#the guy who has been nothing but xenophobic and violent to them

[the-owl-tree]

not to pull an hbbomberguy Shaun ex machina essay but i do think the wiki is kind of like. ignoring the bigger picture as to why the sisters might not like these three

[shadowmaat]

NeverBidens

We're on a fast track to another Trump presidency. It was already going to be a dicey situation given his popularity among the white power groups, the antiqueer extremists, the misogynists, xenophobes, terrorist militias, and ultraconservative Christians.

Unfortunately, there's another equally large group throwing themselves in the mix. People who claim to be leftists, but whose beliefs align more with the alt-right than anything on the liberals side.

The NeverBidens use Biden's involvement with Israel over Palestine as a rallying cry to oust him. They're furious over the genocide taking place in Palestine and think the only way to "save" those people is to get rid of Biden.

"We need to send a message to Dems!" they claim. This has never worked in modern history, of course, and has led to an increase in suffering when attempts have been made, but that hardly matters. Whether it's refusing to vote at all or wasting a vote on a third party, their goal is the same as MAGA's: get Trump installed as president.

Why? Well, some of them say that Trump can "hardly be worse" than Biden, which shows a significant memory failure, if true. Others have flat-out stated that their goal is to destroy the US: burn it all down and start over from the ashes. This is, they claim, the only way to "fix" the country. I'm beginning to believe that this is what all of them want, no matter what excuses they make or lies they tell themselves.

Some of them may claim that no, this isn't about killing the US, it's about saving Palestinians, but if that were true they'd voting for the guy who is at least starting to waffle a bit rather than the guy who thinks Benji should "finish the job already."

The ones willing to admit they want the violent destruction of the US are also aware that this will lead to countless deaths, both in the US and across the world. It's a "necessary sacrifice" to achieve the "better world" they envision, and they're willing to throw all of us onto the pyre of their beliefs.

This is part of why I say that NeverBidens are a death cult: whether they're willing to admit it or not, they know a lot of innocent people are going to die, and they either want that or don't care as long as they "win." Many of them may not even care what comes next as long as the rest of us are punished: for allowing the country to get this bad, for voting Biden into office in the first place, for not managing to fix everything already.

Do the people calling for the death of the US honestly believe something better will take its place? Or do they just want the country to die and don't care what happens next? Hard to say. I'm sure some of them could probably outline grand plans for a better future, one where everyone is treated equally and nothing bad ever happens and all is wonderful and perfect, but that isn't the same as believing it's possible. And it isn't the same as being able to successfully implement those plans without any hiccups or dissent.

As an aside, I remember reading about a group of disenfranchised fic fans who decided they'd had enough of AO3's lenient content policies and decided to start up their own perfect archive: one where Immoral Content™ was forbidden and all the creepy perverts on AO3 wouldn't be allowed.

Which might have worked well if they had been able to agree on the specifics of the immoral content and where to draw the lines. Except, y'know, everyone has their own opinions on "immoral" and eventually the arguing got so bad that the project was abandoned.

Anyway! NeverBidens are a death cult. A lot of them get angry when you point that out. No, no, they don't want more people to die, they want the Palestinians to live! How, exactly, that's supposed to be accomplished with Trump as president remains vague and undefined. And even if, by some miracle, Trump suddenly decided to stop sending Israel money and weapons, A) I'm pretty sure Benji could continue to cause damage without us (we're his biggest supporter, not his only one), and B) what about the rest of the world? What about the genocides in Sudan, Ukraine, Afghanistan, etc? What about the hellscapes in the DR Congo? Haiti? Nigeria? Mass death and violence is happening in so many places across the world, not just Palestine.

While Palestine deserves to be recognized, so do all the other people who are suffering. And yeah, the US is going to get significantly worse under Trump, too. As is planned. As is desired by certain factions, including the NeverBidens. But hey, a little mass death, stripped rights, global suffering, and terrorism is better than letting Biden remain in office, right?

[beevean]

I haven't played TGAA, but I find the double standard in the way Barok is treated vs the way Miles, Fran and the rest of them are treated kind of strange. Barok is supposedly insufferable, plus he's racist and xenophobic. I ain't excusing that, but that's just how 19th century England was.

Miles and Fran have most likely sent innocent people to jail or even landed them the death penalty, simply because they cared more about securing a guilty verdict than actual justice. Godot is a literal murderer, and I've heard some unpleasant things about Simon and Nahyuta as well.

Yet, all (or most of) these characters are redeemed. Barok's biggest crime is...upholding the views of everyone else at the time. And that somehow makes him irredeemable, despite him actually warming up to Ryonosuke later. I'm not saying everyone should like Barok, but if Barok is irredeemable, so is every other prosecutor in AA.

This has been pretty much my point ever since they announced GAA's localization.

Barok is obnoxious, that is undeniable. Nipponese this, Eastern island that, his mocking of Ryuu easily crosses a line that leaves the player uncomfortable, as it should, because if his xenophobia doesn't bother you it says more about you than about the game.

But. Being obnoxious is all he does.

He does not present forged evidence, or use loopholes in court, or coach witnesses, like Edgeworth and Franziska used to do.

He's never ever physically violent against the defense, unlike Franziska, Godot, Simon or Nahyuta - he breaks his own glasses and bottles when frustrated, but he never harms anyone. (it says something that the entire series so far had only three prosecutors who are decent human beings)

His objective as a prosecutor is simply to find the truth. While he pushes very hard to prove the guilt of the defendant, it's clear that it's because he genuinely believes in his case - once Ryuu manages to convince him his theory makes sense, Barok drops most of his hostility and helps him. Unlike Edgeworth pre-heel face turn and Franziska, he couldn't care less about his own record, which means that he never deliberately gambled with the lives of potentially innocent people for his own ego. He is biased towards Ryuu, not only because he's Japanese but also because Barok admits to personally taking his cases even if they're banal, but he's not completely driven by a petty grudge like Godot - like I said, he'll help Ryuu win if he does a good enough job in his book, no matter his personal feelings towards his learned Japanese friend.

Both he and Edgeworth post-heel face turn share the same goal of finding the truth. However, Edgeworth has hurt at least one person in his quest, infamously Adrian Andrews when he threatened to reveal her mental illness in court and even said "if you kill yourself, that is no concern of mine". Compare this with Barok, who has shown himself capable of kindness as soon as his second appearance, when he (spoilers for Case 4 of GAA) subtly implied he would allow Roly Beate to keep his job despite tampering with the crime scene, because he could empathize with the poor man wanting to spend one day with his wife.

He's genuinely competent in his job, relying simply on cold hard logic to dismantle the defense's arguments as a good prosecutor should - to be honest, it may be the different writers, but Klavier, Simon and Nahyuta never struck me as being especially good at their job, with Klavier having to deal with a rather incompetent Apollo in AJ and Simon and Nayhuta happily abusing the old "attacking the defense" and "asking evidence for every word you say" tricks. (to be fair Simon gets to demonstrate his interesting manipulative skills in one case... Turnabout Storyteller, when he's Athena's ally. Also, I can't remember anything particularly horrible he does beyond being an ass like usual, in fact he may be the best prosecutor of the second trilogy)

Speaking of Nahyuta, the reasons I can't stand him while I love Barok are that Nahyuta is nothing but repetitive, unwitty, painfully realistic obnoxiousness propped up by a shallow twist revealed at the tail-end of the game; he has no real character development, because "sowwy guys i was good all along" is not development; he prosecutes simply to win even if it means insisting that a young girl committed murder in spite of the defense's reasonable arguments; there is no in-game justification for shit like him tormenting Athena in Japanifornia, or even him being an asshole in Japanifornia at all; and there's no weight in the realization that he let hundreds of innocent people being sentenced to death while he stood aside to protect his sister (like, that has got to mess you up a bit right? Can you show me that, game?). Barok not only has a much more fleshed out, drawn out backstory that explains most of his behavior (although I have my reservations at tying his racism to One Trauma); not only he slowly (... very slowly) warms up to Ryuu; not only he has humanizing traits like feeling horrible about being branded the Reaper of the Old Bailey, like it would happen to anyone being rumored to be a death bringer; but he is, most important of all, an overdramatic bitch and the contrast between his intimidating demeanor and the shit he pulls behind the bench is infinitely more hilarious than being told for the umpteenth time that you're a putrid lawyer who's going to hell. It doesn't sound like much, but a good AA game masters the art of "love to hate".

You know how Klavier is a base-breaking prosecutor because some consider him too nice? Barok is what happens when you take Klavier's honest, well-meaning demeanor and give him enough presence to be hated and loved at the same time. I completely understand if people find him too annoying (he's testing my own patience lmao), but I still think he is one of the best prosecutors in the series, both as a job and as the role of the rival.

[palbabor-writes]

Yōkai

Hawks Week 2020 - Prompt: Horror Tales

Warnings: Ghosts, spirits, blood, gore, adult language, death, mentions of violent crime

Word Count: 9403

The people here are strange. They’re a superstitious bunch for sure. Everything has an underlying reason. Don’t forget to toss salt over your shoulder when you walk into that crime scene, Hawks. It’s bad luck if you don’t. 

Despite the strange mannerisms that surround him, they are right about one thing: there’s more to these killings than meets the eye.

Notes: I went with a whodunit theme for this fic with some healthy ghosts and haunts thrown in. As this is pre-All Might’s retirement, Hawks is the #3 Hero.

Yōkai

Yōkai are a class of supernatural monsters and spirits in Japanese folklore. The word 'yōkai' is made up of the kanji for "bewitching; attractive; calamity" and "spectre; apparition; mystery; suspicious."

The small island of Miyako is renowned for its turquoise waters, pristine coral sanctuaries, amusement parks, and sprawling mansions. All in all, it’s a trust fund tourist trap. Still, like most pristine and shiny things, there’s a seedier underbelly that’s scrapes against the rough, sandy bottom. Come at low tide and you’ll catch a whiff of decay and rot. 

Miyako Island is another example of that duality that exists within everything. No matter how pretty the water, there are always dark creatures that lurk in the shallow shoals and coves.

Hawks isn’t looking forward to his new assignment on the island. He’s been called in by the HPSC and Miyako’s police force. There’s been a string of unsolved murders and, with the onset of August, tourist season is in full swing. Homicide is bad publicity during the best of times. But, combine the discovery of freshly charred corpses popping up in various buildings, piers, and alleyways, with mass hysteria and you’re going to have a big problem on your hands. 

For eight open murder cases, there’s not much for Hawks to go on, and the data he does have is spotty. 

Hawks poured over the notes as soon as he got off the phone with the HSPC, the luster of the new assignment fresh in his mind. He swiped through the briefings and crime scene photos that were attached in the long email from Miyako’s chief of police. 

It looks like the trouble started in the poorer areas of town. No matter how bright the city lights shine, there’s always the common shadow of a downtrodden, overworked, and underpaid populous straining under the weight of “keeping up appearances.”  

Who else would do the nitty gritty jobs that ensured that the tourist season stayed afloat, and, most important of all, profitable? 

Sadly, it’s the blue collar areas that first experienced the horrors. The notes on these cases are borderline elitist, skirting close to xenophobic. The usual: ‘it was just something that happened when you crammed people in that close’. ‘What else did you expect’? ‘Most of the victims aren’t even from the island’. ‘They’re strangers, they’re not locals.’ ‘They’re not one of us’. 

The word immigrant pops up in the documentation frequently and it feels like a slur each time it appears. There’s a slinking, cloying animosity curling behind the looping words. 

It pisses Hawks off.

The only reason he’s been called is because the crimes have jumped over the poverty line. Now, two prominent members of Miyako society have been murdered. So, what’s the connection you ask? 

It’s the state of the bodies. 

All of the victims, rich or poor, have been mutilated. Something sharp was drawn across their skin, cutting and splicing, marring them, marking them. Then, as if to add insult to injury, they’d been set aflame. It must have been a scorching blaze. Something that leaves them so crisped and blackened that they’re more husk than human. In each case, it’s taken dental records to identify the deceased. 

The Miyako chief of police is doing a review of the known peculiars with Hawks. 

“They mirror the, uh, earlier crime scenes. As you can see, this one, she is, er, was a woman in her late 30’s-”

“She was 37,” Hawks supplies, his golden eyes running over the chart that the chief of police is showing him. He’s trying his best to hide his agitation, but his feathers still bristle, the red plumage flaring, refusing to lay against his back. 

“Uh, yeah, a bad age they say.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just, it’s supposed to be bad luck. You know?”

“I don’t. Can we get back to the matter at hand, please?” 

Hawks has to grit his teeth to keep his tone even. He’s really not liking the way these crime scenes are processed and he’s made his opinion known to the police chief and investigative team. Why now, he’d pressed, hours after flying in, sweat still clinging to his brow. Why didn’t the bodies matter when it was relegated to the lower socio-economic citizens? 

He’s also critical and skeptical of the motives of this police chief. There’s something about the whole thing that feels...off.

 But, now’s not the time to project that suspicion. He’s only just arrived, besides, he needs more information, more data. Despite his agitation, he gets why the HPSC sent him on this assignment. He’s known for doing things quickly. Plus, he’s usually calm, collected, and he’s got the clout to get things moving again. 

