#the election happened... literally everything else going terrible in the world for so many people...

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Manipulation of the Most Vulnerable

An Analysis of Fundy’s Dream in Las Nevadas Episode 3

i. INTRODUCTION

This essay is going to be analyzing the entirety of Fundy’s portion in Las Nevadas’ third episode. Like always, do not view this essay as gospel as I am not a flawless human being; I am merely giving my own personal opinions and thoughts about the scene. Additionally, all the people referred to in this essay pertains to the content creators’ fictional counterparts on the Dream SMP.

If you enjoy the essay, or just want to support me in general, reblogging the essay will mean so much to me! I work hard on these essays, so I do hope you get to enjoy them.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: manipulation, mentions of past violence, terrible mental states, possibly c!Quackity critical, insecurities, and self-worth issues

ii. QUACKITY’S BLATANT MANIPULATION AND THE DREAM SEQUENCE

What is a Legacy?

Legacy (ˈle-gə-sē)

“Something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past.”

As we begin discovering one’s purpose in life, naturally, we do anything in our power to fulfil them. But as we begin to do more, to get closer and closer to achieving our sense of purpose in this world, sometimes we have to ask ourselves: Is it enough? How much have I truly changed and impacted through my life’s purpose? Will what I do be deemed worthy enough for people to remember me by? Is this my legacy?

What is a legacy?

If you are a Hamilton fan like me, you might look at that and respond with “it’s planting seeds in a garden we never get to see.” But truly, what is a legacy? Can our legacies simply be defined by everything we’ve achieved in our lifetime no matter how big or small they might be, or is it defined by creating notable shifts in society that people will remember you by for centuries and centuries?

[full essay is under the cut! it’s 7k words :0]

To Quackity, your legacy is what something history remembers you by. Quackity is a very caring man, and at first, he believed he could guarantee his safety through pacifism. But after his conversation with Wilbur, he realized that the only way he can gain peace is through power, and to gain power, one has to be violent. That is the only way he could make a change in the Dream SMP, to guarantee his safety. He has to make as much noise as possible before he can finally lay low and rest.

And if his plans do succeed, if he can finally bring peace in the SMP despite achieving it through very torturous means, then he can have a wondrous legacy people can remember him by. To me, I’m not exactly sure if he prioritizes his safety through gaining power or his legacy more, but either way, a great legacy may be a byproduct of his plans for peace if executed correctly.

If he succeeds in creating a positive legacy for himself, a positive legacy for Las Nevadas, then there is a chance that he may guarantee that other people who join him may have a similar legacy as well. 

This is what he promises to Foolish, Purpled, and Fundy. These three, in Quackity’s eyes, are people with the potential of being something, but have stayed on the sidelines for too long. So, knowing that the entire SMP has lacked recognition and respect for these three members, Quackity gives them a misleading ultimatum: Join Quackity and have a chance to finally be highly recognized in the SMP, or deny his request and become nothing.

The truth is, our legacies as human beings don’t have to be defined by how remembered we are if we don’t want it to be that way. But with Quackity’s charm and with how vulnerable Foolish, Purpled, and Fundy are, it’s easy for Quackity to make them believe whatever he tells them to believe. 

Fundy’s Low Self-Worth

Out of the three, I think Fundy established his low sense of self-worth for the longest time. Ever since L’Manberg, it’s evident that Fundy didn’t like being infantilized by anyone. Despite this, Fundy is seen to appeal to any bout of recognition he can get. Whether it’d be Quackity giving him more recognition than Wilbur during the Elections, or Schlatt complimenting him on his hard work for Manberg, or him appreciating anyone who claims they want to adopt him, Fundy will easily appeal to recognition and praise. I’d even argue that he dictates his own self-worth depending on how much people give him recognition. 

And now, with Fundy being the most isolated and alone he has ever been, he is very much vulnerable to, well, anything, really. If Quackity decides to manipulate Fundy to join Las Nevadas, he doesn’t have to do much. Even the smallest bouts of recognition, the smallest threats, the smallest anything can be enough to push him to do whatever Quackity wants because, again, Fundy is currently at his lowest state possible.

While I’ll discuss more on Quackity’s manipulation tactics later, we can easily denote how little Quackity did to make Fundy feel pressured enough to agree to his request. Fundy’s entire portion was literally thirteen minutes long. As much as Fundy stuttered and protested a bit when Quackity told him he didn’t matter, Fundy was mostly silent during the last few scenes. 

Fundy depends on other people to dictate his self-worth, so when he’s the most alone he’s ever been, of COURSE he clings onto the first opportunity he gets to finally be remembered once again. No matter how many times he’s been warned by Phil and his dreams, no matter how much he can protest against Quackity, Fundy realizes that this is the best opportunity he can get to receive even an ounce of recognition.

Even if it is, well, fake. It’s better than nothing, he supposes.

Was the Quackity We Saw Real?

From what I’ve understood, I think that it is heavily implied that Fundy’s dream sequence will become a reality. At 1:16:42 of Quackity’s stream, Dream!Quackity says, “Fundy! My good ol’ friend, how’ve you been?” which is exactly the same thing the real Quackity says in 1:25:57. 

Additionally, a lot of Quackity’s word choices in Fundy’s dream sequence make so much more sense if you applied them in real life. This is how I believed the entire dream sequence could be applied to reality: Fundy wakes up in the same home with Quackity outside of his door. They stroll through nature for a while before approaching the remains of L’Manberg. While their conversation about the decorations might’ve been done above the crater, I think that the entire Camarvan scene was set in Eret’s museum, something not too far away from the crater. Afterwards, the last scene takes place they return back to L’Manberg, entering Eret’s abandoned tower.

I’m going to list down everything said that could possibly hint that this dream sequence will happen in real life. There’ll also be some additional notes for certain quotes I’d love to expound on.

“Take a walk with me, take a little walk with me. Don’t you enjoy the fresh air? Don’t you enjoy the beautiful outdoors? I sure do.” - Quackity, 1:16:52-1:17:01

If we substitute the current scenery with where Fundy’s home actually is, I do think it makes a lot more sense as Fundy kind of lives in the middle of the woods.

“What do you mean ‘how am I here’, Fundy? I found you! It’s exactly what I wanted to do- was to find you. And you know- you’re a hard person to find. But I’m glad I found you!” - Quackity, 1:17:16-1:17:27

Fundy has recently built a new house in the middle of the woods and has not told anyone in the SMP about his whereabouts. Again, if you substitute the current scenery with Fundy’s actual home, then what Quackity’s saying makes a lot more sense.

“Fundy, don’t you enjoy the great outdoors? It feels so free! It feels so full of life, full of energy, don’t you think, Fundy?” - Quackity, 1:17:37-1:17:49

Something something, substitute the scenery with the forest Fundy lives in, something something.

“What is this place?” 

“Fundy, you should know this place better than anyone. You should know it better than anyone, Fundy, what do you mean ‘what is this place’? You should know it better than anyone else, Fundy. You and me, actually! You don’t remember what this place is, what it means? Come on, don’t tell me you already forgot.” - Fundy and Quackity, 1:18:03-1:18-26

If this was set above the crater, this piece of dialogue also makes sense. 

“What is all of this doing here? It was gone, it was blown up-”

“This was home, Fundy, it was home! No, Fundy, it’s always been here, we’ve always been here. You and me, we’ve always been here.” - Fundy and Quackity, 1:19:48-1:20:01

To explain the Camarvan- I do think that there’s a possibility that they entered Eret’s museum and viewed it from there. Additionally, Quackity’s response can still be applied in the real world if you interpret his statements as “Well, it’s blown up, but we still consider this place as home! ‘Home’ still exists, you know?”.

While we can’t fully confirm whether Fundy’s real meeting with Quackity went as it did in the dream, I do think that something would have happened in a similar fashion. After all, we did see Fundy at the end of Foolish’s stream “Las Nevadas - Dream SMP (LORE)” at Las Nevadas. Maybe he was also manipulated and offered the same thing Dream!Quackity offered in real life?

Quackity’s Manipulation

Here comes the juicy bit. If we assume that what Quackity did in Fundy’s dream will also happen in real life, then I will refer to everything in that dream as fact, okay? Now, I think it’s clear to everyone that Quackity is a really good manipulator. He is meticulous with his word choice and can make his statements sound believable through his charm. 

I’ll try explaining all the tactics he uses here, then later, I’ll list down everything Quackity says and try to connect it back to different manipulation tactics I’ve mentioned.

The tactic Quackity uses the most is how he uses pronouns. When Quackity refers to himself with the “I” pronoun, he always seems to present as a good friend to Fundy, as Fundy’s savior. This can also be applied when he uses the “we” pronoun as he implies that certain accomplishments were only achieved when Fundy did it WITH Quackity. When he refers to Fundy using the “you” pronoun, he always does it to remind Fundy of certain mishaps and mistakes. As if to say that these awful situations were Fundy’s fault, not Quackity’s. This tactic is mostly used for victims of manipulation to believe that their manipulators are their saviors, that their manipulators can do no wrong. At the same time, they begin to doubt their own selves as their manipulators continuously associate these victims with negative words.

Another tactic Quackity uses is praise and speaking on behalf of Fundy. It doesn’t happen as much as the first tactic, but at certain parts, Quackity seems to be instructing Fundy what he’s feeling. That he doesn’t matter, that he won’t be remembered; you don’t even notice that Fundy barely even spoke in the dream sequence because Quackity mostly spoke on his behalf. Additionally, during the L’Manberg scenes, Quackity continuously praised Fundy. Not only does the constant praise butter Fundy up, but it also preys on Fundy’s insecurities. If Fundy depends on others to dictate his self-worth, then of COURSE Quackity praising Fundy could be easily seen as manipulation as Quackity uses Fundy’s insecurities for his own advantages.

Another tactic Quackity uses is that he constantly brings up their past of working together to make it seem like it’s them versus the rest of the world. Never has Quackity looked like the flawed person in the conversation. Never has Quackity brought up the fact that they’ve fought multiple times in New L’Manberg . Quackity made it seem like that the others were in the wrong, that they were both victims of unfortunate circumstances, but Quackity always remarked that they were able to make it through everything together.

Lastly, this is less frequent, but at certain parts of the sequence, Quackity outright ignores questions uttered by Fundy and changes the subject to talk about something else. Literally just ignored him. Do I even have to explain why Quackity ignoring Fundy could possibly be a manipulation tactic to make Fundy feel more inferior?

Now, there are probably more manipulation tactics I’ve missed, but granted, I am NOT in any way an expert and wouldn’t know the specifics when it comes to gaslighting. Even then, we can all agree that Quackity is, indeed, manipulating Fundy, and to further expound on this, I’m going to list down every single line or action done by Quackity and explain why they could be considered as manipulation.

I do want to mention that, when viewing some of these lines alone, they may not SEEM to be manipulative, but we also have to consider that successful manipulation and gaslighting is a gradual process. A single, harmless-seeming line can be damaging when you view the full scope of things. 

“Fundy! My good ol’ friend, how’ve you been?” - Quackity, 1:16:42-1:16:46

A lot of the quotes here are going to follow the first tactic I’ve mentioned where Quackity continuously uses first-person pronouns to make Fundy think positively when it comes to Quackity, but uses second-person pronouns to antagonize Fundy.

“What do you mean ‘how am I here’, Fundy? I found you! It’s exactly what I wanted to do- was to find you. And you know- you’re a hard person to find. But I’m glad I found you! I think that’s the most important thing: that we are here together now. And I am finally speaking to you- I think that’s the greatest thing!” - Quackity, 1:17:16-1:17:35

This, I think, is the first comment from Quackity that screams “SUS.” While we can interpret it in a literal sense, we can also view it in a metaphorical sense. Quackity is claiming that Fundy is hard to find, but despite the difficulty, Quackity found him! Amongst everyone in the SMP, it’s Quackity who is the first to find him! That’s what Quackity wants Fundy to believe: that Quackity is his savior for finding him, that it’s better for Fundy to even be here WITH him. The “greatest thing”, apparently, is Quackity being able to speak to Fundy, and nothing else.

“Fundy, don’t you enjoy the great outdoors? It feels so free! It feels so full of life, full of energy, don’t you think, Fundy?” - Quackity, 1:17:37-1:17:49

While I’m not sure if this counts, I do think Quackity’s insistence that Fundy enjoys the great outdoors kind of implies that Quackity is speaking on behalf of Fundy. Additionally, he doesn’t even let Fundy reply to his question? At the beginning, he repeatedly asks Fundy how he is, but he never gives Fundy an opportunity to reply. Either Fundy seems too dazed out of thought, or Quackity immediately interrupts Fundy and says something else.

“Fundy, you should know this place better than anyone. You should know it better than anyone, Fundy, what do you mean ‘what is this place’? You should know it better than anyone else, Fundy. You and me, actually! You don’t remember what this place is, what it means? Come on, don’t tell me you already forgot.” - Quackity, 1:18:03-1:18-26

Now we get to the “you” pronouns. Quackity repeatedly insists that Fundy should have known better, or Fundy should have had better memory. This adds onto the idea that Quackity attributes positive ideas to himself, but whenever something’s wrong, he blames it on Fundy. 

“You’re telling me you don’t remember that place right there? When we had the huge elections? Or how about… Fundy, do you remember when we tried to kill Technoblade and we failed? That’s where I got my scar! What about the festival? Do you remember the festival, Fundy? The balloons and the decorations. I never had anything to do with the decorations, Fundy, I- I just… sat back and watched people do it because I’m not good with decorations but… you know.” - Quackity, 1:18:29-1:19:05

Now, Quackity begins to remind Fundy about their joint past together. While not seemingly manipulative, Quackity is basically trying to remind Fundy that there are multiple instances in the past where they were allies, implying that now, they must still be allies. Quackity is trying to remind Fundy that they worked best when they were together, giving Fundy the impression that Quackity is someone to be trusted. It doesn’t help when later on, we realize that Quackity is doing all this sweet talk only for him to convince Fundy to join Las Nevadas. Additionally, during Quackity’s spiel, he continues to ignore a lot of Fundy’s remarks and questions.

“What about the elections? You were part of the elections, do you remember? You were- you ran for president too!”

“I did! And I got the worst votes. I did not even get close…” 

“But you tried and I think that was the most important thing. You ran with Niki and you made the Coconut party.”

“Yeah! We tried.” - Quackity and Fundy, 1:19:14-1:19:36

Quackity’s buttering him up. Most people tend to ignore Fundy and Niki’s party in the elections, and I think this is the first time I’ve seen someone acknowledge it in a positive manner? Again, Fundy thrives when receiving recognition, so complimenting him is an easy way for Quackity to get Fundy to trust him. But of course, he has to keep compliments to a minimum because he doesn’t want Fundy feeling too confident about himself.

“Is that what I think it is? It’s the van, Fundy! Do you remember all the great memories we had in the van?”

“What is all this doing here? This is crazy!”

“No, this is home, Fundy! This is home.”

“What is all of this doing here? It was gone, it was blown up-”

“This was home, Fundy, it was home! No, Fundy, it’s always been here, we’ve always been here. You and me, we’ve always been here.” - Quackity and Fundy, 1:19:41-1:20:02

Quackity is asserting that a lot of good memories were born from the van. Granted, he does acknowledge that they’ve had some arguments in the van later on, but their conversation seemed too… optimistic. Quackity convinces Fundy that they’ve shared a lot of good experiences when they were in the van together even if we KNOW that in NLM, most of the time, they only used the van when they had to discuss an awful issue. But Quackity here is convincing him that them working together in this van was HOME to Fundy. He’s convincing Fundy that he can always find a home in their friendship when we know that’s probably false.

“The amount of times we came here when we were incredibly stressed, but we always- we always figured out a way, I mean, I guess.”

“We always figured out a way, Fundy, we always figured out a way.” - Fundy and Quackity, 1:20:15-1:20:26

And see? The manipulation is working. Fundy’s beginning to look at his past with a positive light because Quackity’s trying to convince him that all the experiences they’ve shared together are great. And Quackity agrees to Fundy’s statement! Again, he’s building up Fundy’s trust in Quackity by convincing him that their moments together in the past were all sunshine and rainbows.

“Oh that brings back memories- I mean, I don’t know if they’re good memories- It’s literally a drug lab, but… yeah, you know-”

“Everything is good memories, Fundy. All the experience and everything we did together. You know I wasn’t here for the start but I was sure part of everything, you know, towards the end, when it was all, you know, just blatantly destroyed. But it’s here now! That’s what matters is that it’s here, and that it’s never actually gone.” - Fundy and Quackity, 1:20:41-1:21:09

And here’s Quackity reaffirming that yes, every experience we had in the past is good, and that we should acknowledge them as good memories. Fundy seemed like he was going to doubt the goodness of his memories, but Quackity immediately interjects, convincing him that it is. He tells Fundy that their moments together is really all that matters. These so-called “good memories” still exist, and Quackity implies that these memories can still live on because their friendship is still as stable as it was in the past. Something something, Quackity convinces Fundy that their friendship is good so he can build trust and get Fundy to do whatever he wants later on, something something.

“Fundy do you remember when- when L’Manberg was destroyed? It was blown up to pieces!”

“Everything was gone. It was done multiple times. Every time it was reb-”

“There was nothing we can do about it. There’s nothing we can do about it- unless you can do something about it.” - Quackity and Fundy, 1:21:22-1:21:41

Now here’s where Quackity begins to ask something from Fundy. Here, Quackity’s seen leading Fundy to Eret’s tower, so you know things are about to go down. Here, Quackity implies Fundy can do something about this cycle of violence, but what Quackity wants Fundy to do seems kind of… vague. He’s leading Fundy on, motivating Fundy he can do something, but not mentioning what he can actually do. This is so that afterwards, when Quackity presents his plan, Fundy may believe that it may help stop the cycle of violence in the SMP. Additionally, Quackity implies that all of this depends on Fundy, so Fundy may feel obligated to accept the plan, but in reality, Quackity may be possibly recruiting Fundy for his own benefit.

“Look, look up! It’s a tower.”

“The amount of battles we’ve fought from up here… down on Dream and Technoblade as well.”

“Yeah, Fundy! You remember that, right?”

“Yeah, I do!”

“Remember all these things we did for our country. It was great!” - Quackity and Fundy, 1:21:52-1:22:13

This is like the millionth time Quackity asks if Fundy remembered a certain “good” experience they had, as if he really wanted Fundy to believe that they were genuinely good memories. And here, we finally see Fundy respond positively, now fully believing that these memories were, indeed, great. It seems like Quackity has finally gotten Fundy to trust him completely by this point.

“But you know what, Fundy? Those memories don’t matter. None of that matters, Fundy. All these structures, all these things we’ve built together- it’s here now, but it’s really gone! And none of it matters, nor will it ever matter. Fundy, if you think about it, YOU don’t matter.” - Quackity, 1:22:18-1:22:46

Here we go, boys. Quackity begins to reveal his true intentions to Fundy. Here, he practically confirms that he doesn’t actually think highly of those past experiences as much as he claimed he did earlier. Again, all of it was a ploy for him to get Fundy to trust him, and now, Quackity begins to reveal his true plans. Additionally, Quackity begins discussing legacies again, or I guess, his perception of what a legacy is. This view on legacies is honestly quite an awful perspective for Fundy as he already has trouble finding a sense of self-worth on his own. Now that Quackity is telling him that he’s nothing unless he does something about it, Fundy’s perception on self-worth will become even more skewed.

“Along with all these structures and everything in ‘em, you’re gonna fade away just like it. Do you see how the sand in the winds slowly deteriorates the structure that we stand upon right now? That’s what’s gonna happen to you, but it’s not gonna be sand and wind, it’s gonna be time, Fundy. It’s gonna be time. You don’t matter, Fundy, that’s what you have to realize. You WON’T matter if you don’t change things up. That’s why you’re in the position that you’re in right now.” - Quackity, 1:22:49-1:23-26

Again with the same legacy talk. As much as we know that Quackity is a master manipulator, I still wonder if he genuinely wants to provide Fundy a real legacy, or is trying to use Fundy to benefit his own legacy. Either way, no matter how genuine Quackity’s concerns are, this perspective on self-worth is still a toxic philosophy for someone like Fundy who needs to learn that self-worth depends on yourself and not some other factors like other people and legacies.

Also, gotta mention that he’s doing the pronoun switch again. He didn’t say “I think you don’t matter,” he says, “YOU don’t matter”. It’s very subtle, but Quackity switching pronouns means he’s trying to emphasize that these horrible things Fundy is experiencing is Fundy’s fault entirely.

“But, you know what? It doesn’t have to be that way, and I can help you. I have big plans, Fundy. I have big plans… and, you know what? As a fellow cabinet member, I wanna bring you in on these plans because I know the experience you have. I know what you’ve been through because I’ve been through it as well. You can change things and be something. You don’t have to end up like this structure: alone, destroyed, nothing else to it. Fundy, Fundy, all you have to do is join me. Join me in my projects. I’ll give you the tools to succeed. I’ll give you the tools to finally be someone because you’re nobody right now. Nothing’s gonna happen if you let time take you away, Fundy. I can help you be someone. You can join me, Fundy. You can join me in the things that I’m doing. And I know you have the capacity to do big things, but the way things are right now, you’re not gonna be anything. You’re never gonna be anything. You’re gonna end up just like this building. You’re gonna end up alone. You’re gonna let time take you away. You’re going to die, and no one is going to remember you… just like it happened in L’Manberg. You understand now what I’m saying Fundy?”

“What do you expect me to do? What do you expect me to do?”

“Take the tools that I’m giving you, Fundy. Take the tools and do something big. I’m offering them to you right now. You can have ‘em. You can be someone else. You can be someone big. Fundy, I’m gonna give you ten seconds to decide.” - Quackity and Fundy, 1:23:46-1:25:31

And this is quite long, but notice the shift in pronouns. When using “you” like in the previous quote, Quackity attributed it with something negative, but now he’s using “I” and he’s attributing it to something positive. He claims that while Fundy might be in a terrible position, Quackity can save him, can help him. 

Additionally, Quackity is trying to speak on Fundy’s behalf once more. He claims that he understands, describing what Fundy might possibly feel like in thorough detail. Now that Fundy trusts him, Fundy can’t protest. Sure, he did utter a few murmurs, but by the end of Quackity’s spiel, he somewhat agrees.

And he offers him the misleading ultimatum: join Quackity, or you will be nothing. With the amount of times Quackity has planted that Fundy is the cause of his own demise and the amount of times Quackity poses as a solution to Fundy’s own problems, of COURSE Fundy feels pressured to accept the offer. Even if he was warned by the book, even if Fundy is possibly smarter than what he leads on, Fundy was extremely gaslit to the point where he thinks accepting the offer is the most ideal choice. And that’s what he (presumably) does. He accepts it.

iii. POSSIBLE SYMBOLISMS

Just like Fundy’s first Las Nevadas lore stream, this stream is also littered with possible symbolisms. So, I’ll try my best to explain them all.

Experience Points and Numbers

Now, I want to emphasize that as much as I am a mathematics nerd, I may be calculating this incorrectly. But anyway, Fundy is seen to have two different levels: 3 in the overworld, and 7 in his dream.

Let’s focus on the overworld first:

So, as much as I’d like to dig into the number 3, I do think we have to take note of the EXP more than the level Fundy’s on. To get to the third level, you’d need 27 EXP. To calculate for the remaining, we have to denote that he needs 13 EXP to get to the next level. We have to note down that approximately 15/18 bars are filled, so 15/18 of 13 is approximately 11. I can get more into detail about the extra few bars filled, but trust me, it results in the same number when we round it off anyway, so we don’t need to explain that. Anyway, 11 + 27 = 38. 38 is a very familiar number, don’t you think? It’s the number of potatoes Fundy had in the “Fundy’s Mind” stream! 

According to angelnumber.org, the number 38 means the following:

“The combination of these two numbers makes the number 38 a number which signifies joy and optimism, courage, finding creative ways to materialize abundance, reality, etc.

The essence of the number 38 in numerology are different kind of relationships, such as romantic ones, business partnerships, teamwork, cooperation, diplomacy, etc.

Number 38 people have a talent for dealing with people in a caring and creative way. They are born team-workers. They need interaction with other people to fully enjoy their lives. They are usually optimistic and have a gift of inspiring others to action.”

Needing interaction from other people, they say? Interactions that even come from people like business partners? And afterwards, they can materialize abundance, like financial success?

Besides that, if we connect the number 38 to gambling, 38 is very prominent in a game of roulette as in the American style of roulette, there are thirty-eight pockets in one wheel.

Now, what about Fundy’s level in the dream?

We can think of 7 as somewhat of a lucky number when it comes to poker as it connects to the lucky number 7 in slot machines.

If we want to look more into this, we gotta calculate for the EXP. To get to the seventh level, we need 91 EXP. To calculate for the remaining EXP, we have to denote that we need 21 EXP to get to the eighth level. Approximately, 8/18 bars are filled up, so we have to find the 8/18 of 21. 8/18 of 21 = 9.33333, or rounded off, it’s 9. Add 9 to 91, we get the perfect number 100. 

According to angelnumber.org, the number 100 means the following:

“The angel number 100 signifies infinite potential, self – determination, isolation, wholeness, self – sufficiency and independence.

People who resonate with this number are very independent and self –sufficient.

