of a temmoku-dai for this kind of temae in the present day, in Jōō’s and Rikyū’s period a special Korean chawan-dai (which is shaped like a saucer -- with a shallow depression in the center into which the foot of the bowl fits -- with a high foot) was used for other types of bowls.

    More often than not, it is this sort of arrangement that is illustrated in Rikyū’s densho, suggesting that the use of non-temmoku bowls had become common by his period.

    Only a conical temmoku-chawan was appropriately placed on a temmoku-dai, however.

³Shita jo-jō [下如常].

    Referring to the things arranged on the ji-ita, “below [everything is] as usual.”

⁴Kono kazari maru-bon [h]e chaire to chashaku to narabe kazaru-koto mo ari [此飾丸盆ヘ茶入ト茶杓ト並ベカザルコトモアリ].

    “In this arrangement, there is also the case where [just] the chaire and chashaku are displayed in a row on the maru-bon.”

    This is what is shown in the second sketch.

    However, Shibayama Fugen relates a secret teaching that was transmitted to him, during the period of his researches (by one of the last of the Enkaku-ji scholars*), with regard to this version of the arrangement:

"In this present situation” [where only the chaire and chashaku are displayed on the maru-bon], “nothing is said about what to do with the chawan.  As a way of dealing with this conundrum, it has been suggested -- secretly -- that the maru-bon should be moved toward the left-seat†.  Then the chaire, which is resting on the tray, will be associated with the first kane‡ on the left-seat, and the chashaku will be displayed on the central kane.

    “Then the dai [with] the chawan [resting on it] should be placed beyond the tray on the right-seat, on the end-most kane.”**

___________ *The Enkaku-ji was burned down, by agents of the Imperial Army, when the monks refused to surrender the original manuscript of the Nampō Roku to them, according to what was told to me by Kanshū oshō-sama -- though it is unclear precisely when the group of scholars affiliated with the Enkaku-ji was formally disbanded (this was simply something that it never occurred to me to ask about at that time -- though apparently this group was no longer around when the Enkaku-ji was rebuilt in its present location, in what was originally the Shōfuku-ji’s [聖福寺] secular graveyard).

    Shibayama Fugen’s occasional references to his source, however, suggest that the group may have already begun to fall apart during the Meiji period (a majority of the scholars were apparently members of the samurai class, who, of course, lost their jobs and sources of income at the Meiji Restoration), since his source was apparently already an old man (not otherwise identified), who apparently had nobody left to whom he might transmit this information before he died.

†In the Nampō Roku, the expression “left-seat,” hidari-za [左座], refers to the right side of the daisu.

    As has been explained before, this was part of a deliberate layer of obfuscation that was built into these kaki-ire, to confuse the uninitiated.  According to this argument, the daisu (and the objects arranged on it) was thought of as facing toward the host, thus the daisu’s left is on the host’s right.

    Nothing resembling this idea is found in any of Rikyū’s writings, suggesting that this (together with the notion of deliberately making things obscure and confusing) was a product of the Edo period mentality.  Indeed, Rikyū, when he decided to write something down, did so as clearly as his command of the language made possible.

‡”The first kane on the left-seat,” hidari-za no dai-ichi no kane [左座第一ノ矩], refers to the first kane to the right of the central kane.  The kane were counted starting from the center (which was, in a sense, the zero kane), toward the left and right edges of the shelves (though the “second kane” is usually referred to as the hashi-gane [端矩] -- the “end-most kane” -- as it is in the passage quoted below).

    Note that while Shibayama Fugen uses the kanji kane [矩], Tanaka Senshō (and many modern scholars) use kane [曲尺].  Rikyū, however, always represented the name of this concept phonetically, as kane [カネ].

**Quoting this passage directly from Shibayama Fugen’s commentary:  kono gotoki-toki ha chawan ha ikaga ni subeki meibun nashi.  Hisoka ni omou ni maru bon wo hidari-za ni utsushi, sono bon ue no chaire ga hidari-za dai-ichi no kani ni atari, chashaku ga chū-ō no kani atariru-beku kazari, shika-shite dai, chawan wa migi-za bon soto no hashi-kani ni oku-koto narashi [此ノ如キ時ハ茶碗ハ如何ニスベキ明文ナシ。窃カニ惟フニ丸盆ヲ左座ニ移シ、其ノ盆上ノ茶入ガ左座第一ノ矩ニ當リ、茶杓ガ中央ノ矩當ルベク飾リ、而シテ臺、茶碗ハ右座盆外ノ端矩ニ置クコトナラシ].

⁵Cha tate-yō betsu-gi nashi [茶立ヤウ別義ナシ].

    “With respect to the way to prepare tea, nothing else is different.”

    Cha tate-yō [茶立てよう, 茶立て様] means “the way to make tea.”

    Betsu-gi nashi [別義無し]:  betsu-gi [別義]* means “special considerations,” or “another way (of doing things);” therefore, betsu-gi nashi means there is no other special way to do anything (apart from the particulars of the pre-temae arrangement of the utensil on the daisu).

    Irrespective of what objects are displayed on the maru-bon at the beginning -- whether these are the dai-temmoku and chaire, or the chaire and chashaku -- the actual temae that the host performs is the same† (after making allowances for the arrangement). ___________ *In the present day, the preferred way to write betsu-gi [別義] is betsu-gi [別儀].

†In other words:

◦ If the dai-temmoku is displayed on the maru-bon, the dai-temmoku is first moved onto the ten-ita, to the left of the maru-bon; then the chaire is moved to the center of the tray.  The dai-temmoku is lowered to the mat and stood temporarily in front of the furo.  Then the maru-bon is lowered to the mat and placed in front of the mizusashi, and the dai-temmoku is moved to the left side of the tray.

◦ If only the chaire and chashaku are displayed on the maru-bon, the host brings the dai-temmoku out from the katte and places it in front of the furo.  Then the host picks up the chashaku, and rests it on the hane of the temmoku-dai (on the right side of the chawan).  Then the chaire is moved to the center of the tray, and the tray is lowered to the mat and placed in front of the mizusashi, and the dai-temmoku is moved beside it.

⁶Hadaka-temmoku mo kaku no gotoki kazaru nari [ハダカ天目モ如此カザルナリ].

    “A hadaka-temmoku is also displayed as shown.”

    Hadaka [裸] means “naked.”  Thus, a hadaka-temmoku is a temmoku displayed without its shifuku*.

    This sentence simply describes the (original) illustration that was included with this entry†:  the temmoku (containing the chakin and chasen) is placed on top of its dai (with the chashaku resting on the hane of the dai), together with the chaire. ___________ *Usually with the chakin, chasen, and chashaku placed in it -- as they are in this case.  When resting on a temmoku-dai, the chashaku was placed on the dai, to the right of the chawan (as seen in the above sketch).

    This way of handling the chashaku was used not only when the dai-temmoku was displayed on the daisu (or elsewhere), but also when carrying the dai-temmoku into the room from the katte -- according to Rikyū’s densho.

†The particle mo [モ], which is usually translated as “also,” or “in addition to,” is found here because, in the kaki-ire, first the alternate case (where only the chaire and chashaku are displayed on the tray) was described.  Thus, the situation shown in the sketch is the alternative to that described first in the part of the kaki-ire.

    This shows that at least some of the kaki-ire arose independently of the sketches (most likely in notes made by certain scholars after they took their leave from the Enkaku-ji -- since it was forbidden to write anything while on the temple grounds), and were later transferred to the sketches (probably when the author’s reputation came to dominate the other scholars who were working on the interpretation of these sketches).

    In other words, rather than attempting to make drawings from memory, at least some of the scholars seem to have been content with describing things in words.  This may, Shibayama Fugen  notes, may be one source of the errors in certain sketches that he mentioned he discovered in some of the outside manuscripts.

⁷Chawan okurare-shi-shu nado aru toki no hiraki ni mo yoshi [茶碗贈ラレシ衆ナドアル時ノヒラキニモヨシ].

    “On the first occasion when the chawan is used*, and the people who presented the chawan [to the host] are present [as his guests]†, it is appropriate to do things in this manner.” ___________ *Chawan...no hiraki [茶碗の開き] -- which literally means the first time the chawan is “opened” -- refers to the first time that said utensil is used, or the first time it is used by this host (after it entered his collection).

†It might be possible to interpret this statement as describing two different situations:

◦ the case where the chawan is being used to serve tea when the person who presented it to the host is present; and,

◦ the case where the chawan is being used for the first time.

    These are not mutually exclusive, of course.

    We should remember that famous tea utensils were often given to daimyō whom the shōgun wanted to favor (usually in lieu of an increase to their fiefs), and it was considered appropriate for the daimyō to use the utensil immediately (to, in a sense, make it his own).  A representative of the shōgun was usually present (if not the shōgun himself), and this may be why this arrangement was considered important:  when the temmoku had been received as a gift, in such circumstances, then it would be displayed on the daisu in the manner shown in the original sketch.