He’s also observant. The HPSC both loves and hates this particular skill of his, but it’s to their benefit in this instance. His sharp eyes might spot something that’s been missed, they’d said on the phone with him as they handed off his assignment. If he played his cards right, they said, he could pull these murders from unsolved to solved. Oh, and the commission is thinking these murders might involve some agents from the League of Villains. 

It’s not a confirmed connection. 

There’s nothing solid about it, besides the body mutilation and burned corpses. But both are known habits of two members of the League. They’re shadowy leads, more steeped in hearsay than fact. All the same, one is rumored to have a fascination with blood, and the other, has a proclivity for using a bright, blue flame. It’s a hot heat, perfect for cremation and these bodies have all been practically, well, cremated.

“Have you met the other heroes that will be assigned to work with you?” 

Hawks snaps out of his head and nods at the tall, balding police chief. “Amano and Matsuura? Yeah, we’re supposed to take a look at the first locations as soon as this...meeting...is concluded.” Hawks hopes the police chief can hear the air quotes he just put the word meeting in. 

“Good, good. I saw your additions on the later cases. I really feel that we should look a little harder into those. One was a member of the city council. He was beloved by the city and-”

“If I’m looking for a pattern, there’s a higher probability that the killer was sloppier in the earlier cases. New habits and all. I’ll get to the councilman when I get to the councilman. Again, this string of murders started in the lowlands. While I realize that doesn’t get you the most publicity, and I hear a re-election is coming up for your position as chief of police this fall, I’m not going to pick at certain elements of this and leave others by the wayside. 

You gotta’ problem with that, take it up the HPSC. But, listen, they’re a lot meaner than me and they’re not going to like that you’re obstructing my investigation. You asked the commission to send someone down, and, lucky you, you’ve gotten yourself stuck with me.” 

Hawks flashes the police chief a bright grin, his teeth gleaming as his eyes crinkle to crescents. The man stammers for a moment, his face flushing under Hawks’ false joviality, then he tosses a bulky manilla folder on the desk. 

“Why you...I heard you were an arrogant son of a...no, no.” The chief sputters, his teeth clenched, anger bared behind the grinding of his jaw. “You’re right, we’re so very grateful to the number three hero taking time out of his busy modeling schedule to lend us a hand with these murders.”

“Ooh, you saw that spread in the sports magazine? Nice use of color right? Loved that new set of watches I’m sponsoring.” 

Fucking prick. Hawks is used to this kind of irate reaction, hell, it’s pretty expected now. He’d heard it so many times he has it memorized. Yeah, yeah, he’s twenty one, a kid who’s too big for his boots. He has no idea, no real world experience. Did you hear how he talked to me? The audacity.  

Let this guy try to report his snarky attitude, it’s not going to get his low level wannabe bureaucratic ass anywhere.

“I’ll get my agency to send you a signed copy. I had no idea you were such a fan! Lemme grab these files, got some work to do. Catch you around, sir!” Hawks pantomimes a salute, a serious expression making his eyes narrow. Fuck this dude. He’s got bigger fish to fry.

Closing the door on the police chief’s mottled expression, he meanders down the stairs of the police precinct, his wings still arching and rustling his temper. You’d think this case didn’t matter to these buffoons. The sheer implication of Hawks’ presence should clue them in. The HPSC doesn’t do anything lightly. Nah, these killings could be related to the League. Plus, his background checks on the victims had revealed some startling discoveries. 

All of them, down to the nineteen year old restaurant hostess, were involved in minor villain activities. Some had smuggled drugs, some laundered money on the side, one was a known broker. They kept climbing the ladder of severity. It was worrisome. 

While the chances of the LOV’s involvement was low, the commission was still searching for their hideout. He’d caught wind of some of the activity revolving around that ongoing mission. He wasn’t assigned to it, but he liked to keep an ear to the ground. 

Association with the LOV or not, these homicides kept bothering him. There’s something he’s not seeing. He dislikes the sensation. It makes him tense, ill at ease. Once he steps outside the police headquarters he launches himself into the sleet grey skies. 

It looks like rain. 

If he’s wanting to glean as much as he can from those early crime scenes, he better hurry. Hawks doesn’t like rain. It makes his feathers feel bogged down and dampened. Unfortunately, it has the same effect on evidence. Rain can whisk the little details away, slicking and drifting as it washes down to the vast sea. It can easily snag vital clues on its meandering path, erasing as it goes. 

******

The first murder took place on the fourth floor of a shabby apartment. The victim lived in the 19th unit and was a 43 year old male. He was a well known loner. So, it was a shock to discover that he ran a pilfering ring. The ring wasn’t a small scale enterprise either. No, this went deep. It connected to three other islands and the Japanese mainland. There’s no way this guy was a simple recluse. If anything, he was nothing short of a criminal mastermind. 

His body had been left in an odd position. It was likely staged, purposeful.  

He was discovered by his landlord. Rent was due and it was unusual for him to be late with the payment. So, the landlord let himself into the 19th unit. It’s a small wonder no one reported the smell earlier. Apparently, it was putrid, acidic, gut churning. A mix of tarnished copper and old, rotten meat. 

In all likelihood, he was murdered elsewhere and dragged back to the unit. Nothing in the room, besides his corpse, was scorched. The victim was splayed on his small bed, but the placement was strange. His feet were resting on his ashen pillow, shoes still on his feet. Meanwhile, his head was at the foot of his bed, pointing northward. 

Hawks and one of the assigned heroes, a friendly guy named Amano, are going over the case file with two members of the forensic team. Apparently, one of the team members hadn’t been part of the original investigation clean up and bagging. As Hawks and Amano are sharing the crime scene photos, asking the forensic team questions, the taller of the two, gasps, clapping a hand over his lips. 

Hawks tilts his head at the man’s reaction, his feathers automatically feeling for his pulse. It’s elevated and the guy appears to be truly bothered. It’s an upsetting picture, to be sure, but this is his job. He cleans up blood and guts for a living. Surely, he’s seen worse.

“You ok?” Hawks’ asks, his amber eyes shifting over the man’s face. 

“F-fine. It’s just, well, look at him.” 

Hawks takes the photo back. Did he miss something? 

“What about him?”

“Look at the direction his head’s facing.” 

“Uh,” Hawks examines the position of the hazy sun that peeks through the rain clouds outside the window. “North?”

Now the other forensic team member gasps. What the hell? What does facing north have to do with anything? It’s a cardinal direction. What would they say if he was facing the West? Again, are these people deliberately trying to bog his investigation down?

“I don’t see what, uh, relevance that has.” Hawks tells the two, looking over to Amano. The hero doesn’t seem to be bothered by their outburst. He just shrugs at Hawks’ frank stare.

“It’s supposed to be bad luck, but yeah, there’s not-” Amano begins, finally placing some clarity on the forensic team's outburst of paranoia, but he’s interrupted by the taller, jumpier man. 

“Not just that. You collect iron in your blood if you sleep facing north. It brings death.”

The guy said death like it might summon the fearsome spector down on them at any moment. Amano coughs, his hand covering a badly concealed smile. “Yeah, sure. Facing north is bad luck, and, I guess it can bring death, too. Learn something new everyday...”

“Worked pretty well in this guys case,” Hawks muses, arching an eyebrow at the jittery forensic team. “You guys see anything else? Something a little more, I don’t know, pertinent?” 

They don’t get much further with that crime scene.

Amano tags along for Hawks’ review of the other two cases. His agency runs out of this area and he was one of the first responders. He’s not got a lot of extra information, but he knows the people and they know him. It takes the edge off, lets the locals open up a little more. 

The next case is in a home. Well, home feels generous, it’s more like a shack. Apparently, the victim liked to collect cat figurines. Like, really, really liked to collect cat figurines. There’s over sixty of them, they’re scattered around the place, tucked into nooks and crannies. It feels like a thousand little eyes are watching the two heroes as they canvas the space. It’s creepy.  Hawks dislikes the sensation. His feathers keep lifting, feeling, spreading out.

The woman had been found at her kitchen table. She was propped into a chair, sitting, like nothing in the world, save her crisp remains, was amiss. The only way you could achieve a staging of that caliber was to wait for the body to enter rigor mortis. 

That takes time. 

Full rigor sets in around 5 to 12 hours after death has occured. Whomever did this must have had time to spare. And they weren’t worried about being caught during that time. No, they were too busy planning out the dramatic effect of their crimes.  

Once again, he feels like he’s missing something. 

One body was left pushing a garden cart. Literally, the man was found, early in the morning with his hands tied to a wheelbarrow. He was posed mid task, his arm lifted, reaching for someone, or something. Trouble was, the guy didn’t work as a gardener. No, he was a low level broker. Someone darting under the criminal radar. He’d eluded the police and heroes for months. Looks like his luck ran out.

The eighth body, the congressman, was discovered at a popular wharf. This crime scene is still in the process of being cleaned up, so there’s a flurry of people bustling around. Amano, and the other hero, Matsuura, who’s also been assigned to Hawks’ investigation, are talking with witnesses, gathering information and scheduling interviews. This kind of hero work is never ending. Hawks is grateful they’re willing to take on the grunt work. 

As Hawks is kneeling, peering over the ledge of the pier, looking down on the blackened wood and debris, a loud cawing breaks out. It echoes on the wind, coiling and lifting. It’s a funny sound. Like it’s far away and dulled. It makes Hawks’ wings fan out, overstimulated and brittle. The heroes and crime scene investigators debate on the origin of the noise. It doesn’t help that there’s no bird that’s wheeling above them. No, the skies are dark and empty, with a light misting of rain starting to drip onto the lashing sea. 

“What is that?”

“Is it a gull?”

“It’s creepy. There’s nothing even flying around. But, it sounds so close.”

“I think it’s a seabird. It’s gotta be, sometimes they fly out here looking for fish.”

“I’ve never heard a seagull sound like that.”

“There are other birds besides seagulls, idiot. It could be a pelican-”

“It’s a crow,” Hawks’ supplies, standing and turning back to the clutch of people who are quickly gathering up their supplies, doing their best to get the important pieces of evidence protected from the rain. 

“Huh? Did he say a crow?”

“Oh, damn, that’s a sign of death.”

“No...I think it’s illness, not death.”

Hawks’ walks to Amano and Matsuura, he tells them he’ll meet them back at the police headquarters. He needs to start his interviews if he wants to even have a prayer of snagging a bite to eat. He’s been subsisting off coffee since he flew in and his stomach is rumbling, loudly. 

The investigators are still debating the meaning of the crow caws when he takes off. His wings beat powerfully beside his head and he lifts above the grey storm clouds, coasting high, past the skyline. 

The people here are strange. They’re a superstitious bunch for sure. Everything has an underlying reason. Don’t forget to toss salt over your shoulder when you walk into that crime scene, Hawks. It’s bad luck if you don’t. 

Despite the strange mannerisms that surround him, they are right about one thing: there’s more to these killings than meets the eye. 

Things feel off in every crime scene. Were their belongings really left that way? Or, have the details been staged? Plus, the murders keep escalating. The particulars are spreading out and deepening as they interweave. The major connecting thread is still the state of the bodies, but even that is starting to feel vague. Hawks shudders a bit of excess moisture from the tips of his wings. Fingers crossed, some of these witnesses and relatives of the victims will have a little more substance for him to chew on.

******

Oh, they have something alright. 

It’s more hushed rumors and strange folk tales. God, the sheer frightened gullibility of these islanders is wild. The whole place feels so backwoodsey, lost in a bygone era. There’s always a prayer or blessing that needs to be uttered. Or, some supernatural logic that he needs to look into. Did you consider the devil, Hawks? He hides in the details, you know? 

It’s fucking weird. 

Hawks is treading in unfamiliar waters with this tripe. He didn’t grow up with any of this. The HPSC certainly hadn't offered him a course on Japanese islander folk traditions during his childhood. Still, these people, for the most part, seem well off, educated, cultured even. Some aren’t even from this island. But, they seem to be infected with the same disease: ghosts, oni spirits, and bad omens. It’s a whirling circle of nonsense and Hawks’ wants off this ride.   

“I got a call from her.”

“From the victim, your sister?”

“Yeah, it came in at 4:49 am.”

“Ma’m, that’s not possible. The coroner noted that rigor mortis had set in by 2 am”

“She sounded faint. It was like she was underwater, but it was her. She screamed at me.”

“She screamed at you?”

“Yeah, it was this low scream. Kinda, like a gasp? Like she couldn’t breathe. It kept getting louder and louder and louder. It hurt my ears. They felt like they were ringing, pounding. Then, the line just went dead. I can still hear it, that scream. Every time I close my eyes, or whenever I least...I-I can still hear her.”

“Do you have your phone records?”

Hawks is trying to make sense of it all, but it’s like they’re talking to each other before they come into the interview room, telling each new interviewee to up the ante. 

See if you can spook the number three hero. Go on, it’ll be fun. 

There’s a slew of strange occurrences. Disembodied voices, knocking on windows, doors opening on their own, quiet voids of cold that they step into. Ghosts keep popping up.

Then, there’s the oni spirits. They have red faces and they lean in close, their fangs reaching, gnashing, grinding. One woman, who was married to one of the victims, burst into tears, her terrified sobbing turning into a frantic wail. 