They enjoy exploring new things and gaining knowledge. They don’t mind being alone and doing the things they enjoy. This number brings them leadership qualities and openness.”

This is interesting because the meaning here completely contradicts the meaning of the number 38. To me, I feel like this represents how Fundy is able to heal and to overcome his self-worth issues. He may feel like he needs to depend on other people, but in reality, Fundy’s self-worth can completely be honed by himself. This represents a Fundy who is finally able to find the true worth in himself without depending on other people’s input. But for now, this reality remains in Fundy’s head, in Fundy’s dreams, and he needs to find a way to make this become his true reality.

Additionally, going back to the gambling motif, 100 is the highest possible poker chip one can have when gambling. This can direct back to Fundy’s connections to Quackity, the person with the highest authority in Las Nevadas.

Color Symbolism (The Importance of Orange)

I’ve established this in an essay in the past, but orange is an important color to Fundy. If I remember correctly, cc!Fundy’s favorite color is orange, so I’d like to believe that, for Fundy, orange would represent “happiness” or “safety”.

The first time we see orange in his portion is actually outside of his dream: his bed.

And it’s quite interesting because in Fundy’s “Fundy’s Mind” stream, these three beds all used to be orange. From my understanding, these two extra beds were meant to represent two other people Fundy may consider as friends. In the “Fundy’s Mind” stream, Fundy showed that only Ranboo and Niki were online, implying that the two extra beds were for them. If orange is meant to represent happiness, then it's implied he viewed Niki and Ranboo as his source for happiness.

But now, the two beds next to him are white, implying that he lost his sources of happiness. As if he had stopped communicating with Niki and Ranboo entirely.

Other places we see orange are in the dream itself.

Instead of the typical yellow sand desert we expect from Fundy’s dreams, we see a badlands biome. Yes, the name of the sand is “Red Sand”, but I don’t care because it just LOOKS orange, okay? It’s interesting that instead of yellow, the desert poses as Fundy’s favorite color. Orange is a safe color for Fundy, but we also have to remember that this is still a desert. Under the guise of Fundy’s favorite color is something that represents isolation and loneliness - fitting for a stream that’s about manipulation, no?

Additionally, on the way to the ruins of L’Manberg, Fundy and Quackity are guided with blue lanterns.

Blue is orange’s complementary color. We can think of it as orange’s opposite, representing everything that orange does not represent for Fundy. So, if blue can represent something that isn’t happiness and safety, and Quackity is leading Fundy to follow these blue lanterns, then these blue lanterns can be seen as a sign of deceit, of danger. And Fundy follows them anyway.

Entering the Camarvan

This was incredibly subtle, but I find it interesting that Quackity was able to open the Camarvan’s doors when Fundy has mentioned he was never able to do it in his own dreams. This can lead back to the idea that Quackity wants to present himself as someone great, as someone akin to a savior to Fundy. Because if Fundy can’t access the Camarvan in his dreams, and Quackity can, then he might view Quackity as superior in some way. He’s weak, he can’t do anything, but Quackity can, so naturally, he thinks of him as superior.

In the Shadows

This one is the most obvious, but by the end of Fundy’s portion, Quackity is seen slowly inching closer and closer to the shadows. To me, this represents that Fundy isn’t going to be uplifted by Quackity’s offer at all. Quackity is literally dragging him into the shadows even more, which is ironic considering the fact that he stated that he will help Fundy become more recognized. But the metaphor speaks volumes: Quackity is going to pull Fundy into a dark, dark place. His offer isn’t as nice as it sounds, and Fundy needs to be incredibly careful.

Hiding His Inventory

When Fundy wakes, he completely hides his inventory. He does this a lot throughout the stream, and while I don’t want to overanalyze since I know this might just be a cinematic choice, I can’t help but feel like this is a metaphor for Fundy losing himself. We don’t see his hand, we don’t see his inventory, his health or anything, we just see his surroundings, and most importantly, we see Quackity. Only Quackity.

iv. HARKENING BACK TO THE “FUNDY’S MIND” STREAM

As much as we still have many questions about the semantics of Fundy’s dreams, I do think there are a few things from this stream that did clarify certain aspects of the first stream. If not, there are at least certain parallels that we can’t exactly ignore either.

Quackity is the Forewarned “Him”

Do not join him.

Whatever he asks of you.

Do NOT join him.

his plans aren’t as nice as they sound.

his intentions aren’t what you think they are.

he will use you

he will destroy you

everything you ever loved

everyone you ever cared about

do not join him

This one is pretty self-explanatory. At this point, I do want to think that Quackity is, indeed, the “him” being referred to here. I do want to keep my mind open for future possibilities as the Dream SMP is littered with red herrings, but for now, it just makes the most sense that the book is referring to Quackity.

Additionally, from what the book mentions, it seems like Quackity doesn’t genuinely want to help Fundy. To be fair, we can’t fully be sure that Quackity’s intentions are purely evil, but the book does imply that Quackity only views Fundy as another pawn.

The Dangers of Sleeping for Too Long

The signed book in Fundy’s first dream seems to imply that there are consequences to staying in the dream world for too long. In my opinion, Fundy’s dream in Las Nevadas’ third episode shows what might possibly happen if Fundy stays for too long. The more Fundy uncovers the truths about his future, the more he gets exposed to traumatizing experiences like the one he had with Quackity.

Additionally, it’s been hinted by Fundy that when he wakes, he can’t exactly remember what his dream is about, but he can recall the emotions he’s felt while having them. So, if Fundy can only remember what he felt while dreaming, then the dread and horror he felt while witnessing nightmares pass over. The main con of this is that even if Fundy witnesses these future-predicting events in his dream, he won’t be able to avoid them when he wakes because he can’t remember them. So, all his dreams can do is literally traumatize him. No matter how many times it can warn him about Quackity, Fundy won’t even remember them. All he can remember is a sense of dread which only makes him more vulnerable in real life as his mental state worsens.

Hooded Figure

This kind of fits under the symbolism category, but to me, it’s interesting that both the hooded figure in the first dream and Quackity in the most recent dream kind of have the same blocking. Fundy goes outside and a figure waits for him, standing directly across Fundy’s door.

If the hooded figure is Quackity, it is interesting that they chased Fundy as if intending to murder him. Again, another warning for us to not trust Quackity.

v. WHAT DOES THIS MEAN FOR FUNDY?

In the middle of writing this, Fundy decided to do a lore stream where he finally joins Las Nevadas, so we kinda know what’s going to happen. That lore stream was pretty interesting because a lot of the manipulation tactics I’ve mentioned earlier were used by Quackity once more to further convince Fundy to stay in Las Nevadas.

That’s not to say Quackity doesn’t genuinely believe in all the words he’s said to Fundy. I do think Quackity does believe in his statements on legacy and loneliness, but the thing we have to question is whether Quackity genuinely cares about Fundy’s wellbeing wholeheartedly. Because, let me be frank: if Las Nevadas ever gets terrorized, and Fundy’s life would be in danger, I don’t think Quackity would genuinely want to save him. It’s already heavily implied that Fundy is going to be used by Quackity, but I’m genuinely curious as to why. We know Quackity does want him to work there, but what are the specifics? What specific role does he want Fundy to play? Why is he going so far as to give Fundy a plot of land just for him to stay? What does Quackity specifically want from Fundy?

Again, I’m not sure, and all will be revealed in the future, but just know that I do not trust Quackity at all. He may have some true intentions but we know Quackity will do anything as long as it benefits whatever plan he has up his sleeve.

And I have to emphasize that if Fundy ever has a breakdown or experiences a traumatic event, it is NEVER going to be his fault. Because as much as we can say that “Fundy is bringing his own demise,” we have to remember that Quackity is the real mastermind behind anything that happens in Las Nevadas. Believing Fundy or any of Las Nevadas’ coworkers are at fault for something Quackity enabled is exactly what Quackity wants us to believe. 

Again, if any of the Las Nevadas members ever have a mental breakdown, or lose a canon life, there’s a good chance that Quackity knew this was going to happen and allowed it to happen in the first place. All coworkers at the moment are victims of Quackity’s manipulation, and we always have to keep that in mind.

vi. CLOSING REMARKS

Like I mentioned earlier, I am not a saint, so please do not view this essay as gospel. If you do enjoy it, feel free to like, reblog, and share it to other people! I’d appreciate any amount of support I get! If you want to discuss this topic further, feel free to message me or reply to this post!

Special thanks to Fundy, Quackity, and everyone else who participated in this lore stream. Additional special thanks to Alyssa for beta reading! :D

[sokayisaidiot]

Dream SMP Assumption #7

Today’s topic: Everybody is suffering and you know it.

Please DO NOT read if you’re uncomfortable with the themes of death, depression and suicide. It’s a very complicated theme. I did NOT study it and do NOT know some aspects of it. I just go off the things I saw in the smp and made my own theories about it. If you’re even slightly triggered by this, please stop and do NOT try to read it. Please do NOT put yourself in some kind of uncomfortable zone.

Please do not. Thank you

(This is all assumptioning from the fictional world of dream smp)

(Heavy spoilers on the resent events)

(Also just assumptions, when you know something, you can always drop it :))

(Mainly around the lmanburg way, sadly need to learn more about badlands ): )

(This Series is created by another person, that’s just too fuckin lazy to move her butt)

Trigger warning today:

Suicide thoughts

(PTSD)

Depression

War

Child Neglect

Betrayal and Trust Issues

Death

Lets get this straight, no one is pure evil just because. Everybody has something happening and BOOM, finished chaos and sadness and strange behavior and aggressiveness and- You get me? Good. I will take on EVERYBODY who says that a person in the story didn't suffer. I aint a Apologist either. I just want to make some things clear who suffered how. Understand? Good.

Stop saying “[Character] didn't suffer!” Hell yes somehow everybody, close in the lore, fuckin did.

LET’S GET STARTED

__________________________

Tommyinnit

Lets start with one, who should be pretty obvious. Tommy. In my second Assumption, I explained symptoms of PTSD and Depression. 

He was never really trusted by any point

Was just as used as Techno, because who had Tommy controlled was pretty powerful

He was exiled by a country, he HELPED saving MULTIPLE times

He saw his brother get killed by his father

He experienced so many deaths (Tubbo’s, in the final control room, Schlatts, 

He lost his pets 

He lost his belongings

Has to be on edge constantly

Gets accused by someone and then MOSTLY EVERYBODY believes, it was him

He isn’t really taken seriously

He gets seen as power-hungry person

People literally having him on the Hitlist

He nearly saw his best friend dying, on a mission, that was started by him

His older Brother, who he has an confused relationship with, doesn't even want to be revived.

Lost his brother to insanity and had to sit in the FRONT ROW of this spiral

PTSD

Depression

Suicidal thoughts

Betrayal

next to no one on his actual side

got left by almost everyone

was stuck on a island with an amnesiac ghost, who is a shell of his older brother

gets told his comfort items he had before everything else didn't matter

constantly has to live on the edge because he runs around with one just fuckin heart

Tubbo

Next to Tommy, he also suffers from PTSD, Depression and Suicidal tendencies. And that doesn't mean you kill yourself. It means you are too careless to give a fuck. And that can happen. TUbbo was way too easy to give up his OWN LIVE for something his best friend has passion in it.

He got publicly executed in a place HE DECORATED by someone he considered his Allie

Had the burden of Presidency on his YOUNG shoulders

The People who had to teach him about it, were also there for the tyranny

Got constantly considered a pawn, a throwable item

The adults use him as a figure head and proceed then to use him

He HAD to exile his best friend, or Tommy would have died sooner than ever

PTSD

Suicidal in a way of being okay for dying

Depression

Betrayal

Never gets taken seriously

Gets over-spoken a LOT

GETS COMPARED TO FUCKIN MANIACS OFTEN

Didn’t get nice words after his manipulator told him down, just SILENCE

He nearly died

He heard 

Got left by everyone, when they didn't see anything in this place anymore

got told by his best friend, that the discs were more worth than him

As Tommy, he is always on the edge of death

Technoblade

Techno is one of the most powerful people here on the server. No doubt about it. However, if someone, even a God, tries to refuse they have feelings, it’s impossible. And those feelings, when they get something terrible done to them, get hurt.

BETRAYAL

Loneliness

A bloodlust he sometimes seriously can't control, no matter how much he tries

His best friend (Wilbur), died before his eyes

He thought he could trust his (little brother figure) friend

Gets used often for material

betrayal

Has a hard time understanding his feelings

Gets talked over

Is socially avoiding talking

Gets seen as a bad guy many times

Trust issues, yay!

Also BETRAYAL

has at least some people who want to kill him

Wilbur Soot

Our favorite maniac! Yay! We can all see how he fell from a proud Leader of a family to an lost in himself man, with nothing left to loose

Had to countdown his brothers death

Was killed by his father

His OWN SON disowned him

He wasn't able to get help, especially not from his younger brother

His Allies were not really trust worthy

He got betrayed by a close comerade

His dear Brother was sometimes really chaotic

He had to lead an army to war, not one, but two times

He lost the election

He had to run away from a country he helped create

Had a hard time with this father (with how it’s shown, that he maybe was neglected and had to raise Tommy)

Ranboo

Our favorite Memory-Minutes-Boi! I think EVERYBODY in this community will protect him

His first days on the server were pure Chaos

Had to see a person, he considers a friend, being rotten away and not being able to do anything about it

A sister figure who just went angry

He isn’t trusted by anyone really

He knows things others don’t

ALSO LOSING YOUR MEMORY AND HAVING CONSTANT MEMORY LOSS FUCKIN SUCKS, TRUST ME

Has serious issues

GETS TALKED OVER

Is often forced to take a side, even if he's against it

Phil

He has a hard time. Especially with the death, failed resurrection, disowning one of his son, he didn't got even close to. Being 

Also on the edge of death every day

Was in the end peer pressured into killing his own son

Suffering from the loss of his son

Couldn't help his youngest son in exile, because he thought Tommy hated him

Wasn’t there for L’Manburg glory days

was ridiculed in his house arrest

Dream

Of course, we all know how mad he is now and shit, but you gotta think, he has some points here, that are infecting his behavior LARGELY

His friends left him, without considering helping him

He had lost his dear pet before

He actually wanted peace, but fell into the fun of destruction and chaos without someone knowing or helping him

He is homeless

Probably, he is a old being, that already suffered for millions of years

Sapnap

He’s actually one of my favorite Characters and I think we know he has a place in here.

Third wheels a  l o t

Constantly being referred as the THIRD person, who isn't important

Fought his friend, who took the side of a child

Said friend had one of his beloved fishes by his side the hole time

Said Fish got thought as dead

Fundy

Some of you guys forgot how sad actually Fundy’s character is. He IS one of the most hurt characters. And he gave up hope

constantly being talked over

disowned by his hole family

GREW UP IN OLD L’MANBURG, WHICH WAS AT WAR

doesn’t think he is a part of a group

had to disown his father, to help fight a tyrannt

Got babied his whole life

His dead father is still running away from their problems

Doesn’t know where his mum is

Lost his home so often

Nihachu

Actually the person I watched for the first long time as in the SMP

Again, being talked over

Doesn’t get taken seriously

Lost her Best friend (Wilbur)

Got betrayed by her friend, Karl, by him selling their Land to L’Manburg

Gets used as a hostage or Maid in Distress, even when she isn’t

Got her pets killed

Then constantly being used for her niceness

Jack Manifold

He has a pretty big Role now, and he's very VERY angry. And you might ask why

Got left behind by his country

doesn’t get taken seriously

Got his most powerful items removed in one thing

His land somehow is near a crater

got told he didn't suffer somehow

Went to mf hell

Quackity

Quackity, despite his funny demeanor, he's one of the hurt character

with him staying with Schlatt, he had a uncomfortable relationship a long time

got killed by the festival

somehow helped organize the death of a child

Said kid helped a revolution against him

he helped a tyrant come to power and will probably never get it live down

fought for a country so often, but, two times, it got exploded in front of his face

had to face war, also in a young age

Eret

Our favorite King is here too! Yes, he may have started the distrust spiral of Eret, but somehow, someone would still have led them to the FINAL CONTROL ROOM. Somehow History will always be happening.

Had one of the hardest time, getting forgiven

Was never really given a chance

got accused of something

gets used as a pawn

He has shown often regret

got left alone

I think we all can say they are just having MULTIPLE communicate, trust and self worth issues. Like goddamn, Puffy, please help them, you’re one of the only sane people in the lore-

[michibikionmain]

This isn’t THE tommyinnit villain essay but it sure is one of them

Ok ok so 4 those of u who aren't on discord with me: i have two main essays that have been in the works for MONTHS, these being my Complete Dream character analysis essay going in-depth for nearly all of his canon interactions and finding his character traits and motivations through the story, and my Tommyinnit (and Wilbur Soot) were Always The Villains on the server essay talking about how the only reason so many people view them as the good guys or heroes is because we see the story from their perspective mainly. This essay? Is not either of those. BUT, it does go through a lot of my thoughts on Tommy and Dream’s characters so I figured I’d post it. maybe itll help me organize my thoughts 4 my Mega Projects lol

@ranboocore bc u helped me pop off on this so hard LMAO

Warning, it’s VERY Tommy Critical, what a suprise. I do not like Tommy as a character lol. idk what triggers yall might need me to tag but if u need one in particular pls lmn!

My biggest issue with tommy's character is that he SAYS hes learned but he never does he is exactly the same person he was at the start of the server just More Sad and with Trauma, when out of all the characters he's had the most push to change. c!Tommy is a very tell-don't-show character which can make it hard for some people to connect to him, especially those who don’t directly share his trauma or see themselves in his character. Of course, there is still a MASSIVE amount of people who relate to his struggles and thus love him regardless of his writing, but those who can't relate to him will always feel some kind of barrier until the things they've talked about are actually shown to the viewer instead of being spoon-fed to them.

It is a very beginner writing thing, and I'm hoping that Tommy is figuring out how to fix this, maybe with support from the many other writers on the server. There's the 3 you mentioned, plus fundy, niki, and maybe tubbo who also play dnd, plus Dream who said he would've been an English major and does a lot of personal writing for fun.  I think the biggest issue in the writing lies in the individual ccs being inexperienced in the medium, particularly with planning out their own character growth. 

Another glaring issue I have with c!Tommy is how he's framed to be sympathetic and he goes through all these horrible things without acknowledging his role in any of them. The things that have happened to him are a direct result of his actions, but the thing is HE won't acknowledge and so it falls flat. This isn’t to say that being abused is his fault, because it’s NEVER the vicitm’s fault, but being exiled? His multiple fights with c!Dream? His friendships falling apart? Losing the disks in the first place? They’re the direct consequences of HIS OWN actions, but he never acknowledges this and constantly just... brushes off any accountability by either saying that it’s Dream fault or simply SAYING he feels bad without properly showing it through redemption and GROWTH.

Denial is useful in storytelling sometimes, but Tommy's character has been in denial since the very beginning of the server and at this point it's just exhausting. He only ever switches between denial and depression, not really going through all 5 stages of grief properly. His violent/upset reactions would be more powerful if they were any different from how tommy usually acts, but this is always how he is. When he “lashes out” because he’s reached the end of his patience, it doesn’t SEEM like the snap it is because that’s just... it’s seriously just his standard reaction to everything. It hold no WEIGHT to see c!Tommy yell at someone violently or threaten to fight them because he does that anyways!

Static characters can be a good thing, and can be interesting if done correctly, but not every character SHOULD or CAN be static in a story.

Static characters need to have their position or behavior challenged and question, where they look into if the way they see and interact with the world is really the 'correct' one or just evaluated to see if they truly believe in them. This questioning period is CRUCIAL! and NEEDS to be well done in a way that ACTIVELY SHOWS the conflict between the two ideals. If they decide to hold onto their beliefs/continue their behavior then, it feels deserved, because rather than just being a flat "they do thing its who they are" they have defined WHY. WHY is a very important question to think of when telling the difference between dynamic and static characters. The why of a character is ESSENTIAL to developing them as a relatable, sympathetic person rather than a flat story telling device. It makes them a human rather than a puppet. When a character's motives aren't well defined or discussed, they're doomed to fall flat in everything else, because the WHY is the foundation of what makes them who they are.

c!Tommy has an underdeveloped "why", his motivations are weak, rarely properly discussed and when they are it doesn't particularly stick with him. His motivations change without showing us the internal struggle that should come from literally shifting your driving principles. There are some good MOMENTS of him reevaluating the importance of certain things, but they're so spread out and contradictory and immediately spat one that they're hard to piece together. He TELLS us what his motivations are as well, which is another big flaw when it comes to all that but we don't have time to unpack all THAT Anyways, the key to static story telling is reaffirmation. The character goes through a complete journey and ends with the same beliefs because they've looked into why they have them and determined that they still matter to them. A great example of static writing in my eyes is c!Techno, who since the beginning has believed that governments are bad. c!Techno enters the server to destroy a government, and still ends up doing that because he sees and we see him experience that the reasons he didn't like government before still hold true and he has no reason to support them any more than before, and so his anarchist beliefs are REAFFIRMED, proving to him that they way he handles things is the right one for him.

c!Tommy’s attachments are all just... they're all so weird.  like he LITERALLY SACRIFICES HIS LIFE MULTIPLE TIMES for L'manburg. By action of sacrifice it seems like it should be the most important thing to him, but then he throws it away for some disks that mattered less to him just a minute ago.  But then it's all about how c!Tubbo is worth more than Anything and maybe he's found something more important! but then he shoves THAT out the window for the discs again ig!!! but then it's about l’manburg again? Make it make sense.... pls....

Here's smth that really irks me about Tommy's character, and is kind of weird but give me a second to explain: Tommy has never actually permanently lost much of anything on the server. Every punishment he's ever received he's tried to find some way around. And like... I'm not expecting him to be HAPPY to face the consequences of his actions but seeing him constantly have his cake and eat it too is very irritating, especially when there are characters who DO have to deal with actual permanent sacrifices. The whole thing with the disks. where he WILLINGLY OFFERED THEM UP AND GAVE THEM AWAY THEN SPENT FOREVER TRYING TO STEAL THEM BACK WHILE CLAIMING DREAM STOLE THEM FROM HIM, is the biggest example of this, but it's generally his characters way of dealing with things. He's very backhanded and conniving, constantly calling himself "big man" except for when he wants things from people and he plays up the "iM a MiNoR" card to try and get them to give him things or feel bad. He's not just some sweet innocent kid like people paint him, he knows damn well he's messed up and while he SAYS he feels bad about it, he has never once really shown, with his ACTIONS, regret for what he's done except for the stuff with c!Sapnap, which could it could be argued he did because he thought it would help get c!Sapnap on his side to fight Dream and he knew c!Sapnap was a skilled warrior and could possibly be persuaded to fight with dream.

c!Tommy is in NO way some sweet innocent child, he knows what he's doing. He KNEW l'manburg was a drug empire, and wanted to turn his hotel into the same He was FULLY prepared to just murder c!Schlatt for legally winning an election that he KNEW was rigged AND INTENDED TO HELP RIG HE LITERALLY TEAMED UP WITH c!TECHNOBLADE KNOWING THAT HE INTENDED TO BLOW UP L'MANBURG AND ONLY LEFT WHEN HE REALIZED IT WASN'T GOING TO ACTUALLY HELP HIM--

The line of c!Wilbur saying "Tommy, are we the bad guys?" wasn't him mentally going batshit it was him realizing that the entire time they've been doing terrible things. c!Wilbur was literally ALWAYS Vilbur but the time people CALL Vilbur is when c!Will himself realized he was a villain.

[psqqa]

What songs are on your yunmeng bros playlist?? (If you dont mind sharing)

being given an excuse to inflict my music taste on a halfway captive audience is literally the dream, so no, anon, i absolutely do not mind.

a not insignificant portion of this playlist is just a subset of my jiang cheng playlist. and sometimes it’s a bit less a yunmeng bros playlist and a bit more of a yunmeng sibs playlist (although not as much as i would like it to be, really).

i’m just going to forestall any attempts to find any kind of structure or meaning in the order of this list by telling you there isn’t any. this is just the order they happen to currently be in. i’m struggling more than usual to whittle this into a shape i like and a significant part of that is down to the fact that there is simply nowhere one can put a 12 minute song that doesn’t stop the playlist momentum dead in its tracks (except perhaps right at the end, but No That’s Wrong Also). 

anyway, that aside, i just threw this all into spotify (minus the joanna newsom song, that is, because she continues to elect to not go there), so you can find it there if that’s your jam.