⁸Maru-bon no uchi kaku no gotoki mo [丸盆ノ内如此モ].

    “[The way the things are arranged] on the maru-bon may also be like this.”

     If the host wished to feature the chashaku (while using an ordinary temmoku that had no special connection with any of those present), then he might opt to use this second arrangement, where only the chaire and chashaku are displayed on the naka maru-bon.

    As has been mentioned previously*, the chashaku would have to have some connection with the chaire -- either it was made for the chaire by a famous historical figure of the past, or had been paired with this chaire by such a person. ___________ *In the post entitled Nampō Roku, Book 5 (4):  the Ordinary way to Display a Chaire and a Chashaku.  The URL for that post is:

https://chanoyu-to-wa.tumblr.com/post/617400194627174400/namp%C5%8D-roku-book-5-4-the-ordinary-way-to

——————————————–———-—————————————————

◎  Analysis of the Arrangement.

    This sketch shows the arrangement as depicted in the Shibayama Fugen’s commentary.  The temae would follow the usual way of doing things:  first the chawan would be moved off of the tray, the chaire would be centered on the tray, and then the dai-temmoku and the tray (with the chaire resting on it) would be lowered to the mat.

    This shows the variation that is described in the kaki-ire (and also illustrated beneath the original daisu sketch).

    Here, the dai-temmoku would be brought out from the katte.  First the chashaku would be picked up and placed on the dai, then, after centering it on the tray, the chaire would be lowered to the mat (together with the tray, and the dai-temmoku moved beside it.

    In both cases, once the utensils have been arranged on the mat in front of the daisu, tea is prepared as usual, with nothing special needing to be done.

    In the case of the version of this arrangement that was secretly imparted to Shibayama Fugen, the dai-temmoku (with the chakin and chasen arranged inside of the bowl*)

    The host would begin by picking up the chashaku and placing it on the hane of the temmoku-dai.  Then the chaire would be moved to the center of the tray.

    Thereafter the dai-temmoku would be lowered to the utensil mat and temporarily stood in front of the furo.  Next, the maru-bon, with the chaire resting on top, would be lowered, and placed in front of the mizusashi.  And, finally, the dai-temmoku would be moved next to the tray, as is usually done in this class of daisu-temae. ___________ *The chakin is folded into thirds, and then into quarters,

and, rather than folding it in half again, it is left as shown on the right.

    The folded chakin that resulted from the process illustrated above is placed flat in the bottom of the temmoku (below, left),

allowing the chasen to be stood upright on top of it (right).

    This is how the chakin and chasen were traditionally arranged in the temmoku-chawan.  When the chashaku was added (which it is not in this particular variation), it rested on the hane of the dai, end-on, and on the right side of the temmoku.

[paralleljulieverse]

“One day I’ll be famous. I’ll be proper and prim...”

Sixty years ago, more or less to the week, the famed Italian painter Pietro Annigoni unveiled his latest masterwork: ‘Eliza’, Julie Andrews in ‘My Fair Lady’ (1959).

At the time, Annigoni was the most celebrated portraitist in the world. His dreamily romantic 1954-55 oil of Queen Elizabeth II catapulted the hitherto little known Italian painter to international fame (Wynne-Morgan: 17). Almost overnight, Annigoni became "the most sought-after portrait painter of the decade” (Shearer: 4) attracting a glittering line-up of celebrity subjects including Princess Margaret, Prince Philip, the Duchess of Devonshire, the Shah and Empress of Iran, the Maharani Gayatri Devi of Jaipur and Margot Fonteyn. His services were so in demand that he reportedly “had to refuse thousands of commissions –– 90 out of every 100 ––as the queues of VIPs waiting to be immortalised stretched around the world” (Turner: 8).  

It was against this backdrop that Julie Andrews’s longtime manager, Charles ‘Uncle Charlie’ Tucker, approached Annigoni in 1958 with an invitation to paint his client who was riding triumphant at the time as the star of My Fair Lady. Tucker made the approach via a mutual friend –– Max Farber, an American newspaper editor and PR man who handled publicity for Annigoni’s first US exhibition in 1957 (Randolph: 6) –– which no doubt helped seal the deal (”Surprise”: 7). In his memoirs, Annigoni (1977) recalls:

Although I hardly knew who Julie Andrews was then, I agreed, but nearly a year went by before I was able to start the portrait. On the day I arrived in London, the manager Charles Tucker, took me to see the show and to meet the young actress. I was pleasurably surprised by both and decided there and then to paint her in the costume and character of Eliza Doolittle, the show’s Cockney flowergirl (121).

The meeting of these two disparate celebrities –– the serious, gruff Continental painter and the trilling English Rose –– was the stuff of PR dreams and it drew considerable media attention. “There’s no need to say she is very pretty,” Annigoni is reported to have remarked as he sized up his subject in her backstage dressing-room, “But I expect I shall need some 30 sittings before I am satisfied” (”Surprise”: 7).  

In the end, Julie went to sit for the artist at his Chelsea studio exactly 28 times between April and June 1959 (Rydon: 5). Following these sessions, Annigoni would continue to work on the painting for hours, often late into the night. Ever the perfectionist, he even arranged for a copy of Julie’s flower-girl costume to be sent over from Drury Lane and worn by a model so he could hone the finishing touches (ibid.).

Throughout the more than two month period of the portrait’s production, Julie continued to perform in My Fair Lady, as well as prepare for her wedding to Tony Walton in mid-May. It was a pressured schedule that inevitably led to the odd timing mishap, a source of great irritation to the exacting Annigoni. When, on one occasion, Julie arrived at his studio more than twenty minutes late, the artist was so enraged he refused to answer the door, necessitating a diplomatic flurry of contrite telephone calls to smooth his ruffled ego (Andrews: 258; Annigoni: 121). “He was an arrogant man,” Julie recounts, “the epitome of the temperamental artist” who “demanded total dedication and punctuality” (Andrews: 258). 

For all his irascibility, Annigoni in his memoirs looked back fondly on Julie as “a very sweet girl” (Annigoni: 121). He was especially grateful when, after complaining of a pain in his right arm, Julie arranged for a special house call from Tony Walton’s doctor-father who diagnosed “a cracked humerus” and “treated it successfully” (122). Annigoni was, by all accounts, equally pleased with the portrait itself, quietly considering it to be one of his finer works (Rydon: 5).

Once the commission was complete and the portrait delivered, the enterprising Tucker set about negotiating the sale of reproduction rights to select newspaper and magazine outlets. It was a canny move that not only helped recoup much of the initial £2000 commission fee but ensured optimal publicity for both the portrait and its star (Annigoni: 122). Images of the painting were carried in the international press as far away as Australia (“Annigoni’s Fair Lady”: 122). In October, Tucker licensed Woman’s Own –– a high-circulation magazine that had previously published several stories on Annigoni –– to run a lavish full-colour centrefold “presentation copy” of the portrait (”Star Feature”: 29-31). This special issue was strategically timed to coincide with the PR lead-up to Julie’s four-part BBC TV series in November/December 1959, the first episode of which featured Annigoni as a celebrity guest (Cottrell: 126). Tucker also floated plans –– ultimately unrealised, alas –– for future portraits of Julie as Guinevere in Camelot and “all the different characters of every show she has been in” (Private Correspondence to Max Farber, 21 April 1959; see also “’My Fair Lady’ Star”: 4).

As with much of Annigoni’s work during this period, the Julie Andrews portrait was well received by the public and middlebrow commentators –– “a breathtaking canvas” (Rydon: 7); “surely will rank...in the future with the famous ‘Mona Lisa’" (Cartmel: 16) –– but it proved far less pleasing to ‘serious’ art critics. Indeed, for the most part, the arts intelligentsia of the day took a pretty dim view of Annigoni. The artist’s predilection for representational classicism, coupled with his vocal opposition to then fashionable traditions of abstract modernism, made him an "isolated anachronism” in the post-war arts scene and a frequent target of critical scorn (Turner: 8). Many critics dismissed Annigoni as little more than a technically-accomplished draughtsman, a “purveyor of Old Masterish pastiche” (Rogers: 96). 

When the Julie Andrews portrait was shown at the annual Royal Academy Summer Exhibition in 1960, many reviews were openly derisive. “I suppose it has a faded Victorian charm,” sniffed The Observer (Clutton-Brock: 19). “Signor Pietro Annigoni’s Julie Andrews in My Fair Lady...belong[s] in every fibre to the times and dull skill of late Victoriana,” echoed the Daily Mail (Jeannerat 1960: 7). While The Stage huffed: “With his oil of Julie Andrews in My Fair Lady, Pietro Annigoni could not have been more conventional and unexciting if he had tried with all his might” (”Not Much”: 21). 