She had seen an ogre in her back garden. It was pushing a cart and the cart was on fire. Hawks’ checked his notes as he patted the woman’s back, trying to help her move through a few breathing exercises. One of the victims was found propped, pushing a wheelbarrow, could it be…

No. It’s another dead end. 

This woman didn’t know that dead man, the one who was pushing the cart. She didn’t even live on the same side of town. Ugh, this is endless. It might be easier if he did apply these delusions to his investigation. At least that way he’ll feel sane. 

Some of the victims had been acting suspicious, paranoid, on edge before their deaths. One of them had gotten a phone call in the middle of the night and ran off. The next day she was found dead in her home, burnt and drifting into ash. 

“So, she got the call and just ran out the door?”

“Yes. But, she let it ring four times.”

“You said that already. I’m not sure-”

“She picked it up after the fourth ring.” The aunt of the victim is looking at Hawks expectantly, her blue eyes wide, starting. 

“I don’t-”

“You know what that means...don’t you?”

“The hidden significance of picking up a phone on the fourth ring? No, no I don’t.”

They never fully expand on their weird theories. They’re normal comments to them. He debates looking up the meaning of the number four on his phone, but he tamps down the urge. It doesn’t pertain to the case. It’s useless drivel, a waste of time. 

An adult man shows him this ugly, ugly drawing of a cat. It’s pulling a flaming cart. Hawks doesn’t even want to touch the paper. The man keeps pointing back at it as he goes over his neighbor’s timeline. 

This particular witness is connected to the city councilman. The one that was oh, so important to the police chief. It’s a high profile case and it’s being taken seriously. Yet, here’s this supposedly credible witness, flashing a childish scrawl up to his nose, asking him to look for the phenomena, like it’s a normal request to ask the number three hero to look for nonexistent demons. 

‘There’s gotta be more to this’, he tells Hawks, his voice broken, fervid. ‘Something, something has to be there, after all, the councilman was murdered for a reason’. 

The man with the drawing is right about that, at least. 

These are not random crimes. The MO is too similar. Every single victim was involved in some sort of villainous activity. Yeah, the guys correct on that one sane theory of his: ‘There’s gotta be something there’. But, whatever it is, it’s not this cat thing. 

Hawks calls a halt to their interview and glumly munches on his cold chicken sandwich as he waits for the next witness to be called in. His head is pounding and he’s praying for some new development to fall into his lap, at least that way he can conclude things and get the hell off this island. 

****** 

The 9th victim is an outlier. 

He’s high up in social circles and he was a popular man. He’s also been accused of money laundering, tax evasion and fraud. He was acquitted on all charges, but his past never did stop nipping at his heels. However, that’s not what makes him an outlier. 

No, that’s reserved for the state of his body. 

Most of the victims have been burned to a crisp, leaving nothing behind, save bone and gristle. You can still see this guy's face and defining features. He’s a little charred, but it’s almost like the flames stopped right before they got past his chin. 

They transport his body to the morgue and Hawks finishes the combing of the crime scene, setting up a new batch of interview times and creating witness reports. He leaves just as the sun is dipping under the horizon. 

******

It’s late now, and the cool sea breeze blows in through his open hotel windows, soothing across his crimson plumage. It’s his first evening off in over a week. He’s still working though, typing his reports into his laptop. 

He’s forgone his usual coffee this evening. He wants to try and see if he can catch a full eight hours tonight. God, what a fucking delicious treat that would be. Eight hours? That’s the real ghost here. 

He shuts off his laptop and flops himself across his bed, his wings tucking into his side, burrowing his shoulders into their reassuring warmth. 

He slips into the lull between realities, his mind whirring, the case resting heavily against the forefront of his thoughts. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that he can’t distinguish between dream and actuality as he drifts off. 

There’s something there.

It keeps to the edge of his vision, a dark shadow that leeches the color from whatever it touches. He can feel it watching him. It shifts quickly when he cocks his head to get a better look, sliding across the blank expanse like quicksilver, fluid and slick. 

He looks away from the edges of his dreamscape and turns. He blinks in surprise. He’s at one of the crime scenes. It’s the one with the man in the wheelbarrow. There’s a crowd pressing around him and that dark figure is blotted toward the back, lurking, watching. The people around him murmur and whisper, too soft to hear. They don’t seem to notice him. They also don’t appear to have faces. They’re just blank voids, with soft notches where eyes, noses, and mouths should be. Unthinking, Hawks reaches for one of them and his hand slips through the air, weightless and heavy in the same motion. 

When he blinks again he’s in that lady’s shack, the one with all the cat figurines. That wraith is sitting at her kitchen table. It’s not moving and he doesn’t feel particularly threatened by its proximity. Still, he dislikes this whole thing. If he can touch it, maybe he’ll wake up.

He’s stepping forward when he hears a soft mewl. There’s a black cat on a shelf. It’s tiny and lithe. It jumps in front of him, a low purr rumbling from its chest. It looks up at him, orange eyes fastening on his amber ones. Odd, he thinks, that woman only had figures. No living cats were evident in the house. 

The cat chirps four times. It’s a light, high pitched sound that makes his ears ache. It almost sounds like a phone. The cat lifts its tail and turns, padding soundlessly into the next room. Intrigued, Hawks follows.

Now, he’s walking down a street. The cat is still in front of him, weaving in and out. That purr of it is loud and sharp as it vibrates around his ears. He keeps trying to get the feline’s attention. He pspsp’s at the dark cat, clicking his tongue, but it doesn’t respond. Hawks is distracted, not paying any mind to his surroundings, wholly focused on the feline. 

The voice startles him. 

It’s rasping and deep and it’s calling his name. Not his hero name, no, it’s saying his real name, over and over. 

KEIGO TAKAMI. 

Keigo Takami, he thinks, stumbling over words that make him, him. It sounds strange now, foreign. He hasn’t heard that name in such a long time.  How did…

The voice is coming from behind him now. He whirls around and is face to face with that man. The 9th victim, the one whose face you could still see. He’s charred and battered, and blood is dripping in long rivulets from his gaping skin, pooling onto the ashen sidewalk. 

His eyes are wide, searching but not seeing. The pupil and iris are both milky white, rolling around in the cavities of his sockets. Then, his mouth pops open. It’s horrifically wide, like it’s caught in a scream. His teeth are crumbling before Hawks’ eyes, black pearls that slide from the man’s lips and clatter around his feet. 

Hawks is stunned, unsure, but, fuck, he can’t move. He tries to flap his wings, knowing that they’ll tug him away from this horror that’s in front of him. Except, there’s no whoosh of air, no lift. There’s nothing. What? How... 

His hands bat at the emptiness along his back. Where are they? What is this? His fingertips press along his shoulders, searching, desperate. His quirk, it’s...it’s just gone. He’s frantic now and that makes him clumsy. His feet tangle under him and he falls. Grounded, his legs instinctively begin to push away from the shell of a man in front of him.

The figure moves with him. Hawks keeps scrabbling away, but the man is even closer now and his bare feet are disintegrating with each shuffling pad forward. Still, he keeps on. Hawks tries to move again, tries to shift, but he’s been cast in stone. He can’t look away...he can’t…

The man is almost upon him now. His fingers are crumbling, the ash they create is making him choke. He can’t breath, he’s wheezing, unable to pull oxygen through his trembling lips. Hawks’ lungs are burning...

Then, Hawks’ wakes up. 

He’s sweating. His skin feels hot and his wings are flared. The feathers are quivering, searching. They bring him back bits and pieces. There’s someone sobbing two rooms over, someone is sleeping below him, their breath warm, he can almost feel it, pushing in and out, in and out. There’s a phone ringing. How many rings? What if it’s four...

Stop, stop.

Hawks tucks his wings back, ignoring the sounds, the sensations. The plumage wraps around him and he ducks his head into the darkness that they blanket him in. He’s comforted by the reassuring, solid presence of his quirk. He thought he’d lost it. His shoulders still hurt from his flailing motions. What is going on? He’s never had a dream like that. It felt so...so real. 

No. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. He doesn't believe in this stuff. It’s not real. There’s no such thing as ghosts.

He tries to lay back down. 

He’s cooled off some, but his wings keep flapping, he’s stopped trying to fight them. His quirk is going into overdrive. This hasn’t happened to him in years, not since he was a kid. He tosses his pillow over his head, trying to stifle out the noise his quirk keeps drowning him in. He’s tired and overstimulated. Each breath stings and he tries to count, to walk through the steps that have been with him since childhood. Just be still, Hawks. It doesn’t matter. 

The sun is peeking over the horizon when he finally dozes off, his head heavy, fogged with exhaustion. 

******

Hawks grabs two nitro coffees the next morning. 

He practically inhales the dark liquid, hoping it will let him evade the haze of tiredness that thrums through his veins. It’s a slow day, thank God. There’s nothing of note that occurred the night before. Everything is pacing along its planned trajectory. There are no new bodies and the last interviews go by without any mention of spirits or the paranormal. 

Matsuura offers to take him for some lunch. Hawks, always eager to expand his palette, eagerly agrees and the two men head into the city. It’s a weekend, so the streets are crowded. People recognize Hawks and he chats with them, grateful for the welling of normalcy that the interactions bring. He’s signing an autograph when he catches sight of movement in a darkened alleyway. 

It’s not a particularly noticeable shift, but something about it feels strange. Hawks hands the freshly signed soccer ball back to the gang of kids around him and tilts his head toward the motion. He blinks. What the fuck? That’s not possible. 

It’s the man from his dream. He’s walking, steps heavy, sluggish and he’s moving into the alley. The 9th victim? But, but how? What? 

His wings react to his agitation and he hones in on the spot, reaching, snatching at anything he can sense. His fierce wings never let him down. They’re versatile, practiced and perfected. Feathers detach and shimmer into the midday sun, ducking around corners and onto rooftops, feeling. 

There’s nothing. 

No heartbeat, no footsteps, no voices. Hawks’ eyes had slipped closed as he felt for the man and he snaps them open again, his avian pupils dilating, constricting to a fine point. He turns to Matsuura and tells the hero he’s going to check something out. His wings lift before Matsuura can answer and he flaps into the air, the sea breeze assisting his ascension.

The rooftops are empty and Hawks scans the streets below, his wings rustling as he pulls himself along. Maybe it was a trick of his mind? Did he really see that guy? That’s a stupid question, how could he have? That man is dead. It’s gotta be his tired psyche. He didn’t sleep well, plus this case has been on his brain so much that he’s even dreaming about it. 

He lands on a nearby roof, his boots hitting the tiles roughly. Hawks closes his eyes again, sending a few more feathers out. The man, if he is real, will take this path if he is using the alleyway as an escape. There are no other routes available to him. 

He’s still attuned to his scattered feathers when he hears the cat hiss at him. His eyes open and he sees the animal. It’s a black cat. 

It’s across the street, lingering in an open window, its back arched and its fur standing on end. Hawks narrows his eyes at the aggressive display. There are way too many cats on this island. 

As he and the cat continue to engage in their silent staring contest, he hears a scritching sound coming from the street below. Hawks follows the noise, leaning over the edge of the rooftop. A child is playing below. She is sketching something into the concrete with bits of multicolored chalk. 

It looks like...huh? 

It looks like some kind of cart, but, why...why is it on fire? She is busy tracing the licking flames, a yellow piece of chalk clutched in her small fist. She’s humming a mindless song. It sounds like some kind of dirge. It’s soft and melancholic, following a minor tune. A shiver creeps up Hawks’ spine, but he ignores the pebbling of his skin, shaking his head.

Curious, Hawks wheels down, tapping along the street. He keeps a little ways away from the girl, he’s not wanting to startle her. His long fingers reach behind him, into his utility pocket that sits on his belt. He tugs out a small sticker sheet. He always keeps little trinkets in his pockets. It takes real effort to put people at ease and Hawks prides himself on his ability to steadfastly maintain that part of his image. He kneels on his haunches, dropping himself to a friendlier level before calling out to the little girl.

“Hey! That’s a pretty picture.” His voice is all light and honey and he has a bright smile on his face.

“Oh!” the little girl chirps, beaming her own grin back at him. “Thank you!”

“Tell me about your drawing.”

“It’s a Kasha.”

“Hmm, I don’t know what a Kasha is. Can you tell me about the Kasha?”

“They come to take away bad people.” The little girl replies, going back to her sketch, perfecting her lines and colors. 

“Oh! There’s a kitty in your drawing. Is the kitty a Kasha too?” Hawks asks, noticing the calico cat that’s attached to the handles on the front of the cart. It looks angry, vengeful. Strange for a kiddo to draw something so eerie.

“That’s the spirit of the nekomata, silly. Don’t you know anything?”

“Haha,” Hawks laughs, a genuine sound that makes him throw his head back, his hand bashfully scratching the back of his head. “Guess I don’t, huh? Do you like to draw...ghosts?”

“Not really. If I draw them they won’t-”

A distant voice is calling out a name. It’s female and coming from a house a few feet away, no doubt the girl’s mother or sister. The little girl calls back. 

“Coming mama! I gotta go, mister.”

“Here,” Hawks begins, detaching a smaller feather and drifting the little set of stickers over to the girl’s chubby hands. “Thank you for answering my questions,” he smiles. She coos and snatches the sparkly sheet, the sunlight catches the glitter that adorns the stickers. He tickles her cheek with his detached feather and she laughs. 