Brother Sport - Animal Collective

this is one of the songs that’s been throwing everything else off, because, unlike the rest of this sadsack list, it’s a total banger.

open up your open up your open up your throat and let time all of that time all of that time all of that time go

Futile Devices - Sufjan Stevens 

at some point, hopefully, these two bozos will realize words aren’t futile devices, and that they can use them to tell each other things, things like how important they are to each other.

and i would say i love you but saying it out loud is hard so i won’t say it at all 

Emily - Joanna Newsom

12 minutes and every single of them is crucial. This Is My Yunmeng Siblings Song. it doesn’t fit anywhere except in the vast space i need to be able to carry all my feelings about these three.

let us go though we know it’s a hopeless endeavour the ties that bind they are barbed and spined and hold us close forever

Start A War - The National

listen when it comes down to it, i’m a pretty literal-minded person.

you were always weird but i never had to hold you by the edges like i do now walk away now and you’re gonna start a war

Going Steady - Death From Above 1979

another piece of yanli in this one. just replace “mother” with “sister” (i’m so sorry your parents did that to you, yanli. you deserved better).

she’s going steady but we’re not ready oh to see her fall to see her fall to see her fall in love

Helena - My Chemical Romance

yeah i said what i fucking said. no one does raw like gerard way, and in this song it’s anger, and grief, and hurt, and self-loathing, and longing, and love, and self-destructiveness about it. i imagine it’s roughly the place jiang cheng is in the first few years after wei wuxian’s death. a jagged wound tearing itself open again and again.

burning on just like the match you strike to incinerate the lives of everyone you know

Black Gold - Foals

lyrics websites keep telling me it’s “your hollow heart” and not “you’re a hollow heart”. i don’t trust them, but i am notoriously terrible at hearing lyrics, so we’re at an impasse. anyway, i prefer my version, so i’m just going to ignore all that.

they gouged you out they dug you in they took the name right out of your mouth hollow heart you’re a hollow heart

Don’t Wanna Fight - Alabama Shakes

being at odds with the world is pretty exhausting. being at odds with your brother doubly so.

my line your line don’t cross them lines what you like what i like why can’t we both be right 

Mykonos - Fleet Foxes

idk man a lot of 2012 tumblr jams just really work for this show.

you go wherever you go today you go today 

Mine Is Yours - Cold War Kids

i think we all agree that wei wuxian could stand to be a bit less committed to this concept.

cause i don’t own the sun i don’t own the moon they only come out when they want to they don’t care whether i promised you

I Should Live In Salt - The National

Whence Comes The Playlist Title.

don’t make me read your mind you should know me better than that it takes me too much time you should know me better than that

Summer Home - Typhoon

This Is My Jiang Cheng Song (and the source of my jiang cheng playlist title). it literally never fails to fuck me up. it’s fucking me up right now just thinking about it. anyway, i hear it as “home” instead of “whole”. “whole” doesn’t necessarily take away from the line, because i think thematically it’s basically getting at the same concept, but for both personal and *motions at jiang cheng’s entire life* reasons, “home” fucks me up that much more. although really, by way of like mental furigana, it ends up being both anyway.

can we wait for the summer again can we hold out for summer again can we ever be whole again

So Here We Are - Bloc Party

speaking of the whole thematic concept of “home” fucking me up about these dudes.

i caught a glimpse but it’s been forgotten so here we are again i made a vow to carry you on home

Orange Sky - Alexi Murdoch

like i said. 2012 tumblr jams.

well i had a dream i stood beneath an orange sky with my brother and my sister standing by

Better Off Alone - Alice Deejay

okay so you know how people are like “is it even an otp if you can’t picture it as a ‘how to save a life’ fanvid?” for me it’s “is it even an otp if you can’t put alice deejay’s 1998 vocal trance masterpiece ‘better off alone’ on the playlist?” ‘otp’ is of course a misnomer. ‘interpersonal relationship of many feelings’ perhaps.

talk to me

Enchanting Ghost - Sufjan Stevens

no one does getting left behind by someone you love like ya boy suf

don’t carry on carrying efforts oh no oh oh oh somewhere there’s a room for each of us to grow and if it pleases you to leave me just go

Zephyrus - Bloc Party

okay this one is actually driving me nuts, because it’s more explicitly romantic than i would generally put on this playlist and overall i wouldn’t say it’s a great fit, but i just can’t take it off, because in the end it goes right down to root of it all and voices precisely that which jiang cheng never did:

and all you said in your quietest voice was i needed you as much as they do

[94monkeys]

November, December and January were the worst months of my life that started out as the best months of my life. I am better, but I’m still not okay.

CW: death (not mine), medical stuff (no gore), emergency room experience

The first week of November was the election we’d been building up to, frankly, 4 years. I was basically eating, sleeping, breathing work from mid-August until the election, and then for several days after until we got the result that we wanted.

The second week in November, I found out I was pregnant. We were shocked and thrilled. (It was intentional but it was still, like, surprising that it actually worked???)

Turn back now because it only gets worse from here.

The third week in November, I find out I’m getting laid off. I was given a lot of reasons, none of which made sense, but basically a casualty of office politics way over my head. I was told that it wasn’t performance related, but it still felt brutal to have to do this after pouring myself into work. I’ve been laid off before, and it’s always a cold experience. You remember that your company only cares about you to a degree, and at the end of the day, they will always protect themselves and not you. I personally don’t understand why you would replace a professional with two part-time dilettantes on your public facing communications BUT ANYWAY!

I was asked to stay through the beginning of January and I accepted.

The fourth week in November was Thanksgiving. We were home about to make dinner for 2 (COVID). During the day, I started to feel sick and crampy. I called the urgent care nurse line and they told me to go to the ER. I live very close to a hospital, so I literally packed my biggest warmest sweatshirt and a book and walked there, leaving my spouse and the turkey still in the oven (luckily that was his purview anyway).

The ER was, surprisingly, very quiet. I was there for about 4 hours while they ran various tests on me. (They had to call a specialist in from their Thanksgiving dinner, which I felt terrible about.) Ultimately, they could not determine whether I had miscarried or not, so they sent me home with instructions to take it easy and to go in for more testing.

In December I had a doctor’s appointment where they confirmed that I was not pregnant any more. (The tech was very cold and impersonal… I was crying on the ultrasound table. I know that it was so early, but I was crying for myself and my spouse and the dreams we had invested that never came to be. I was sad because this was our first time, and it was so terrible, and we won’t ever have a first one.)

They flagged something in my blood tests that was troubling, so they ordered regular testing. I was going in about 3 times a week for blood draws. Luckily I’m not scared of needles so it was more annoying than anything.

I was also applying to and interviewing for jobs (without success) and also still working at my job where I felt literally invisible. It was a really dark time. I don’t know how else to describe it. I don’t know how I got out of bed every day. It felt like everything in my life had just collapsed at once. I didn’t feel unwell, but it was just like a big weight dragging me down all the time.

In the 3rd week of December, I had another ultrasound and then met with a new to me doctor, I’ll call her Dr. S. I had been going along with all the additional bloodwork, but I was starting to push back on why it was necessary.

It was a Friday afternoon when Dr. S met with me and said: We think that you have an ectopic pregnancy. I didn’t know, but I would soon learn that this was a pregnancy that was not in the right place, would not grow, but could rupture and kill me. She recommended surgery to address it.

Okay, I said. I had the next week off, so I assumed it would be either that week, or in January while I was funemployed (but still had my good health insurance).

I was thinking this weekend, said Dr. S.

So it was that I went to a Friday doctor’s appointment and found myself signing into surgery on Saturday morning.

It was my first ever surgery with anesthesia, and everyone took great care of me, but it was still EXTREMELY disconcerting. I had laparoscopic surgery so I only have 2 teeny scars, but I was in a lot of pain and confused when I woke up.

Work was closed all week, so I basically spent the whole week sitting in 1 chair in my apartment either watching movies or reading. I didn’t want to get into all the details with people, because a) 2020 was already so… 2020, b) I was still nominally job-hunting and I didn’t want to give anyone a dumb surface reason not to hire me or make them think I was a pregnancy flight risk (I love being a woman of a certain age!), c) I just didn’t want to talk about it. On the other hand, almost no one at work checked on me. I found their treatment very cold, again.

In January I put myself together for my last week at work, we had the runoff elections, we had the coup. I had my surgery follow-up where it was confirmed that it was an ectopic pregnancy. That was my January: medical follow-ups, but at least I don’t have to schedule them around the job I no longer have!  

WHEW. If you’ve gotten this far, thank you for hearing me. I have since gotten a new job working on communications for politics, but also nonprofits and city agencies. My stress has been cut by probably 70 percent. In my job I’m doing a lot more writing, which is probably what enabled me to write this long overdue update with most of everything in it.

We are starting to explore our fertility options. I had a doctor that really catastrophized me in terms of how intense we need to go about it, but likely we will start slowly and see how it goes. They still don’t know why I had an ectopic (and probably won’t figure out), but I am at higher risk of having another one, so any potential pregnancy will involve a lot of testing and monitoring. That’s why we haven’t “started” “trying” again, because there are tests and there is my new job and so on. I had a hysterosalpingogram, which you should definitely Google if you’re not squeamish. (It didn’t hurt but it was totally weird!)

I am better, but I’m not OK. I’m still mad about everything that happened to me. There are moments when I get catapulted back to my surgery and everything, and I completely freeze. I just got my doctors’ records from November and December (which I had to pay $35 for!!! MY OWN RECORDS) and even though I didn’t learn anything new from reading those records, I still had a lot of emotional trouble processing what happened. It’s weird that so many of them start by noting that the patient was “not in acute distress.” Must be an automatic fill-in because that doesn’t match what I was feeling ever!!!

Dr. S literally saved my life and I think what was not clear to me at the time, because I was still mourning what could have been, is that I am still here. I am more than everything that happened to me. 

I am looking for a new therapist and I am trying to look on the bright side. Unfortunately, one of my oldest friends in the world endured a similar health issue back in January; fortunately, we are each other’s best comfort because I know she won’t judge me. This summer may bring good news on this front or maybe not, but at least vaccinated we can do more than we have been able to do (picnics in the park! Visits to family!) I have to believe my luck is turning. It’s how I get by.

[aelaer]

☕ The fact that Wakanda was presented as an advanced country looking down on others from it's comfortable vibranium armchair but had a monarchist system that could place a ruler with 100% muscles and 0% brains at the head, along with other bothersome stuff like that, like Shuri being the head of the government's science department while she is a part of the royal family, or really, every single part of Wakanda that looks good on paper - a king with a council of people leading the different tribes - but that history has shown us very often ends up creating a dictatorship, which is really what happened in the movie and I'm surprised no one sees it.

Like, the movie literally shows us this country that's supposedly so advanced, with spies and people placed around the world, most likely putting their fingers in as many pies as possible, and an incredibly developed technology - which is frightening on many levels considering that UN or no Wakanda could blow up everything outside of its borders and people wouldn't know it until it happened -, but with a monarchist - and whatever other words could define it - governmental system that has revealed a lot of problems in its configuration. The tribes leader were literally being choked in the throne room and no one was doing anything, there was a destruction of a historical, scientific and cultural heritage being condoned by the new religious ceremony leader(???) just because the king ordered it. They would've literally tried taking over the entire non-black population (and where does that leave all the metis people? All the ones that are not white, but not black? Of middle eastern descendance? Of Asian one? Etc?) if the ex-monarch hadn't done something.

What I'm trying to ask if, what do you think of Wakanda being a good idea on paper but terrible in practice? True! Untrue? Something else?

Holy shit lady, you ask the tough questions. This is a difficult subject to cover - you’re asking me to look at the political structure of a fictional society within a disenfranchised continent - and I’m uncertain if it’s possible to do a decent analysis without addressing heavy topics. Basically, I don’t want to sound like a privileged dickwad. So I guess what I can say is - this comes from someone with a (mostly decent) American-based education, and no formal study of pre-colonial customs and political structures in Africa. I apologise for any misconstrued ideas and more than welcome any corrections to those who know more about these subjects!

I like Wakanda on paper, mostly due to the fact that the majority of Africa got completely screwed in terms of historical treatment and I’m rooting for the continent’s people to gain their own voices again. Wakanda being such a huge thing in international popular culture might serve as an inspiration for someone who ends up being important to at least one country there. In that sense, I really like Wakanda - the idea that it can potentially inspire historically disenfranchised cultures in the real world. How practical that thought is, I’m not sure - I might just be too idealistic.

Dictatorships can happen in non-monarchies as well, which you know -- as the most famous examples in 20th century history are not monarchies. The issue that can appear in monarchies -- or dictatorships -- is the lack of checks and balances to help keep those in power from going overboard (or the populace not having enough manpower/arms to get a dictator-like-coup out, but that’s an entirely different discussion!)

From what we got in the movie, Wakanda does seem to lack those checks and balances and no ability to overrule a king’s command. It seemed that they never had any sort of Magna Carta in their history (which is far from a perfect document, but did start the precedent of limiting monarchical power), and it doesn’t seem there’s anything resembling a representative government with veto power over the leader that you see in, what, 2/3rds of the world these days? (I legit have no idea, but I do know it’s wide-spread.)

But why wouldn’t they have such a document limiting monarchical power or some sort of democratic process? The modern mindset across many countries around the world leans towards democracy and elected, representative governments. But it can’t be denied that colonialism helped spread this, as -- at least, according to wiki -- representative democracy/liberal democracy/Western democracy all originate in Europe. So, in some way it makes sense that they didn’t transition yet because they were never colonized, and they were completely self-contained so didn’t have any of the outside world conflicts to force them to make changes. France helped fund the barons who pushed for the Magna Carta. France was also responsible for helping fund/arm the US in their fight to gain independence (lol France vs England history, it’s so great). External conflicts with other regions/countries caused *changes* to happen in those societies, at least from what I know of European history. Possibly happened in other continents, but I’m just not knowledgeable enough about their histories to give specific examples.

Wakanda had no outside conflict, and with no outside conflict, you get one major source of problems eliminated. Civil wars happen for a multitude of reasons, but perhaps one of their solutions historically for kingship changing without civil war was the fight of a representative of a tribe to try and win it over. Who knows? But when you’re enclosed like Wakanda was, there’s a lot less chance of things changing.

(On that note - their selection of a new leader is also incredibly disproportionately unfair to women. The average man is physiologically stronger and faster than the average woman. It’s just--biology. But who knows, maybe Wakanda was the same as much of the rest of the world in terms of their thoughts of women leading in politics. There’s comic canon that could be different, but the MCU did a lot of changes from comic canon.)

A *lot* of things changed across the world in the 20th century, making the world much smaller. Before the 20th century, it was likely considered completely useless and nonviable to make war on other nations because, though they were more technologically advanced, it’s incredibly unlikely they had something akin to nuclear bombs in the 19th century. They had to have their own steps of progression. And if they were only *a bit* better, they couldn’t stop the entire world if they started attacking and word spread. It’s only in the late 20th, early 21st century that things like destroying the rest of the world with Wakandan weaponry was likely actually feasible. Though honestly? I don’t think that shield could withstand a nuke. I just don’t see it. If Erik’s plan went through, he may have doomed Wakanda's capital city to being utterly annihilated because too many countries do have the ultimate kill button, and there are some who would not hesitate to use it.

It also could be cultural. Wakanda didn’t go conquering their neighbors left and right. They were happy with five tribes and it seemed to remain five tribes. That speaks of something deeply cultural, deep within the roots of how they’re raised and taught. Erik came from an entirely different culture with a violent childhood and background, and because they were in the 21st century, other Wakandans could *learn* of the rest of the world, and get new ideas - and get the same anger that stirs war and revolutions, and ultimately can affect a country’s culture.

So perhaps before the 21st century, limited power with the king wasn’t needed simply due to their isolation. Now, though that they are much more connected with the world, maybe they need something more like Botswana or Nigeria, only tied in with a monarchy (according to wiki -- Elsewhere, in Botswana, the kgosis (or chieftains) of the various tribes are constitutionally empowered to serve as advisors within the national legislature as members of the Ntlo ya Dikgosi. Meanwhile, in Nigeria, the various traditional polities that currently exist are politically defined by way of the ceding of definite authority from the provincial governments, which in turn receive their powers to do so from a series of chieftaincy laws that have been legislatively created.)

So basically what I’m trying to say is, while I’m personally super gung ho about representative democracies and individual liberties, that’s not necessarily the culture of Wakanda and it may not fit for them. But *what* the culture of Wakanda evolves into, being more open to the rest of the world -- and thus, the rest of the world’s ideas and cultures, remains to be seen. They may find that they do need to reform their political structure after the civil war we saw in the first film, though, and perhaps they do so.

[qqueenofhades]

Your political posts recently have been excellent. I was 17 during the 2016 election and watching everything go down while not being able to vote (and watching people choose not to vote) was horrible. I can’t believe how many people on the left seem to have forgotten 2016. I’m worried about the leftist twitter mob and the anti-trump conservatives in swing states who might not vote at all and the voter suppression. I’m so worried about everything right now.

Oof, hon. That is a Big Big Mood.

It’s a hard and surreal feeling when you’re having conversations, as have happened in my family and probably in many of yours, with your parents about what to do if we need to leave the country and flee to Canada (or wherever else) at a moment’s notice. My father is 67 years old and disabled, and he is so worried about all of this (as he damn well should be) because we’re well past the dress-rehearsal stages of fascism and into outright fascism. We are making serious plans to relocate permanently out of America no matter how the election goes, because I honestly cannot take this country at all anymore, and my family feels the same. We have had the conversation about “what if this country collapses and we have to get out.” It’s scary and it’s awful and I hate that we’re having to do this, and I hate even more that people are deliberately rejecting their chance (again, the LAST CHANCE WE HAVE) to reject Trump in a (somewhat) democratic fashion. No wonder we can’t remember history at all when we can’t even remember, as you point out, four years ago.

I just can’t with the renewed kerfuffle that the Harris pick has kicked up, not least because most of us knew or figured for a long time that it was coming. Somehow the twitterati wants us to believe that they would have happily skipped to their polling station to vote for Joe Biden, despite months of screaming about rapist/dementia/corporate ghoul/worse than Trump/senile/won’t follow through on his promises/insert tagline here, if only he hadn’t picked Kamala “Cop” Harris. (She’s a lawyer, not a cop, and her prosecutorial career also specialized in putting away male predators for rape and murder and taking financial giants to town for multibillion-dollar fraud settlements, aka the kind of people we want to see punished, but hey, all nuance is evil.) Because... come on.... seriously???

If Biden had picked Stacey Abrams (and don’t get me wrong, she was my favorite too for a while) the narrative would be about she is inexperienced and has never held any executive office (which she hasn’t), and this is bad because it means he’s senile. If Biden had picked Val Demings, who was ACTUALLY a cop, more cop screaming. If Biden had picked Karen Bass, they would have fixated on her remark praising Castro at his death (which she has subsequently apologized and retracted) and moaned about how this lost Florida. If Biden had picked Susan Rice, who was entangled with the whole Benghazi scandal, BENGHAZI BENGHAZI BENGHAZI HILLARY CLINTON EVIL would have been shouted by both the right and the left. If Biden had picked Elizabeth Warren, oh my god. FAKE PROGRESSIVE CORPORATE SHILL WHITE DEMON WHO DARED TO ATTACK BERNIE!!! would be bellowed from the rooftops. There is literally nobody who would have been Progressive enough for the leftist twitterites, and if they claim there is, they’re lying. Plus, the Vice President does.... not make policy??? He (or she, in this case, and I love that) is there to implement the President’s goals, to advise, consult, take over if necessary, and otherwise serve in a supporting role. So why the fuck on earth is a long-expected VP pick suddenly The Straw That Broke The Camel’s Back?

You wanna know the Upside Down we’re living in right now? Sarah Palin (yes, that Sarah Palin) has been openly more supportive of Kamala Harris than some of the supposed members of her own party for getting the pick. And that’s not because RAH RAH HARRIS’S POLICIES ARE JUST LIKE SARAH PALIN!!! Sarah Palin has offered her advice to Harris without a partisan bent and even said she’s happy to see her picked and that she hopes Harris isn’t attacked in the same way she was (fat chance) and that she should be confident and present herself to the American public as she is. And that is... surprisingly... not terrible advice?? And I’m genuinely happy that the only other female VP pick, as embarrassingly unprepared as she might have been, is doing that, while wondering how on earth we’re living in a world where, again, Sarah Palin is being more supportive than supposed Democratic voters. I don’t get it, chief.

The racist, misogynistic, “nasty woman” attacks on Harris have already eagerly begun from the right, the same stuff they hit Hillary Clinton with, and just as before, the left is eager to pile on rather than to defend their candidate, because they’d rather tear her down for not having policies that perfectly aligned with their own at all times rather than attack her outright fascist opponents. I don’t agree with everything Kamala has done either. But guess what? I DO agree with some things that she HAS done! And I’m going to defend her like crazy, because lord, I am tired of us eating our own. Kamala is experienced, competent, her nomination is historic, and she can clearly do the job. AND SHE IS STILL THE VICE PRESIDENT. NOT THE TOP OF THE TICKET.

The good news is: Biden has leads outside the margin of error in almost all swing states (which don’t matter a damn unless voters actually show up and vote, and we’ve already discussed how hard the GOP is deliberately making that, because they can only win by cheating) and far larger than Clinton’s leads at this time in 2016. Black voters, while being wary of some elements of Harris’s past, are largely very happy with the pick and agree that she can continue to evolve on her policy stances, and that the selection of a Black woman who has been a leader on criminal justice and police reform sends a strong message. Biden’s campaign had its best fundraising hour ever and ultimately raised $26 million in 24 hours after Harris joined the ticket, reflecting a surge of Democratic voter energy and enthusiasm. (That does not count leftists, who aren’t registered Democrats and don’t vote for Democrats and yet still act like their views are mainstream within the party.) So as loud and as obnoxious and maddening as they are, the hard left twitterati still aren’t actually the people that we are counting on as a core constituency. But this election is going to be very hard, and all the people threatening to sit out for some ridiculous moral-ideology reason are only going to make it harder for themselves and us.

I don’t know what to say. I spend a lot of time being scared too. Especially when it can feel like I’m yelling into the void over all this, and the sanctimonious circle-jerking baffles me beyond all reason. But we are not alone, we will do our best, and that is all we can ask for.

[pearlgrayrose]

All right so I’ve finished reading King of Fools by Amanda Foody, and as far as I’m aware, this is a relatively small fandom so idk if anyone will even see this, but:  I need to scream about this book and I don’t want to spoil it for anyone, so!!  My long, incoherent, and very spoilery thoughts are below the line!

JAC NOOOO!!  I’m so upset, Jac was an amazing and really intricate character and now...gone.  The stupid fucking omerta.  Yes, I knew that logically, an important character would have to die over the course of this series.  But I did not want it to be him  :(

On that note, I had been seriously concerned that he would get back on Lullaby over the course of this book.  So I’m at least happy that it didn’t end up happening, but Charles Torren was awful and deserved what he got

In spite of all the other amazing characters, Enne continues to be my favorite.  She just has so much depth to her, and she’s come so far from first arriving in New Reynes.  She is definitely a Sinner now and I love it.  The literal first thing she does at that meeting is threaten Jonas - Jonas!  Scavenger!  The Scar Lord! - and you HAVE to respect that

Sophia is such an interesting character and I love reading about her.  Can’t wait for her POV in Queen of Volts!

JONAS MACCABEES what the fuck.  This character.  He is the most confusing person ever written about.  Okay maybe not, but you get my point.  One moment he’s saving Jac’s life, the next moment he’s being a really frustrating person, then the next he’s being hilariously relatable, and then he’s betraying everyone and then being really noble and then disappearing and then WTF JONAS

The Jonas and Harrison thing.  I.  What.

“There are cats everywhere named after murderers”  I love this

Throughout the entire book, I kept thinking to myself, “What the fuck is going on with Bryce Balfour?”  And it took until the end of the book (and reading the online prologue to Queen of Volts) but now that I know what the fuck is going on with Bryce Balfour, he is an even creepier and more chilling character than before

Also now at least I know why Rebecca was acting like that

Levi’s relationship with Narinder was very interesting and fun to read about but I’m glad it’s over - and yeah, for Levi’s sake, but much more so for Narinder’s.  The poor guy, honestly.  He had no bad intentions or ambitions:  he just wanted to run his club and keep himself and his sister safe, and suddenly he has gangs overflowing in the Catacombs and Tock keeps risking herself and blowing shit up all the time.  Don’t get me wrong, I love Levi, but he does make mistakes and Narinder was completely right in saying that he was doing all the listening/giving and Levi was doing all the talking/taking.  Narinder literally just wanted to run the Catacombs and be left alone

Lola had better get her job as a librarian at the end of this.  Lola Sanguick deserves the world

The Spirits are all so cool, and having Enne as a streetlord makes them ten times better.  It’s just...so refreshing to see so many characters who embrace femininity without being ashamed of it, you know?  (And that scene where Enne is watching over Roy, her hostage, with a gun while reading a tabloid magazine with an article about the gang and she gives her own wanted poster a kiss?  Perfection)

I absolutely adore the friendship between Lola and Jac.  They are amazing and the support they have for each other is so awesome to see!!  They’ll bicker and tease each other, but when it comes down to it, they have each other’s backs and they’re the ones that the other goes to when they really need it.  It’s great.  Plus she calls him Polka Dots because of that one cravat that he didn’t even buy, which is hilarious

Grace’s existence.  She’s an assassin and a financial expert who just hangs around reading romance novels and whose sole life purpose is to torment Roy.  What more can I say?