The intervening passage of time and the resurgence of interest in figurative portraiture has afforded a less jaundiced view of Annigoni and his place in art history. Following the artist’s death in 1988, his work was subject to a growing critical reassessment that saw him redeemed as an important figure of twentieth-century ‘classical realism’ (Lack: 50-59). A 1995 feature-length documentary mounted a passionate defence of Annigoni as “a prolific and complex artist...a philosopher with the skill to capture a person’s soul” (Bond and Smith). Major retrospectives of his work have since been held around the world and in 2008 a dedicated Annigoni museum was inaugurated in the artist’s native Florence.

It is a context that encourages renewed consideration of Annigoni’s portrait of Julie Andrews as a serious artwork. Pace knee-jerk dismissals of it as mere decorative Victoriana, close reading reveals that, beyond the attractive veneer –– what one critic sneeringly termed “the prettiness of the chocolate-box” (Jeannerat 1961: 3) –– lies a work of considerable intelligence and interpretive depth. For all his technical realism, Annigoni approached the practice of portrait painting as effectively that of an expressive character-study. “I have always painted to please myself,” he declared, “and interpret the sitter as I see and understand [them]” (Shearer: 4). A good portrait needs to be accurate but also communicative, he believed, an expression of character and moral quality beyond the mere impression of outward appearance. It’s an approach that orients his portraits to structural and conceptual duplexity: “he captures the soul of beautiful women...but he also catches the deeper side” (Sullivan: 92).

Here, it is worth recalling the ‘official’ title of Annigoni’s portrait of Julie: ‘Eliza’, Julie Andrews in ‘My Fair Lady’ (Jackson: 84). It suggests that, far from a simple depiction of a single physical subject, the portrait is in fact a complex study of plural subjects. It ‘portrays’ Julie Andrews –– in technically consummate, if idealised, likeness –– but in the guise of Eliza Doolittle, a celebrated character as reimagined in a contemporary hit musical. There are thus three interacting spheres or layers of representation in the work: real person, fictional character, and theatrical role. Looking at the portrait, the observer’s mind moves inexorably between all three, posing an interpretive conundrum: are we looking at an actress in character or a character as realised by an actress?

Taking the idea of layering further, the portrait, like much of Annigoni’s work, is quite literally a work of layers. As part of his commitment to traditionalism, Annigoni was noted for his exacting use of Quattrocento production techniques. Chief among these was the practice of tempera grassa whereby an artwork is painstakingly created on a chalk-gessoed panel through composite layers of pigment mixed with a binding agent, typically egg and oil, interspersed with coats of lacquer (Cookson: 43ff). It is a labour-intensive form of stratified image-construction that lends Annigoni’s paintings their characteristic luminosity with dynamic hues and complex interplay of shadows and light. It also enhances their disarming trompe l’oeuil effect where minutely detailed realism –– limpid eyes, flesh flushed with sanguine warmth, textured fabric–– and precise geometric perspectivalism combine to simulate a sense of perceptual depth that draws the eye in and across the painting’s spatial field and its various objects (Hoopes: 21).

Annigoni’s portrait work is equally characterised by a parallel layering of compositional form. Much like his Renaissance masters, the artist typically sets his subjects in and against a background rich with symbolic import. His celebrated 1954-55 painting of the Queen, for example, was as famous for its romantic depiction of the young monarch resplendent in her ceremonial robes as for the fact that she appears Diana-like towering triumphant over a sylvan English landscape at misty dawn, gazing into “the light of...a new Elizabethan age” (Wynne-Morgan: 17). 

In the case of the Julie Andrews portrait, Annigoni chose to depict his subject against a backdrop of peeling theatre posters. Such was the importance of this background to Annigoni’s vision that he reportedly scoured London to obtain historical playbills from the very date Shaw’s original production of Pygmalion, the source text for My Fair Lady, opened at His Majesty’s Theatre on April 11, 1914 (Rydon: 5). Cracked and peeling in burnished hues of faded gold and green, the backdrop is clearly redolent of age and historical memory. In fact, the curled strips of paper look not unlike autumn leaves falling with the passage of time. Combined with the work’s classical style and bronzed patina, it strikes a decided note of wistful, even melancholic, longing. But what redeems the endeavour from being a simple exercise in sentimental nostalgia –– a common criticism of Annigoni’s work –– is that this elegiac reference to times-gone-by sits within a broader frame of markedly mixed temporalities. 

In a way that neatly parallels the painting’s fusion of representational levels mentioned above, the portrait conjoins past, present and future in convoluted, and ultimately irresolvable, ways. Out of the golden past of Edwardian theatrical history, Shaw’s Eliza –– herself a resurrection of the ancient Greek figure of Galatea –– is reborn anew in My Fair Lady, the contemporary hit show of the painting’s ‘present’ in the late-1950s. That she is embodied here in the form of Julie Andrews, a then-tender 23-year old on the cusp of global superstardom, adds additional layers of futurity to the mix –– as does the fact that Annigoni chose to paint Julie in Eliza’s early flower-girl guise where she is still dreaming of an as-yet-unknown “loverly” tomorrow.* 

The multi-levelled temporality of the portrait was not lost on commentators at the time of the painting’s unveiling:

Annigoni has painted Julie Andrews, who created the leading musical ‘My Fair Lady’ but it is Shaw’s eternal Eliza (46 years old next year––the first performance was in April 1914) who shines through...The portrait was commissioned by Miss Andrews’ manager, Mr Charles Tucker. The woebegone waif, clutching her purse shawl, with her melting mouth and a tear n her cheek, will hand in house. Until he dies. He has willed the portrait to Miss Andrews, a legacy of her first fame (“Annigoni’s ‘Fair Lady’”: 122). 

This 1959 prediction as to the ‘future’ of the portrait was close to the spirit, if not quite the letter, of what transpired. After hanging for many years in Tucker’s London office, the painting was eventually put up for auction at Sotheby’s in late-1975 where it generated considerable interest (Hickey: 9).* Following spirited bidding, the painting sold at fall of hammer to an anonymous bidder for £7000 (£60,000 in inflation adjusted prices) (Jackson: 84; Walker: 11). The bidder was subsequently revealed to be a proxy advocating on behalf of Blake Edwards who had bought the portrait as a gift for his wife. So, in the end, ‘Eliza’, Julie Andrews in ‘My Fair Lady’ came back full circle to its subject who, in her own words, is “thrilled to own it and it hangs in my home” (Andrews: 258).

Notes:

* Some commentators have pointed out that the portrait contains another coincidental allusion to the star’s future as one of the playbills glimpsed in the background appears to spell out the half-hidden words: The Sound of... “How prophetic!” notes Julie (Andrews: 258).

** Several sources, including Annigoni himself (1977: 122), state that the painting was put up for sale by Tucker’s widow after his death. The Sotheby’s catalogue does indeed list “Mrs Charles L. Tucker” as the lot consignor but Tucker was still alive in 1975––he passed four years later in 1979––so his wife’s name was possibly used for taxation purposes (”Obituary”: 6). In her memoir, Julie alludes to the fact that she and Tucker had a gradual professional alienation which resulted in a change of management sometime in the mid-60s (Andrews: 221). She also mentions apropos the auction that: “I heard that Charlie asked whether [the portrait was being bought] on my behalf, and he seemed happy when the fact was confirmed” (Andrews: 258).

Sources:

Andrews, Julie. Home: A Memoir of My Early Years. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2008. 

Annigoni, Pietro and Wright, Robin. An Artist’s Life. London: W.H. Allen, 1977.

“Annigoni’s Fair Lady.” The Sydney Morning Herald. 11 October 1959: 122.

Bond, Richard and Smith, Stephen. Annigoni: Portrait of an Artist [DVD], Italy/Canada: Artatak/Rainbow Films, 1994.

Cartmel, Frank B. “Splendid.” Daily Express. 1 October 1959: 16.

Clutton-Brock, Alan. “New Non-Conformists.” The Observer. 1 May 1960:18-19.

Cookson, Dawn. Painting with Annigoni: A Halcyon Decade as a Student in Florence 1958-68. London : Unicorn Press, 2000.

Cottrell, John. Julie Andrews: The Story of a Star. London: Arthur Barker, 1968.

“Fair Deal.” The Guardian. 13 November 1975: 6.

Hickey, William. “Under the Hammer: Annigoni’s Fair Lady.” Daily Express. 29 October 1975: 9.

Hoopes, Donelson F. Pietro Annigoni: A Retrospective Exhibition. New York: Brooklyn Museum, 1969.