Her mother calls again and she starts to run off, her yellow shoes pounding on the street. Belatedly, she pauses before rounding the corner and bows low, a quick thank you slipping from her mouth. He waves back and smiles as she walks into her home, the door clicking behind her. Once he’s alone in the alleyway his grin drops and he stands, looking down at her drawing. 

It’s so freaking odd. Sure, sure, these cases are in the news. But the drawing looks...familiar somehow. 

Oh, that’s why. 

That man he interviewed, the one connected to the congressmen, had drawn something similar. Even then, back in that dark interrogation room, the strange figures looked like something he’d seen before, but where?

That nagging feeling is back. It pulls at the back of his mind. What is going on?

Hawks pulls out a small notepad and replicates the girl’s drawing, noting the colors and positions of the nekomata. As he sketches, his wings arc above his head, lifting and lowering meditatively. 

******

He comes back to the police precinct, his hands tucked deeply into his pockets. As he walks toward the chief’s office he runs into Amano. He’s the elder of his two assigned heroes and a font of knowledge about the island and its inhabitants. Maybe he’ll know something more about this doodle that keeps cropping up.

“Hey, Amano, you seen any weird drawings around town? Or, at the crime scenes maybe?”

“Weird? Like how?”

Hawks pulls out his notepad, flipping to the page with his sketch of the cat pushing the burning cart. Amano chortles, one gloved hand coming to cover his mirth. 

“What is that? It looks terrible.”

“I’m not much of an artist, I'll give you that one. In my defense, it’s based on a kid's drawing, so cut me some slack here, man. She said it was supposed to be a kasha and a nekomata?”

“Oh! Yeah, I can kinda see that now. I know what those are. According to legend, kasha appear during rainstorms. They steal corpses out of their coffins. Some of the older folks say they collect the souls of the damned. You can’t get the souls back if the kasha get them, they’re taken to hell, or eaten, depending on what version of the story you’re listening to. 

I mean, they’re all just old wives tales. We used to tell them on camping trips. They’re bedtime stories, something to scare kids into being good. Ooo, misbehave and you’ll get taken to hell. 

Eh, that feels kinda strong when I say it outloud, hopefully people don’t tell their kids stuff like that. Anyway, it’s not real.” Amano pauses, his head tilting at Hawks’ serious expression. “Isn’t it a little early to be getting into ghost stories? It’s summertime. Besides...” 

Hawks tugs his phone out of his jacket pocket, flicking through the crime scene photos as Amano elaborates on how ridiculous this ghoulish conversation is. Normally, Hawks would agree, but there’s got to be...oh...OH. 

There it is. 

His finger stills over the glass of his phone. It’s tiny, basically a scrawl, but it’s there. He flicks through some of the other photos, swiping through the different locations, searching. Ah-ha! Again, there’s that scrawl. This time, it’s almost cropped out of the photo. Still, there are two crime scenes with the scrawling of chalk. 

It’s a tiny drawing, so tiny he looked right over it originally, but now that he knows what he’s looking for, it’s there, plain as day. It’s a drawing of a tiny cart with a cat pulling the handles, lugging the wheels forward. 

Amano is still talking when Hawks looks back up. Hawks butts into his elaborations, not caring that he’s interrupting the man. 

“Ok, so they take evil doers away? Spooky. Question for you. You got any theories on why it’s cropping up all over town?” Hawks lifts the phone to Amano’s face. Amano takes the device and examines the strange markings, his brow creases, but he hands Hawks his phone back with a small smirk on his lips.

“It’s just talk, man. People do all sorts of superstitious things around here. Don’t look too hard into it. You believe what you want to, I don’t know. If that makes sense. Like those old sayings: ‘Don’t clip your nails before bed’. ‘No whistling at night’. It’s just something to say.

Superstitions are weird like that. Kinda like why you don’t have a fourth floor in a hospital. The number four looks like the word for death when you write it out. It’s bad form. It’s asking for trouble. So, don’t put a fourth floor, and boom, no problems with death.”

Hawks hums at Amano’s explanation. Ok, that superstition about the fourth floor, yeah, that one he had heard about. Amano claps a hand on Hawks shoulder and tells him he’s going to call a few more witnesses in. Hawks nods distantly, his mind whirring, processing. Despite Amano’s assurances, something still feels off.

******

He’s got a night shift. 

It’s only for one evening, so it shouldn't fuck up his sleep schedule too much. Hawks has already decided that he’s going to circle back to all of the crime scenes. He’s not used to being out of the loop, or being the one that people are looking at quizzically. 

He’d shown the drawings to the head investigator and the man had given him a blank look before asking Hawks if he needed some time off from the case. If he’d been asked that question a few days later, Hawks might have taken him up on the offer. 

It’s been five days since he had that dream, but he’s still seeing that man. He’s determined to haunt him, to flit on the side of Hawks’ vision, drifting around like a dead leaf in a breeze. 

He saw him at a bus stop the other evening. His dark hair was plastered to his face, burnt skin sloughing off his shoulders. He looked like a walking horror and Hawks had brought himself to an abrupt stop, staring at the figure below. The bus pulled up to the stop seconds after, the sleek metal shielding the man from view. By the time Hawks lifted himself higher, the man was gone. 

He saw him in windows, peering sightlessly out of the glass. He spied the man walking home from the train, trailing long streams of ash and smoke behind him. He never makes any sound. He’s not alive, so why would he? He had spoken to him in his dream, called his name, but after that? There was nothing. 

The vacancy of his presence is what startles Hawks the most. 

There’s nothing to feel, nothing to sense. It’s just this vast, blank, emptiness. For someone with a quirk like his, it’s deeply unsettling. Hawks’ life revolves around his ability to sense, to feel. The plight of the dead man makes his chest hurt with its loneliness and abject barrenness. Is that what it’s like to die? You drift into this void, alone? He doesn’t seem to have anywhere to go. Is this his routine? Is he trapped in an endless loop, playing out his final movements? How long does he have to participate in this charade? Is this some kind of purgatory for him?    

Distracted by his thoughts, Hawks spots a different man down a dark street as he flies overhead. It looks like he’s pushing a creaking wheelbarrow. Wait. A wheelbarrow? He looks again, wheeling back through the night sky, but there’s no one there now. No, the street is desolate, not even the gleam of the moon can brighten the winding sidewalks. 

Is this really a ghost? Do these visions even exist? Hawks has never given the topic of the paranormal much thought. It’s always been an outlier, untrue, and untested. A pseudoscience. Well, ghosts or not, whatever is going on, Hawks needs some rest. 

The rest of the night passes uneventfully and Hawks collapses onto his bed, drifting to sleep as soon as his golden head hits the pillows. 

******

After a goodnight’s sleep, it does get a little easier. 

He feels like his mind has cleared, the cobwebs brushed to one side, for now. Despite the clarity, he’s still seeing something. The man hasn’t gone away. No, even the daylight sun isn’t able to banish him. He saw him in his hotel lobby this morning, waiting for an elevator. By the time Hawks zoomed over, he was gone, the only evidence of his presence is the rising numbers on the illuminated floor panel, clicking up, toward the 4th floor.

That night, while getting a late night coffee, Hawks, long since given up his avoidance of caffeine in the evenings, spies something a little more sinister. As he’s paying the friendly barista, he notices someone lugging something across the road. It looks like it’s heavy, dragging against the street. They’re struggling to hoist it and it’s looking more and more like a body to Hawks’ frazzled nerves. He can’t be sure if it’s the specter that’s been lurking after him, but he’s not taking any chances. Again, Hawks is fast, but it’s not his speed that’s letting him down here. 

Each and every time, there’s just nothing there.

Is he freaking haunted now? Is that a thing? That crazy dream hasn’t returned, so that’s one, fleeting, plus. Wait. Does thinking about the paranormal bring it into existence? Is that how ghosts work? Ugh, if he’s going to be plagued, he might as well read up on this shit. What the fuck is going on? Is it the town? Is it the pressure of this case? Is it him?

As he takes himself, and his coffee, up to his hotel room, he ponders the strange predicament he’s landed himself in. He can’t fit all the pieces together. It’s too strange, too abnormal. He wants to lay down, try to get a little sleep. But, a hero's work is never done. He’s got another report to type up and another set of interviews to schedule. 

As he sits at the small desk that faces the window, he hears a strange cawing. It sounds close, almost like it’s right outside the glass. It’s not the call of a seagull, no, it’s that crow again. But, crows aren’t indigenous to the island. He’d looked them up after that discussion on the wharf. No crows have been spotted on the island in over 50 years. The last known specimen was an old bird, living in the Miyako zoo. It died over 3 years ago. 

Hawks pulls himself to his feet, scraping the chair legs against the floor. He opens the window and pokes his head outside. He can smell the salty aroma of the sea. It tickles his nose and makes him take a big inhale of air, filling his lungs with the crisp aroma. The crow can still be heard, shrieking into the night. There’s a soft, familiar, beating of wings, too. He cranes his head, scanning the blackness, his wings are lifted as well, but there’s no bird. Per usual, there’s no movement, and no creature is flapping its way into the night sky. 

He closes the window and the cawing echoes to the other side of the room before fading away. Annoyed, he takes a sip of his coffee. Hopefully that’s the last he’ll hear of it. He’s got enough ghosts fucking with him, thank you very much, he’s not wanting to add a disembodied crow to the role call. 

******  

The next morning Hawks is on a patrol. 

The murder cases have stagnated again. While this, on the whole, is good news, simply because there are no new bodies, he still can’t get that damned drawing off his mind. It feels like things are slipping away from him, pulling out with the tide and into the vast realm of the dreaded: unsolved cold case. 

He’s frustrated, no, he’s not frustrated, he’s pissed. 

He feels like he’s letting the whole town down. He’d been called out here to do a job, but what good has he really been? Sure, the townsfolk are weird, the police chief is an ass and the lead detective pretty much has Hawks written off as a conspiracy theorist nut, but he was sent here to do a job. He’s good at sniffing things out. He’s good at being a hero. He’s not good at waiting, and that’s all this case has turned into, one long stint of stagnation and thumb twiddling. 

Hawks glides across the bright sky, the sun reflecting warmly on his ruby red feathers. His eyes and wings are alert, feeling for any disturbances. He’s rounding onto the main street when he sees him.

It’s a living, breathing man. Hawks can feel his heartbeat, it’s pounding against the man’s breastbone. Only problem is, he shouldn’t be in the realm of the living.

The 9th victim ducks into a large bank, his familiar dark hair gleaming in the sun. 

Hawks maneuvers to land immediately, his wings tucking against his back and dropping him to the earth at an alarming speed. He startles the small huddle of pedestrians on the sidewalk, but he’s too intent on catching his quarry to smooth any ruffled feathers. He races up the steps of the bank, one broad, gloved hand yanking the glass door open.

There he is. He’s talking with someone. Hawks can almost hear what he’s saying, he just needs to get closer…

“Sir? Can I help you?”

It’s a bank employee. He’s wearing a crisp blue suit and his eyes are wide behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Hawks pauses at his question, then slides past him, but it looks like it was just enough time for the 9th victim to evade him. He’s walking now, disappearing from view, stepping down a back hallway. It looks like he’s following someone…

Hawks turns back to the bank employee, his wings vibrating with annoyance and impatience. “I need to talk with that man, he’s wanted in a murder investigation. My name is Hawks, my hero number is-”

“Oh, I know who you are. O-of course, please, do what you need to d-”

The bank employee’s voice fades as Hawks lifts himself, pulling over the heads of the people waiting in the lobby. A few feathers dash out, feeling, searching. 

Where did he go?

Hawks reaches the hallway in record time, his wings folding as he paces over the marble flooring. There’s not much back here, but it does lead to a large, closed vault. Damn it all. 

“Sir, sir, SIR! Can we help you? I am the bank manager. You’re not permitted to be back-”

“Sure, you can help me. I need access to this vault. There’s a man, you can check your security cameras, he just walked-”

“I do not have access to the vault. You will need to make a formal-”

“Whaddya’ mean, “you don’t have access”? Then find someone who does. Two men just...Damn it…”

Hawks phone is ringing, he tries to ignore it, but it persists, vibrating and chiming against his leg. The bank manager is bristling, his mustache quivering as he babbles on about warrants, and how heroes can’t act like cops. It doesn’t matter if Hawks is the number three, he can’t ignore protocol. He needs to come back with a warrant, or get out…

His phone’s ringtone continues to slice through the tense air and Hawks, after the 9th, exasperating, ring, lifts it out of his pocket, glancing at the caller ID: it’s the HPSC. Fuck. He accepts the call on a final, shrill note.

“Hawks, here.”

“You need to come back...there’s been...All Might...Kamino...attack…”

An intermittent static keeps breaking over the phone line. It’s a crackling sound, snapping and rustling, it makes his skin crawl. It almost sounds like someone is whispering something, just below the faint hissing. “What? The line is breaking up-” Hawks lifts the phone, ah, there’s no bars in here.

The bank manager is still carrying on, heedless of Hawks’ inattention. “And so, I am within my rights to ask you to-”

“I’m going to need you to wait here and don’t move. Yeah, yeah, sure thing buddy, I don’t have a warrant, but I can make things pretty rough for you if you don’t do as I say. You don’t want to be involved in this case, believe me. Now, do what I asked and stay here.”  