LOLA AND TOCK

Another bullet point for Lola and Tock because they are sooo cute!!  Lola blushing when Tock flirts with her at the party?  Lola acting all flustered when Jac is trying to ask her about the date?  Tock sleeping on the couch with her head resting on Lola’s shoulder?  alskjdflskjfsldkfjslfjslfjsd

This is getting long but idc.  Vianca is such an interesting villain:  a terrible person but a great antagonist.  You can tell exactly why she does the things she does and why she reacts this way, but you still hate her for it because she’s a monster and oh my god

It boggles my mind how Prescott could just...be killed, and the election would still go through.  And people would call it fair.  Like, no shit Harrison got elected.  The opposition is LITERALLY DEAD

Harvey!  He’s done a lot of messed up things, but I honestly feel bad for him, especially after reading the prologue for Queen of Volts.  I’m excited to read more about him

Mansi leaving the Irons and joining the Scarhands...it didn’t affect me as much as I thought it was supposed to?  Idk.  I didn’t exactly expect that she’d swear to Jonas, but as for leaving the Irons, I kind of saw it coming.  It definitely seemed likely, at least

Levi has so much character growth in this book.  It’s amazing.  Between what Narinder tells him and his argument with Jac (and now, Jac’s death), he’s really growing up and learning to prioritize the things that are really important over the things that he simply wants.  Because, as Jac and he both say in this book, he wants everything.  But not really anymore

Yessss Lackluster burned

There is no way that Ivory’s actually gone for good

I get the feeling that there’s more happening with Rebecca than just “she’s sick and Bryce can’t find anything else to cure her.”  Like, clearly that’s the case, but I find it hard to believe that Rebecca (someone who has made it very obvious that she has legitimate feelings for Bryce) would be comfortable with him trying to sell his soul to the Bargainer in exchange for a cure for her

As a final note, this book was AMAZING and there were so many twists and turns and I just....asldkfjslkfjsdfls.  Still bitter about Jac, but I’m so excited for Queen of Fools to come out so I can see what happens!!!

[abigailsfictionalothers-archive]

Never Going Anywhere Again - A.K.A. The Engagement Fic - Alistair x Wallace

A/N: I've finally got it down! It took me forever because I wanted it to be perfect, and I am very, very happy with this one. Sorry if it has any technical mistakes though, I get a bit giddy reading it and may have skipped over some stuff in my excitement, haha. For those that haven't seen, my pinned post is the official announcement for this, and I'll be adding this fic to it, so go check that out as well for more details. As always, I hope you all enjoy! I know I'm over the moon over this :)

Warnings: Discussions of marriage? Obviously. If you need anything tagged that I didn't cover let me know!