Jackson, Anne, ed. Art at Auction, The Year at Sotheby Park Bernet, 1975-1976. New York: Rizzoli, 1976.

Jeannerat, Pierre. “Christ at Cookham...the Epitaph of Genius.” Daily Mail. 29 April 1960: 7.

_________. “Just Chocolate (Annigoni flavour) Likenesses.” Daily Mail. 26 April  1961: 3

Lack, Richard. "Classical Realism: The Other Twentieth Century," Utne Reader. July /August 1989: 50-59.

Laws, Frederick. “Annigoni’s 1961 Old Masters So Depressing.” Daily Herald. 26 April 1961: 39.

McIlhany, Sterling. “Pietro Annigoni: Contemporary Florentine Master.” American Artist. 36: 359, June 1972: 24-30.

“’My Fair Lady’ Star Seen as Fairest of Them All.” The Age. 18 November 1959: 4.

“Not Much at the Academy.” The Stage. 5 May 1960: 21.

“Obituary: Charles L. Tucker Dies; Impressario [sic].” Hartford Courant. 14 May 1979: 6.

Randolph, Nancy. “Chit-Chat.” Daily News. 11 December 1957: 6.

Rogers, Malcolm. From Elizabeth I to Elizabeth II: Master Drawings from the National Portrait Gallery. London: Art Services International, 1993.

Shearer, Lloyd. “The Ladies Love His Portraits.” Parade. 5 January 1958: 4.

“Star Feature: Annigoni’s Portrait of Julie Andrews.” Woman’s Own. 3 October 1959: 29-31.

Sullivan, Robert. “Pietro Paints the Queen.” Daily News. 5 June 1955: 92.

“Surprise for Julie: Annigoni arrives to paint her.” Daily Express. 16 April 1959: 

Turner, Francesca. “Annigoni: Isolated Anachronism.” Evening Post. 9 May 1977: 8.

Walker, John. “Meet...Understated Superstar.” Observer Magazine. 6 June 1976: 10-11.

Welles, John. “Meet Julie Andrews: Understated Superstar.” The Observer Magazine. 6 June 1976: 

Wynne-Morgan, David. “Painter of the Queen: Annigoni, a Dazzling Story of Success.” The Age Literary Supplement. 15 December 1956: 17.

Zeri, Federico. Italian Paintings: Florentine School: A Catalogue of the Collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York: MMA, 1971.

© 2019 Brett Farmer All Rights Reserved

[bastardsunlight]

//LONG-ass headcanon sesh for D, Alucard (Hellsing) and Adrian (CV’s Alucard) all kinda rolled into one.

So, since I don’t have radiantDecay anymore, I’ve sort of pulled back from the verse where Adrian BECOMES D. There was a lot of movement and timeline adjustment that had to happen for that one, and while it is in some way still possible, I’m not terribly interested in upkeeping a unique interpretation for a character that’s never really going to come into play. If you’re writing with D, it’s thousands of years after he was Adrian. If you’re writing with Adrian, it’s pre-1999 pretty much.

So, I have some documents someplace that I had written regarding D’s origins. The novels heavily imply that he’s somehow enhanced—y’know the movies hint at him just being super powerful Mary Sue turbo ultra dhampir simply because he is the son of “Our Sacred Ancestor” whomst we all pretty much know is Dracula himself right? Certain novels even hint that Mina Harker is his mother, if they don’t just outright state it. It might be the clunky translation (they really should have been more carefully transliterated because WOW some of those sentences just… don’t), but thus far it’s not been made CRYSTAL PERFECT CLEAR. However, I’m more than willing to run with that idea.

Dracula is, by the time Mina et. Al. come up against him, quite old, nigh ancient. I think that the Dracula of the Bram Stoker novel is or, rather, was the historical Vlad III Dracula Tepes (the impaler), born in the 1420s, “died” in the 1470s, iirc. Supposedly, the sultan at the time… Mehmed Fatih, kept his head in a box for a while before pinning him up on the walls of Constantinople, which the Turks controlled at the time. Ugly period in history for Eastern Europe… With Wallachia and Transylvania, in particular, two kingdoms in Romania, times were triple trouble. They were sandwiched between the Ottoman Empire to the east, then west was Eastern Orthodox Christendom—further west was Roman Catholicism and if you think THOSE guys didn’t fight, ding dong ur wrong!

BUT this period of violence produced one of the most well-known and controversial heroes (sometimes called a war criminal) of all time. Also he had a great ‘stache. Now when I write Hellsing’s Alucard, I roll with this same lore, so D and that Alucard could absolutely exist in the same ‘verse. It’s kind of a “darkest timeline” deal, a world in which the Belmont clan never existed. Before that even, Lisa never made Dracula’s acquaintance so the guy’s motivations are a little different. In addition, he is NOT Mathias Cronqvist, a tactician during the first crusades in 1090 AD. In that case, he would have revamped (PUN) his whole personality and integrated himself into one of the other great houses of Wallachia/Transylvania and re-emerged four hundred years later as Vlad the Impaler. That could work fine—not like he hasn’t got time—and that would have been around the time he met, and lost, Lisa. Now whether THAT part of history looks the same is dubious, since Vlad’s exploits during the period of his reign/deposition/reign/deposition/beheading are pretty decently documented. In this case, I’m going to say the Belmonts’ existence is in a timeline where those conflicts also may have played out differently. As these are all fictional worlds, I guess this’s up to ME atm. Nice.

So this is part “how I write D” and part “how I’d be inclined to write Alucard (Hellsing) in interactions that take place BEFORE the manga—like WAY before”. Since Adrian would have been a major contributing factor to the Belmonts’ strength from Trevor onward (so in the games idk if folks know this, but Adrian is Trevor’s father, with Sonia Belmont being his mom), that would also have contributed, at least in part, to the ability of the Belmonts to stomp Dracula and his minions.

With D, there is no need to include Mathias and his ebony/crimson stone conundrum, which does tend to throw a small monkey wrench in the ol’ gears (but not big enough I can’t adapt, trust me). The difference, aside from lack of Belmonts, is the origin of vampires. Clearly, they’re a magical construct or a spell-woven form of sentient life in Castlevania. In Vampire Hunter D, it’s heavily implied (once again, not outright stated) that the Nobility, some of them anyway, are simply a mutation of humanity (Dark Gene vs Light Gene, Lina’s whole deal, among other passages here and there), who also happen to be allergic to garlic, crucifixes, running water, and basic-ass Bram Stoker weaknesses. They’ve even got labs full o’ Nobles tryin’a conquer the sun issue.

So to know D, we gotta know his dad first. At the beginning, Vlad III is born to (big surprise) Vlad II. He and his brother are sent to Edirne as part of the Ottoman Empire’s “tribute” of however many young  boys from noble houses, to be trained in the ways of Islam and Turkish mannerisms, etc. This is more for pacification of that region of Europe, which is still Eastern Orthodox, than it is for real “peace”. It’s “peace because you guys are a good buffer zone between us and the rest of Eastern Orthodox-dom”, anyway. Every _voivode_ of Wallachia has to swear allegiance to either the Ottoman Empire or to the Eastern Orthodox church. While most of that area is EO, it’s in their best interest to swear to the Ottoman Empire. They’re bigger and closer. Vlad’s dad has done some underhanded shit, but he’s also a member of the Order of the Dragon and has propelled it to new heights within the EO and that’s where Vlad gets his name: Dracula, which is Son of the Dragon. So Vlad II’s immediate family are known as the Draculesti, which is fucking cool—it’s like “children of the dragon” and that’s not even his like, NAME name—it’s a frickin’ nickname, or sobriquet, as is Tepes.

In the world of Vampire Hunter D, vampirism appears to be a genetic phenomenon—ironically, a mutation. No Noble is going to admit that, OBVIOUSLY. And while it’s true, they were probably born that way, they’re still a mutant human derivative. Rather than mutating due to radiation or whatevermstthefuck like the actual mutants in VHD, they’re just born that way. So what I’m rolling with is Vlad III was born with that particular mutation and, kind of like my OC Toby, who is also a genetic vampire, it takes a violent or unnatural death to trigger the actual symptoms, else you’re just a normal-ass person. In fact, in this interpretation, I’m going to say that maybe quite a few people are BORN with that mutation, but if they live to a ripe old age and die, it never triggers. Most likely, the body is too enfeebled to handle it, maybe it dies after menopause/andropause? Either way, the body has broken down too much and there’s no material to work with.