Lifting his wings, he flies across the lobby again, swiping a quick text to the police chief, if they hurry they might be able to catch this un-dead, dead guy. He jets himself onto the sidewalk, scattering a gaggle of beach goers. 

As he re-dials the HPSC’s number he hears it again. It’s the call of that crow. It startles him and he almost doesn’t lift the dialing phone to his ear. God, this has gotta stop. He scans the sky for any physical sign of the screeching bird. It’s close, cawing and shrieking into the wind. It’s different from the other calls it’s made. It sounds angry, desperate, trying to reach him...trying to tell him something... 

The line picks up and a voice repeats the familiar greeting of the HPSC. 

“HAWKS, here,” he says, vexed, eyes scanning, looking for the disembodied crow. 

The person on the other end asks for him to hold, and a few seconds later the head of the HPSC is answering, her soft voice both grating and reassuring to Hawks. 

“Hawks. You need to return to Tokyo, immediately. All Might has been attacked by All for One. There are developments that we cannot discuss over the phone. Leave whatever intel you’ve gathered for the Miyako police chief and get back here. This is a national emergency. We need all hands. I don’t need to tell you, but the implications of this are dire. Hero society as we know it will be forever changed. I repeat, drop whatever you’re doing and get back to headquarters.”

The line clicks and that static sound rises again. There’s a garbling, muttering sound that’s rising from the hiss. It’s saying his name. KeigoTakamiKeigoTakamiKeigoTakami. 

Then, all is silent. The voice is gone, the cawing is gone. A deep feeling of dread washes over him. It makes his feathers flair, plumage spreading and flexing. All around him, voices are chatting, laughing, living. They have no idea, blissful in their ignorance. Everything is, no, nothing is ever going to be the same again. God, All Might. If he can’t recover, if he dies... 

Hawks lowers the phone, his eyes wide. Suddenly, all these ghosts of his don’t feel so important now.

Notes: @hawksweek2020​

Beta edited by @albinoburrito​

[fireflier]

their transformations and undead-ness are the most obvious difference id think

joes transformation from human to lich was many things. those things were everything cleos was not. it was peaceful, it was nonviolent, it was by his loved ones, it was planned, it was quick, and above all else, it was his choice.

joe planned and trained, he thought for months and then when he was done he thought some more. he had his friends and family helping him through it, helping him make the required things. when he was ready, he drank a potion. he went to sleep. when he woke up, he was greeted with cheers and love and family and then sent off to "do great things" and make the world a better place for everyone.

but cleo?

nothing of the sort

cleo was just living her life, going about her day. then her home was attacked. she saw people she loved die and then she died herself. it was painful. it was slow. then she was revived as a creature of destruction and of war with the sole purpose of repeating what had happened to her, unable to speak to the people she'd loved that survived, unable to do anything. anything except attack.

even then, joe was a lich - considered one of the most monsterous creatures, the most violent, the most evil - and cleo was a forsaken - nothing more than someone who was a monster once, exiled and hated, but otherwise forgotten about

idk i just think its super cool :)

(context 4r below is someone said they didnt know what was going on but still vibed so id ecided to explain)

joe & cleo come from entirely different worlds - cleo from this world of warcraft adjacent server that id say is just wow in minecraft but i dont know enough about wow to say that and this is a valid way to excuse discrepancies, and joe from just a normal fantasy-esque magical server

following typical archlich bs, joe fucks off from his home village to explore the world and pursue his "life purpose". eventually, he starts traveling servers and he happens upon cleos server (which he is rightfully cautioned against exploring, but he ignores it bc the phrasing was highkey xenophobic and he wont listen to that, but in retrospect he did almost die like 7 times before finding anything interesting)

by then, cleo had been free from the scourge for,, roughly a year? she was still very new to the whole trauma thing thats for sure! joe stumbles upon her just kind of wandering about after he escapes another near death experience- he was about to leave bc "i am not dealing with this!" but when you see a gory elf lady with glowing white eyes obviously youve gotta go see whats up!

in approximately 13 minutes, he gets emotionally attached to said gory elf lady with glowing white eyes and convinces her to come explore the Everywhere with him. she only agrees because she has nothing better to do and also because this guy clearly is going to die without her and she is not gonna let someone die because of something stupid like inviting a less-nice stranger to travel with them but eventually also gets emotionally attached :)

OK IM BACK AND HOLY SHIT THIS IS SO COOL !!!! god i LOVE the contrast between the two, it’s almost like joe is a lot more head+clear thought, while cleo is a lot more heart+instinct !!

AND the contrast between how joe is both revered and feared with a sort of glory that he’s supposed to have, while cleo is just “forsaken”, cast away, not Relevant in a way .. very neat and i feel like cleo’s attitude definitely fits someone who is both kinda accepting and rejecting how the world sees her ?? idk how to explain it lmao cleo just has voidpunk vibes

and that’s so cool to fit their backstories into the sorta minecraft and server framework !! :O dnd+minecraft .. many possibilities many possibilities ..

also omg their dynamic :’) traveling buddies !!! friends !!!

[squidproquoclarice]

A Youtube channel, cad5150, just dug up game files and found Molly’s graves and I find that oddly curious about why R* intended to remove it at the end. To make a point of being a traitor as well as the peak tension at that state of the gang? Damn, Molly deserves better than being treated like nothing to the gang. Also, a fantastic chapter as always and I’m glad Micah part is done and over. Dutch still really gives me mixed feeling, I can despise him yet I want to know why he acts this way.

They sure did, and here’s a link for anyone interested!  Thank you for directing me to that, Nonny. It may have been that something changed with Molly’s demise from the initial plan?  (Shut up Dutch, yes, I said PLAN.) But as is, what they did fits.  There’s a casual mention early in the game when Arthur and Tilly are chatting--I believe at Clemens Point--when Tilly jokes about killing Susan and Arthur jokingly replies that Dutch “generally frowns on bloodshed in camp”.  But then quickly mentions “Well, there was that one time, but he was a traitor anyhow.”  (I’m remembering this off the cuff so it’s probably not verbatim.)  The whole thing is kind of played for laughs, but if you step back a bit, there’s a dissonance there.  Arthur’s revealed something very sobering and violent about the Van Der Lindes: a traitor was caught, and very deliberately executed by the gang, presumably in camp and in front of everyone as an example.  As horrifying as the torture Kieran was likely put through before being killed by the O’Driscolls, we can see that the Van Der Lindes aren’t exactly cuddly and forgiving when it comes to a perceived traitor either.  They’re brutal and merciless. So when we get to Molly’s execution as a perceived traitor, it’s obvious this has happened before (that unnamed traitor.)  The way the execution happens quickly and very publicly.  The automatic orders to take the body and burn it too really say something. At that time in a Christian-dominant society like America, cremation was seen as shocking given it made resurrection of the body impossible in the dominant interpretations of the Day of Judgment.  Even if you weren’t religious, there was the racist and xenophobic regard of cultures and faiths who practiced cremation (the condescension towards Hindus in India was a big one) and to white Christian cultures it smacked of “heathenism”.  So overall, in 1899 to deliberately take time and effort to burn an enemy’s body rather than leave it for the scavengers was a specific choice.  In this case, it’s a mark of contempt for Molly, and probably also the fate suffered by Unnamed Traitor Guy’s body.  In many ways, it’s exactly the same as the O’Driscolls beheading Kieran.  It’s a postmortem mutilation intended to show contempt.  (NB: I am in no way saying that cremation as a respectful funerary practice is mutilation, only that the Van Der Lindes as people in 1899 are clearly using burning traitors’ bodies with that specific view of it.  After all, killers burying bodies typically isn’t from respect, but desire for concealment, and dominant American funerary practices like embalming are horribly anathema to other faiths and cultures.  It’s all in your intent and your viewpoint.) So it fits that they took out the grave, and followed that notion of the Van Der Lindes being particularly vicious towards supposed traitors.  It’s a sad, lonely kind of a gut punch that drives home Molly’s story of giving Dutch everything, of being consumed by him, and finding herself without a friend or anywhere to turn.  She doesn’t even get the respect of being buried and mourned.  She’s erased entirely, and ended up very much a tragic and lost soul. On Sunrise, thank you!  For Dutch, I hate him as a person but he’s such a fascinating character study.  And getting to write some of him in that chapter gave me mixed feelings too.  The guy’s clearly devastated at finding out how Micah’s snowed him this badly, and how confident Micah was that Dutch would see it his way.  He’s had a lot of assumptions and trust and confidence suddenly shattered, and that ended up being my explanation for why we see Dutch like we do in “American Venom”--tired, old, stunned--given he turns right back around and starts another gang after that.  But there’s also the fact that he’s awful.  His self-absorption is so total and his wounded pride is so dominant he can’t even take two seconds to be happy that Arthur’s alive, and he automatically expects Arthur and the rest of them to be eager to rejoin him, and gets upset when they don’t.

[eurosong]

My ESC ‘20 ranking

Good morning folks, on this rather melancholy “Eurovision day.” Whilst this year may be cancelled and its songs pretty callously binned by the EBU, 2020 was a diverse year that deserves taking a close look at too, so here goes my customary full ranking of the year. I express some candid opinions, but they are just my take on things, no shade intended if you disagree.

41. Estonia - What love is It’s always most difficult to pick a last place because, no matter how sleek Eurovision gets, there are still a few abject horrors that sneak into the contest. With a score that would have been dated 30 years back, and lyrics that manage the peculiar double act of being both pompous and anodyne, this is horrid enough before Uku’s dubious xenophobic comments and his prevailing over a field of much more compelling songs get taken into account.

40. Macedonia - You The Macedonians, having achieved their best result ever last year (I’m happy for them, but also, Kaliopi deserved that), decided that they soared too close to the sun with Proud and decided to crash land this year to build their energy to soar again. That’s the only reasonable explanation I have for this effort which deeply repels me, doubling down on Luca Hänni’s “cocky guy in a sleazy bar” æsthetics and adds to it even worse lyrics, castrato singing and the unintended levity of the interpreter being far more interested in the bartender. Also one of a maddening number of duplicate titles that were nowhere near as good as the originals.

39. Cyprus - Running What is this void in the space of a song? I’ve listened to it dozens of times to do ratings over the past months. I’m still left with an icy emptiness because it does nothing to me, says nothing to me. The only thing that I can say in its favour is that it’s not a replay of replay aka Fuego 3. That’s it. It’s like it’s designed to leave little impression and hope to cruise by on diaspora and friendly votes alone.

38. Austria - Alive Austria have been on an interesting Eurovision journey, going from winning with Conchita to serving up this chirpy homophobe doing his best impression of Timberlake. A monumental step back from the singular tenderness of Pænda.

37. France - Mon alliée (The best in me) La déception de l’année sans doute. France, one of Europe’s cultural powerhouses, really said “forget Destination Eurovision, which showcased our music scene’s diversity and was one of the fandom’s favourite newer NFs. Let’s abolish it all and bring in the guys who made Bigger than us, because we really want a piece of that Big 5 bottom place action! Let’s throw away our cultural caché and get something about as French as flatpack furniture!”

This is like going to a pricey restaurant in Paris, expecting haute cuisine and instead getting some microwave-reheated IKEA köttbullar. And can we talk about how Amir of J’ai cherché fame is partly to “thank” for this in one of the biggest heel turns of the year? It’s like he wanted to ensure that France TV beg him to return by safeguarding his excellent score from being equalled. I also have to say, Tom Leeb seems like a nice guy with a good voice. He did his best to salvage this with the acoustic version, which lifts it up a few places. But not so many given that that Westlife reject b-side ending with a key change remains.

36. Germany - Violent thing Speaking of major cultural players dumping their national finals for no good reason, guten Tag, Deutschland! Germany once had one of the best and certainly most diverse NFs going. Instead of dumping Barbara Schönenberger as hostess - every year she’s presented, Germany have had calamity, and the one year they did well, 2018, she wasn’t host - they decided to pin all their hopes on a bewildered looking gossoon from Slovenia with yet another Timberclone song and some rather dubious live vox. As his countrywoman Lea Sirk said, it’s a hvala ne from me.

35. Spain - Universo Yes, it’s another year of the Big 5 not living up to its automatic qualification rights (except you, Italy, thank you for being the exception to the rule.) So here we’ve got a bland effort from Spain to avoid being bottom 5, except that ain’t how ESC works - you need something to get people to waste their money on voting for your song. And for me, this surely is not it. This was a bit higher on my ranking before because there are more objectively objectionable songs out there. But the nonsensical, repetitive lyrics, the painful attempt at a high note on perdónameeee, and getting stuck on a bus where I had to put up said screeching being played 5+ times means #35 is about right for where it deserves.