Tagging: @sacredempressnatlyia @imagine-your-love-story @shinypeony (if anyone else would like to be tagged in future works, let me know, or if you would no longer like to be tagged, let me know!)

~~~

"I'm glad you're taking the chance to get out. How are the negotiations with Nevarra going?" I walked alongside Alistair as we made our way out to the castle gardens. It was difficult to maintain an air of professionalism with him, especially when he was finally taking a break from his responsibilities, but I certainly wasn't about to risk our secret by slipping up.

"Decently. I was actually hoping to ask for your input, would you mind if I ran something by you this evening?" It wasn't hard to tell that it was difficult for him, too.

"You need only ask. And what about the new recruits for the king's guard? I heard there were quite a few of them, do you have any idea how that's going?"

"I was actually meaning to ask, do think there's any way you could get out to the training yard in the next couple of days, show them a thing or two? Last I heard, they could use some help."

"Of course, I'd be happy to. I'll set aside a day for it."

"Thank you. Your help is invaluable."

Being me, of course the compliment threw me off, and I did my best to deflect it in an attempt to shake off my embarrassment, "It's good that you're getting out for a bit, staying holed up inside that castle for too long isn't good for you."

He sighed softly, "I know. I would more if I could."

I immediately regretted my comment. The last thing he needed was me pointing out his lack of freedom, "I'm sorry to have-"

"No, it's alright. You're the one that helps me get out, after all. I should be thanking you for that."

"You thank me far too much-" We'd had this conversation a million times - he'd tell me how he couldn't do this without me, and I'd tell him all the reasons that wasn't true. This time, before I could even begin, he grabbed my hand and entwined his fingers with mine.

"Um, Alistair?" I was extremely confused. We weren't even close to being clear of the public eye yet, anyone could stumble upon and see us - and this was something we most certainly never did in public.

"Humor me?" On any other day I would have shrugged him off, told him he could hold my hand later, but there was something about the way his voice begged and his eyes pleaded with me that had me caving.

"Fine, but I don't want to have to be the one making excuses if we get caught!"

He sighed heavily, "I don't want to make excuses."

"It's your idea! It's only fair that you be the one to handle it!"

"That's not what I- never mind. Come on, there's something I wanted to show you." I ignored his deflection, I did it all the time after all, and followed after him anxiously as he dragged me along, constantly looking around for anyone that could spot our careless mistake.

The farther out from the main building we got, the more I relaxed, but the further we walked through the garden, the more perplexed I became. I knew that look on his face well enough to know that he was on a mission, and had a destination in mind. It's a good look on him. Still, I couldn't fathom what he was so determined to show me.

Until we rounded the corner into a secluded area of the rose garden. This wasn't an area I visit often, but I appreciate it's beauty nonetheless - surrounded by tall hedges, it makes a beautiful sanctuary for any weary soul, and the stone bench in its center is beautifully engraved with classic Ferelden designs. However, my curiosity was peaked by the vase sitting on top of it, filled with... blue roses?

"Al, what is this?"

"Blue roses? I had the gardeners cut and dye some of the best ones that came in, I thought you'd enjoy a mix of two of your favorite things. You do, don't you?"

"Of course I do, they're magnificent! But why? That sounds like a bit of trouble all for no reason!" I was absolutely floored by the gesture. Dyed flowers have always been a rare commodity in Ferelden, typically more of an Orlesian practice. I couldn't understand why he'd go to such lengths.

"It's not for no reason. I-" He stopped and sighed once more, finally letting go of my hand, electing to pace for a moment. I gave him the time, recognizing that he needed to collect his thoughts, even though my curiosity was burning.

In time, he grabbed one of the roses, and held it out to me timidly. I took it, gently, and let him lead me to sit down on the bench with him.

With a deep breath, he began, "I told you earlier I don't want to make excuses anymore. That's true. I really, really don't. I'd like to hold your hand in public, and not be terrified of the repercussions. Every time I have to call you 'my dear friend and wartime companion' I feel near sick to my stomach. It doesn't feel right, hiding you. Every day, I wake up, grateful to have you with me, and then immediately bitter that there are conditions to having you here. I just... I can't do this like this anymore."

My throat ran dry then. I was starting to have some idea of where this was going, but the hope was almost unbearable. I didn't want to believe. "So what are you trying to say?"

"I know why we do this this way. It's all for good reason, and in so many ways, I'm so glad we've had this time away from all the judgement. But the agony isn't worth it anymore. I couldn't do any of this without you - stop it with that look right now - you are quite literally invaluable to both the running of this country and my sanity. I run everything I do by you. You have a more personal relationship with the common people than I've been allowed in years, you help them, just because you can. You're extraordinary, and you deserve recognition for your part. Darling, I-"

He stopped for just a moment, shifting off of the bench and onto his knee on front of me, grabbing my hand again, "What I mean to say is I want to be honest with the world, and I want you to be the Queen of Ferelden. I want you to marry me."

It was all I could do to keep my composure to press my hand, still holding a rose, to my chest, and to squeeze my eyes closed, tightly. I wasn't sure what my raw reaction would be if I didn't, but I knew it was the only thing I could do to keep it contained.

I heard his voice even more clearly when he spoke again, like the only sense that was turned on was my hearing, "No pressure, of course, if that's not what you want, I know it's a lot, and I know you see me terribly upset over my position every day, so I'm sure it doesn't exactly sound appealing, but I just think that together-" His words faded with the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

What is he thinking this will be a disaster this can't happen oh by the Maker what is he-

"Yes, Al."

"Pardon?"

"Yes, Alistair. My answer is yes. I'll marry you."

I opened my eyes then, and his slack-jawed look was almost enough to have me laughing, had I not been shaking uncontrollably.

"Yeah, Al. I don't want to hide you anymore either." I spoke in a whisper.

It was his laugh that broke the silence, joyful, and perhaps my favorite sound in the world. I almost didn't register it when he swept me into a hug. I didn't really know what else to do other than cling to him like a lifeline.

"So I got this right then? I did it right?"

My laugh was weak, "Yes, love, this was perfect."

He pulled away, pressing his forehead to mine, "You're sure? You really want this?"

Despite my shock, all I could think was that this seemed so obvious. We had been through so much, where else was there to go from here? I knew it would be hard, of course, but for him? I was quite sure I could brave just about anything.

"Yeah. I'm never going anywhere ever again."

[sudoscience]

New In Town Ch 1: New In Town

Originally posted on AO3, but I’m posting it here now in case that helps more people read it. I think you should still read it on AO3, though, because there’s additional formatting, as well as my notes. (If you’re one of the people who already read this on AO3, there’s nothing new here, except a reminder that the story is on indefinite hiatus until I become sufficiently motivated to resume writing.)

Summary: A human moves to Hometown and is offered a job by Asgore despite never having worked for a florist before.

Stepping off the bus was bittersweet. I was leaving many friends behind, but also a lot of stress. Basically, it was better for everyone if I got as far away from my hometown as possible. Ironically, I ended up in a town literally named Hometown. They say monsters used to be able to use magic, but I guess that was at the cost of being able to come up with creative names. Well, that's not entirely fair: humans can't use magic, either, and most of our cities are named after the first person to move there or a nearby geographic feature. Case in point: my hometown of Twin Falls, named for a pair of waterfalls to the south.

Anyway, I'm hopeful things will work out. Remkis has a cousin who lives here, but she'll be staying with him until he gets better. Meanwhile, I guess I'm apartment-sitting for her. God, poor Remkis. He really isn't doing well, but the last thing he needs in his condition is a surprise visit from the MEU, and every minute I spend with him feels like it increases the chances of that happening exponentially.

The funny thing is, I'm staying in his cousin's apartment even though I've never actually met her. She must have decided any friend of Remkis was a friend of hers, but I have to imagine she must think I'm a terrible friend, abandoning him at a time like this. Hell, I can't even remember her name. I guess we'll have to formally introduce ourselves whenever she gets back.

Remkis's cousin (I'll just call her RC until her name comes to me) has a fairly minimalist style. The apartment walls are all but bare, and there's not much furniture. It's so empty, it feels almost like a prison cell. I hope I'm not overstepping any boundaries, but I'm going to need something to look at if I'm going to be living here. I can see a flower shop from the balcony of the apartment; maybe I can kill two birds with one stone and send some flowers to Remkis while I'm there. I know I said I wanted to get as far away as possible, but Hometown isn't really that far from Twin Falls, maybe about a day's drive, so shipping some flowers there hopefully won't be out of the question.

---

The monster that runs the flower shop is intimidatingly huge, yet it's hard to be frightened as he hums a little tune while watering his flowers. Assuring me he has almost finished, he shakes the watering can slightly before turning around to say, "Howdy! How can I..." He seems startled when he sees me. I suppose I can't blame him; Hometown is a rarity, a settlement populated entirely by monsters. When humans do come by, it's almost never a good sign.

"Oh! Sorry, I didn't know there was another human in town. How can I help you?"

His voice is deep and rich, inflected with a Southern drawl, and his clothes are plain and caked in potting soil. Despite his attire, there's something about his manner, or perhaps merely his stature, that gives him an almost regal air. Maybe I just think that because the shop is called "Flower King", but I feel like that's not the only reason.

"Yes," I reply, "I was hoping to buy..." My voice trails off while my brain suddenly realizes what he has just said. "I'm sorry, did you just say another human?"

"That's right. It's mostly monsters here, but my wife, er, my ex-wife and I have adopted a human child. I guess you haven't met them yet. They usually keep to themselves, anyway, but they're a good kid. A little on the quiet side, but...

"Oh, how rude of me! I've been talking to you all this time, and I haven't even offered you a cup of tea. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No, thanks," I say, noting that my refusal almost seems to break his heart. "Not right now," I quickly add, "but maybe later." He looks a little happier at that. "Actually, I just moved here from Twin Falls. I was hoping to spruce up my apartment a little, and maybe send some flowers to my friends back home."

"I think I can help you with that. With the flowers, at least. I'm afraid I don't sell any evergreens," he replies, chuckling. What is it with monsters and puns? He turns back to the wall and produces a beautiful arrangement of flowers of all colors with a single golden flower at the center, raised slightly above the others. "Here we are! These are for your apartment. My treat!"

"Really?" I say incredulously.

"It's my pleasure! Now, as for shipping the flowers to Twin Falls... I'll need some time to think about that. I can go ahead and make the arrangement for you, but I'm not really sure about the transportation. I suppose I could just take them there myself when I get the chance..."

"Oh, no! Please, you don't have to do that," I tell him. I try to make it sound like I simply don't want to impose on him, but I think he picks up on the fear in my voice. Monsters, especially this florist, may look tough, but they're all terribly fragile; even someone of his size could likely be taken down by a child wielding a stick.

"Young man, I can take care of myself."

"When was the last time you went to Twin Falls, Mister... you know, I don't think I caught your name."

"Asgore Dreemurr, at your service!" he says with a slight flourish. "And to answer your question..." He gestures towards me, prompting me to give him my own name.

"Rudy. Rudy Tonofreni."

"Oh, ho! I won't have any trouble remembering that! My best man was also named Rudy. Well, to answer your question, Rudy, the last time I visited Twin Falls was... Let's see here..." He begins to mumble to himself as he tries to remember. "Oh. Oh my, it really has been a while. I haven't been to Twin Falls since a little after we adopted Kris."

"They've always had more than their share of MEU fanatics, but things have really gotten worse since that scumbag Ullman got elected mayor. He's all but encouraging them."

"MEU?" Asgore asks.

"Oh, sorry. I guess not everyone calls them that. They're really called the Arcane Enforcement Unit, but my friends and I call them the Monster Execution Unit because that's really their goal, even though they're all too cowardly to admit it. They all think they're doing the world some big favor, assaulting monsters who are just trying to get by like everyone else. It's sickening."

"Ah. Believe me, I'm familiar with the AEU, Rudy. I understand your concern, but--"

"No, I don't think you do understand," I say, my voice rising. "It's bad there. Really bad. They're not just going after monsters anymore. They're going after humans they think are "monster sympathizers". They're targeting monsters that are known to interact with humans, and the police, they're just letting it happen. Some of them are in on it, I think. I had to leave so they wouldn't hurt my friends, but it's probably already too late. The last thing I want is for someone else, someone I've just met, to get hurt because of me. I can't let that happen, okay? So, please... Just forget I even asked." My voice begins to break.

"Ah. I'm sorry, Rudy. I can see this is very upsetting to you. Perhaps we can work something else out. In fact, I just remembered I have a friend in Twin Falls who owes me a favor. I'm sure Arsenia would be more than happy to help us out."

Arsenia. Why does that name sound so familiar?

"Now," Asgore continued, "is there anything else I can help you with?"

Still trying to place that name while settling down from my outburst, I manage to say, "I think I'll take that tea now." Really, though, where have I heard that name before?

"Really?" He sounds positively delighted. "I'll be right back!"

I begin to ponder the fact that the whole time I've been here, I haven't seen any other customers. Well, it's a small town, after all; there can't be that much demand for flowers. Suddenly, the realization dawns on me, just as Asgore returns with the tea: Arsenia is Remkis's cousin!

"Here we are!" Asgore says as he sets down two cups of golden flower tea. "This is my absolute favorite tea. It's very soothing, but, ah, it's also very hot. Please be careful."

"Thank you," I say. "I just realized something, Asgore."

"What is it?"

"You can't ask Arsenia to get the flowers for me."

"Rudy, I appreciate how concerned you are, but, really, Arsenia is quite capable of defending herself."

"It's not that. Arsenia and her cousin were the ones I wanted to send the flowers to."

"Oh, I see. Well, that certainly won't do, then. I suppose you were right after all. I should just forget about it, but I'll be quite disappointed knowing there's someone out there not getting the flowers they need. Well, you can't please everybody. That's a lesson I've learned the hard way.

"Anyway, why don't you tell me more about yourself, Rudy?"

"I'm not sure there's much left to be said." I know I shouldn't be nervous, but I've never really liked opening up about myself, and I've already told him a lot about my personal life that I was hoping to keep, well, personal.

"What do you do for a living?"

Oh my god. I know I couldn't stay in Twin Falls, but I really should have at least arranged for employment before leaving everything behind. I laugh nervously as I reply, "Funny story about that, actually. I, uh, I don't... I'm un-... I have no idea. I mean, I used to work in a convenience store, but I didn't even think about looking for a new job before I moved here. Say, you don't know anyone that's hiring, do you?"

"How would you like to work here?" Asgore says with a big grin.

Oh, man. It's basically a fact of life that monsters make friends almost too easily, but it's still a little weird to be offered a job from someone I just met. Hesitantly, I start to tell him I don't know the first thing about flowers, but we're interrupted when the door opens. A young child in a green and yellow sweater comes in, a mop of shaggy brown hair covering their eyes.

"Kris!" Asgore exclaims, picking the child off the ground in a big hug. Setting him back down, Asgore says, "Kris, I want you to meet my new employee, Rudy! They'll be helping out around the store." Kris might have glanced in my direction, but it's hard to tell with their eyes obscured; they otherwise don't seem to react.

I notice that Asgore has apparently already hired me, even though I haven't yet accepted his offer. "H-hold on, Asgore. I'm going to need some time to think about this. I'm not really sure yet if this is what I want to do."

"Oh, of course..." Asgore says sheepishly. "Take as much time as you need." I think I catch a telltale smirk on Kris's face. I get the impression this might not be the first time Asgore has hired somebody on the spot.

Kris turns to leave, but Asgore stops them to give them a bouquet of flowers. "Here, Kris. For your mother." The youth takes the flowers and leaves wordlessly. I suppose that was the only reason they came by.

"Real chatterbox, huh?" I say to Asgore.

"They weren't always that way. I think they're still getting used to their big brother being off at college. If you get the chance, maybe you could talk to them. I think they could really benefit from knowing they're not the only human in town anymore. Well, I suppose you're a good bit older than them, but still..."

"Sure. It'd probably be good for me, too. Well, I guess it's time I get out of your fur. Thank you again for the flowers. And the tea." Quietly, I add, "And the job."

"The pleasure's all mine," Asgore says. "You're welcome to come back any time."

"Oh, I just might," I say as I walk out the door.

---

If everyone in Hometown is as friendly as Asgore, I don't think I'll have much trouble adjusting. Part of me still can't stop thinking about Remkis, though. I think about giving him a call, but there's a nagging feeling that it would be better if I didn't. It might end up making things even harder for him.

Remkis would probably get a kick out of the idea of me working at a florist, though. I'm definitely not the artistic type. The flowers Asgore gave me are a welcome addition to my still otherwise empty apartment; anything I made would probably make me wish it was still barren. Of course, my wallet is almost as empty as this apartment. I'm going to need a paying job pretty soon. Maybe I could be Asgore's delivery driver or something instead.

On the other hand, that grocery store also seemed to have a pretty barebones staff. Heh, I'll have to remember to tell that to the skeleton working there. I'd probably be a better fit there, but I almost feel like I owe it to Asgore to work for him. If he wants me to help Kris, it would almost certainly be easier to do so if I worked at his store. Besides, Sans seems friendly enough, but I can't help feeling there's something... off about him. Maybe it's just that he doesn't seem as trusting as the other monsters, which is probably a smart move on his part, but it definitely sets him apart. Plus, I get the sense that I'd be doing his job on top of mine.

Seems like Flower King is my best choice for now. I think I'll sleep on it before calling up Asgore, though.

[If you enjoyed reading this, please consider reblogging.]

[bonesgadh]

Each finalist’s pros, cons and key to winning the crown according to yours trully:

Jaida Essence Hall

Pros:

Talent

Jaida is an amazing performer, she dances, she sells her act, she is a very good designer and seamstress, she is polished, funny and overall a very complete queen. Most pageant queens who have been on the show are one-note queens, which is not Jaida’s case. Her looks are always on fucking point and she is simply gorgeous. There’s nothing else I can say about Jaida that hasn’t been said already.

Record

Only Gigi had a better track record than Jaida. She won three challenges and although she was in the bottom two once, she was always a good and strong contender.

Consistency

Gigi had a strong start but fell flat and Crystal woke up during the second half of the season, but Jaida was always a good queen (except for the second-to-last challenge). She didn’t really get a chance to put herself in the frontrunner position during the first half of the season because Gigi was dominating the competition, but she was patient and it paid off. It’s true that she failed at the one-woman show, but she quickly recovered and she proved it had been nothing but a slip. Ru likes stability, which can help Jaida’s chances.

Public image

Jaida is a very popular queen amongst her fellow queens and fans. She is charismatic, she has a likeable persona, she is an activist, she stands for diferent causes, and an altruistic queen is always a very good choice for a winner.

Cons:

Uniqueness

Although Jaida is a very talented queen her main style is something we have seen before, and one of the things Ru looks after in her winners is uniqueness, so that could play against her. 

Relatively slow start

Jaida won episode two, and after that she kind of fell into the background. Sh*rry P*e and Gigi won the next five challenges and Gigi’s domain of the competition didn’t allow for anybody else to shine, including Jaida. Her presence didn’t feel that much until after episode 8, when she started to win again.

Age

Ru is known for choosing young queens as winners. Raja and Bianca are the only queens above 30 to have won the competition, and that was because they were something else. Jaida is 32, which statistically speaking can affect her.

Snatch game performance

With the exception of Bebe (there was no Snatch Game in S1), Tyra (who had inmunity), Yvie (who was in the bottom two) and Violet (who was safe), every other winner has placed either high (Raja, Sharon, Bianca and Sasha) or has won the Snatch Game (Jinkx, Bob and Aquaria). Jaida’s impersonation wasn’t bad but it wasn’t memorable either.

Gigi Goode (honestly I don’t think Gigi stands a chance after her fuck up from yesterday. Not a single one. Even if her performance is flawless there’s no way Ru will crown her)

Pros:

Strong start

From the moment she entered the werk room you could see there was something special with her and with three main challenge wins by episode 8 she was the obvious frontrunner. At that point, you didn’t imagine any other queen taking the crown away from her. 

Versatility

Gigi is a very versatile queen, which is not very common. She is a skilled seamstress, she serves looks, she sings, she acts, she dances and she is an amazing performer. Her win in the Snatch Game proved she is quick-thinking and can be goofy, her win in the Ball challenge showed she is creative and skilled and she also did very well during the improv/acting challenges (World’s Worst and Gay’s Anatomy), which proves she is not a one-trick dog.

Challenges won

She won the Snatch Game which usually serves as the turning point of the season; it can either propel you to a frontrunner position or send you straight to the bottom. Like I mentioned above with Jaida, winners historically do good at the SG. She also won the Ball, another challenge winners have won (Bebe, Tyra, Sharon, Violet and Aquaria all won the Ball and, if you ask me, Bianca should have won it too).

On the other hand, no winner has ever won the Rusical/Lip sync extravaganza.

Performance skills

Although she didn’t have to lip-sync for her life she could benefit from the lip-sync for the crown format because she won two Rusicals and came very close to winning a third one, which proves she knows how to sell an act. Also she has already performed at the Werq The World Tour so she has an advantage when it comes to lip-syncing from her home.

Track record

Gigi has one of the finest records in Drag Race herstory. She won four challenges, a remarkable feature since she is only the third queen to achieve it (after Sharon Needles and Shea Couleé). However, contrary to Sharon and Shea, Gigi never placed in the bottom two—and Shea shared two of her wins with Sasha—. Tyra, Bianca, Violet, Sasha and Aquaria won their season without having to lip sync for their lives.

She rises up to the challenge

Gigi admitted she was not a particularly good dancer and struggled whenever she had to perform in a dancing challenge, but she delivered and excelled at them. Also during the Madonna Rusical she wanted to be cone bra Madonna but she gave up the part and still won the motherfucking challenge. I hate it when queens who don’t get their way just complain and throw tantrums and come up with excuses to justify why they did bad in the challenge, but she simply trusted herself and did and excellent job. 

Age

When picking the season’s winner, Ru leans towards younger queens. Except for Raja (36) and Bianca (38) every single winner won their season when they were less than 30 years old, and Tyra (21), Jinkx (25), Violet (21), Aquaria (21) and Yvie (25) were 25 or younger. Gigi is 22, which gives her a slight advantage against Crystal (29) and Jaida (32).

Cons:

That tweet and the controversy that came with it

For those of you who didn’t hear, yesterday relatively early in the morning Gigi tweeted about her excitement for the season 12 finale and she literally used the words: “I can’t breathe”, which was a horrible thing given the murder of George Floyd. 

Now here’s the thing: Gigi did what she did because she clearly had no idea of what had happened, which is worse than the tweet itself if you ask me. But then she comes with a long-ass statement to adress the issue and she only digged herself into a deeper hole. As a mexican woman I have experienced racism and I hate it when people just look the other way because they are acting from their own privilege, the privilege of knowing that the decision made by those in power won’t affect them, but the rest of us can’t afford to shut everything out or to blame it on our anxiety. 

Political issues were a big thing this season and the truth is you can’t aspire to become America’s Next Drag Superstar, a title that demands you to be politically and socially aware, and come up with excuses like: “oh, I don’t get into politics because I find them awful.” Gurl, when Aquaria came to Mexico a day after being crowned and I was lucky enough to see her, she adressed the presidential election that was happening the next day and threw shade at her own country. She had no reason to know there was going to be an election but she encouraged us all to vote because we needed our voice to be heard. She was the same age Gigi is today and she was never in the need to use the anxiety card to justify her political ignorance, and although she has also screwed up many times before she has tried to educate herself because she is aware of her privilege, and I respect her for that.

I’m very sorry for Gigi, I’m pretty sure she ruined her chances of winning which is a shame because I don’t think she is either a racist or the devil with human form, she made a terrible mistake and I hope she learns from this and bounces back. She owes it to her fans and to herself to do better next time.

Lost momentum

By episode 8 she had won three challenges but things went south for her after that, which allowed other queens to rise (especially Crystal and Jaida). She went from a 10 to a 6.5 in three episodes and it was painful to watch, and although she bounced back to win the final challenge the truth is she lost a ton of momentum, which can really hurt you during a competition as tough as Drag Race. You can’t allow yourself to lower your guard.

Uniqueness

Just like Jaida she is not a particularly unique queen, and one of the things Ru looks after in her winners is uniqueness. Although she is very versatile, her main style is something we have seen before. Personally she reminds me of Aquaria, although if you ask me—and here’s where a probably unpopular opinion quicks in—Gigi has a wider range than her. There are also traces of Raja and Violet, so that could play against her.

Self-sabotage

Gigi showed she can laugh at herself and be goofy, and given her good performances at the improv challenges and the snatch game I was surprised to see her fail the way she did at the commercial and debate challenges. Her performance at the one-woman show was “fine” and her make over challenge was mediocre, which is kind of unforgivable for a look queen because you expect them to excel. Sometimes it seemed as if she was trying too hard, but my guess is after performing so well she thought Ru and the judges wanted more, and her fear of failing is what brought her to fail. She chose to put her silly side aside, completely forgetting Ru likes it when queens just let go and have a good time.

Crystal Methyd: She needs to bring her A+ game to the lip syncs. If she manages to channelize her charm and uniqueness into friday’s performance then watch out, because it won’t matter if she is not as polished as Gigi and Jaida. Ru will choose a queen with a heart over a pretty face, as long as said queen gives her all.

Pros:

Uniqueness

Although her style is similar to other queens, she injects her performances with her own sense of humor and fashion. It is always amazing when a “different” queen does good in the competition and it makes you root for her.

Attitude

Crystal is one of the most kindhearted queens to have ever been on the show. She is likable and has a heart the size of the world and she won over all of us. If there’s one thing I like about Crystal is she enjoys what she is doing and she is obviously having so. much. fun. It is not common for queens to have this approach to the competition.

Growth

No queen grew during the season as much as Crystal did. Period. The glow up she had was just impressive and extremely pleasing to look at and it makes you feel proud of her. She listened to the judge’s critiques without altering what made her unique and Ru likes that. No choice but to stan.

Storyline

I don’t really like it when fans talk about queens getting the “villain edit” or the “winner edit”, what I do think is queens have a storyline because Drag Race is a tv show after all, so you have to be able to see the queens’ journey from start to finish. Having said that, out of the three finalists Crystal has the best storyline. She is the underdog, the queen you thought was going to leave first, and she fought her way to the top against all odds. 

Age

Just like I said with Gigi, when picking the season’s winner Ru leans towards younger queens. Crystal is 29, and although she is older than Gigi she is the same age Bebe, Sharon, Bob and Sasha were when they won (okay Bebe was 28 but in order for this to work I’m gonna say they were all the same age).

Cons:

Talent

Like Ru said, charisma and uniqueness can only take you so far. Obviously Crystal is a talented queen (she wouldn’t have reached the top if she weren’t), but objectively speaking I think Jaida and Gigi are on a different level than her. She grew a lot, yes, but with her there’s still room for improvement while both Jaida and Gigi are already excellent. I see her more as the lovely runner-up than as America’s Next Drag Superstar.

Record

In terms of record Crystal is the weakest out of the three queens. She came close to being in the bottom a couple of times, she had to lip sync for her life once and it took her a while to warm up, but once she did she stayed in the top. However, her weak start could play against her.

Odd queen

I doubt Ru will have odd queens winning back-to-back seasons, especially since I think Yvie was a better queen than Crystal.

Snatch Game performance

Tyra and Yvie are the only queens who went on to win their season despite performing poorly at the Snatch Game, and although Crystal didn’t have to lip sync for her life she was in the bottom three.

[addie-bear]

[ @addie-bear @chances-r-high @high-chancellor-raask and also staring a ton of people I’m too lazy to make blogs for ]

(( The following contains spoilers for Game of Thrones. Because I have exactly zero self control. ))

“This emergency meeting of the Senate of the Galactic Alliance is now in session,” Senator Destiel announced from her place at the front of the large room. Addie observed that this was perhaps the largest meeting room she'd ever seen, minus anything she'd seen on the Glitter Massive. The Senators were seated along a large wooden table that curved around the room, vaguely resembling a horseshoe. Addie was placed in the middle at a small desk. She couldn't help but drum her fingers nervously. If she didn't know any better she would have thought that she was on trial.

“Today we are here to discuss possible candidates to replace High Chancellor Ra'ask, or Dwight Dwicky as we've come to truly know him,” Destiel continued. “We have compiled some options. And Miss Denivar the reason you are here, is to give a different perspective. Seeing as in the past we have failed quite spectacularly to listening to outside voices.” She seemed to eye a few people in the room in particular. Addie had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“So, have you had a chance to look over the candidate files I sent you?”

Addie nearly snorted at the way the question was phrased. As soon as she'd found out what this meeting was to be about she'd thought long and hard about what she was going to say. She took a deep breath and stood up.

“I have, Senator. But...I don't think any of these people you've shown me are what the Galactic Alliance needs.”

“I beg your pardon,” Senator Wark snapped, turning to Destiel. “Destiel I told you this was a bad idea! She's still just some dumb kid.”

“She is a highly intelligent young woman who did what no one else in this room managed to accomplish,” Destiel said. “And the only reason you are angry is because you submitted your own name into that pile. Now sit down.”

Wark grumbled something under his breath in a language Addie didn't recognize, but she could tell just by the look he was giving her that he could be a problem. That was okay. Maybe if she could convince everyone else…

“As you were saying, Miss Denivar?” Destiel encouraged.

Addie cleared her throat. “What the Galactic Alliance needs is someone who truly knows the ins and outs of its government. I'm talking the good, the bad and the ugly. Dwicky had his hands deep in a lot of underground stuff and black market trading. Dirty deals left and right. But if you have someone who understands that world, that lived through it, then they will know how to best get the Galactic Alliance out of it and rebuild the integrity of the union.

“And it...probably wouldn't hurt if he had been originally trained for the job since birth. And actually cared about people.”

Destiel raised a brow. “I'm sorry but...are you talking about Chance Dwicky? Isn't he Dwight’ clone?”

“He is nothing like him, assure you. Starting with how he uses my last name these days.”

“...Didn't he kidnap you?”

“Yes, but kidnapping is just basic courtship tactics in my family,” she said, waving her hand in dismissal. When the room stared at her in a bit of horror, she coughed. “Sorry that was a...bad joke. Look, I'm not wrong. He knows the Galactic Alliance like the back of his hand. He probably knows its problems better than anyone alive. And how to fix them. Yeah, he's done some terrible things. I won't deny that. But it was under manipulation and abuse. He's...so much different than before. He's one of the most compassionate people I know. And well...everyone loves a good redemption story.”