That might also go a long way to explain the animosity many old vampires have toward humanity. Sometimes it’s straight up contempt, of course, but every single time, it seems to be a removal. Carmilla is a good example. Most of the time, her backstory involves a vicious assault that might very well have killed her. Imagine dying that way and waking back up to find that you had to KEEP living in the world that did this to you, that death is FAR far off. I can understand being VERY PERTURBED, to put it mildly. By the same token, what about war? How many folks die in war? Thousands? Millions? Of all those, how many have the mutation? Probably quite a few. Some folks might not figure out what’s going on and stay where they are, buried for decades, before just wasting away without sustenance—Vampires DO require blood, after all, to keep doin’ their thing. Plenty more are probably just torched in the sun. Since they were KIA, it might be rough finding their bodies in the first place…

So Vlad is beheaded—now this part intersects VERY well with Hellsing’s Alucard in my portrayal—and Mehmed Fatih keeps his head close at hand for a bit, probably talking to it. What happens when it starts talking back? We know Dracula has some SERIOUSLY kickass abilities and putting himself back together would definitely be one of ‘em, in my humble opinion. Mehmed dies not long after he achieves “victory” over Vlad the Impaler and no one knows where Vlad’s remains are. Maybe they up and walked the fuck away, hm? Maybe it was HE who ensured Mehmed’s destruction. How poetic would THAT be? Spoiler alert ||very||.

Now imagine going through everything he did—the guy had a tumultuous life. He might be one of the few, lucky ones who figure out that sunlight is a no-go, hide himself away, eventually go back to haunt his castle in the mountains between Transylvania and Wallachia. Now fast forward to the 1800s, MODERN TIMES (heehee okay) and one very ambitious realtor who wants to sell a creepy old abbey to some weird foreigner. Seems legit. Anyway by now we can see that Dracula’s gotten kinda nutty? He has three scary “wives” but he doesn’t seem to care much for ‘em. They’re obviously vampires, too, though I cannot recall if they’re turned by him or if they’re LIKE him—anyone who’s read it recently, do feel free to refresh me.

He’s kinda senile and while he’s crafty, he’s outsmarted by a dandy, an ancient-ass doctor, a dude who cannot stop fainting, a man named Quincey (my husbando), and Jack Seward—nuff said. He has some kind of congress with Mina, though ofc it’s the Victorian age so the only penetration is that of his li’l toofers on her poor neck. Nom. I don’t think Dracula banged Mina Harker. I think that, in THIS world, a dhampir is a nigh-impossibility, because at this point (and their cool-ass vampire science might’ve changed this), vampires are The Undead™ and therefore cannot CREATE LIFE. Not even if they have a raging turboner (that’s a turbo boner, for those of u not in the know). So he bit Mina, but before he did that, Mina married Jonathan—like as soon as he got home. They were married and living together and doing the frickle frackle, presumably, before Drac shows up in London to mess up their day.

In this case and for the sake of sanity, to create a dhampir, the vampire must chew on a pregnant lady. The curse lifts from her when the master is killed, but his blood has already entered and changed the child; the process is much longer and more involved for an adult human, who has an immune system and much more ground to cover. If the smol bean was in embryo stage or even fetal, it had no defense and mom’s body provided it with everything, Dracula’s blood, included. The final set of letters in Dracula mentiones a young boy, Jonathan and Mina’s son, Quincey, named after their fallen friend. So little Quincey is a dhampir!

Now, a bitten vampire cannot, in this universe, turn anyone else. They can feed and create thralls, but they can’t make VAMPIRES. In Hellsing lore, if a vamp bites you and you’re a virgin, you become one—if not, you become a ghoul/zambolio thingamajigger. Integra narrates this for us pretty early on. But it’s not Alucard’s venom doing this. It’s the vicar of Cheddar Village, who is a manufactured vampire. He’s not a true vampire, not like Alucard. Now, Alucard DOES ask Seras if she’s a virgin ‘fore he kills and bites her, which makes sense… IF HE LOVED MINA.

Hear me out. So, he saw this strong-ass bitch and thought “goddamn I’m sick of my whiny, vicious wives UGH I need me a woman like that”. So he’s gunna turn her. It probably takes longer since he hasn’t been powered up by Hellsing and their dark science-magic shit, or whatever it was… OR as he chomps on ‘er, he realizes “well fuck me she’s preggo, so even if she changes, I can’t have her”. Pregnant blood has GOTTA taste different, all those hormones and shit, even early on. I think he did have some weird admiration-affection for her. His arrogance and greed, however, has taken him over, so perhaps he decides to change her slow, to make the fellas suffer. They’ve fucked with him so he’s gunna fuck with them, but I think it pains him a little to do so, because lbr Mina’s the woman of his dreams.

So when Quincey is born, he’s perfect, healthy, rosy-cheeked, and by god only Mina knows something’s amiss. Damned if she’s going to say shit to Jonathan, who’s liable to faint, the absolute fucking walnut. They live fairly well, having taken over the real-estate business from their wonderful, generous, dead benefactor. 

Much like Carmilla’s weirdo ghost, however, Dracula’s spirit absolutely lives on.

TL; DR D was born Quincey Harker. 

[ill-be-istj-if-no-one-else-is]

The (indie) Kids Are(n’t) Alright.

[piece by Nick Southall of Stylus Magazine which has sadly been defunct since 2007; I’m reposting it here because I had to dig through the internet archive to find it]

The following was posted by one of our readers in the comments section of our recent Top 50 Singles of 2005 article. 

Posted 12/09/2005 - 08:07:34 AM by tintin1000: i hate this list. but before i get into a rant, i shall tell you all the "rules" which i relied upon to come to the conclusion that this list is a pile of steaming bullshit. (a) this is a snobby list (b) i understand that this is a list of singles, so it cannot include bands like deerhoof or anything because they don't HAVE singles, but ... (c) this is a lame attempt at justifying why you guys like top 40 chart songs ... a shoddly constructed "logical" justification of listening to top 40 songs, with the "indie mag," stylus, as a sort of buffer ... "oh -- we're really into indie music, so that means we can accept pop music from an "elevated" plane of existence or some bullshit like that. okay -- who the hell thinks that the friggin' backstreet boys write "better" songs than the mountain goats?! than the futureheads!? uh ... and sure -- the concept of r. kelly's trapt in the closet is cool, i think, but how in the hell do you distinguish which gwen stefani single is the "best" on the album? is it the originality of the song? nope? is it in the creativity? nope. is it the craftmanship? nope. is it the songwriting? nope. as far as i can tell, you guys compiled a list that should be dubbed "best singles that will get you crunked in 2005," but since you worded everything so perfectly, it sounds like there is an actual intellectual, logical reason behind the creation of the fucking whisper song. the whisper song is about fucking. since when has fucking merited any artistic credibilty? just plain, raw, primitive sex? if you guys like to dance to this shit, cool ... but don't be dumbasses and pretend that you listen to this shit because you actually think it actually has a true artistic quality to it ... damn. 

I usually try and avoid responding directly to people in the comments boxes, unless they ask a specific question about a piece or raise a factual error, because I think it’s slightly unbecoming for writers to be trawling their own work looking for flame wars, but I couldn’t help but respond to our friend tintin1000, initially with a couple of short notes in the comments box, and now here, in more length and with more thought. 

tintin1000 isn’t alone in his indi(e)gnation (I’m sorry, that’s a terrible forced pun)—you can see dozens, if not hundreds of other people spilling outraged bile into the comments boxes every week in protest at our temerity in choosing to review a country record favourably (and I’m not talking about Lambchop or Uncle Tupelo) or vote Kelly Clarkson as our single of the year ahead of, say, the latest 7” by The Ambivalent Corduroy Medical Students on Squirrel Records which features nine Canadian college graduates banging ukuleles and broken harpsichords and singing about their guinea pig’s gravestone. What’s wrong with us? Why are we pretending to like such manipulative top 40 pop shit? How could we possibly be so short-sighted as to not see the genius inherent in something like Pig On A Stick’s masterful limited edition EP, I’m Ugly, I’m Lonely, All My Friends Are Dead?!Especially when we lavish such shallow, fetishistic praise on hollow, manufactured acts. 

The thing is that Stylus has always loved pop, hip-hop and r’n’b singles, consistently voting them highly in the end-of-year singles lists over the last three years. Just look at the Singles Jukebox articles from the last 9 months—pop music is something we love and something we cover—we’ve never claimed to be an indie website any more than we’ve claimed to be an IDM website (something we used to get accused of every so often when we began). If you’re still not convinced, take a look at the Mission Statement; all we’ve ever been bothered about covering is music, not specific genres. 

So why are indieboys still so vehemently disgusted by our (un)surprising pop-centricity, our schizeclecticism, by the fact that some of us like country records and others like pop records and yet others really do enjoy Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (I’m still not entirely convinced that that particular band isn’t a complex hoax perpetrated by Derek Miller)? I’d wager, for a start, that the majority of our most vocal indieboy naysayers are probably in their late teens rather than their mid-to-late 20s, and that the music they like isn’t just a sonic preference based on what tickles the hairs in their ears in a pleasant way, but that it is a much more deep-seated culture-aesthetic choice. A choice as much about identity as music, perhaps. 