34. Armenia - Chains on you Armenia, usually a reliable mainstay in the top half of my listings at least, instead served up one of the most bewilderingly impalatable NFs of the season where every song sounded imported from the ESC anni horribili of the 00s. This has grown on me a little bit - I like tin drums and I like her weird accent - but the lyrics are amongst the year’s most pitiful (“ya wanna take me to a party, because you’re naughty”) and it just feels cheep to me. 33. Bulgaria - Tears getting sober I don’t see the appeal in this bewildering merger of dirge and Disney, and this is coming from someone who likes melancholic music more times than not. I find this one straight up unpleasant to listen to. The lyrics are of someone passive-aggressively glorying in the pain they wallow in to return the hurt, in “look how much you’re making me hurt myself” style. The syrupy score replete with key change is a bizarre, ghoulish accompaniment. Only this high because I recognise some artistic merit in its production.

32. Azerbaijan - Cleopatra Are Azerbaijan now at the stage where they’ve decided to pastiche themselves? The country with the worst LGBT rights of all contesting ESC having the monumental neck to send a song about “gay or straight or in between”? The country who have almost religiously avoided sending anything with any actual Azeri national character or heritage sending a song written by a Canadian, an American and a Frisian about a Greek-Egyptian ruler with a Japanese mantra and Latin affectations, so sending us around the world to pretty much everywhere except Azerbaijan? What can I say in favour of it? It’s a little bit catchy. So are venereal diseases.

31. Poland - Empires How can a country who started their ESC journey with aplomb - and experimental gems like Sama and Chcę znać swój grzech - and who continue to serve in the junior contest, how can they be so almost studiedly bland in ESC these days? This is our 564th knockoff Bond tune, sung a little awkwardly and with lyrics written by a Year 8 who’s been given a creätive writing assignment where they have to use metaphors. “We’re gasoline and a match!” Wow. If it passed to the final, it would only because of loyal Poles abroad.

30. Greece - Superg!rl We leave the territory of complete dirges and enter that of songs I can sort of live with. This one’s a huge step back for the Hellenes though after the gorgeous Better love. Its odd chorus is memorable, but not for the best reasons. Its saving grace is its unintentionally humorous promotional video. A better use of those superpowers would have been to come up with a better song.

29. Moldova - Prison Remember the fun Moldova that used to bring songs like Hora din Moldova and Lautar, with some actual national flavour and flair? That’s long gone. Even the Moldova that brought terrible songs but fun stagings, like that of My lucky day, seems far lost into the fogs of time too. Another wholly unremarkable and mediocre production of the Scream Team that would be lucky to scrape into the finals.  28. Belgium - Release me Has Belgium learnt absolutely nothing in the years Blanche where the wheels of their ESC renaissance have fallen decidedly off? My feeling is no. I have to salute them to some degree for creating nice, very musical compositions, but just like in the past two years, they have forgotten to add a few key elements: some sense of progression or dynamism. This plods along repetitively on one track, one note, and that note is nice enough as background music, but my hunch is that track would have led them to another unsurprising “surprise” NQ.

27. Serbia - Hasta la vista It’s an earworm, but some earworms leave you wanting to get an aural exorcism. Somehow, some sort of collective insanity overcame Serbia and they decided to dump on their beautiful oeuvre of songs, go completely against their trend for qualitative, classical, brooding, orchestral music by instead picking a bunch of time travellers who had been a third rate girl band in Transnistria. How enough Serbians thought they’d win over Europe by going for a sound that was dated even when they made their début bemuses me. 26. UK - My last breath The UK are really soaring high in my rankings as... the last amongst the 26 songs that would make up my notional perfect final. Baby steps. I still think it’s pretty lame how the BBC tanked their own national final for this. It’s not so adventurous. It has so little to say that it’s half a minute shorter than the ESC standard and yet still consists of repetition. It has one of the most annoying chorus quirks with that beat in “my last... breath.” How did this get up this high again?

25. Albania - Fall from the sky It absolutely pains my heart to put Albania out of the top 20 after two thunderous years in which they captured my gold and bronze respectively. What makes it worse is that they could have had a perfect hat-trick, because the original, Albanian language version “Shaj” was my #1 song from December up until mid-March when they released this thin gruel of a revamp with all the things that gave Shaj some authenticity and flavour gone, and with beautiful, heart-rending lyrics replaced with cliché. Only this high because there are plenty of worse songs.

24. Czechia - Kemama I have a soft spot for poor Benny, the interpreter of this song. Ok, so it beat a field containing some vastly superior songs, but it’s nice to have a Czech song without weird lyrics about women for the first time in a while, and the way the kid was put through the ringer for his more Afrobeat-influenced revamp made me sad. For me, it gained a bit of flavour with that change. The lyrics are still poor but I like the colourful musical backdrop.

23. Israël - Feker libi 🇮🇱 Sometimes, you don’t think much of a song but the artist elevates it enormously. Such is the case with Feker libi, a bizarre pot pourri of styles with a very discordant tropical verse (which I like), mid-90s dance track chorus (which I don’t), middle eastern post-chorus and African-sounding outro (jury’s out on both.) Yet Eden Alene is so full of natural charm and exudes “I want to be your friend” that I can’t help but rewatch just because of how joyous she makes it.

22. San Marino - Freaky 🇸🇲 Speaking of atypical countries flying high in my ranking, all was set for San Marrano to take non-pride of place at the bottom of my ranks yet again, but somehow, I ended up quite enjoying their track this year. Yes, San Marino is still a weird zone where, when you descend to Rimini in Italy, you enter the new millennium, but returning up the tiny nation’s steep slopes, you head back to a time in the 70s when disko was king. This disco is fun though. In part thanks to Senhit, a sympathetic performer who deserved more in 2011, in part the lyrics - who doesn’t want to rip up the rules, write new ones and then destroy them too?

22. Switzerland - Répondez-moi It’s nice to have the Swiss singing in a national language for the first time in ages. It’s also nice that they didn’t fall back on their success with Hänni by going with a similar so-called bOp. I also really love some of the artist’s other tracks, like Babi. And I liked this a fair bit more upon first listen, but the combination of less than stellar lyrics - just a succession of somewhat emoïsh rhetorical questions; just because they’re in French, doesn’t make them deep - and a wailing falsetto have made my will to relisten to this often take a serious hit for me. A shame, as musically, it has some undoubted quality. 20. Denmark - Yes 🇩🇰 Denmark seems to be doubling down on 2019 to develop its new niche - catchy, sweet but ultimately a little overly gooey love songs. There’s always something a little bit imperfect about them though: last year it was Leonora’s serial killer-esque nervous gaze; this year, it’s the “I’m not going to even try to make pretend we’re an item” lack of energy from Tan. It’s a little bit too reheated “Little talks” but it’s decent enough.

19. Russia - Uno 🇷🇺 When this first was released, days after the deadline for submitting songs, I was pretty peeved at what seemed like a pisstake against the contest, a bizarre rehash of Aqua for the meme age. And yet.. maybe it’s the quarantine slowly driving me insane, maybe it’s the sheer infectiousness of this that just makes you want to dance, maybe it’s the epic energy of the backing singer (Rosa from Brooklyn 99’s twin) who looks like she wants to kill everyone else... but I’ve actually grown to like this enough to put it top 20. I’m not always entirely predictable!

18. Norway - Attention 🇳🇴 There’s a lot of things that tick my yes boxes with this song, like the beautiful orchestral music laid out by the famed Mørland or the simple but sincere performance. There are also things that take a Sharpie and scrawl in my no boxes too, like the somewhat whiny tone of the vocals or the adolescent and lyrics which, with their “oy’d change anyffink abaat moyself fur a boi” tone, don’t flatter the singer, and from Mørland, I expect better. There’s more good than bad here though, and it has been an earworm since the day it was selected.

17. Belarus - Da widna 🇧🇾 I don’t know what was in the water this year, but we got a bunch of great Slavic language songs, including from countries that don’t typically send songs except in English. I like the chilled out vibe and the curious lyrics. Their live version for Eurovision Home Concerts with just an acoustic guitar sounded a whole lot better, I must say.

16. Australia - Don’t break me 🇦🇺 I’m finally overcoming the horror of the bizarre clown mise-en-scène complete with ropey lyrics at Australia decides and judging this on its potential. Hands down Australia’s best entry at the contest for me. Musically, it’s strong, and lyrically, it’s compelling and very saudadic. I’m sad we won’t see what a glow-up their final staging could have provided. I really hope it wouldn’t have involved clowns, which seriously tanked the song in my ranking for months, no joke.

15. Portugal - Medo de sentir 🇵🇹 A Portuguese entry outside of my top ten? Given their form with me since 2015, this might seem like a harbinger of the apocalypse. I still like it quite a bit, but there are stronger songs this time. It’s heartfelt, the lyrics are powerful (about being afraid to feel again after being hurt) and the melody is pretty. The live was a bit cagey especially because of the not particularly well synchronised voices of Elisa and the pianist, who composed the song. Still a very nice song and it is great to see Portugal staying faithful to its language, but I can’t help but feel sad that songs more in line with its riskier, more trailblazing previous few years. Passe-partout or Gerbera amarela do sul would have been in my top 3 like last year.

14. Latvia - Still breathing 🇱🇻 If you told me in January that not only would this song not be disliked, it’d also end up in my top 15 of the year, I’m sure incredulous laughter would have been the most polite response you’d have probably gotten. And yet - the song I couldn’t stand in Supernova has won me over and I do want to see Samanta Tina return for 2021 since she evidently cares so deeply about ESC so is pretty much one of us. I’ve come to love the weirdness of the track - real meat and gravy given the number of anodyne tracks - the iconic pre-corona hygienic leitmotif of its staging. ST’s joie de vivre and command of the stage. It’d be a guilty pleasure except I don’t feel guilty for it.

13. Georgia - Take me as I am 🇬🇪 Georgia once again are dancing to the beats of their very anarchic drummer and I love them for that. This thinly veiled swipe at both the Big 5 coasting in mediocrity and at narrow-minded fans’ reäctions to Georgia’s extremely varied oeuvre just hits the spot for me. I love the musicality of it, the dark electro-rock vibes, Tornike’s voice and how it blends perfectly with his captivating backing singers. I always vote with my feet for something different in an era where people are aiming to qualify with safe and bland rather than taking risks.

12. Romania - Alcohol you 🇷🇴 Roxen provided one of the most iconic moments of the season by deliberately tanking the ordained bop amongst her national final songs. Her eventual song is one of the most emotional of the year, and also one of the most surprisingly literary: there are tonnes of nuances, allusions, wordplays and so forth in this text, most of which are a lot more graceful than the titular terrible pun. I humbly put it to folk who thinks that this romanticises alcohol that they are missing the point - it’s instead being used as a metaphor for toxic relations which, by the end of the song, Roxen has broken away from. I love her voice, I love the music. It fell briefly out of my affections because of the weird mini-revamp, but it’s risen again.

11. Ukraine - Solowej 🇺🇦 It’s fabulous to see Ukraine singing a song entirely in their language and I hope this trend continues across the Slavic nations like was notable this year. The timeless folksy elements mixing with modern beats makes a curious and entrancing blend, delivered with aplomb. It takes where Poland 2019 went wrong and puts it right. I could have done without the unnecessary revamp, but it’s still one of the year’s freshest cuts. Well done, Widbir!

10. Slovenia - Voda 🇸🇮 In an age where the likes of Albania is stripping away all the beautiful orchestral flourishes of its entry to make a pared and muted revamp, Slovenia went full throttle in the opposite - and in my mind, right - direction and made one of the very few good revamps of the season. Performing with the Budapest philharmonic orchestra, Ana Soklič, who, for my money, has one of the best female voices of the year, unleashed the cinematic, sweeping beauty of Voda. I think this would have surprised many people by doing quite well. On musical and vocal merit alone, and adding to that the subdued saudade of its lyrics, it deserved a lot more love.

09 Malta - All of my love 🇲🇹 In 2018, I would have sooner said that it was more probable for me to have become Grand-Duke of Luxembourg than it was for me to have loved a Maltese song, let alone two i n a r o w. I didn’t expect much of this at all, because I expected we’d get a wailing vocal exhibition, as Ian used to say, focused on exhibiting Destiny’s range rather than giving her a genuinely good song. But this is a genuinely good song. Once again, I love for the gospel edge it has, and Destiny’s vocals soar to impressive heights, without feeling unnatural or ostentatious. I should have known to expect good things with the regal Cesár Sampson on board.

08 Lithuania - On fire 🇱🇹 Prior to this year, few people had any hopes for Lithuania’s long-winded national final selection process. The idea of it being must-watch viewing when there were many other more compelling choices on offer was hilarious. In 2020, that changed. They changed the name to the hilarious but hopeful “Let’s try again”, had a number of fantastic songs, and became one of the most diverse and qualitative highlights of the NF season. The eventual winners, The Roop, deserved the accolade with this cool, super contemporary track with a brilliant dance routine and a genuinely important message about not giving up on yourself.

07. Sweden - Move 🇸🇪 At MF this year, the Swedes put a match to its protracted ‘cocky fuckboi with polished, soulless overproduced pop song’ era, hopefully for good, with an all-female top 4. I will always lament Dotter missing out narrowly, but I’ve still been brought plenty of joy by the radiant Mamas with their fabulous hand-choreography and genuine warmth, and this song of resilience through the tough times. I love gospel-tinged music and this really makes me smile.