The Senators exchanged looks amongst themselves. Well, all except for Wark, who was pouting like a petulant child. After several moments Destiel turned back to Addie.

“We will...consider it. Thank you, Miss Denivar.”

000000000

“You did what?!”

“Look, I literally only thought about when they showed me the candidates,” Addie explained. “And let it be known I'm not exaggerating when I say they suck, Chance.”

“Addie. I literally can't do this,” Chance argued. “Like... literally cannot.”

“Yes. You can. I know you can. Chance I've seen you take charge of an operating room like you owned the place. I've seen how far you will go for people, and not just people you care about. People who are complete strangers to you.” She reached up and held his face in her hands. “The Galactic Alliance is torn to shreds. Who better to heal it than a doctor? And not just any doctor, someone who knows it better than anyone else every could, someone who's the protégé of Team Nebula's Chief Medical Officer and the Queen of Lazuroth? And you've already built relationships with some of the representatives! so there’s that!

Chance hesitated in his response. He shouldn't be so...floored that Addie had so much faith in him. But...he was. He felt his face heat up and his heart pick up speed. He reached up and took her hands in his. “It's not...that I don't want it. I just...never thought it was a possibility anymore. Like...there have been times where...a part of me wishes I'd went back just so I can over throw him myself but…” He looked into Addie's eyes. But you. But Iris. But everything and everyone I have now.

Addie smiled a little. “You can have it now, though. If you still want it. And you could actually do things the way you want them done.”

Chance took a shaky breath, but he nodded. His name wasn't Chance for nothing.

“They want to meet you tomorrow. Interview you, I guess.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “You're gonna be brilliant.” 

Chance smiled, leaning in kissing her forehead. “Speaking of...healing things,” he awkwardly segued. He pulled out a vial from his pocket. It looked eerily similar to the vial Harmonia had sent her, except the liquid looked more holographic. “I...took the liberty of developing this. The vial they gave you wasn't... immediately harmful, but after analyzing what was left in there, I realized it would...well once it wears off it's going to ruin all of your recovery. You'll be back in a wheelchair.”

Addie frowned a little. “Can't say I'm surprised. I figured there had to be a catch somewhere.”

Chance nodded. “This one though...it'll stop that from happening. You'll be fully recovered. Besides, you know, having to monitor you for seizures and such.”

“Fun,” Addie drawled, before her smile returned tenfold. “Thank you, love.” She took the vial from Chance, grinning broadly. “Almost symbolic, don't you think? Take something your asshole dad helped make and then make it better.”

Chance snorted. “Calm down, there, Songbird. I have to win first.” He took her hand as the kept walking along the path of the large solarium. “And I'm pretty sure the odds of that aren't in my favor.”

Chance won the election by a two-thirds vote.

000000000

Dwicky grumbled when he heard movement outside. Usually that signaled yet another person coming to see him, and so far they'd all not been great visits. The last one had been his court assigned lawyer. Apparently even his own personal attorney had turned against him.

At least he was kept up to date on what was going on out there.

His cell door opened and he sat up from his spot on the floor. He couldn't help but cackle. “Well, well. Fancy seeing you here, Commander.”

Addie grinned a little. “It's Admiral now.”

Dwicky's brow furrowed. “Admiral?”

“Yep. Admiral and Master of Arms to the new High Chancellor of the Galactic Alliance.” She smirked. “You should probably be careful of the people you call failure.”

Dwicky just cackled. “What a pretty little ending for you. To the victor goes the spoils, am I right?” She scoffed. “I suppose you do win this round.”

“This round?” Addie asked. She probably shouldn't be rubbing things in his face. That wasn't why she was here. But...it really was far too tempting. “This is curtains for you, I'm afraid. They even gave me permission to use Cynder to execute you.” She folded her arms. “You're done.”

“Do you really think I'll be the last one?” Dwicky asked. “The late monster you'll ever have to take on. The final boss if you will?” He cackled. “Must be nice, believing you're the hero in this story.”

Addie narrowed her eyes. “You certainly aren't.”

“No, you see, you're not understanding, Admiral,” said Dwicky. “How many titles do you have now? Princess of Lazuroth? Admiral and Master of Arms? Phoenix of Justice is the newest one I've heard. Should we slap on Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons on there, as well?”

“I mean, if you must,” Addie told him. “Do you have a point?”

“My point, little bird, is precisely what I tried to tell you before. You think you're so good. Justice incarnate. The savior of the multiverse. But let's take a moment, here. Your mother is the Queen of Lazuroth. Your father the head of the most well known neutral negotiations group in the universe. Your uncle is the Tallest the largest and most stable Irken Empire there is. And now you have one mate the head of the Galactic Alliance and, knowing you, you won't rest until the other is seated on his rightful throne.” He gave her a sickening smirk. “And then there was your display. How you showed the entire multiverse how you'll answer injustice with justice and take down the tyrants with Fire and Blood. Forgive me for continuing the Targaryen theme, here.”

Addie simply stared at him. He was really going hard with the Game of Thrones references, wasn't he? “Are you saying I'm going to meet with a dreadful fate?”

Dwicky's smirk became much more disturbing, a madness in his eyes. “What I'm saying, little bird, is some people are going to watch that broadcast, and maybe they'll see a beacon of light that will come swooping in and free them from the monsters that have them in chains. But others?” He snickered. “They'll take one look at that footage and see nothing more than a threat to everything they hold dear.”

Addie couldn't help it. She snorted before laughing softly. “Oh, Dwight you ignorant slut,” she told him. Her gaze was fierce as she stepped toward him, leaning down to get right in his face. “You say that like that's not exactly what I'm counting on. Because if they're afraid of me, then everything they hold dear is everything I hate. I was born to topple corrupt empires and take down evil megalomaniacs. And you're right about one thing. You won't be the last.”

There was moment of silence as Addie's words hung in the air. She kept her gaze intense, a ferocious glare full of disdain.

Dwicky glared right back, gritting his teeth. They'd taken his metal arm while he was unconscious. Though there was plenty of temptation of strike her, he knew that he stood no chance against her right now. Which was fine. Let her believe she won. He would find a way out of this if it killed him.

Addie finally backed away, standing up straight. There was nothing more to say. This was over.

Except…

“Good luck at your trial tomorrow, Dwight,” Addie told him as she turned around the exit the cell. “Not that it will save you. I'm sure you and my uncle's father will be great friends in hell.”

And with that, she left.

[pomegranate-salad]

Seeds of thought : DIE #1

Been a while, uh ? I missed you too. But before we start, we have to adress the horrible, no-good, terribly misguided elephant in the room : I am currently working on solutions to keep posting my work outside of tumblr before it pulls the carpet from under us, but nothing concrete yet. As soon as I have my new internet home, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I’ll keep posting here. If all else fails, I’ll migrate on the Wicdiv Discord server. I’m Pom there too.

Alright ?

Alright.

Let’s do this.

IS THIS THE REAL LIFE ? IS THIS JUST FANTASY ?

 Metaphors are like elections : the quickest way to ruin one is to call it early.

Even now as I’m doing this write-up, I am kind of hesitant : do I actually want to pick apart this debut, or do I want to let the rest of the comic do it for me ? There has to be some equivalent of a love bubble for art, this fleeting period before you get one of those “oh… that’s where they’re going with this” moments, before potentiality unravels into concreteness, before, like in the garden of Destiny, you look behind you and only see one path leading to where you are despite seeing so many crossroads ahead.

That’s why, paradoxically, beginnings are also the most liberating moment to write about stories, because there is a round 100% chance that you will get it wrong. The further the story goes, the least margin of error you have, and you find yourself in a situation where you HAVE to get it right, because you actually have a chance to get it right. But now ? I do not know what DIE wants to say. Not yet. If I did, there would be no point for me in reading it, and if we all did, there would be no point for them to write it. Of course, even on first read, I feel like I might know what the master word is – just like wicdiv’s was “Death”, DIE’s is “Time”, which is nothing else than the slowest sort of death – but this master word is, at best, a key without a lock. The door is further down the path.

 So let’s talk about DIE – not to decrypt it, not to crack it open, not to judge it even, but maybe simply to enjoy it.

 The first thing DIE is, is a voice. It emerges from the intricately painted pages in its concrete boxes of black circled with red, in a way that you almost resent it from breaking the perfection of the page, what with its eye-grabbing crude colours. Unsurprisingly, given Cowles’ always excellent work, the content of the text soon comes to match perfectly this first impression. Dominic, our narrator, is dark, jaded, and he knows how to grab his audience. But on the other hand, he’s never being all that smart and elaborate. He’s a big box of black. Even his own hindsight, the way he looks at his younger self with this mixture of indulgence and pity, is nothing that original or ground-breaking : it’s basically the way any adult might look at their own self-important teenage persona. And of course, nothing about that persona is really gone : Dominic, as an adult narrator, is still the self-important, quiet kid with just enough self-hate to balance out feeling better than everyone else half the time.

In fact, every main character in this first issue is the sketch of their own teenage stereotype, whose attributes are listed out by Dominic on our introduction page. There’s a transparent parallel between that page and the spread a couple pages later where each character introduces their game persona. Dominic’s description is just as much of a character sheet as the ones they hand out to Sol. And by way of that parallel, there’s of course the one between the cast’s game personas and their real life personas : the character they are playing, half-consciously, half-unconsciously, just enough to believe it, just enough to call it their identity. This was already a theme in Wicdiv, and it’s not surprise it shows up again here. Between the characters’ former selves, their current adult selves, and their RPG avatar, DIE sets up a game of mirrors, almost daring us to find the real Dominic – or is it Ash ? – the real Angela, the real Isabelle.

Does fantasy escapism allow you to be someone else, or does it do the opposite, and brings you closer to yourself than you’ll ever be in real life ? That’s a question asked by the text, but also by the art. Now there’s nothing I could say that wouldn’t undersell just how gorgeous Hans’ art is, but for all its merits, it’s actually its one limitation that hit me the hardest : its inability to evoke the mundane. The issue is pretty clearly divided between a flashback portion in sepia hues, the real present in bleak red, blue and black, and the fantasy world with its warm tones. The first two parts are designed to come in contrast with the third one, but for all the supposed triviality of those scenes compared to the fantasy world, nothing in the way those parts are designed resonate as ordinary. Everything is bathed in light in such a way that everything always seems to be moving, from the complex hues of the evening skies, to the shadows on the characters’ faces. The smiles are big and toothy, the eyes are either glimmering or deep and sunken. At every moment, everything in the art works to indicates that something is happening, something big. Hans’ art is out of this world, in a very literal sense : it is somehow unfit to depict our reality. And so when we finally move to the fantasy world, it’s as if pieces finally fall to their righteous place and the world is finally set right side up. Everything about the way DIE depicts our reality feels deeply unreal. And because meta is never far when Gillen is writing, this probably says something about the way we think of comic books, and all escapist media.

The entire issue is building up to that fall back into the fantasy world – to the point that I thought they’d make us stew even longer for it – but we’re not the only ones intently waiting for something that, from the very beginning of the comic, is ineluctable : the characters, too, were waiting. They were waiting surrounded by characters who feel like NPC – we never even see the full face of Dominic’s wife – waiting while marrying women who look like their high school boner and having jobs serving as constant reminders of their past. They were waiting to the point that the first sign they get of the fantasy world of their youth, they immediately all show up to the reunion, and play around something they should know damn well is going to drag them back to it.

That’s not to say any of them “wants” to go back, per se ; such is the nature of trauma, that you want to get away from it as it prevents you from totally moving on either. DIE’s characters are stuck in that in-between, as if none of them had ever really left the fantasy world – and by extension, their teenage years.

This is also why I’ve been uneasy with the reviews of DIE out there linking its storyline to “nostalgia” ; for something to be about nostalgia, that thing has to, you know, be over. But none of the characters is even close to being done playing the game they were playing in their youth. And that for the fantasy murder game as well as for the game they played in reality, the game everyone plays. As teenagers, they push each other around about elitist fantasy books. As adults, they pretend not to know what “woke” means. The codes switch, but the game is still the same. Maturity can be a persona, too. They lie. They deflect. They follow their character sheet. And that’s fantasy for grown-ups.

 That’s not to say that these characters aren’t genuine – as I’ve said, it might be precisely because they’re constantly playing that we can get a better picture of who they are – or that we can’t connect with them. In fact, one of the many feats of this first issue is how immediately touching each of these characters is, both in their efforts toward pretend and genuineness. Well, with the one exception of the character who both seems the most dedicated to the game and the only one who doesn’t seem to be playing at all. Even as a teenager at the beginning of the story, Solomon is that one kid who seems uncomfortably comfortable in his role as the star his friends revolve around, vying for his attention. When he drags his former friends back into the game, is he looking for revenge, or has his world simply become boring without the rest of his party to move the story along ? This is where I should mention that the tabletop RPG hobby is one that is completely foreign to me – it’s just not my scene. And I think part of the reason why is that I’m too fundamentally selfish in that regard to share my imagination with other people. Playing RPGs implies losing part of your control over your own stories. Again, I have no idea how RPGs are supposed to work, but being both the gamemaster and a player strikes me as a fundamentally selfish move ; the move of someone who expects his friends to play their part perfectly, only giving them the illusion of control. For a RPG-themed fantasy, quite a fitting portending villain.

If I can be honest : I hope he’s our villain. I hope there isn’t some dark lore that’s manipulated all of them, and that it’s really just the story of how some teenage bullshit got gloriously out of hand. DIE’s premise is a simple one, just like Wicdiv’s premise was a simple one. But two hundred and a half plot twists later, it can be hard to remember just how fucking awful people can be to each other even when they’re not under the influence of some millennia-old force working in the shadows. I hope we never learn where the dice come from. I hope we never get an entire arc explaining how the fantasy world came to be. I hope it remains just as inexplicable as real life is, with its posture, its pretending, its own unreality, its game you can never, ever stop playing.

 And that’s DIE so far. I loved it. How does it compare to the first time I’ve read Wicdiv ? Beats me. The first time I’ve read Wicdiv, I majorly skimmed through it thinking it wasn’t for me – just like comics weren’t for me in general - until maybe issue #11, when I finally slowed down and started again from the beginning. First impressions. I was wrong about Wicdiv, many times, and there is definitely ways in which I am and will be deeply wrong about DIE. And I like that. So join me, if you will, in future write-ups of DIE, where we can be wrong, be surprised, be amazed, be disappointed also, and have ourselves a party.

[listoriented]

Burnout: Paradise

1. Burnout. Spinning wheels without moving. Antipodean slang. The smell of burned rubber.

The blank word document is another rounded bend. A few cars here and there loaded in. Driving these virtual streets is seeing ideas, tangents, discourse, thoughts spill off. In front is always nothingness. An inability to grasp on to anything coherent. Yes this is synecdoche, yes this is consumerism, a shiny shell of petromodernity – an actual critical theory term that I now take seriously - yes this is me, my life, my phd in miniature, the imperfect totalising open-world game, or yes this is a microcosm of the entirety of trying to play through the letter “B” of my steam library, stop-start, hopeful then despairing, takes longer than it should, yes this game is a magnum opus and I wish so hard to fill my lungs and release until my fingers are pinching some inflated balloon perfectly full of a graspable idea, or yes this game is fundamentally empty, a comment on a comment; at the bottom of all searches for purpose we find searches for purpose, etc. 

So I start and I start and I start again. I drive I drive I drive. Event after event ticks down, my license goes from learner to D to B to A and then I hit my goal, “Burnout license”, and still I don’t know what I’ll write. Something about driving, in general; driving as notionally relaxing, driving while thinking about other things. How do people write? Write things? My PhD is in pieces on the floor and in the computer and in my head. I drive around Paradise City and terrible emo from the mid-noughties plays, interspersed with long bouts of classical. Days pass, and in the game the day turns into night and back again, and I adjust the clock to make this happen slower, and the weather changes in Paradise City, a little – cycles of rain and cloud and sun - and here in Melbourne the weather changes too. It was the tail end of summer when I started, and we’ve been through the surprising highs and lows of autumn, now settling into winter, doing it all again. There are no roads leading in or out of Paradise City, and it’s a long drive back from the hills.

2.      Burnout. A series of arcade-style racers made for various platforms by Criterion Games [official site] between 2001 and 2011.

It’s a little uncanny, this pocket of 2008. It just looks real good to my rusty, unfussy eyes, like in visual terms it hasn’t aged in ways other games from that year age (though my friend James vehemently disagreed). It does the trick. It does lots of tricks. And it seems rare too, to say of a 2008 game that it’s a masterpiece, that it’s the best of its class, though of Paradise this is surely true, if all reports are to be believed with regards to all other open-world arcade driving games that have come since, including everything else made by Criterion.

Any doubts about its age are firmly put to bed by the soundtrack, though, which despite prominently featuring that Guns N’ Roses song from 1987 just screams mid-2000s at me, abundant “rock” guitars, masc whine and all, very of its time, salvaged by one timeless Avril Lavigne banger, a chunk of classical, and (to a certain extent) personal nostalgia for a time when this sort of soundtrack just seemed vaguely synonymous with “driving game”. There’s also the dated blemish of inane unmutable advice-slider DJ A(u)tomica, who at least has the good grace to (somehow) avoid repeating himself, even after seventeen hours of driving, at a clip of one quip every few minutes or so. There’s also the very 2008 nod to renewable energy via Paradise’s wind farm, harking back to that post- An Inconvenient Truth moment of progressive euphoria when we really all believed we could build towards a sustainable future that would also accommodate our oily desires, before another decade of resource-industry funded filibustering hadn’t proven this, again, impossible.

And yet Paradise stands up in ways that surpass the non-ironic soundtrack of fragile masculinity and the very 00’s DJ Atomica, despite or because of the people-less world, the flat and drab urban interior, the hardly even tokenistic ways of engaging with the city as function rather than form. I particularly like how B:P has not even the faintest hint of story, how even in terms of progression it purely becomes a game of exploration, winning events, checking boxes. It melds (excuse me for a second) form and function and manages not to get in the way of itself – the story is what the player does in the game, where the player goes. It’s kind of breathtaking, rare for any game before or since. (Hopefully it’s clear that I’m not advocating for the dissolution of narrative in games, only that the lack of narrative pretence here is very suited to this particular game, and very preferable to the kinds of irrelevant and bloated narratives that are thrown over e.g. other driving games).

Ah, 2008. It was just there! And yet so far. I played Burnout Paradise for a running total of seventeen hours over nearly three months. During this time, I also played forty-two hours of Tetris99. Everything in its place. Criterion recently announced they’ll shut down the Burnout Paradise’s online servers in August, though Paradise lives on in Remastered (2018) glory, Origin only. 

3. Burnout. The act of refuelling the boost capacity of an engine by running out of boost.

Despite the time I’ve spent with it, the fact that I managed to complete its main in-game objective, and the running thoughts on time and place and representation of cultural norms, I feel I’m struggling to say much of definition about Paradise that fits easily into the scrapbook nature of this blog. Perhaps in some ways it's too close to life; a series of arbitrary checklists through which feeling happens (nebulously) around. I "liked" it but do not feel moved to thought, and I'm aware that that is the point – it’s a game that allows you to drive, endlessly, if you want to, think and do whatever. It won’t get in the way (barring DJ Automica butting in every couple of minutes – he literally cannot be switched off).

I do not drive much these days. Last year when Lauren and I moved to Canberra, we drove nearly 4000 kilometres across the country. The landscapes wound by, at the time fleetingly, but they piled on and left deep rivulets in my head, and though it was just five days and nothing really happened – we leant on the accelerator, stopped every hour, listened to music, stayed in nothing-motels quite literally hundreds of kms from anywhere else and ate forgettable takeaway - it feels immense, now. Driving is funny like that - you are never quite in a place, separated from it by machine noise and windows and infrastructure, the one activity you can do to facilitate thinking about something else. Still, impressions, motion, the sense of having moved, of having journeyed. Here in Australia, the fossil fuel lobby has won its third straight election in a row. Hope is eroding into nothing.

Probably my favourite hour or two in Paradise City was spent mucking around in the online section with Roy and James, trying to check off a few of the game's multiplayer challenges. These involved such serious exercises as trying to do barrel a series of barrel rolls, or try and land on top of each other, or smash into each in mid-air, or drive on top of a parking lot to jump a ramp onto a shopping centre. It was very good, if a little eerie and dystopic, strewn with outdated real-and-paid-for advertising billboards, branded vehicles, quaint echoes of paused time and uncanny dilapidation.

The mill of the game I could never quite settle on - I “liked” it, I think, but it wasn’t without problems. I found the single-player events to be mindlessly enjoyable, ploughing other cars into crash barriers, or effortlessly holding down "boost" to accelerate down a straight and into a finish line, celebratory cutaway shot ensuing. Sometimes I crashed into too many grey girders that my eyes hadn't picked out and got frustrated, or sometimes I missed a critical turnoff and got frustrated. Sometimes they just felt like chores, and it was certainly sometimes annoying to not be able to restart events that I had botched, and it took me ten hours to learn you could opt out of races, stunt runs etc just by letting the car idle for a few seconds. And knowing this probably would have saved me a lot of time in the early game, because like I said it’s a long way back from the hills, where like three out of eight events end up at, and committing to staying in a race which after a couple of botched turns and unseen barriers you’re definitely not going to win, whose distant finish line is going to land you a long way from the nearest event (once you finally get there) can feel pretty dire, really, though there was also part of me that admired how Burnout refused to let you jump around the map, forced you to drive, take your time, see the city, see the sights.

I did appreciate the cracky coloured collectms of Paradise City, how they brought the city to life, sort of, or gave it the impression of being a well designed and thought-through playground, though I never got too completionist about them, the core exercise of the whole thing. Both John Walker of RPS and Chris Donlan of Eurogamer have written about Paradise’s fluoro crash gates, the impulse to reinstall the game every year and knock them all down from scratch. Along the way to getting my “Burnout license” I unlocked 36 of the 75 vehicles, jumped 35 of the 50 super jumps, broke 79 of 120 neon red billboards, and smashed through 353 of 400 aforementioned glowing yellow crash barriers. The game puts me at 55% completed. No steam achievements (woulda been nice, perhaps, given that Burnout Paradise is fundamentally a collectmup; nothing but metres and percentages). I’ve driven a little over 1000 miles, supposedly, which is certainly more than I’ve IRL driven over the past few months.

4.  Burnout. noun Physical and emotional exhaustion; breakdown caused by overwork. Commonly associated with “crunch”, “the video game industry”.

But here there is also pure hesitation. Procrastination. The fear of moving on, even at the end of this little step of what has ballooned into an impossible project. I can see the next letter waiting there, a new chapter, a chance for renewal. The one disappearing behind us has drawn out so far, encompassed a few years and a fair bit of change, and now almost petered into nothing at the final gate. I want to hit the ground running but I'm not sure I'm ready, and in the meantime various other deadlines swirl around, make it difficult to see the clear path ahead that I crave. And so it is that the temptation has been there to keep driving the streets of Paradise, its anonymous suburbs and abstract goals, continue delaying the inevitable, or the nearly inevitable, or the not-inevitable-at-all of writing this post and moving on to the next chapter, because it turns out this is a project I once made a choice to begin, and could at one point choose to stop.

There are nagging questions, of course. Who blogs, anymore? Who reads blogs anymore? How does one find a blog they like and then continue to follow it for the span of its natural life? Does anyone use “bookmarks”? What’s an RSS feed? I'm not even sure, in a broader sense, that I know where to find the kinds of writing about games that I want to read at the moment, at least not reliably, outside of say the occasional check-through of Critical Distance or Unwinnable. I look at the slate of games coming out and find it hard to be excited by anything much, the hype and the saturation. It is bountiful until it is not. The guilt element of playing games – something inherited from childhood that I’ve never been entirely able to dissociate - has become more and more prominent. I've increasingly used games as a tool for procrastination and a coping mechanism, a distraction from various (work/study and other) anxieties. I've also been aware of myself doing this, and in turn the kinds of gaming experiences I've relied on have been more focused on short term, low-investment distraction (hence the sudden unyielding devotion to Tetris, which really was just filling the hole left by an earlier act of self-discipline AKA uninstalling Rocket League; more recently, as I’ve managed to put the Switch away for longer periods, I’ve turned back to another simple but deceptive time-filler in Mini Metro. Choose your poison, basically). For a while it seemed Burnout would not only fill this role but do it responsibly: it seemed great for dropping into in short bursts - win a race or two, unlock a new car maybe – without quite the same dangerously addictive pull for me as those other games. But then I heard the GnR song "Paradise City" one too many times (it's mandatory with startup), or got sick of the menu loading times, and it lost this specific part of its appeal.

And then there's the subjective nature of this particular Sisyphean project - the knowledge that here I am pushing a rock up a mountain of my own making, one that exists only for me, entirely built out of and defined by the games and bundles I chose and continue to choose to buy, the rules I chose to set. Life is short, this task is absurd, and at the moment it's not even a joke I feel particularly happy about sharing. Sometimes I get to play great games here, games I may never have gotten around to; at other times I am playing shit games for this blog, and in the process there are inevitably other things I'm not doing. One choice erases another. Increasingly it feels like an isolated pursuit - playing games in general, not just the writing and making of this here blog. It seems like I know fewer people who play games these days, between falling out of touch with friends, seeing lots of other old friends give up games in one way or another, and playing games less frequently with those who I still know. I’ve accidentally become something of a game hermit. For years I've loved the camaraderie and easy familiarity of social gaming experiences even when I haven't loved the games that conduct them - the feeling of being connected to people even in a transient, shallow, goal-oriented sense, but even these I'm not sure I believe in anymore, or I find myself less and less willing to invest in the "right" titles to facilitate it.

I’m into my thirties now, and maybe this is just a feeling of age, life, I dunno, priorities finally shifting to where people told me they should’ve years ago. One of my oldest friends is about to have a baby, though he more or less quit video games over a year ago now. I'm extremely happy for him. Two of my younger cousins just had children, several hours away by plane – my uncle, a new grandfather to two babies, makes posts on facebook claiming climate change is a socialist hoax, and I can’t help but think of the kind of world his grandchildren are going to inherit. I'm mulling over a missed deadline that's been a thorn in my brain now for months, the single-largest hitherto unsaid reason why this post has taken so long to dig its way to the surface. This month marks the five year anniversary of another cousin’s sudden/unexpected passing; he was five years older than me, and though I’ll never be able to make sense of it, I feel like I get that there’s something sort of vulnerable about this age, when the things you want don’t quite work out, or when you’re a bit aimless and stuck in your patterns and feel like things aren’t going to change. He was so kind and gentle, a beautiful soul and a terrible Zerg, and I miss him so much. And one year ago I drove from Canberra to Melbourne and slept on the floor of this house I now call home while I waited for a truck with rest of my stuff to arrive. I’m very aware of the calendar, of change and inertia, of patterns and decay, of newness sprouting underfoot, but I don’t know how games fit at the moment, or I’ve lost the thread of feeling like they’re actually important, or why, amongst all the noise.

Burnout: Paradise is at the start, in the middle, and right at the end of all these things. It's a great game, part of me feels, or wants to say I feel. Playful, irreverent, childishly violent, simultaneously full of stuff and empty of matter. I'm happy I've played it, happy I can say that I've played it, happy to understand on an experiential level most of what it offers, happy I'll be able to remember it later, nod in some hypothetical conversation where someone brings up Burnout: Paradise and say I know what they mean, yeah. I get it. When we were playing it online together briefly, a couple of months back now, Roy told me that Burnout Paradise is the only game he ever one hundred percented twice - once on 360, once on PC - and that it was almost three times, because the first time he was almost done with it, someone broke into his house and stole his Xbox and all his games, and that Paradise was the only game that he re-bought with the insurance money, so determined he was to tick every box the game left open to tick, even if it meant doing it all again.

But maybe – counterpoint - I don’t get it. I’m finding it harder and harder to make good sense of this kind of experience, or feel like this kind of thing is (in some arbitrary way) a net positive, or that it’s okay to keep glossing over the emulation of destruction that games of so many different kinds fundamentally rely on. Outside there is so much suffering, so much to be upset about, and I no longer feel like there is time enough to sink into mindless (rather than meaningful, perhaps?) distraction. Or I’m finding it harder to get beyond the thought that this is an extension of the distraction/avoidance behaviour that I realised might actually be a problem in my life.

“Burnout” is, you’ll know, here in the great mess of the year 2019, a buzz word, particularly in the games industry. Games company employees have perpetually been expected to work unsustainable hours out of some sort of devotion to the industry, creating a cycle of talent depletion and toxic work cultures. But as is often the case with games, it’s a tip-off of what happens elsewhere, across the board. The mass casualisation of careers across all industries, the gig economy, pressures caused by un- and under- employment, the dissipation of viable faith, social-media and political stresses: all of these are leading to burnout, everyone has burnout, we are inundated with burnout. There is something ripe about the words or the idea of Burnout: Paradise, the very conceptual juxtaposition that seems to be two sides of the same coin, that feels very reflective of this moment, what we are all experiencing versus what we were promised. But what does this have to do with Burnout: Paradise, the game in which you pretend drive fake person-less cars around a virtual city, have horrific, visceral crashes from which you immediately respawn and “beat” by achieving a long series of arbitrary victories, collecting all there is to collect? Something, nothing, I don’t know.

“Burnout” means a lot of things, and the meaning of “burnout” the game adopts isn’t the other ones I’d associate with cars – a burnt out engine, or the smell of burning rubber - but one that exists only for the series, so far as I can tell: getting to keep using your boost because you’ve been continually using your boost. Keep going at all cylinders or bust, basically – except not, because the consequences for interrupting the boost are slim even on the relative scale of things that can go right or wrong, in this game where there is never really all that much on the line for the player anyway.