Which is fine, because adolescent cultural choices—hell, adult cultural choices too—are about identity. They’re about peer groups and aspirations and association. The music you like may well help determine the clothes you wear, the friends you keep, how you cut your hair—it’ll certainly determine which clubs or gigs you go to, and who you go with. It’s a chicken / egg conundrum, though, as to which comes first—the music or the identity. Do you like this music because of who you are, or are you making a definite effort to determine who you are and using the music as a tool to do so? Because like it or not, and whether you’re aware of it or not, your cultural choices are a signifier pointing towards who you are. 

Here are a handful of bands and what liking them says about you: 

Interpol - “I am deep, moody, urban and edgy, given to pathos and bad poetry. Please have sex with me, but don’t expect an orgasm.” 

Bright Eyes - “I have read a book about true love and am too scared to treat you badly. Please don’t have sex with me, as I will cry.” 

Embrace - “I really am in it for the music, because the public perception of my favourite band is terrible. Please have sex with me in a slightly dull, monogamous way.” 

Kompakt-style techno - “I transcend the body-mind divide by being intellectually into dancing. Please have sex with me on drugs.” 

Bloc Party - “I am very cool but not as alternative as I’d like to think, and I wish I knew more black people. Please have sex with me, but be careful not to mess-up my hair.” 

Girls Aloud - “I am a shallow pop whore. Let’s fuck! But it will be without true, meaningful emotion.” 

Arcade Fire - “I am into way more cool and obscure stuff than anyone else. Please let me say I had sex with you ages ago, before anyone else.” 

Oasis - “I am a piss-throwing troglodyte misogynist. I am going to date-rape you.”

Each of these assumptions says as much about the inferer as the inferred, if not more so. Each one is a value judgement based on cultural baggage, and everyone’s cultural baggage is different. Most internet-based discussion of music that I’ve come across deals not with what people like, but with what people dislike. What people like is a matter of assumption, some kind of unspoken test to see whether someone is cool enough to be spoken to, to be let into the secret club. You wouldn’t want someone uncool hanging around with the cool kids (on a messageboard, natch) and making them uncool by association because they like, heaven forbid, “The Whisper Song”, would you? 

Ah, “The Whisper Song.” Here’s what tintin1000 said about it: it sounds like there is an actual intellectual, logical reason behind the creation of the fucking whisper song. the whisper song is about fucking. since when has fucking merited any artistic credibilty? just plain, raw, primitive sex? This raises a whole other issue that indieboys can’t stand. Sex. It’s often been stated that indieboys are afraid to dance because they have an intrinsic “fear of the middle of the body,” a post-Victorian-era Catholic / Freudian guilt / paranoia about all things sexual which dates back, perhaps, to Morrissey’s fiercely foppish stance of asexuality and beyond, to Keats or Wordsworth or whoever, and the myth of the sexually-frustrated romantic, the idea that one’s art will be somehow purer if untainted by the dirty touch of lust. But go beyond that, go to Michelangelo sculpting David’s sensuous masculine frame; or all those countless portraits of St. Sebastian, pierced with arrows like an S&M; stunt gone awry, loincloth barely covering his genitals; all those pre-Raphaelite female nudes; every film to ever reveal more flesh than grandmother would like; to Led Zeppelin wailing about plain, raw, primitive sex and John Lennon trying to make the end of “A Day In The Life” sound like a great big musical orgasm. Very few people would question Björk’s artistic credibility, and she’s written countless songs about sex. People are rushing to proclaim Kate Bush’s Aerial a work of genius, and it’s positively dripping with eroticism. Sex is not the be-all-and-end-all of human existence, and to get too caught up in its alluring juices and scents can screw with your head (just ask Michael Douglas or any random Tory politician) but to claim that plain, raw, primitive sex has never inspired any worthwhile art is the folly of the hungry, short-sighted virgin. Pop music in particular (and The Mountain Goats and Deerhoof are as much pop music as Charlotte Church or Sisqo) is about sex. 

And of course sex is key to identity—as if I needed to say that after the assumptions about bands above. Anyone who ever wore skinny jeans or dyed their hair black did so because they wanted some of their idol’s allure by proxy, because they thought that listening to this record and wearing those shoes would get them laid. Everyone. Except me, of course, because I’m above it all. 

The problem with our intrepid hero tintin1000 is that he’s finding his identity, and is thus vulnerable to having the fragile foundations of that identity shaken. And so he sees Mountain Goats, an act he loves for their literate, melodic music made in the cottage-industry style, unadorned by commercial trappings but instead blessed with deep insight into the human condition, at number 50 on our list and is pleased, thinking, hoping and assuming that the rest of the list will continue to reaffirm his identity. Because he trusts Stylus, possibly, as someone he can talk to about these things. And there’s the fucking Ying Yang Twinz, wtf? And Gwen Stefani? And other music that is liked by the people he sees at college or in town and takes an instant dislike to for their shallow natures and unthinking ways, and it jars his assumptions about what it means to like Mountain Goats, about what it says about him when he realises what he thinks liking Kelly Clarkson says about other people. 

The thing is that once you stop worrying about what owning (and more importantly liking) a Girls Aloud record says about you, you can start taking it on its own merits, which are (generally) pretty plentiful. Something like Die Hard is a great film because it knows what it is and what it does and it executes its plan with zero faffing around—there’s no narrative fat in that film (unlike, say, the odious Goodfellas), every single event is a plot device, and there’s joy to be found in such craftsmanship, never mind the actual tangible visceral thrill of the finished article once we get past ontological rumination on the efficiency of the screenplay. Likewise Girls Aloud’s records are faultless exercises in meta-pop constructivism, not so much songs as processions of hooks and choruses with the boring, fatty verses left over for the likes of Okkervil River instead. And, of course, as with Die Hard there is the sheer physical joy of listening to them, of dancing to them, getting caught up in the beats and the insidious melodic hooks, which outweighs even the music-journalistic catnip attraction of playing spot-the-reference. 

And once you’re past the stage of crushing insecurity and aspirational identity positing, the idiocy inherent in statements like how in the hell do you distinguish which gwen stefani single is the "best" on the album? becomes clear. You distinguish your favourite (no such thing as objectivity, kids) Gwen Stefani song on Love Angel Music Baby in exactly the same manner as you would your favourite song on The Sunset Tree—by listening to the record and choosing the song that you like most, for whatever reason(s) it is that you ever like any song. Until your superego stops screaming at you that it’s bad to like Gwen Stefani though, that’s not going to happen. 

It works in stages though, this music / identity nexus. As a child one likes simple things, the multi-coloured hues of pop music perhaps, but once one senses the transition to adulthood one puts away childish things. By writing off whole areas of music for the simple reason that “it’s not the kind of thing someone like me listens to” you are, quite simply, denying yourself a whole lot of pleasures, both frivolous and profound. Malcolm X said in his autobiography that “children have a lesson adults should learn, to not be ashamed of failing, but to get up and try again. Most of us adults are so afraid, so cautious, so 'safe,' and therefore so shrinking and rigid and afraid that it is why so many humans fail. Most middle-aged adults have resigned themselves to failure.” It’s not just failing that we shouldn’t be ashamed of. A major finding in neuroscience in recent years is the extent to which our brains display advanced levels of ‘neural plasticity.’ We are not forever ‘hardwired’ for rigid modes of behaviour; we are not static ‘slaves’ to our DNA. There is a remarkable degree to which we can change ingrained patterns of thought, intention and practice. Our identities are not fixed, are not immutable—admitting that you enjoy a Britney record unironically will not destroy your future character. And that goes for an awful lot of things besides music. 

Of course this is all blatant assumption, and doesn’t mean anything at all. Except, perhaps, that you should give in to your ids, indie kids. 

[quickeningheart]

Nine

     Alley muttered to herself and punched the button on the elevator, waiting for the lift to carry her up to another floor. This was the fifth ride she’d taken so far in search of the elusive Main Office, and her nerves were about shot. And it was totallyStoker’s fault. He’d had her so turned around that she’d taken off without remembering to grab the GPS out of Priscilla’s glove-box, thus leaving her to find her way to the Chicago Institute of Art and Design without so much as a road map to guide her.

    After two hours of battling downtown mid-afternoon traffic, getting turned around twice (once going the wrong way up a one-way street), stopping at three different convenience stores to ask for directions, she’d finally made it to the main campus located three miles outside of the actual city. Only to be faced with another conundrum: the campus really was huge. The four buildings on the campus were huge. And only one of them contained the offices where she was supposed to fill out the final papers to turn in for the start of her school year.