06 Ireland - The story of my life 🇮🇪 Before this was announced, I heard Ireland’s track being compared to the oeuvre of pretty much every major 00s female pop star. I was quizzical, but upon hearing it, could see why. In a year with a lot of beige, this is just one big orange and yellow blast of colourful late 90s/early 00s nostalgia, hope, resilience. The kind of anthem I never knew I needed but came right on time. I can’t listen to its wry, conversational lyrics without wanting to dance along. And Lesley Roy herself is an icon. My favourite effort from Ireland since Playing by numbers, and I really hope she returns in 2021.

05 Finland - Looking back 🇫🇮 I’ll never forget a mural in the part of València where I used to live that said “we’re not different for the sake of being different”, and that could sum up my attitudes to Eurovision. Whilst it seemed almost everyone was behind Cicciolina in Finland, I had scant hope for my favourite, and was blown away when it actually did win. This melancholy meditation on the passing of time and people - “we never know what we have until it’s over and we’re looking back” - became emblematic of this year for me and added to what was already a really poignant and moving track. I love the musical style too and the smoothness of Aksel’s voice and how it contrasts with his evident awkward shyness. It has moved me so much that it had to end up top 5.

04 Croatia - Divlji vjetre 🇭🇷 I always will represent and bring love for the Balkans and their adhesion to their musical traditions. This was one of the most pleasant surprises of the NF season for me - I was expecting very little from Croatia, and instead, it greeted me with this beauty. You have the understated classic grace of the music, the exquisite melancholy and poeticism of the lyrics, and one of the finest male vocals of the season. My favourite Croatian track in almost 15 years.

03 Italy - Fai rumore 🇮🇹 Sanremo isn’t just a national final, it’s a cultural experience that digs into your heart over the course of a whole week. This was one of the most memorable I have followed yet - and what a truly deserving winner. It’s just another example of the seemingly endless supply of heartfelt tunes by classy, sincere performers that Italy has on tap, with one of the best lyrics of the contest and the extra level of poignancy from how the lyrical theme of isolation would come to represent us all.

02 Iceland - Think about things 🇮🇸 One of my nerviest and happiest moments of the entire NF season was seeing Daði Freyr and friends win Söngvakeppnin in Iceland. As much as I loved Svala’s Paper, I had also adored his song three years prior - the delightfully awkward and similarly irrepressably earwormy Is this love. And now he was back with a groovy, fun, heartwarming tune about fatherhood that has only continued to grow in my estimations. The bridge still full on gives me goosebumps. It’s the kind of song that just makes me marvel at being human and being on this earth.

01 Netherlands - Grow 🇳🇱 My top few songs are all very closely entwined so much so that they could be considered joint winners, but I’ve been pretty unequivocal ever since Shaj got torpedoed by its revampire: silver turned to gold and my previous 2nd place, Grow, became my new favourite. I love the heartfelt, sparsely poëtic, bravely confessional lyrics. I love the way that it goes from something minimalist and intimate with just organ and voice and slowly builds upon the hints of gospel to something truly anthemic. Such a meticulous arrangement where there’s not a single sound out of place. This song is pure art and, like Soldi, Mall, APD and all those preceding songs which had the magic of being my personal favourite, it moves me upon every listen.

[madie-evelyn-blog]

Greg Abbott and the Conservatives in Texas are a clear and present danger to public safety.

I don’t even know where to begin with this. It’s astonishing that they crammed so many blatant lies and so much misinformation into one article.

First off, I honestly feel bad for people who actually believe this. They’ve completely fallen for Evangelical & Conservative propaganda and don’t realize it.

‘Thoughts & prayers’ do NOTHING. God, if such a thing even exists, seems oddly passive while more and more innocent people are senselessly murdered. You’re being told it’s a ‘God problem’ because those in power want to keep you passive and distract you from their corruption, which has cost countless lives.

To quote astrophysicist Katie Mack, “In America, the only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is to wait until he is actively shooting people, because any attempt to make mass murder more difficult to initiate would upset the NRA too much.

Creating a society supersaturated with weapons of casual mass murder is a very reliable way to make sure the “bad guy with a gun” will get shot, as long as you don’t mind that a whole lot of other people will die senselessly in the process”.

The NRA has spent millions on pro gun propaganda and deliberately lied to its’ loyal followers in order to increase their bottom line. They do not care another human cost. If they had any shred of humanity, they would’ve attacked the issue of gun violence head on years ago. With their resources and level of political power, imagine what they could’ve accomplished.

But no. Profit over human lives is the name of the game for too many on the right (Ted Cruz, the Bush family, Mitch McConnell, Greg Abbott, the list goes on).

Also, what is this about the media’s ‘narrative about racism as the cause of the mass shooting epidemic’? Excuse me?

White Nationalism and domestic terrorist organizations like the Proud Boys, Patriot Guard etc have been on the rise in recent years and have been supercharged by Trump’s horrifically racist, xenophobic, and violent rhetoric.

Remember when White Supremacists in Charlottesville were chanting things like “Jews will not replace us” and “blood and soil”? Those are NAZI CHANTS. These people idolize Nazi Germany and want to give birth to a Fascist, Authoritarian America.

They have murdered innocent civilians. The vast majority of those who committed mass shootings have been white men with AR-15s, and many of them have cited Trump and Nationalist, Fascist ideologies as their main inspiration (the Christchurch shooter cited Trump, Ben Shapiro and more as personal inspirations).

They repeatedly talk about an idea called ‘the great replacement’, ie mass immigration will cause white people to be bred out of existence and wipe out their ‘culture’, therefore it is an existential threat that must be stopped.

This idea is RACIST to its’ very core and is what has radicalized countless Conservatives to take matters into their own hands and kill those who look different than they do. This has been documented over and over and over, and yet Conservatives keep yelling that it’s all just a ‘narrative’, and that racism has nothing to do with it.

It’s all deflection, and it’s all they know how to do. The GOP has a long history of enacting policies that are deeply racist in nature (gerrymandering and dividing voting districts in a way that a) gives Conservatives an advantage in elections and b) makes it difficult for minorities to vote, for example), and their rhetoric over the past few years has more and more closely aligned with that of White Nationalists.

(I’m honestly surprised they haven’t outright called for a white ethnostate just yet, but that’s probably in our future)

They know that their voting block tends to be religious, pro gun, and either anti immigrant or prejudiced towards them and racial minorities, and they are playing every one of their followers like a fiddle.

They don’t want proper gun control policies because that would hurt their bottom line and push away their supporters who are openly racist, xenophobic etc. They will lie and deflect, use scare tactics, paint anyone who speaks out against them as the enemy, and use religion and language like ‘thoughts and prayers’ to keep you in a passive state in order to maintain their death grip on politics.

Every politician who vocally opposes gun control and refuses to acknowledge the true causes of this gun violence epidemic are complicit and fully responsible for every shooting that follows the most recent one. Every single one.

And they don’t appear to be too beat up or worried about that. Makes them seem kind of heartless, no?

Lastly, they’re making the claim that gun violence is caused by people who ‘don’t know God’, right? So we would expect to see higher rates of gun violence in more secular countries.. right?

Unfortunately, once again, the facts tell a very different story and show that we are one of the *only* countries in the world experiencing an epidemic like this and the ONLY country where guns vastly outnumber the # of citizens.

Also Texas is one of the most deeply red and religious states in America so you would expect it to have a lower rate of gun violence.. right?

Welp. I guess God really does ‘work in mysterious ways’.

I know I’m beginning to sound like a broken record but it’s only because this is so, so important: research these things for yourself and don’t ever believe what someone tells you simply b/c they’re an authority figure or claim they’re an ‘expert’.

[journeysintowebcomics]

Homestuck Liveblog #181

UPDATE 181: Meat

A long time ago, I finished reading Homestuck. It was quite the long tale, and it was rather enjoyable! At the time I thought there ‘d be nothing else, because Act 7 seemed like quite the final chapter – or if there was anything, it’d be bits and pieces that wouldn’t warrant a liveblog. Yet here we are! Turns out, after this long, there’s epilogues. In plural, as you can see. Somehow, there are now epilogues and they’re said to be quite long, too. After taking a cursory read that made me read more than I thought I would, here I am, reopening this liveblog to explore the epilogues.

What I have read so far...is not particularly enticing or even likable, at least in terms of enjoyment, really, but there’s something about the writing that makes me want to continue. Credit where it’s due, yeah. Still, I’m interested in seeing where this is going, and now, I’m posting my thoughts here for everyone to see. Here we go! So, let’s start with the epilogue liveblog!

You know, before that, I should note that now the story has its own URL instead of being into the old mspaintadventures website. Kind of late in the game for this change, Mr. Hussie. I mean, the story is over, and although there’s a whooole lot of new content, it seems a bit senseless to have this in its own domain. Then again, the rest of the mspaintadventures stories were kind of...hidden away in the website? I don’t remember links to them, when I used to read Homestuck. Maybe Homestuck getting its own domain is for the better. I do wonder if this is a hint more stuff will come in the future. The extra-epilogue. The postscript-extra-content. The seriously-guys-this-is-the-end chapter.

There are two epilogues, it seems. One is meat, the other is candy. I immediately notice this is related to the cherubs’ food. I wonder if it means one epilogue will be...bloodier? Crueler? More chaotic and violent? I mean more like something Caliborn will like, while the other will be more to Calliope’s tastes. I’ll start with the meat epilogue, simply because it’s to the left.

From what I can tell at a glance, there are no images, but there are colored words, most likely from conversations between characters. That should be fine, although Homestuck was pretty visual at times, its strength was the writing and characterization.

Well then! The very first paragraph already beats most of Homestuck in terms of extremely descriptive stuff. Heck, this reminds me of Worm, with its extensive paragraphs about bugs and how they crawl on people and cause all sorts of nasty effects. I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

Meat was definitely the right choice, you think, as grease drips down your chin. The meat is cold and undercooked, so you have to grab it with both hands while you rend it apart with your incisors. It bursts in chunks, filling your mouth with blood and your throat with mangled knots of gristle and long strings of muscle fiber. You take big bites, almost too big to swallow, so big that you choke on the meaty mulch and hock some of it up into your nasal cavity. You sneeze out a gooey rope of phlegm and flesh. You stop for a moment to wipe your face, but your chin is still slippery after you swipe the mess away. Slivers of meat catch between your teeth as you masticate with bestial enthusiasm. You use your thumbnail to fish them out.

...am I eating this meat straight from the cow.

Apparently the person who is eating meat that’s almost raw is John, who I guess gained a taste for raw meat at some point. Maybe he’s trying to emulate Jade’s canine half, for all I know. He’s with Roxy and Calliope, the later providing the meat. I suppose cherubs wouldn’t know about cooking meat. Speaking of cherubs, eating meat reminds John of Lord English, and he gets so sick thinking of Lord English he decides he knows what he must do. Alright! Didn’t waste any time dilly-dallying around!

JOHN: i have to go back and kill lord english.

ROXY: u sure?

JOHN: i think so. it will probably be hard. but i think it’s the right thing to do.

JOHN: everyone is counting on me.

When is this epilogue set? Before Act 7? I thought by now Lord English was dead and gone, not that it still was something that needed to be done. Then again, it’s not like Lord English’s death was shown on screen, if I remember correctly. Maybe this is after Act 7 and he’s going back in time with his retcon powers. I suppose he’d still have them.

Roxy seems disappointed, so I suppose she knew this had to be done at some point. Given John’s retcon powers, it’s not impossible this is the last time she sees John if things go wrong. Calliope is more accepting, saying it’s John’s decision. Time to leave?

Seriously, things have gotten quite more descriptive now. Still unsure if that’s good or not.

The farewell is quite unsatisfying, and the moment passes without John being able to make it better, so he goes to prepare himself and write a note for Roxy as a farewell and/or apology. Not only to her, to all of his friends. It’s like he’s aware the chances he’ll return here aren’t that high. I wonder if John would die here at the end. It’d be quite...something!

In this epilogue, there’s a Troll Kingdom, which I imagine is ruled by the trolls who survived Homestuck, raising the grubs created by ectobiology. Dave and Karkaroni are there, Dave lives with the trolls, I suppose because his relationship with Karkaroni now includes living in his hive.

KARKAT: NOT NOW DAVE. JAKE’S ASS IS ON TV AGAIN.

DAVE: stop ogling jakes ass this is important

KARKAT: WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO TELL ME WHOSE ASS I SHOULD STOP OGLING.

Apparently the reason why Jake’s ass is on TV again is because he and Dirk have a show involving rap battles and robot wrestling, which I suppose is the natural progression from when Jake used to get said ass kicked by a robot. People like the show, and I’m already convinced it’s partly because of the schadenfreude of seeing Jake losing against robots – because no way Dirk is losing, hah

Karkaroni has a few choice words for the fake gladiatorial show, and points out this show is all about zooming onto Jake’s ass. Maybe ‘pumpkin patch’ is an euphemism. Either way, the relevance of the TV show is eclipsed by the announcement Jane is running for president of the entire Earth. Aha, truly the wretched pastry baroness’ descendant.

DAVE: i dunno crocker is just an ambitious woman i guess

KARKAT: THIS SOUNDS FUCKING AWFUL.

DAVE: oh it is

DAVE: it absolutely is

DAVE: also like

DAVE: dont tell her i said this but

DAVE: i think shes basically a fascist

...well then. Oh all things that could have been used to describe Jane from what I remember of her, ‘fascist’ didn’t come not even close. Then again, it’s not like Karkaroni had any meaningful contact with Jane, and all Dave did was call her hot, which isn’t really the epitome of camaraderie and intimidate knowledge. They both even admit to that.