Paradise. n. Heaven. A place to await judgement. An enclosed park. Eden.

In Paradise City the grass is trim; the girls (all humans actually) are non-existent, unless you happen to be riding a motorcycle, presumably because a motorcycle without a rider would look very weird.

In Paradise City the cars are peopleless and drive themselves, so maybe it is an early vision of the tech bro version of Paradise. Or maybe the cars are driven by people who can only exist on the outside of the world of Paradise City, looking in across the matrix. Or maybe in Paradise City the people are the cars. This is Cars, the movie, sans dialogue.

In Paradise City all the cars emulate brands and models that exist in "the real world" but are called by names that exist only in the Burnout franchise.

In Paradise City all the cars ostensibly run on petrol, which is infinite but unnecessary, because going through a petrol station merely refills the car's boost capacity, whatever that is, rather than imply that your car would stop running if you at some point failed to “fill up”. It's very important that you know, though, that the cars run on petrol, because otherwise it wouldn't be a realistic representation of cars. Even in Paradise.

In Paradise City cars exist and then don't exist.

In Paradise City a lot more cars suddenly exists if someone decides they want to flip their car over and see how much monetary damage they can cause.

In Paradise City cars crash and crumple in a hyper-realistic way, but it's okay because the cars have no drivers and anyway all cars are all miraculously fine again after a few moments.

In Paradise City the railway has been shut down to give cars more places to hang out. 

In Paradise City the whole city runs on wind energy, because it's important to care about the environment too, because you can have both, promises the radio, though seeing as there's nobody there in all of Paradise's buildings it's unclear, anyway, what such energy would actually be running.

onward to Caesar 3

[storytellingape]

london calling

NOTTING HILL AU

MCSACKLER

13,000 words (unfinished)

There are two things Thomas loves most in the world: London and a good book.

To a lesser extent he loves other things: a perfectly pressed shirt, the smell of fresh paint, and not the least finding good homes for all books in his possession. He has multitudes stowed away, books hidden in cupboards and wedged between shoeboxes, tucked away in tight nooks and corners while a dozen more spill forth from the depths of his dresser drawers.

Of course, it wasn’t always like this. There’d been a time when things were not in such a state of chaos, when books didn’t materialize at every turn like uninvited guests popping round for tea. Around that time, Thomas worked for Harrods where he kept a tight ship. He was terrific at his job, excelling in detail work; he knew where everything was even with his eyes closed and had a mental grid of every floor stamped into his mind. Then he lost out on a promotion: ten years of hard work crawling his way up from the till and Nigel Bannerman had sent it all tumbling down with a smirk but that’s a story for another time and almost futile to discuss.

The story is set in Windermere which is approximately 400 kilometers away from London. In a bookshop at the end of street with a hunter-green awning, Thomas McGregor flips the sign at the door from closed to open.

The shop, like his violent aversion to dairy and small animals, has been in his family for decades and Thomas has been  its sole proprietor ever since his uncle had legged it to Sussex to try his hand at beekeeping. It’s a dying business when most people prefer digital over print, the commercial familiarity of a big name brand over a shabby little bookshop that hasn’t had a facelift since Margaret Thatcher first became PM. The shop is a fire hazard waiting to happen, crowded and small, poorly lit.

Thomas’ uncle’s only condition before allowing Thomas to take over was that he leave everything as is, undisturbed and untouched. A man of nostalgia and tradition. Thomas has taken that to mean quite literally, electing to keep the unfortunate wallpaper, the brass deer bust, the rotary phone, the paisley sofa. On a regular day, the shop gets about half a dozen customers, rarely more. Most of them are repeat customers, regulars, or tourists asking for directions after mistaking the shop for an entirely different establishment altogether.

This is how Thomas meets his assistant Stensland, who’d wandered in one day and simply never left. That’s an exaggeration: he leaves after business hours and after getting into rows with customers who question his literary tastes. Thomas can’t even remember why he’d hired him, or when, or how; one morning Stensland was just sort of there, making coffee and eating scones, telling Thomas about the new Murakami novel and offering to clean the windows. He’s helpful. Most of the time.

McGregor’s sells all kinds of books: secondhand and brand new, academic and fiction, self-help and the Bible though really the pièce de résistance are the rare and obscure pulp novels sitting in a neat row on an isolated shelf. Mostly people ask for the latest young adult novel anyway or Stephen King, which Thomas stocks on occasion.

It’s easy to accumulate books this way: sometimes Thomas goes on day trips to Marylebone in London to check out what the other shops are selling, or he walks into Foyles or Hatchards to admire the sleek shelving. He always leaves with a book or two tucked under one arm, which he sells for half price back at home in Windermere after peeling off the tags. During these excursions into the city, he feels a kind of triumph but also a certain blankness that’s harder to define these days.

*

Home. Home wasn’t always Windermere. Home was London once upon a time, in a nice little neighborhood near Kensington where the exorbitant rent guaranteed the best views.

There’s nothing to see in the country: just farmland and small houses, and so much green. It’s beautiful, yes, but only to those who don’t have to suffer through it everyday. People see Windermere and imagine that life is easy, and that’s true to an extent but what they don’t know is that it is also slow and dismal; the monotony breaks you down in tiny increments. It’s not the kind of place where it’s easy to disappear. In London you can constantly make and remake yourself.

People know your business here; they know your last name, they know your family tree. Generations of McGregors have lived and died in Windermere but Thomas is the first one to set up shop out of necessity rather than choice. Harrods had spurned him by denying him that promotion. Not just any but the one he’d been eyeing since first setting foot in lower management, several years ago. He was still reeling from the betrayal, a year after the fact. His uncle’s offer of a job couldn’t have come at a better time though Thomas only meant to do it for a few months until he found his motivation to do anything again.

But time is a funny thing and filial obligations even funnier and this, this is his life now: shelving and re-shelving books, selling used James Patterson novels for 50p. He’s losing money faster than he can make it. And on top of everything else, he keeps amassing books and running out of places to put them. Thomas wonders how his uncle kept the shop afloat for over thirty years with his terrible bedside manner and aversion to teenagers who make up the bulk of their customer base. Thomas is a stark contrast; he breathes customer service and can chat up a complete stranger.

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays see the shop’s peak in foot traffic. On weekends, there’ll often be a few tourists. Business fluctuates depending on the weather and season though that’s only true half the time. A typical day in the shop is punctuated by stretches of silence, interrupted from time to time by Stensland commentating on whatever it is he happens to be watching on YouTube. When the bell at the door tinkles, Thomas shuffles out of his little office in the back to assist the potential customer. That’s his favourite part of the day, when he gets to talk to people about their favourite novels and make recommendations based on the genres that interest them.

He has made it his mission to sell all the ‘hurt’ books sitting outside in a dusty box, books that have been dogeared to death and roughly handled because even books with shabby appearances have their worth and deserve a home. He hasn’t succeeded so far, the box is only a third empty, but one day they’ll all be gone and not because someone has stolen them. It’s this kind of sentiment that his uncle often berated him for; books don’t have feelings, he’d say. Stop anthropomorphizing them Thomas! They were made to be consumed.

“I’m going out for a walk,” Thomas says to Stensland on a day like all others as he massages a crick in his neck.

It’s a slow day and they’ve only sold two books and it’s already half past two. When he doesn’t get a reply, Thomas checks the counter where Stensland is planted throughout most of his shift and sees that Stensland is fast asleep, his arms folded across his chest, his head twitching forward intermittently. Not surprising as the only reason Thomas has hired him, he suspects, is for the company and occasional entertainment he provides, not his work ethic. He takes far too many froyo breaks and is late half the time. He reads sci-fi and trashy romance novels.

Thomas decides not to wake him. He’s gone for only an hour, walking around aimlessly. He goes for a coffee, and buys Stensland a buttered roll and his favourite blended drink, topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. When he returns to the shop, Stensland is nowhere to be found and there’s a man in a leather jacket hovering by the shelf of pulp novels. He already has three books in his grip: two on photography, the other self-help.

The man shoots Thomas a brief look when the bell at the door tinkles to announce his arrival. Thomas sets the drink and pastry down before offering the man his assistance. “Can I help you?” he says, remembering to keep a respectful distance. He folds his hands in front of himself and affects a bland, pleasant smile.

The man looks up. His smile shows a hint of dimple but it’s brief and he turns away again. Thomas has  a feeling he’s seen him before, though he can’t place when or where: not in town certainly, where he knows everybody. But somewhere. The man has a very distinct face.

“Do you work here?” Ah, and he’s American. Therein lies the rub. A tourist most likely. The man picks up The Case of the Seven Sneezes and rifles through the pages with a thumb. His eyes move along the text, never stopping.

“Well, it’s my name on the sign outside,” Thomas says.

“McGregor?” Abruptly, the man stops reading to give Thomas an appraising look that has Thomas feeling mildly self-conscious.

“Ah, not the McGregor,” Thomas says, clearing his throat. “That’s my great great grandfather but a McGregor. It’s a family business, you see.”

The man hums. He lifts a book to eye-level. You’re Lonely When You’re Dead, the cover worn from mishandling. His entire hand encompasses it spine to edge. He has massive hands. Everything about him is — massive. His presence fills the room. And still Thomas struggles put a name to his face.

“Are these any good?” He means the pulp novels. They’ve always been quite a conversation-starter; the lurid covers and outlandish titles attract everyone’s attention as does the sexual imagery.

“I haven’t read them yet,” Thomas confesses. He tried a few times but the writing could never sustain his interest. He prefers his literature maudlin, written before the turn of the century, peopled with solemn characters hellbent on murder, revenge, or rising above their station. “It’s an acquired taste like marmite or black pudding,” he continues. “They were popular in the 1930s a little bit before the first world war. They’re absolutely ridiculous but they have a kind of charm, I suppose, if you look hard enough. Some people collect them and sell them fifty times their worth on eBay. My uncle bought them as a young man; I imagine he’s read all of them.”

The man raises his eyebrows. “There are about a hundred of these that you’re selling. He’s read them all?”

“He had a lot of free time.” Thomas shrugs. “And he was a professor. Of literature.”

The man laughs, not meanly like a schoolyard bully, but in amusement, his dimples making another appearance. He’s handsome, and Thomas has only just started noticing this, hit by the sudden realization like a lighting bolt when the man grabs a handful of random pulp novels and flashes him a soft grin showing a hint of teeth.

“I haven’t read a book in a long time, I’ll tell you how it goes.”

“Are you visiting?” Thomas asks, as he rings up the man’s purchases. It’s an innocuous line of inquiry and there’s a moment of silence before he receives a reply.

“Kind of. I’m here for work.”

“You’re in Windermere. For work?” If Thomas sounds incredulous it’s because he’s never heard that one before. “This is often where people go to retire or hide from their mistresses,” he explains. “No one goes to Windermere for work.” Least of all men like this one who seem better suited to the whims of London. What does he do for a living, Thomas begins to wonder. He doesn’t seem like a businessman, or a corporate executive, or a banker though his clothes fit him very well and seem mortifyingly expensive. It’s the shoes that give him away. Thomas knows the look and style of high end brand; he worked for Harrods after all for ten thankless years. This man looks like he could afford shopping there.

“Are you, then?” The man prompts, and when Thomas gives him a confused look, he adds, “Hiding from a mistress?”

Thomas flushes, not meeting his eyes. Often when he makes small talk with customers, he’s met with either apprehension or polite letdown, never encouragement. It throws him off his game. “Ah, I’ve got no mistresses to speak of. That’s not really my area of expertise,” he says, “Women, I mean. And mistresses. Do you want a pastry to go with that? I seem to be babbling.” He holds up the buttered roll between them, which has sweated through the flimsy paper.

“Thanks,” the man laughs, accepting it.

Thomas hands him his change afterwards, a crisp one-pound note. “You saved this business by buying more books than the average patron. Thank you,” he jokes.

“I’ll be sure to come back then,” the man says with a smile. “I was going to steal them but now I’ve changed my mind.”

“Well, I suppose that’s a good thing,” Thomas says. “As stealing is bad for business.”

The man laughs, then he mimes tipping a hat. When he’s left, Thomas slumps against the wall like a deflated balloon, feeling oddly winded.

The bell at the door chimes again shortly thereafter but it’s only Stensland, his assistant, panting and wearing a different pair of trousers.

“Sorry I left, it was an emergency,” Stensland says, wiping his hands across his bright-orange shirt, same as his hair. “I had to go number two and you know how bad the plumbing is here.”

His expression brightens when he sees that Thomas has bought him a drink. “Ooh, is that for me?” he says.

*

The weather in Windermere, for the most part, is pleasant and temperate. The rain is terrible. It stops for nothing and no one and goes on and on throughout the day, sometimes lasting deep into the night. It rains on a Wednesday, when Stensland is on his day off and Thomas has stepped out for lunch. There’s a deli across town with quaint seating and better Wifi than anywhere else, that makes the best quinoa and mango salad Thomas has ever had. He’s halfway into his lunch when there’s a sudden downpour. Thomas looks up at the sound of rain hitting the sidewalk and remembers where he’d left his umbrella. It didn’t rain in London as frequently as people who didn’t live there liked to believe but in Windermere the rain came often without warning. It could be sunny in the morning, then a torrent well into the afternoon.

An hour later when the rain shows no signs of letting up, Thomas braves the deluge and makes a run for it. It’s only a five minute walk if he hurries. He darts under awnings and bus stop roofs for cover, skidding and slipping in his brown leather shoes. Then he hears his name being called from across the street and he stops abruptly to whip around and face his interloper.

“McGregor!” the man says, and Thomas squints through the rain dripping into his eyes, trying to remember how he knows him. He meets a variety of people everyday, old and new customers, people who come back to the shop and people who don’t. “It’s you! What are you doing out here without an umbrella?”

The man jogs briskly towards him, tipping his bright black umbrella towards Thomas to shelter him from the rain. He stands close enough for Thomas to feel the warmth of him. Thomas notices for the first time the whiskery beginnings of a mustache and goatee. He smells nice, like expensive cologne, nothing too overwhelming or citrusy.

“Sackler,” the man says when Thomas continues to look at him blankly and noiselessly. “Adam. Though I don’t think I introduced myself last time. I saved your business? Bought a dozen books last week and you thanked me for my patronage.”

Thomas nods slowly. “Right,” he says as he remembers. The American. And now he has a name: Adam. They walk the rest of the way, avoiding wayward cyclists and other pedestrians with no trouble, Thomas wet as a drowned rat and just as pitiful while Adam tries his best to keep pace. Their shoulders bump a few times; they exchange smiles.

Thomas drips rainwater all over the carpet. He excuses himself for a moment, thudding up the stairs to the loft to change out of his clothes. He catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror just as he’s pulling a shirt over his head: the blindingly pale back that hasn’t seen a proper sun since 1998 and the narrow but soft waist. Still: nothing to be done about that and he’s made peace with his over all appearance in his thirty-four years of living. He emerges a fair bit later with a towel round his neck and his hair standing in static tufts, skin feeling clammy but otherwise dry.

Adam hasn’t left. Thomas catches him poking at the shelves and picking up books.

“Hi,” Thomas says, announcing his presence.

Adam tears his gaze away from a hardback edition of Jules Verne’s The Mysterious Island. He has shaggy dark hair framing his jaw and it softens the jut of his nose. “Hi,” he says.

“Thank you for the er —” Thomas gestures vaguely at the whole of Adam, trailing off. Handsome men don’t render him speechless all that often, but there’s something about Adam that makes his reflexes sputter a bit before he can find his footing. Maybe it’s to do with the fact he hasn’t had a handsome man walk into his shop, ever, barring that one night a detective in a red flannel shirt asked if he knew someone named O’Malley.

“Sure. Don’t mention it. I mean…” Adam shrugs, trailing off as well, but he does it in a charming way that isn’t as awkward.

“Would you like some tea?” Thomas asks, his usual tactic whenever a conversation hits a low point, which when you’re him is often. He finds that tea always fixes everything more so than a glass of scotch. Tea is warmth and home, a reliable source of comfort however brief; scotch is fist fight in a seedy back alley in Glasgow, leaving you concussed and missing a pair of pants in the aftermath.

“I’m more of a coffee man,” Adam says. Ah, Thomas thinks. A true American.

“I can make you coffee. If you like.”

Adam gives him a look of mild appraisal. He has eyes a shade lighter than his hair but they’re difficult to read and Thomas shouldn’t be looking into the eyes of strange men anyway so he breaks his gaze abruptly. “If you don’t mind,” Adam says.

Thomas excuses himself a second time to disappear into the kitchen upstairs.

Thomas lives in the loft above the bookshop, a cliché to end all clichés. His uncle has a house in the outskirts of town, with a lush garden and several spare rooms, but it always terrified him, the thought of living alone in such a seemingly infinite space as if he were a country governess in a gothic novel haunted by the unrestful spirits of his ancestors. Mostly, he hates being alone and living in cramped quarters lends the feeling of not-quite aloneness. Living in town means living with the noise of people and foot traffic which although pales in comparison to the city’s, reminds him enough of his days in London.

It’s not the same living conditions as he’s accustomed to: a sagging double bed tucked under the eaves and dingy yellowing wallpaper shadowed with the ghosts of posters past. There’s a kitchenette, a bath, a profusion of unhelpfully shaped cupboards which he uses to store new books. Six months ago he brought a reading chair upstairs and parked it next to the window so he could watch his patch of street outside and the comings and goings of everyone that passed his shop. He saw it all.

The kettle whistles and he finishes pouring the coffee. “Up here,” he calls, leaning over the banister to peer down at Adam who’s sat on the countertop and invested in twirling a complimentary Windermere postcard in his hands. He follows Thomas up the stairs, stopping abruptly to survey the room. The loft isn’t made to fit more than two people. Adam can cross it in several strides but it’s clean enough and cozy, outfitted with soft rugs.

“Fuck, wow,” he says. “Nice little setup you have here.”

Thomas doesn’t know if he’s being sarcastic but he accepts the compliment anyway.

“Sorry about the… smell. And the books.” Thomas clears a spot at the breakfast nook and invites Adam to sit. He realizes he hasn’t had anyone up here since he started running the shop. Well, except maybe for Stensland, but he mostly comes up to raid the fridge and nap during his shift.

“No it’s, it’s really cool,” Adam says. He glances around: the flypaper on the wall, the window fringed with succulents, the bed in the corner with mismatched quilts, and then back to Thomas again, his gaze lingering a beat too long.

Thomas flushes. His fair colouring makes him red down to his throat.

They sit at the table, knees bumping. There’s hardly any room but the same could be said for the loft itself. Thomas has laid out a plate of scones which he reheated in the microwave but they’re still as good as they had been this morning. The bakery that sells them makes them fresh every day.

Adam starts stuffing one in his mouth and eating with his mouth half-open. Thomas supposes no one can be perfect and discreetly flicks crumbs off his lap.

“How are the books?” Thomas ventures.

“I have a confession to make,” Adam interrupts him.

“Please don’t tell me you’re a serial killer and I’ve made the mistake of inviting you to my home,” Thomas says in a rush. Perhaps he’s been alone too long because Adam just stares at him for a long time before blinking.

“What?” he says, sounding mystified. “No, what? Do I look like a serial killer to you? I was gonna say I was a comp lit major in college but I didn’t do anything with it and I haven’t finished a book ever since I flunked out. No book ever resonated with me, but movies. I love movies. I’m more…into visual arts, you know what I mean? What’s the last movie you’ve seen?”

Thomas shrugs. “Forrest Gump?”

“Seriously?”

“It was on telly the other day.”

“Fuckin’ Forrest Gump?” Adam lets out a guffaw though he sobers up just as quickly when he sees that Thomas is not impressed. “I’m an actor,” he settles on.

Which explains why he looks so familiar, Thomas thinks. “Have you been in anything I’ve seen?”

“You know you’re the first one to ever ask me that in a while but to answer your question, no, probably not. I mean I’m not exactly Tom Hanks. I don’t make those kinds of movies.”

“What do you mean those kinds of movies?” Thomas says, genuinely curious. “The kind that gets awards?”

Adam gives him a wry smile. “Sure.”

“Well, at least you’re not in pornography,” Thomas says. “Or are you? Not that there’s anything wrong is that.”

Adam laughs again, giving Thomas a look that seems to vacillate somewhere between open amusement and utter disbelief. His smile could thaw snow drifts and cut glass at the same. It makes him seem dangerous but also like the kind of person who would help you change your tires in the middle of a deserted highway. “You think I could do porn?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested in Thomas’ answer.

“Well, you’re a strapping young man,” Thomas replies. And it’s true: underneath those clothes he’s probably a specimen. He works out; that much is clear to any impartial observer. Which Thomas happen to be. Completely impartial, in fact.

“You sound like an old person. ‘Strapping young man’? We’re the same fucking age, I bet.”

“I’m thirty-four,” Thomas sighs.

“Two years older then,” Adam hums. Then he picks up a book sitting on the kitchen counter. It’s the new one from Nora Roberts, rather dry and depressing, set in Turkey. “You’ve read this? All these books?” He gestures to the room at large, all the corners bursting with books. Thomas shakes his head and launches into a very long and involving story of how he’d ended up with more books than he knows what to do with, starting from the very first day he’d set up shop two years ago. It began with that first book which he’d purchased on the way to Windermere and read on the train there. There are brighter points in the story, emphasized by Thomas’ wild gesticulation, but mostly he rattles off the titles of all the books he’s bought since, like it’s a spelling contest where speed actually counts.

When he finishes, the rain outside has thinned to a drizzle and Adam has eaten all the scones, drunk all the coffee. The atmosphere is slow and settled. Adam’s half smile shows a hint of front teeth when he helps Thomas clear the table.

As Thomas is ushering him out, Adam’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He checks his messages and darts Thomas an apologetic look.

“Well, I guess that’s my cue to leave,” he says, sounding sheepish. It’s already late, judging by the grey haze outside softening the murk on the windows. “Thank you for the coffee, and the scones. And the uh life story I guess. I feel like I’ve gotten to know you really well.”

Thomas groans. “Oh  god. I talk too much don’t I?”

“A bit,” Adam admits. “Okay, you talk so fucking much but the accent makes it bearable, makes it kind of sweet.”

“Right,” Thomas says, trying to remember the last time he’d been called sweet. He has a memory of his mother back in primary school, sending him to class wearing a red bowtie and matching jacket. She died when he was eleven. Car accident, the usual story. Afterwards, he lived with various relatives, first in Cardiff, then in Berkshire where he spent most of his young life before moving to London at age twenty-one to try his luck. He got a job at Harrods after working six months as a telemarketer.  

Adam shrugs into his jacket, the same one from a week ago when he’d bought all those books. Thomas hands him his umbrella which he’d left drying by the door, a puddle now seeping into the soft rot of the floor.

Adam nods once he’s all sorted. “I guess I’ll see you.”

“I suppose,” Thomas says, though these words mean nothing and he keeps twisting his fingers into nervous pretzels.

Neither of them moves.

Finally, Adam blinks. “Do you have a business card? With your number on it and your address? Not your personal number or address, I’m not a freak, but the shop’s. It’s my last day in Windermere. I’m flying back to New York tomorrow and in case I find myself in your neck of the woods again, I want to make sure I have the right place. I have zero sense of direction. I’ll need a map to get anywhere. You’d think being a New Yorker I’d have better geographic sense but I spent most of my adult life drunk on booze so my memory is kind of fucked up.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want you getting lost now do we,” Thomas says, as he hastily scribbles his number and address on the back of a receipt of a kebab place. His hand shakes. Business and personal information are practically interchangeable; after all he lives above the shop and his name hangs on a sign right outside it.

“We can’t afford a business card but I suppose that will have to do. Unless you want me to write you a map as well. In which case I wonder if I might interest you in a little travel pamphlet written by a lifelong local…”

“You wrote your name,” Adam points out, perusing the bottom of the receipt where Thomas had signed it. “Thomas. Thomas McGregor.”

“Force of habit,” Thomas says, forcing out a laugh. “Sorry. Anyway, do drop by whenever and don’t be a stranger.”

“Of course not. We shared such intimate life stories, how can I ever forget you?” He grins at the embarrassed look on Thomas’ face. “I’ll see you, Thomas,” he says, no less cryptic, then he’s off, and the door closes behind him with the jingle of a bell.

*

Stensland is quite the character. It’s difficult to fathom how he ever made it to his late twenties without being shivved in an alley or chased by a wild pack of dogs. He’s the worst employee Thomas has ever had the misfortune of hiring, but he’s useful in less discernible ways, more worldly. For example, he can name all the top 100 hits from the summer of 2013 backwards and forwards. He knows the names of all members of the pop band SClub 7, and he consumes more American media than is strictly healthy. Also he makes a great cup of Earl Grey and can haggle anyone including the baker.

One morning he bursts through the door armed with discount pastries and a pilfered copy of The Sun. “Thomas!” he cries, dropping everything onto the counter before shoving The Sun into Thomas’s chest, opened to a grainy photo of a familiar shopfront. “Thomas! I can’t believe you! You met Adam Sackler and you didn’t tell me? How could you?”

Thomas is confused. “Do you two know each other?”

“Well not as intimately as I like! But of course I know who he is! I don’t live under a rock! He’s only the star of every vivid sex dream I’ve ever had in the last five years, but also Detective Yorick, Captain Cobalt, and The Steely Eye.”

Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose. Sometimes Stensland speaks with no pauses or punctuation, making basic information hard to parse. Thomas suspects he learned how to communicate by watching wildlife documentaries as a child or making random noises with his mouth. “None of what you’re saying is making any sense to me. Slow down, Stensland, you’re giving me a headache.”

Stensland shakes his head at Thomas as if to say you poor pathetic sod, who knows nothing of the world and then points at the page again with a sugar-dusted finger. “You’ve made the shop famous. Look! People saw him coming here a few times and then leaving hours later. I’ve always thought you were a bit prudish but I guess you showed Adam Sackler a good time because he’s apparently talked about the shop on Graham Norton.”

Thomas finds all the blood draining from his face. “What?” he says, feeling faint. But there it is, on page 3 of The Sun under the heading ADAM SACKLER AND HIS BOOKSHOP ROMANCE? Several photos from that afternoon: of Adam walking him home in the rain, an umbrella over both their heads, of the two of them disappearing through the door of the shop, of Adam leaving hours later at sundown, alone. He knows what it looks like. But it can’t be farther from the truth.

“He mentioned the shop on Graham Norton?”

Stensland nods. “Says so in the article. Also apparently they think you’re some sort of witch, selling incense and pot along with all the books.”

A quick hop on Google pulls up a video clip of Adam on Graham Norton. It’s three minutes and forty-two seconds long, and he talks about his new movie where he’s playing an AI who mostly has his shirt off. Graham Norton asks if Adam has plans of ever coming back to the UK and Adam smiles in a calculated way before answering.

“Sure,” he says, and he’s more handsome in real life than he is under harsh studio lighting, “There’s this bookstore I’m fond of in Windermere called McGregor’s. I met the owner one time; he made me coffee and fed me like, fu[beep] scones fresh from the oven or some shit. It was all very charming and British. Very sweet. You should check it out if you haven’t.”

“This is in Windermere?” Graham Norton repeats, raising both greying eyebrows. The audience laughs while Adam looks mildly uncomfortable. “People go to die in Windermere, Adam. It’s the American equivalent of Arkansas, only posher.”

“Maybe someone with less imagination would think that,” Adam says mildly. “But I think it’s a really great place.”

The clip ends there. Stensland clicks out of the window and faces Thomas with his hands pressed to his hips.

“He should work for the local tourism board,” Thomas opines, still reeling from everything that’s happening: the realization that he’s met a famous actor and it slipped past his notice, the fact that there are photos of his family’s bookshop splashed across a tabloid read by thousands. That despite all this, he’s still sort of hoping Adam would walk through the door like he’d promised, asking for the latest Franzen.

“Tea and scones? Very British? It all sounds like a very euphemistic way of saying you gave him a blowjob then let him bend you over a desk! Three times!”

“Stensland,” Thomas says, horrified. “I didn’t have sex with him! I didn’t even know who he was, quite frankly, until today. I thought he was just an American, a tourist wanting to buy some trashy books! Is he really as famous as you say he is?”

Stensland’s expression softens, like ice cream melting in the shade. Thomas has only seen this expression once, when Stensland’s favourite couple broke up during season three of Dawson’s Creek after which he had to take a week off to recuperate even when he’d seen the episode five times.

“Oh no. You weren’t lying. You really don’t know who Adam Sackler is, do you? Poor thing.”

Stensland grabs the keyboard off the desk, typing Adam’s name into the Google search field. A dozen images and links pinwheel across the page. Stensland shows Thomas pictures, stills from movies Adam has been in. He’s worked with Liam, the lesser Hemsworth, Tom Hardy and Daniel Craig. He won an MTV award for Best Onscreen Kiss alongside a male costar whose name eludes Thomas, and he’s apparently openly bisexual.

But the real question is: “Why is his shirt always off?” And shiny with oils, Thomas doesn’t say.

“It’s a character choice.”

“He’s playing an alien in space. And in the last photo wasn’t he supposed to be playing an eccentric doctor?”

“Thomas,” Stensland sighs, as if speaking to a particularly slow child. “It’s part of his charm. He’s contractually obligated to have his shirt off in every movie.”

Thomas wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know. That seems a bit exploitative to me.”

“Hush,” Stensland says, holding up a finger, and the rest of Thomas’ afternoon is swallowed up watching clips of Adam on Youtube in between ringing up customers and re-shelving books. The experience leaves him feeling a bit strangely detached. He sees Adam in various scenarios: swimming in the ocean, locked in a sword fight, romancing a beautiful Parisian woman along the Champs-Élysées. In some of these clips he has his shirt off, in others, he’s grunting and soot-covered, wielding some sort of weapon.

Later in the day as he’s flipping the sign at the door closed, a camera flashes in front of Thomas’ face, leaving him blinking and blinking.

Sunspots dance in his vision and when he comes to seconds later, there’s a woman with very red nails standing just outside, holding a tape recorder. “Hi, I work for The Daily Mail, do you have a minute?”

*

To say that Thomas’ life changes after that is understatement. Reporters don’t arrive at his doorsteps in droves but a few drop by to visit and occasionally buy a few books in exchange for a sound bite. He says pretty much the same thing to all of them: that he sold Adam a few books, that he didn’t know who he was at the time, and that the scones Adam kept raving about had been bought from The Little Windermere Bakery which is right across town.

A few of his photos end up on The Daily Mail and Metro, all of them unflattering but one.

Stensland eats it all up.

Just as Thomas is fielding another reporter, his phone goes off in his pocket. Thomas has made it a point not to pick up calls from unknown numbers but it’s been a long day and his guard is down. He just had to explain to a journalist — six times — that he didn’t sell Adam Sackler anything illegal or dubious. But people will spin stories out of anything, it seems, especially if it’ll rake in money.