    On a whim, she’d picked the biggest building that was located the furthest from the gated entrance, which had thankfully been the right choice (according to the random student she’d asked in passing). But now that she was in the place she was supposed to be, she found herself confused and lost all over again. The large floor layout maps hanging on the walls by the elevators and escalators were proving less than useful. Big red dots with the words “You are here” graced every one, but the maps themselves were all wrong, and didn’t seem to match the actual floor plans at all. So no matter where Alley supposedly was, she couldn’t help feeling like she was supposed to be somewhere else altogether!

    The elevator dinged, the door slid open, and she stomped out of the lift and turned right … only to run headlong into a wall of books and poster tubes, hard enough to knock herself flat on her ass. There was a startled yelp from behind the book-wall as it promptly came tumbling down, scattering tomes and tubes all around her. And the tall, skinny man who’d been holding them blinked owlishly at her from the wire-framed glasses that had been knocked askew on his nose.

    “I am so sorry!” Alley cried, scrambling to her knees to help pick up the scattered books. Her entire body was flaming with mortification. “I wasn’t looking and I knocked into you and I am just so sorry,” she babbled.

    “No worries,” the man grunted, getting to his feet. “I wasn’t exactly looking where I was going, either. What with the books blocking my view and all.” He offered a crooked grin, soft gray eyes smiling down at her through an unkempt mop of sandy brown curls. “You okay?” He offered a hand to help her up, which she gratefully accepted. “No broken bones or anything?”

    “Nah, I’m fine. How about you?” she replied. “I hit you pretty hard.”

    “Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s used to being knocked on his ass by girls.”

     The man heaved a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes as a woman dressed all in purple and black joined them. She smirked at him and kicked a poster tube out of her way with a well-worn engineer boot. “This your new method for picking up women? Play the injured puppy and get them cooing and drooling all over you in sympathy?” she teased.

    “Don’t you have some kittens to eat or something?’

    “I upgraded my diet to pig hearts this week. More protein.”

    Alley watched the two of them banter, fascinated. They were as different as two people could be. If she had to put a title, he was classic preppy nerd while the girl was clearly the punk-goth type. In normal society, these two would hardly take time to look at each other, much less interact like … well, a lot like her and Charley did, actually.

    “Are you two related by chance?” she blurted, and felt herself blushing all over again when the pair stopped talking and turned to face her. Goth Chic had gray eyes, too, she noted, heavily made up with dark shadow and liner. And she suspected that under the cherry-red hair dye, the girl’s natural hair color was also brown.

    “You’re good,” Goth Chic commented. “Most people don’t figure it out on the first try. You must have an annoying brother, too.”

    “I’m an only child, actually. But my cousin and I get along pretty much the same way,” Alley explained. “So, you’re siblings?”

    “Yeah, we’re twins. Can’t you tell?” Goth Chic’s voice was so bland, Alley couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

    Preppy rolled his eyes and smacked his sister across the head. “What the birth defect means to say is her name is Constance Archer. And I’m Christopher.”

    “Call me Chex,” the girl put in. “If you call me Constance or Connie, I'll be forced to kill you. You can call him the Mutant Hobbit.” Another smack over the head from said Hobbit. “Okay, fine, call him Chris.”

    Alley laughed. “Alley Davidson,” she said. “Freshly relocated from Florida. And you’re from?”

    “Oh, we’re born-and-bred Illinoisans,” Christopher replied with a grin. “Chi-town residents for the past ten years. A little town called Penbrooke before that.”

    “They call it a town, but it’s more like a speck of dirt on a map. You know, the kind you try and scratch off with your fingernail.” Chex demonstrated by scratching the air with a black-painted nail. "Oh, speaking of maps, I probably should tell you, the maps on the walls? They’ve been switched around.”

    Alley’s brow furrowed. “Switched?”

    “Yeah.” Chris nodded at the map behind them. “That one says Atrium floor, but the Atrium is actually in another building. This is the Hospic floor. Who knows where that map ended up.”

    Alley’s jaw dropped. “No wonder I can't figure out where I am!” she huffed. “What morons went and switched the maps?”

    “Just some prank from the senior students,” Chex said with a shrug. “The frat houses tend to pull crazy shit like this to confuse the hell out of the newbies. Congrats. You can consider yourself officially initiated. Welcome to college. Just like high school, but with a lot more drinking.”

     ~*~*~*~*~

   After picking up the rest of the books, the twins guided Alley to the correct office located on the first floor in the back of the building. They seemed to know their way around the place pretty well, and when Christopher told her why, she was astonished. “Your father is the dean?” she repeated.

    “Yeah, but don’t hold it against us,” Chex deadpanned. “We can’t help who we were born to.”

    “So you know this place pretty well, huh?”

    “We’ve been running around these buildings since we were kids. I always wanted to attend school here,” Chris told her. “My sister is here because her other option was Military boot camp, but the food is better here.”

    “Ah.” Alley grinned. “That would be those pig hearts you mentioned?”

    “And let us not forget the kittens,” Chex added. “So, what’re you majoring in?”

    “Well, because my parents absolutely insisted on me picking something I can make a real career out of, my major is graphic design. But since I’m not sure if that’s what I actually want to do, I’m minoring in creative writing and music composition, and looking into a few possible art courses for next semester.”

    “Sweet. Another writer type. I dig it.” Chex offered a high-five, but hastily reconsidered when she nearly dropped her armload of books. “What’s your preference? Novels? Poetry? Essays?”

    “Well, I don’t really know,” Alley admitted. “I’ve mostly kept journals and stuff, and I’ve written some song lyrics here and there, a few poems. But since I’ve never actually let anyone read any of it, I don’t know if they’re any good or not.”

    “You write music?” Chris asked.

    “Sort of. I didn’t take a lot of music classes in high school, but I do know my basics. I took piano lessons for eight years. I’m in the beginning course for music composition. I think it’d be fun to try writing my own songs.”

    “Do you sing, too?” he asked hopefully.

    “What’s with the twenty questions?” Chex nudged her brother. “Trying to recruit her for your little band?”

    Alley raised her eyebrows. “You’re in a band?”

    She must’ve sounded skeptical, because he drew himself up, looking a little wounded. “It’s nothing spectacular, just a garage band I put together back in high school, but we get decent gigs on weekends and stuff,” he replied. “It’s a lot of fun. Hang out, play good music. Get paid for it, even. Since we graduated, though, some of the members have left. The drummer headed to Oxford and our female lead singer is attending Juilliard. We’ve still got our bass and guitar players, and I sing and play the keyboard.”

    “That’s cool,” Alley said.

    “We’ll probably hold auditions for another keyboard player and singer once classes start. See if we can get some interest. It’d be great to keep the band going, if we can.”

    Chex cupped a hand to her mouth and added in a stage-whisper, “That’s a hint for you to show up and sing.”

    Chris mimicked the move. “She’s just mad ‘cause we won’t let her join. She can’t hold a note to save her life.”

    “Butthead.”

    “Birth defect.”

    “Awww, you guys love each other so much,” Alley teased. “Almost makes me wish I had a brother, too.”

    “Don’t. You’re better off,” Chex said blandly.

    Alley laughed. “So what’re you majoring in, Chex? You like writing, too?”

    “Connie has wanted to be a professional writer since she was old enough to pick up a pencil,” Chris said with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t get her started on the subject or you’ll never get her to shut up again.”

    “Don’t mind him.” Chex pulled a face at her brother. “ His ultimate goal in life is to be our dad’s personal Mini-Me. He fully plans to take over the position of dean when Pops retires.”

    “That’s not set in stone,” Chris muttered, blushing a little. “But it’s sort of a position that’s been passed down in the family since the school was founded. As the oldest son—”

    “As the only son,” she cut in with a snort.

    Chris shot her a brief glare before turning his attention back to Alley. “Our family founded this school,” he explained. "We don’t own it, per se, but it’s always been the Archer sons who have taken the position of dean.”

    “It’s got something to do with the founding father’s will or some sort of legal shit like that,” Chex put in, waving a dismissive hand. “Even though there’s a board of directors and all sorts of officials these days, they can’t kick an Archer son out of the position, unless he willingly steps down.”

    “So, when Dad retires, I’ll be taking over as the dean,” Chris finished.

    “Wow. That’s kind of nice, knowing you’ve got a career path all planned out for you.” Alley pursed her lips, considering. “Unless … you don’t want to be the dean? Then I guess it’d be kind of a pain in the ass.”

    “No, I’m willing to step into the position, but it’ll be after Dad retires, and since he’s only in his forties, that won’t be happening for awhile.”

    “So, what do you plan to do with yourself in the meantime?”

    “I’m majoring in musical composition, the advanced classes. I’d like a career in music. Maybe become a pianist, or even a teacher. It’d be kind of fun to teach classes here, actually.”