He excuses himself to a corner, leaving Stensland to answer questions. He’s more than happy to be the center of attention. Now that they have customers daily, he’s even started ironing his clothes and wearing proper footwear, not the socks and flip-flop combination he often prefers.

“Is this Thomas?”

Thomas narrows his eyes at the wall. “Who is this?” he asks, instantly suspicious. Only a few people know his personal number;  two are dead. It’s not information he gives away freely.

“It’s Adam.” A pause. “Sackler.”

“Ah,” Thomas says, and then he leaves the statement hanging because he doesn’t know what else to say. Little things leave him tongue-tied: dogs in appropriate swimwear, very hot soup, his uncle patting him on the shoulder and calling him son after Thomas had come to him confessing all his failures. He doesn’t know how this became one of them. It’s just Adam, a man he met a while ago. Then again he also happens to be one of Hollywood’s hottest rising actors, at least according to People Magazine and GQ. How is Thomas to conduct himself as if the fact doesn’t impress him in some base bourgeois way?

“Is it as bad as I keep imagining it is?” Adam asks, going right to the heart of it. “I saw the pictures on The Sun,” he explains. “My assistant showed me. Sorry I dragged you into my shit. You must hate me. Fuck, I’d hate me too. I mean I already do, I have to live with myself everyday, but fuck. Thomas?” He waits for a response.

“Yesterday, a gaggle of fans came by and waited for you, as if I was somehow hiding you under the counter,” Thomas says. This is true: Thomas ignored them for the most part and then caved and made them tea, the only polite thing to do in whatever social situation requiring the least possible interaction.

“Shit.” Adam winces but then he laughs. Laughter is always strange on the phone, because it sounds longer than it should be. But Adam’s laughter is deep and sonorous, like good whiskey, or the vibrations of a string instrument. And it cuts through Thomas like a knife, catching him off guard. These are strange times indeed.  

“I sent them away, each with a copy of The Hobbit under one arm,” Thomas tells him. “Really, you’ve brought me nothing but business.”

“Well, I guess that’s a good thing, if you’re telling the truth,” Adam says after a moment, “And Tolkien always makes for good reading though I really hated the last movie.”

“I’m surprised you know who Tolkien is,” Thomas jokes.

“Hey, I’m not as much of a Philistine as you probably think I am. I have taste; I have class. My interests are many and varied. Listen,” Adam says, and Thomas leans forward as if Adam were actually there, standing next to him and not oceans away. “I’ll be in town next week for a reshoot and I was wondering if I could. Come see you. I wanna make it up to you. It’s only a matter of time before TMZ gets a hold of you.” His voice drops to a whisper; Thomas suspects he’s hiding in a broom closet.

“You’re always welcome in my bookshop, you know,” Thomas says, confused by Adam’s sudden shyness. “And I don’t know who TMZ is, is that supposed to be rap group? Am I going to be the subject of a very explicit mildly derogatory song?” Thomas doesn’t think he can handle it, if he were. He likes his peace and quiet; he doesn’t want to be dragged out of hiding, immortalized in song.

“No,” Adam says, “What? Listen, so I can’t be seen anywhere near Windermere or my publicist will kill me but I’ll be in London staying at the Four Seasons at Park Lane under the name Evelyn Waugh. And before you’re impressed, no, I don’t know who the fuck that is but my assistant is the intellectual type; she thinks it’s really clever. We could have drinks or whatever the hell you want. Tea, I don’t know. Go on a boat ride on the Thames. You could show me around; I don’t know anyone in London who isn’t working for me in some capacity.”

“Well,” Thomas says, afterwards, fiddling with the hem of his jumper. That seems like a big commitment and he finds himself saying, “We’ll see,” which sounds breezy, promising and dismissive all at once. Safe. “If I’ve got nothing planned then I suppose maybe I can have my assistant run the shop on my behalf, take a day off…”

“Great! Perfect!” Adam says, “I’ll see you then!” he adds, and the line disconnects abruptly. That’s apparently that.

Thomas stares at his phone as if it might grow teeth any second. Then he pockets it and checks on Stensland, making sure he doesn’t show a complete stranger the tattoo on his left arsecheek.

*

London, London. It’s been two years but Thomas has yet to work up the courage to see his old neighbourhood. He goes on day trips to visit friends (Bea, just Bea) but he leaves old haunts well alone. He avoids them like the plague, prefers not to run into anyone he used to know: his manager at Harrods, the employees that used to be in his purview, Mrs Dalloway, his old neighbour with the fat cat and giant glasses like periscopes.

He tells himself it’s because he resents all of them, including London for spitting him out. But the truth is he’s ashamed of what he’s become in such a short span of time, a country bumpkin who startles easily in the midst of heavy crowds. Two years and he’d become complacent, changing shape to fit his surroundings. He’s gone soft in the interim, in more ways than one. He hates traffic with a passion, and prefers comfortable shoes over leather.

Stensland tells him he’s being ridiculous. “You’re being ridiculous,” Stensland says, pulling his jacket tighter around himself and furtively glancing around the street. He’s lived in the country for years, after a decade of living like a Nomad: Dublin, Seattle, West Virginia. He’s more well-traveled than Thomas but a lot less savvy, free of any chips on the shoulder. It’s why Thomas brought him along despite initial misgivings; he needs an anchor. Also he doesn’t trust Stensland not to burn the shop to the ground in his absence, and he’s due a trip outside Windermere anyway. And a paid vacation.

“I can’t believe he’d asked to see you,” Stensland muses as they walk down Oxford Street.

“He didn’t ask to see me, Stensland,” Thomas reminds him, because really, Adam didn’t. He just bandied the suggestion about, leaving it hovering for Thomas to snatch up. Who knew Thomas was a greedy bastard. Frankly, he doesn’t know what he’s doing at all. This seems like a terrible idea whichever way you look at it, and Thomas hates that he’s having this epiphany days after he’s paid for a twin room at a modest hotel and made plans to see Bea for dinner. He’ll only be in London for a few days but it’s unlike him to visit without having planned the trip months in advance.

Then again maybe he needs spontaneity which he finds he’s been sorely lacking ever since he changed locales and settled in the country. He steels himself for certain disappointment, however. Better safe than sorry.

“You need to calm down,” Stensland admonishes him for the third time that day after Thomas complains about a phantom stomachache, an effect of self-induced stress and overthinking. “You’re looking a bit peaky.” When Stensland rubs the pad of his thumb along the tip of his tongue and starts dabbing it across Thomas’ cheek in careless swipes, Thomas jerks violently out of reach.

“Sorry,” Stensland mutters, looking embarrassed, “My mother used to do that to me whenever I was feeling restless. Got your attention though, didn’t it? Now come on, I’m hungry for some fish and chips…”

“But we just ate!” Thomas states, staring at him, completely mystified. “I’m not made of money, you know. That last meal is coming out of your paycheck, I can’t afford another seafood buffet. Stensland, what on earth, where are you going — wait for me!”

But Stensland pays his warnings no heed. He drags Thomas around all of London until they’re too tired to walk anymore and have eaten their weight in all the artisan shops selling anything fried and remotely Mediterranean. In the afternoon, they take the tube, and fall into step with crowds that flow and converge like a wave. Thomas feels vaguely ill, clutching at his belly afterwards.

He gets the call shortly before dinner when his poor feet have been comfortably elevated and he’s halfway into a doze. Stensland is in the shower, singing something off-key, the bathroom door left ajar because he’s a paranoid bastard. The telly is a pleasant fuzz in the background, a wash of ambient noise that tugs heavily at Thomas’ eyelids. He almost doesn’t hear his phone buzz on the nightstand until Stensland points it out to him, having ambled out of the shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around his skinny waist. He’s as pale as a washboard, and narrow as a pole. Good heavens.  

“Would you please put some clothes on?” Thomas begs, shielding his eyes as he cups his phone with a free hand while he presses the other over his eyes. He answers the call without thinking. “Thomas McGregor,” he bites out with perhaps more venom than necessary.

“It’s me,” says Adam. “Adam. Sackler.”

As if Thomas doesn’t know who it is just from the timbre of voice. He hasn’t been driving himself mad wondering if he’s simply making a colossal fool of himself by agreeing to have dinner with  none other than Adam Sackler, no, not at all. But it’s just dinner anyhow: a meal between two people, nothing more, nothing less. Maybe some alcohol. He’s probably getting worked up over nothing. As usual.

“My schedule cleared up for the rest of the night. Are you busy?” Adam asks, and it feels like a long time before Thomas finally gathers the courage to speak. He clears his throat, and his response is an eloquent, “Um.”

*

There are two truths Thomas knows about himself: one is that he hates surprises, another is that he hates being kept waiting. The lobby of the Four Seasons is sleek and modern, marble flooring and glass chandeliers. Thomas could afford a room here if he were a Russian oligarch, or if he were a famous actor that made a lot of money like, say, Adam Sackler.

Adam’s assistant meets Thomas behind a row of potted ferns. A short woman, on the side of stocky, in smart heels and a crisp shirt. In comparison, Thomas feels underdressed in a comfortable jumper and a pair of pleated slacks that make him look like a professor of philosophy more than anything else, or like old pictures of his dad. Thomas has seen a few of them growing up, in photo albums and his mother’s wallet, though he can’t remember him being present for most of his childhood.

“Mr McGregor?”

Adam’s assistant has a handshake that doesn’t bely her appearance; it’s firm and purposeful and she grips Thomas’ hand hard. Her name is Sang Hee. She stares Thomas up and down and then presses a keycard discreetly onto Thomas’ palm. Apparently, it’s all very hush hush.

“He’ll be ready for you in fifteen minutes,” she says, nodding at him before striding off.

Ready for what? Thomas doesn’t know. And he doesn’t get to ask because Sang Hee leaves without explaining anything. He waits, then takes the lifts at the prescribed time, wandering down a carpeted hallway and counting the gilded numbers on all the doors until he reaches the right one. He hesitates a few times before rapping his knuckles against the wood.

The door opens with a click, and it’s Adam, barefoot and wearing only jeans. He’s painfully attractive and it makes Thomas ashamed to be standing in the same room as him, breathing the same air. But the ogling ends as soon as it begins because Adam frowns at him when he sees him standing in the hall.  

“Shit, shit, shit. It’s you.”

“Hi,” Thomas says, noting the lack of enthusiasm in Adam’s expression, his voice. He’s standing with his arms braced against the sides of the open door but Thomas can see the room behind him, in violent disarray. He seems to have company. Thomas can hear the heavy stomp of feet, someone’s voice shouting.

“Thomas,” Adam says, already sounding repentant, “I’m sorry but you came at a bad time.”

“What?”

“It’s my ex,” Adam says, minimizing the berth of the door as he steps outside. “She found out I was doing this movie, and she’s saying I lack artistic integrity, and I don’t know why she cares so fucking much when we’ve been broken up for months. And it’s… fuck, it’s complicated. You don’t need to hear this.”

“Well,” Thomas says, when the smile has all but frozen on his face. “I’m sorry to hear that. It does sound a bit…much.”

Adam shrugs. Thomas tries not to stare at his collarbones. It’s different seeing them up close, in real life, nice, a little surreal, though the effect is marred by the bad timing. Thomas feels himself stumble, blinking stupidly at the sudden draining of energy.

Adam says, “It is what it is but I’ll call you, okay?” Then he starts walking backwards into the room behind him. With one hand on the door he promises one last time, “I’ll call.” And shuts the door in Thomas’ face though he probably doesn’t mean to be so rude. The number on the door is gold plated, distorting Thomas’ reflection.

Thomas stands there in the hall for a full minute before sliding the keycard under the door. Then he leaves and goes on his way.

*

Stensland is eating a bowl of Shepherd’s pie and getting crumbs all over the bed when Thomas returns an hour later. He perks up and flashes Thomas a crazed grin as soon Thomas barrels through the doorway, sitting up quickly and revealing the fact he’s only wearing a flimsy pair of boxers along with his pyjama top. “How’d it go? And why are you back so early?”

At the dour look Thomas throws him, Stensland’s smile abruptly fades. “He was busy,” Thomas proclaims, voice muffled against the pile of pillows he’s thrown himself on top of. His feet hang off the edges of the bed and he feels immediately silly, like a child, having a pout, not a full grown adult whose secret hopes were suddenly and irreversibly dashed. Then again what was he expecting? A private invitation to Adam’s hotel room should have been suspect, his first tip off that something was amiss. Thomas is not that kind of guy.

“What do you mean busy?”says Stensland, peering over Thomas’ shoulder and poking it.

Thomas spits out a wad of fabric. “He told me he’d call me, that I came at a bad time.”

“Uh-oh.” Stensland rubs Thomas’ arm in commiseration, or he would if Thomas let him and didn’t flinch away as soon as he reached out. It’s nothing personal; any unsolicited touching just made him feel uncomfortable, threw him out of his element. Something to do with how he was raised; his family didn’t do hugs.

Stensland continues tsking. “Bullshit! He made you go through all this trouble only to bail on you. He sounds like an utter dick.”

“He’s probably just really busy,” Thomas disagrees, and feels another hot flash of disappointment that quickly morphs into dark self-satisfaction of having successfully avoided a catastrophe before it could happen. He rolls onto his back, hands folded over his stomach, drumming his fingers listlessly. “What are you watching?” He cranes his neck at the telly.

Stensland hands him a spare fork before answering. “Top Gear.” He grins as he shimmies down next to Thomas, sitting with his legs folded on the bed. In another life, they would have been the best of friends, but probably not in school where they would have hated each other. He would have hated Adam then, too: too handsome for his own good, and obnoxiously athletic.

“Shepherd’s pie?” Stensland offers, cutting him off from his ruminations. “It’s all gooey and warm.” The pie smells heavenly, flaky on the outside, still fresh.

“Where on earth did you get that?” Thomas wonders aloud, but he knows he shouldn’t be asking; Stensland is always full of surprises, sometimes delightful, other times outrageous. This time, Thomas accepts his cryptic shrug as a veritable response and helps him decimate the rest of the pie until there’s nothing but crumbs and scrapes of filling left.

They call it a night just after ten pm. Stensland is already fast asleep by the time Thomas finishes brushing his teeth and changing into his pyjamas, snoring with his mouth open on the pillow. Thomas checks his phone before he goes to bed. No messages at all, not that he’s surprised, though a part of him can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment more self-directed than anything. He shuts off the desk lamp before he can truly feel sorry for himself and lets Stensland’s waxing and waning snores lull him to sleep.

*

If there’s one thing Thomas knows about Beatrice is that she loves a good pint. She can drink anyone under the table but still be clearheaded enough afterwards to find her way back to Covent Garden with one eye closed. She swears by The Curtains Up on Comeragh Road in Hammersmith, a little too close to Thomas’ old neighbourhood but the pub is notoriously difficult to book: comfortable, elegant, with a white and red awning, quiz nights on Tuesdays and Fridays. He can’t refuse.

Thomas drags Stensland along because this is what they both have in common: a self-destructive nature and tendency to drink their problems away. Their problems may not have disappeared in the morning, but alcohol is an excellent inducer of temporary amnesia and sometimes that’s as good as it gets.

All three of them squeeze into a booth, Thomas sandwiched between.

“Thomas,” Bea is saying, disbelief writ in the lines of her mouth, “I can’t believe you’ve actually met him, and that he invited you up to his—” her voice drops to a whisper as she ducks her head, “—hotel. I think the only famous person I’ve ever met was that bloke from Big Brother and even then I wasn’t sure if it was really him in the end.”

Stensland snorts. “He’s a dick. An utter dick! And it’s been a day and he hasn’t called Thomas at all even though he promised!” He slams his drink down on the table, sloshing Aspall Cyder everywhere.

“He said he was busy!” Thomas argues though he doesn’t know why he’s defending Adam the same time he’s complaining about him. A part of him is glad to have nipped whatever that had been in the bud well before it could begin; a week before he was followed around by paparazzi on his way to the grocer’s and the post office. Days later, there were more pictures of him on The Sun, as if his daily chores were somehow of interest to the reading public. He’s thankful his uncle doesn’t read the drivel, more inclined to The Economist and The Daily Telegraph. Otherwise he’d probably have a few questions. Thomas doesn’t need that kind of complication in his life. He’s happy, in some ways, with his new life, left alone to brood in peace.

“Forget about him, Thomas,” Bea tells him, raising her glass. “There’s plenty of other fish in the sea!”

Thomas’ upper lip twitches, a valiant effort not to pout or frown or do something with his mouth that may bely his true sentiment on the matter. “What’s there to forget?” he says, “I barely even knew the man. Good riddance, I say! I’m better off!”

“I guess I’ll delete those pictures of him now from my computer,” Stensland muses, “You know, in fealty of my employer/friend. An entire hard drive’s worth.”

Bea raises her eyebrows. “What.”

“I’m joking. But he’s a really good actor. Until he made those movies.” Stensland sighs, his expression turning from disgusted to dreamy in a heartbeat. “The ones with his shirt off.”

“Can we please, please talk about something else?” Thomas begs, fighting the urge to grab at his hair, or throw himself in front of a passing car. “Are we not here to catch up?”

“You two are here to catch up, I never even met Bea before today, and I’m only here for free drinks,” Stensland points out unhelpfully.

Thomas ignores him, then glances up when Bea pats the back of his hand, his responses slowed down by alcohol that he fails to shrug off her grasp until too late. More quietly, she says, “Are you all right though? I mean barring that incident with He Who Shall Not Be Named—”

“You can call him by the name, you know. He’s not Voldemort.” Thomas rolls his eyes. He’s starting to hate how Stensland and Bea seem to be under the assumption that he’s just got his heart broken when nothing of the sort happened, and he didn’t even like Adam all that much anyway. What truly bothers him is the fact he’d made a trip out of seeing him: that’s money spent that could very well have been saved and all that effort gone to waste. But at least he got to see Bea again. They haven’t seen each other in six months.

“All right,” Bea nods, giving Thomas her best sad-eyed baby doe look. “How’s the shop, then? How’s your uncle? You know I’ve been meaning to visit but with right now I’m swamped with — work. But we’re still on for dinner tomorrow night, aren’t we? You can bring Stensland along.”

Sometimes, Thomas marvels over how lucky he is to have a friend like Bea in his life. Admittedly, he’s not the most pleasant person to deal with, with a list of neuroses longer than his arm, but for some reason or another she’d stuck around ever since that day they had bumped into each other at the Farmers’ Market in Marylborne and fought over the last of the gouda cheese.

If he liked women as much as he liked men, Thomas would have probably dated her, married her, began a life with her. But just like him, Bea has awful taste in men and is never in a relationship long enough to develop any true romantic feelings, another thing they have in common. She prized her art above all. Some of it, the ones of anthropomorphized rabbits, is actually good.

“You know I won’t miss it for the world,” Thomas says, giving Bea a genuine smile that she returns with a clink of their glasses.

They get drunk on vodka and horrible whiskey before the night is over, and stumble out in single file before Stensland has them thrown out of the pub with all the racket he’s making. Apparently he has a tendency to cry when he’s three sheets to the wind. Thomas, meanwhile, is a blank slate, completely silent. He feels like he’s watching everything from a distance, far removed from it all like an impartial observer. Which is why when his phone rings in his pocket, he lets Bea pick up the call for him, frowning and shaking her head when she see who it’s from.

“Hello?” she says, losing all volume control, finger plugged into one ear. “No, this isn’t Thomas. And no, you can’t speak to him right now. I know who you are, yes, yes, I’m not an idiot! He’s busy. He’s a busy man! I can’t tell you what he’s busy with, that’s an invasion of privacy. No, you’re being difficult. Sorry, but I think you’ve got the wrong number. You’re cutting in and out. What? I can’t hear you. Oops!” She hangs up the call.

Thomas blinks at her, looking up from where he’s watching Stensland hug a streetlamp.

“Who was that?” Thomas asks, a bland smile on his face as Bea slips his phone back into the pocket of his coat. She smiles and pats him good-naturedly on the cheek, and he allows the touch because he’s otherwise too tired and drunk to protest.

“Oh, just your plumber,” Bea says, laughing. She takes a taxi home. Thomas watches the taxi put onto the street before flagging one for himself and Stensland. It’s been quite the day. Miraculously, they make it back to the hotel with time to spare before midnight, kicking their shoes and clothes off before flopping down onto the covers, belly-first. Stensland is the first one out, but that’s hardly a surprise.

The next day finds Thomas groaning awake, telling himself he has to make better life choices. It takes him ten minutes to drag himself out of bed and realize that he’d fallen asleep last night with his pants tugged halfway down his knees, causing him to stumble and knock his chin on the floor. Perfect. On the bed next to his own, Stensland sleeps soundly, in a more chaotic state, with one hole-ridden sock still on and his arse cheek hanging out of boxers.

Thomas sighs and throws a blanket over him, then spends nearly half an hour in the shower until his skin is pink from the hot water and he feels halfway alive. He takes two aspirin for his hangover and is folding his laundry to pack in his carry-on when his phone slips out the pocket of his coat. He picks it up and checks his messages: twenty-two missed calls and at least a dozen texts — all from Adam, one from Adam’s assistant,  Sang Hee. He reads them in chronological order:

-HEY DID U LOSE YOUR PHONE? SOME1 ELSE PICKED UP

-THOMAS

-R U STILL IN LONDN? HOPING TO CATCH U

BEFORE I LEAVE FOR NY ON FRIDAY

-THOMAS

- SORRY ABOUT THE OTHER DAY, REALLY WANTED TO SEE U  

BUT MY CRAZY EX FOUND OUT WHERE I WAS STAYING & GAVE ME SHIT FOR

DOING A MOVIE FOR “MONEY” U SHOULDN’T HAVE TO DEAL WITH THAT

-thomas

Thomas wonders if he should respond, but less than a second later the choice is taken out of his hands when the screen starts flashing. An incoming call from Adam, as if summoned by the static waves of Thomas’ uncertainty. In a fit of mild panic, he ends up answering the call.

“Thomas?” Adam sounds relieved. “I thought — never mind what I thought. Are you pissed at me?”

Always cutting straight to the chase, this one. Thomas presses the heel of his hand between his eyes. The aspirin has yet to kick in, and he needs caffeine badly. “I’m not angry at you,” he replies evenly.“Why would I be?”

“Well, for starters if it wasn’t for me your pictures wouldn’t be all over the British tabloids,” Adam says, “And I kicked you out the other day when I invited you to my hotel. I’d be pissed at me too; I’d be livid. So: sorry. I’m sorry.”

As far as apologies go it seems genuine though that could also mean he’s just one hell of a good actor. Still, it’s too early for Thomas to pick up apart the nuances in his tone, so he settles for a simple, “Apology accepted.”

Adam sputters. “What?”

“What do you mean what?”

“That’s it? ‘Apology accepted’?” Adam sounds incredulous, and maybe he has the right to be: Thomas’ acceptance of his apology may as well have sounded far too much like a dismissal.

“It’s really quite all right,” Thomas assures him, only half-lying, feeling awkward trying to quell Adam’s doubts. “You had… business to iron out. And I was just visiting. Bad timing can’t be helped. Perhaps another time, when we’re both less caught up in other commitments. We can make plans then.”

The way he says it sounds so abstract, like the opportunity is never going to materialize, which is just the effect he wants. He’ll leave things open; there’s less disappointment that way. Less involvement.

“At least let me make it up to you,” Adam says, and he sounds like he’s pacing the room, his voice warping with static as Thomas listens to him breathe, stomp, and move around vaguely over the phone while Thomas  himself remains seated and completely rooted to one spot. He’s never met someone so alive, someone with so much vim and verve it’s any wonder how Adam’s personality doesn’t burst through his skin.

“I’m not a complete asshole. Or at least, I’m not anymore,” Adam tries. “I’d like to think I’m not anymore. I’ve reformed. I’m a reformed asshole.”

“You really think you could charm everyone don’t you? With your — your words,” Thomas says haltingly.

“Is it working?” Thomas can almost hear the smirk distorting Adam’s voice. He’s a cocky bastard, a trait that would be a character flaw in anyone else except him. It should be infuriating and yet. Thomas sighs, giving up. It’s too early for this. He’s not awake or caffeinated enough.

“There’s this cafe on Shepherd’s Bush that makes the best fry-ups,” Thomas begins, in lieu of answering Adam’s question. “I’ll meet you there at half-past nine.”

“Bossy,” Adam notes with a short laugh, “I like that. Are you sure you don’t want me to send a car for you?”

Thomas refuses to be any more of a cliché than he currently is and says as much. “I can take the tube from my hotel, thank you,” he replies curtly.

“Where are you staying anyway?” Adam asks, trying his best to be subtle and failing like an elephant on roller skates. “I could put you up somewhere better, somewhere with an actual view instead of—”

“Good day, Mr Sackler,” Thomas says pleasantly and hangs up the phone.

The Liz Café doesn’t make the best fry-ups in all of West London, that is a complete and utter lie, but it’s home to Thomas in a way that the posh restaurants in Kensington have never been; nothing in Chelsea or Bloomsbury could ever compare. The menu at St. Luke’s Kitchen is a close second but only because Thomas can’t resist a good croissant.

The outdoor seating at the Liz Café is always overrun with smokers but inside it’s beautiful lit and cozy, with just enough room to elbow the next guest. Everything on the breakfast menu is below £7. The toast is plentiful, the coffee strong enough to knock out a horse, the grease flowing. The servers are friendly which is more than what Thomas can say for some of the more upscale establishments in Soho.

Thomas looks up from a copy of Horse & Hound that someone had left on a nearby table when a shadow looms over him. He lifts both eyebrows, though before he can say Adam’s name, Adam presses a finger to his own lips and shushes him. Then he plants himself on the squeaky chair across from Thomas, shrugging out of his coat.

Thomas stares at him. The intent is to probably look innocuous but it succeeds in doing the exact opposite. Adam’s in an all-black ensemble, a black coat and turtleneck, a black beanie, designer sunglasses, also black. Thomas resists the urge to check under the table though he has a nagging suspicion Adam’s footwear is not exempt from this rule. He looks like he’s about to rob a bank.

“I had my driver drop me off three blocks from here and then take two detours, in case anyone followed me,” Adam says by way of greeting. He picks up the menu card and starts perusing his options, flipping it back to front and then back again. Thomas can feel his knee bob under the table; he’ll make a note of this later but for now he’s still staring.

Adam looks ridiculous. He looks good, he’ll probably look good wearing nothing but a sack, but he looks ridiculous nonetheless. Thomas shakes his head.

“Well, better late than never, I suppose,” Thomas says, after a moment. “On the bright side, you didn’t get lost which should count as a win.”

“I hope you didn’t have to wait very long,” Adam says, even though it’s half past ten already, an hour after they’d agreed to meet, and Thomas’ Earl Grey has gone very cold. “I’ll pay for breakfast. I’ll even pay for your Uber. God, you must be sick of me by now. I don’t think I ever run out of excuses. Anyway. Hi.” He leans back in his seat, making it creak on its hind legs, then glances around to check if anyone is watching them.

They’re in the furthest corner of the room; Thomas had picked the spot specifically so nobody would bother them. It’s not within direct eyeline of the door, hidden from view by an open-display fridge. Adam hunches forward, propping his arms on the table and lowering his head. He glances up at Thomas through a curtain of hair, unfairly emotive with his eyes.

Thomas has to look away before he does something embarrassing like wax poetic about the depth of his eyes shining like black moonless pools. He fiddles with the hem of his cardigan instead. He’s worn jeans today and looks a little less like a fussy librarian.

“I like it here,” he finds himself saying, beginning a story that spirals out of him without his permission, “I lived in the area years ago and I would come here every other day or when I was hungover and had a hankering for haggis. And the smell of bread takes me back.”

“You were a baker?”

“Don’t be daft,” Thomas cuts him with a look. “There are just smells I associate with my youth, bread being one of them.”

“You talk like you’re sixty or something,” Adam observes. “Like you’re this old fucking soul who’s lived a rich past life.”

“I like to think I’m just highly evolved,” Thomas says.

“Likely,” Adam agrees. “It’s what makes you so intimidating.”

Before Thomas can press him about that Adam barrels on, “Is it true what you said in that article in The Sun? That you had no fucking idea who I was when you met me? I thought it was pretty weird, you know, when you didn’t seem all that impressed when I told you who I was. Most people are.” He says that with such a straight face Thomas wonders if he’s joking.

“It’s nothing personal,” Thomas says. “I’m just, ah, rather difficult to impress.”

Adam’s smile is wide, but this time it creases his eyes, shows his teeth. “I’m starting to see that,” he says. He lifts the menu card. “Should we order?”

“Yes please,” Thomas says. “I’m starving.”

Adam laughs.

*

Brunch is not as terrible as Thomas had been anticipating. Adam doesn’t go easy on the charm, keeps trying to make him laugh by astute observations of their surroundings, keeps bumping his knee against Thomas’ under the table or at least keeps attempting to if not for Thomas’ smooth deflections. It all feels very strange and surreal all due to the fact it feels deceptively normal. Thomas isn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Paparazzi maybe or being hounded by Adam’s fans. But no one bothers them all throughout their meal or takes their picture and when it’s time to pay the bill, Adam offers to cover it and leaves a hefty check that has Thomas’ eyes growing wide as saucers.

“Oh,” Thomas says, a little more than winded.

“I was a server once in a shitty Italian restaurant in Brooklyn,” Adam tells him, a glitter of amusement in his eye. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t always rolling in money.” Then he winks and climbs to his feet. They fall into step with each other outside where the weather is clear and crisp for the first time in days, with a sky absent of the promise of rain. Pedestrians pass them by headed opposite directions; none give them a second glance. Maybe Adam’s little disguise is effective after all. Thomas should give him a little credit.

“Well,” Adam grins, hands folded behind his head. The action pulls his shirt up a little, revealing a patch of toned stomach. Thomas swallows.

“I had a great old time,” Adam begins.

“Lovely,” Thomas echoes and pivots his gaze back to Adam’s face. It seems like he’s caught Thomas staring because his grin doesn’t falter in the least.

“Are you free for dinner tonight?” Adam asks abruptly.

“What?”

“I’d like to have you for dinner if that’s okay,” Adam says. “I mean, with you. With you. Dinner with you.”

Thomas stares at him. And stares and stares. Brunch he can understand but now Adam wants to have dinner too? Will wonders never cease?

“Normally that constitutes a meal, some conversation. Maybe drinks afterwards except I’m banned from drinks now as I’m a recovering alcoholic…” Adam trails off.

“No, no, I know what you mean.” Thomas rolls his eyes. Then his train of thought is derailed once he’s hit with the sudden realization that Bea’s dinner is tonight. She makes the best Yorkshire pudding. “I can’t tonight. I promised my friend I’d come over for dinner.”

Adam nods though it’s clear from his expression that he’s trying to quell his disappointment. Thomas will have to examine why but that’s for a later time.

“Right, yeah, no problem,” Adam says. “Maybe some other time then.”

“Yes, well, some other time,” Thomas nods back.

Adam turns to go. He’s halfway down the street when Thomas jogs after him, propelled into action by some unseen impulse, the same impulse perhaps that once encouraged him to thrash a ten foot teddy bear and decimate an entire room’s worth of toys. “Adam,” he calls, “Adam!” He knows he’s going to regret this.

Adam turns, stares at Thomas in confusion, Thomas who is huffing and in the midst of what can very well be considered an asthma attack from what is simply light exercise. “You all right?” He looks concerned.

“Yes, just a little short of breath, I think. Do give me a moment.” Thomas straightens and smooths out his hair once his breath has settled. He’s worked up a sweat too but that’s to be expected of a sedentary lifestyle. The most exercise he gets these days is the short walk from the bookshop to the deli or the bakery, and then back. Sometimes he likes to spice it up and walks all the way to the pharmacy but that’s hardly here nor there. “You can come to dinner if you like. If you don’t mind burnt roast beef but the best Yorkshire pudding you’ve ever tasted in your life.”

Adam looks at him thoughtfully. “Burn roast beef? You drive a hard bargain Thomas McGregor,” he says. Then he  grins.

Thomas keeps an eye on the roast beef while Bea regales him with stories of her many aborted attempts to quit her copyediting job to focus on her art full time. She’s getting progressively tipsy on rosé, she’s started to gesticulate wildly, but the pies are looking lovely sitting on the counter cooling and Thomas knows how to hide the alcohol should she reach for it one more time. The doorbell cuts Bea off mid-rant, halting her from knocking Stensland in the face with a wayward arm.

The chime goes off three times before Stensland puts the potato peeler down and promises to get it, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Hold on! I’m coming, I’m coming! Keep your trousers on,” he grumbles. “Are we expecting anyone?”

Bea shrugs, lobbing Thomas a worried look. “I don’t know. Are we?”

“Thomas it’s for you!” Stensland calls from the door.

It’s Sang Hee, Adam’s assistant.

“I hope you like cake,” she says, handing Thomas a box emblazoned with the famous Cutter & Squidge logo. “Mr Sackler can’t come tonight, I’m afraid. But he does sends his apologies. He’s a very busy man.”

“I’m sure,” Thomas says.