    Chex snorted. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, my brother really loves this school.”

    “Oh, like you’re one to talk.”

    Alley grinned as she listened to the twins’ bickering, which only ended when they finally reached their destination. “The offices are right through here," Chris announced, pushing open a set of swinging doors to reveal a posh waiting room.

    “The dean’s office technically closes at five,” Chex said, “but being his kids gives us certain advantages.” She flashed a cheeky smile at the secretary and sauntered down the short hallway as if she owned the place, stopping before a closed door. “Hey, Pops, you in?” she called.

    “C'mon in,” came a deep voice from the other side. Chex pushed the door ope and stepped into a large, richly furnished office with Chris and Alley bringing up the rear. “Got those books and posters you wanted,” she grunted, dumping her armload onto the mahogany desk. The dark-haired man on the other side glanced up from his ledger, gray eyes crinkling with a smile.

    “Thanks, kids.” His eyes fell on Alley. “I’m sorry, young lady, the office is closed now.”

    “Um,” Alley began, but Chris hastily stepped in. “She’s with us,” he explained. “She got lost trying to get here because someone went and switched all the floor maps on the walls.”

    “Again?” Mr. Archer rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Didn’t we just go through that last year?”

    “Better up the security, Pops.” Chex took her brother's armload of books and unceremoniously dumped them into an empty armchair. “Tricky bastards, those seniors.”

    “Language, Constance,” the dean sighed.

    “Sorry, Sir.” She didn't sound sorry at all.

    “Alley has some more papers she needed to sign. Think she could do that real quick? After all the trouble she had getting here and all…” Chris prodded.

    “Sure, sure. Have Mary pull the file. Alley, was it? You can sit at the table out there and finish what you need. I just ask that you be done by six thirty. That’s when Mary has to leave.”

    “Oh, that’ll be plenty of time. Thank you, Sir,” Alley replied gratefully, placing the poster tubes she was holding on the chair beside the books. She stood awkwardly, wondering if she should bow or curtsy or something, and settled for a polite nod as she turned to follow Chex back to the waiting area.

     ~*~*~*~*~

    Half an hour later, Alley was on the final paper, filling in her new address. She jotted Charley’s house phone down as a temporary number until she could buy a cell phone. She considered who to put as the emergency contact. Her parents were on the other side of the States, so they were out. Charley was the only person she knew in this city, aside from the mice, but she could hardly use their names. She wasn’t sure if they even used phones. Probably best to leave it blank for the moment. She could always fill it later.

    She glanced at the twins, who had for whatever reason decided to stick around; Chris had made himself comfortable in an armchair, absorbed in a well-worn copy of what looked like a science fiction novel.

    Chex lounged on a loveseat with her long black-and-purple-striped legs resting against the back of the couch and her bright red hair brushing the ground. She didn’t seem to care that her short, black-lace tutu skirt had ridden up her waist and now rested in a frothy pile on her stomach. Or that her upside-down face was slowly turning the same shade as her hair as her booted feet danced in the air, keeping time to whatever song was playing on her iPod. She completely ignored the disapproving glances both Mary and her brother kept tossing at her; if anything, they only seemed to encourage her as she drummed the air with her purple-gloved hands, body squirming as she danced on her back. Alley found herself grinning, wondering if she could convince Chex to come shopping with her for a new phone that week. She had a feeling that, despite their very different appearances, the two of them would get along swimmingly.

   A disturbance from the front of the waiting area caught her attention, and she looked toward the front desk, where three men had entered the doors and were casually strolling toward them, ignoring Mary’s frantic attempts to stop them.

    “Aw, shit,” Chex swore softly. “The Purple People Eater’s back.” She quickly flipped herself around and patted down her skirt, snatched a photography magazine off a nearby rack and hastily flipped it open. She didn’t seem to notice it was upside-down. “Keep your head down,” she hissed to Alley. “Don’t look at ‘em, don’t draw attention to yourself, and whatever you do, hold your breath. ”

    “Hold my—bwoaaarph,” Alley gagged as a most awful stench suddenly hit her like a brick to the face. She choked, one hand coming up to pinch her nose shut as she ducked her head, staring through tearing eyes at the forms in front of her. The three men passed them, and she dared to glance up for a better look, then did a triple-take. Purple People Eater was right! He was the largest man she’d ever seen. And he was dressed in the most glaringly purple pinstriped suit her eyeballs had ever had the misfortune to encounter. His greasy black hair was slicked back in some semblance of a coif and he carried a cane in one white-gloved hand. All he needed was a Tommy Gun and he’d be the epitome of the classic 1940s mob boss.

    He noticed her staring, gave her a cold smile that sent a chill shivering up her spine, and sauntered down the short hallway to Mr. Archer’s office. The two henchmen following him, looking more like typical thugs on a street corner than anything, didn’t even glance her way. She watched them go, wondering why in the world she felt like she’d seen him before.

    As soon as the office door opened and shut, Alley released her breath and gasped for air for a moment. “Holy hell,” she hissed. “Did somebody drop that guy into the Bog of Eternal Stench?”

    Chex burst out laughing and reached over to slug her brother in the arm. “See? I told you I wasn’t the only person in the world who watches Labyrinth!”

    “Well, we all must have some flaws,” Chris sniffed, shutting his book.

   “Says the guy reading The Man Who Fell to Earth for the umpteenth time.”

    “It’s a classic book!”

    “And Labyrinth is a classic movie!"

    “Guys!” Alley snapped her fingers to get their attention. “Focus. Who was that?”

    “Trouble,” Chris grumbled. “He’s been coming around lately. Dad says he’s been trying to convince him to sell him the school or something. He wants the land around it.”

    “Yeah, he seems to have it in his head that Pops owns the place and has the legal authority to sell out, or can convince the board members to sell out, or something. I dunno, the guy’s a nutball.” Chex circled her temple with a finger.

    “Well … hasn’t anyone called the cops on him or something?”

    “Won’t do any good.” Chris ran his fingers through his tousled curls, mussing them even further. “His thugs are there for show, but he hasn’t actually gotten violent or anything so they can’t toss his fat ass out. Dad wouldn’t, anyway. He prefers to keep the peace and try and talk things out.”

    “Yeah, he’s stupid like that,” Chex muttered, earning a glare from her twin.

    “Besides, we think he sort of owns the police. He lines their pockets and all.” Chris rubbed his fingers together.

    “He’s got some weird-ass cheese name,” Chex added. “Like, it really fits him, though.” She glanced at her brother. “What was it? Muenster? Pepperjack?”

    “Limburger,” Alley said quietly, as it abruptly hit her where she’d seen him before. In Throttle’s memories. “That’s Lawrence Limburger.”

    “Yeah! That’s it!” Chex laughed. “Smelly cheese for a really smelly guy!”

    “How often does he stop by?” Alley asked.

    “I dunno. He started coming around about two months ago. Once or twice a week, I guess. No big deal, really.”

    “No, listen, this is a big deal.” Alley shook her head. “That guy, he’s dangerous. He’s—” She stopped, struggling to think up a way to explain how dangerous. She doubted the truth would get her anywhere but locked up in a nuthouse. “He’s mafia,” she finally blurted. “He’s a boss in the mafia, and he’s buying up property all over the state to strip-mine it. He seems focused primarily on Chicago, though. My cousin, Charley? She’s been harassed by Limburger for years, trying to buy out her garage, or take it by force. She’s managed to resist, but only ‘cause she’s got some good friends helping her out. If it wasn’t for them, she’d be out of business by now. Possibly worse. He has gotten violent with her in the past. If something isn’t done to stop him, he’ll start using force to get what he wants here, too. Trust me on this, okay? I believe my cousin.”

    The twins stared at her, wide-eyed. Even Mary had stopped what she was doing to listen.

    “But, when he first showed up, Pops called the cops on him, and they didn’t do anything,” Chex finally said. “I mean, they said they couldn’t do anything.”

    “Never mind that he was legally trespassing, showing up after-hours without an appointment and even making veiled threats,” Chris added. “That’s why we figured he’s got the police in his pocket. They could’ve done something otherwise.”

    Alley chewed on her lower lip. “I gotta get back,” she decided. “I’ve been gone too long, anyhow. Charley needs her truck back, and I want to talk to the guys about this. Her friends, I mean. They can probably help, and the cops never even need to know.” She gathered the paperwork and slid it back into the folder, taking it to Mary.

    “You two should get yourselves home,” the secretary told the twins. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay and make sure Mr. Archer gets out safely. I’ll call security in to escort him if I have to.” She took the file from Alley and nodded. “Welcome to the Institute, Miss Davidson. I hope you’ll enjoy yourself here.”

    Alley flashed her a weak smile. “Well, can’t say it won’t be interesting, at least.”

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