DAVE: oh also shes a fucking xenophobe

KARKAT: OF COURSE SHE’S A XENOPHOBE!

...ah.

...

Did I miss something? Was there something between Act 7 and these epilogues that revealed Jane harbors xenophobic inclinations? Why am I having to ask aloud ‘hey is Jane a xenophobe’

KARKAT: DAVE, I DON’T KNOW IF YOU’VE NOTICED, BUT

KARKAT: A LOT OF HUMANS ARE???

DAVE: yeah ive noticed

Well, that part isn’t really surprising. Humanity just has a knack for looking down on other people, I can only imagine how it’d be when it’s about other sapient species. If aliens ever make contact with humanity it’ll be a social mess.

Since letting Jane claim the spot of president of Earth is not good, apparently, Dave wants to stop her, eliciting laughter from Karkaroni who is already imagining Dave running against her. No, Dave couldn’t handle that responsibility, no way.

DAVE: anyway no

DAVE: im not running

DAVE: you are

Hm...unless Karkaroni got over the many issues he had from his leadership attempt during Sgrub this can’t end well. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t like the idea, precisely because he doesn’t feel like he has what’s needed to be a leader. It’s not that he would lose horribly – Karkaroni actually is rather popular. I suppose all of the Homestuck survivors are popular – it’s that he doesn’t feel ready and he seems to hate the attention. Understandable.

KARKAT: MAYBE I DON’T ACTUALLY LIKE BEING FAMOUS?

KARKAT: AND MAYBE THAT’S AS GOOD A FUCKING REASON AS ANY *NOT TO RUN FOR THE FUCKING PRESIDENCY OF EARTH*?????

KARKAT: NOT TO MENTION THE IDEA OF AN ELECTION IS KIND OF A FUCKED UP AND WEIRD THING TO ME CULTURALLY ANYWAY, AND I’M STILL KIND OF GETTING USED TO THE IDEA THAT PEOPLE CAN JUST... “CHOOSE” THEIR FUCKING LEADERS AND NOT HAVE THE SAME OLD MERCILESS BITCH IN POWER FOR SEVERAL MILLION YEARS.

Perfectly valid reason. I mean, it’s not something kind of inconsequential as being the class president of sophomore year in school or whatever it’s like up there in America. It’s president of the entire planet. If Karkaroni wins there will be consequences, even if he steps away immediately. Either he commits to this fully, or he simply shouldn’t run.

DAVE: ok ill just be the one to come out and say it

DAVE: shes going to be a fucking disaster for the economy

So Jane’s a republican. Haha! Ah, I shouldn’t touch this not even with a ten-foot pole. Nevermind that.

DAVE: i guess i have to admit

DAVE: part of this

DAVE: for me personally

DAVE: its

KARKAT: WHAT ARE YOU SAYING DAVE

DAVE: its about obama

Somehow, I didn’t even bat an eye with Dave described part of the reason why this is personal for him is because Obama didn’t get to be president due to, you know, the end of the world. I find it in-character, somehow. This isn’t the first time Dave extols Obama’s virtues, and after quite an extensive diatribe, he says maybe Obama reincarnated in Karkaroni. Thaaaat has to be the most Dave-y encouraging thing he could have ever thought. It’s for things like these that I like Dave, haha

Apparently only humans have tried to get to high offices, because no other species has even tried. They lack ambition, and given what I remember from Sburb, that’s believable. The only species that could come close to taking part in this are the trolls, and they’re not used to elections. No wonder humans have the high spots of politics.

DAVE: karkat dont stereotype

DAVE: remember the mayor

DAVE: remember how at one point a long time ago he raised an army and rebelled against an evil king

KARKAT: OH YEAH

KARKAT: SOMEHOW I ALWAYS FORGET HE DID THAT.

KARKAT: KIND OF MIND BOGGLING, REALLY.

KARKAT: HOLY SHIT, I MISS THE MAYOR.

DAVE: me too

Ah, yeah...I miss him too. I wonder what happened to him.

The government is in charge of troll reproduction through cloning, I suppose because the mother grub isn’t ready yet. In the meantime, the balance of power will get entrenched to the point where even when there’s a functional mother grub, humans will restrict troll population so they don’t take over the planet and make the horrors of Alternia happen. No lie, that’d be pretty bleak for humanity. Last time the horrors of Alternia were forced onto Earth everyone died. No troll right now would try, buuuut yeah, that’s not going to be forgotten...for a while.

Somehow, Dave’s arguments about how Jane has zero business acumen, is sinister, and trolls are getting the raw end of the deal are actually getting Karkaroni to pay attention, until he finally caves, simply because it’d make Dave happy. That’s sweet. But yeah, this is...not what I expected what would happen in the epilogue. Well then!

DAVE: aw yeah

DAVE: you wont regret it this is gonna be dope

DAVE: i think we have a great shot too

DAVE: with my political savvy and economic genius and outrageous flair for subversive anti establishment messaging and propaganda, and your big loud fucking mouth...

KARKAT: WHAT THE FUCK

DAVE: um i guess also your charisma and likability and shit

KARKAT: YEAH.

KARKAT: YOU MIGHT BE RIGHT...

KARKAT: I’M PRETTY SURE I CAN FAKE THOSE THINGS WELL ENOUGH.

DAVE: oh also

DAVE: your weirdly sincere humility

KARKAT: I PREFER THE TERM “SELF LOATHING” ACTUALLY.

DAVE: ok lets try to avoid that phrase on the campaign trail too

KARKAT: THIS ALREADY SOUNDS LIKE A PAIN IN THE ASS.

I’m not a political strategist, but if Karkaroni is going to run on a platform about how Jane sucks and there’s inequality towards the trolls, I’m not entirely certain it’s good there’s a shadowy human pulling the strings in the campaign. Kind of seems like bad optics to me. Then again, can’t say I know where this is going so let’s just wait and see.

Yup, Dave definitely will be the brains behind this presidency. They already agreed he’ll write what Karkaroni will say, even though he should improvise and speak from the heart, like he tends to do. Not a bad idea, it’s part of what makes him endearing.

DAVE: time to talk some strategy

DAVE: we need to rally as much high profile support to our cause as we can

DAVE: but there are some uh

DAVE: “lines of loyalty” to figure out

KARKAT: WHAT?

DAVE: i mean which of our friends are going to side with us and which ones will side with jane

It’s a safe bet to think the New Wonderteam will side with Jane and the Original Flavor Wonderteam with Dave and Karkaroni. Calliope likely will stick with Roxy, so she’d be on Jane’s side. All the living trolls would go with Karkaroni, so...overall? It seems to me the advantage is clear. Dave is slightly less optimistic than me, but he does think they can get many on their side.

...okay, what happened to Jade? What kind of twisted scenario involved her to the point where neither Dave nor Karkaroni want to talk about her? I’m almost afraid of finding out.

So there are four kingdoms, if I understand this correctly: one for humans, one for trolls, one for...carapaces, I guess, and one for the consorts, which would be aaaaaall the silly reptiles and amphibians from Sburb.

Jake’s support will be pivotal, and since I’m already betting he’ll be on Jane’s side out of, you know, being friends with her for quite some time, it seems like she’ll have the edge there. Then again, it’s true Jake is fairly timid, so there’s also a chance he’ll refuse to take a side. I’m starting to think any sane person would stay the heck away from any side in this mess, honestly. These two haven’t even announced Karkaroni as a candidate yet I already kind of dread what’s coming. I don’t know, it’s just this...constant atmosphere that something’s pretty wrong. I don’t really like it.

During all this, Dave receives a call from Dirk, so he calls back to ask what’s going on. This page ends with Dirk abut to insinuate he needs Dave to cut his head off again. I see these two’s weird pseudofamilial relationship is as messed up as ever. Charming.

So, back to the more Homestuck-y stuff. John zaps back to the story, apparently he agreed with Rose what needed to be done. First he makes sure Aranea won’t be up to shenanigans, taking off that ring of life from her finger. Good! Then he stashes Gamzee into the fridge again. Good! Everything’s fine over here. John zaps to the next plot point.

Ah, I have to read just two paragraphs to know what moment is this. The conversation below confirms my thoughts. Wait, I have to get the image for this moment:

There we go. Boy was it a pain to find it now that the long outline list is gone.

I think in Homestuck they had noticed John hanging out above them, and this time they see three of them, one of the Johns being an adult version. That’s going to be difficult to explain. Questions are asked, and evil Jade is zapped away to maybe get ready for the fight against Lord English, hopefully she won’t still be evil when the time comes, even if she technically is against Lord English and wants him dead. John is here to talk with Dave, anyway. If I recall correctly, Dave was supposed to give the final blow with that sword with the Welsh name, so my guess is that John is here for that. Get ready, Dave, you’re going to fulfill the fate you didn’t want in the first place! But at least I’m fairly certain John will be more successful at this than evil Jade was.

Turns out I’m not wrong about why John is here. In fact, the narration even says this:

Dave’s eyebrows descend beneath his sunglasses. You feel pretty bad because you’re about to completely circumvent the life-changing epiphany he’s just had that you know for a fact will make him a happier, chiller, and altogether more well-balanced human being.

Pretty unfortunate, really. It sucks to be Dave.

As I said before, Jade is zapped away to parts unknown, and Dave is informed of how everyone was spending their lives as normal adults with no big problems and a fairly peaceful life. Clearly John left the present before Dave and Karkaroni started their political war against Jane. Oh well. Off you go, Dave, get ready for a fight with Lord English. In the meantime, John will gather the rest of the team.

You know, I’m starting to realize I had a lot more to say about Dave and Karkaroni’s new political adventures than about the more familiar Homestuck-y messing around John is doing with the plot. I guess it’s because, as strange as the other plotline is, it just has...a lot other stuff to comment about that hasn’t been present in Homestuck before? Hm.

Yup, Dirk immediately asks for his decapitation as a solution for the tremendous defeat he has suffered at Jake’s hands, defeat that shouldn’t have happened because, as Dave states, Jake is pretty awful at everything. Either the show is rigged or Dirk must have quite a lot in mind for him to not even make an effort.

Yep, it’s rigged. I hope Jake knows. That guy never had a break during the game, hopefully he’ll get a break now. Speaking of Jake, he has to take the brunt of entertaining everyone while Dirk takes the call in the middle of the show. Whatever he has to talk about must be somewhat urgent, if he felt like calling Dave in the middle of it.

This narration sure is calling attention to Jake’s ass a lot, I lost count of how many paragraphs include something about it. Hussie, is there something you’d like to share with the class? Last time I checked the story he didn’t seem particularly interested in Jake’s ass, or in...Jake in general, really.

It seems what Dirk is doing here is intentionally making himself the villain of this show, but it’s not because he’s throwing Jake a bone or anything. No, it turns out there are more sinister goals here, or at least they’re sinister for Dave and Karkaroni’s newfound political ambitions.

DIRK: The point is, this is much less about me, and more about providing a foil for Jake’s heroism and charisma.

DIRK: It’s very important that his popularity continues to be cultivated, to maximize his political capital.

Sounds like they were planning Jane’s campaign for quite a while, if they went so far as to make Jake the hero of their show just for political capital. I bet that was the plan all along, right from the very first time this was broadcasted. How long ago was that, I wonder? But yeah, as Dave predicted, Dirk is fully on the Jane corner of this mess. He’s fully aware of Jane’s flaws and theoretical fascist/xenophobic tendencies, I presume, and he believes Jane’s the best for the current situation of the world. Whether he’s right or not...well...until proven otherwise I believe that too, yeah.

DIRK: We’ve all had our fun here, but it’s easy to overlook the fact that civilization on Earth C is hardly a sustainable proposition.

DIRK: Just beneath the surface, it’s quite a dangerous and unstable place.

Won’t lie, that never crossed my mind at all. From the way Act 7 ended, and how happy the ending was supposed to be, I simply thought things were going to be just peachy. I’m interested in knowing just how exactly it’s a quite a dangerous and unstable place. Care to explain, Dirk?

Guess not. I hope he explains how he knew what Dave and Karkaroni are planning, then. They took this decision like ten minutes ago.

DIRK: I think your heart is in the right place, but the dude is a complete amateur.

DIRK: He’ll get eaten alive. I also have a hard time imagining he even wants the job.

DIRK: Really, it’s an awful idea for him to even run. Think about how much it’s going to inflame the interspecies tensions on this planet. Is that what you want?

DIRK: I’m happy for both of you, really. It’s nice that you encourage and support each other in this way. But you’re sending him on a fool’s errand which can only end badly.

To be perfectly honest, other than the part about inflaming interspecies tensions on the planet, that was more or less what I thought. So far I agree. Even the part about inflaming interspecies tensions sounds plausible.

You know, it’s kind of fun both sides have a savvy Strider political operative. These two are more alike than Dave would like to admit, really.

The reason why Dirk is calling is because he wants to dissuade Karkaroni from running, even if he doesn’t say it. He admits Jake is not under Dirk’s beck and call, though. Does that really change anything? Dirk may not be on Jake’s good graces, but perhaps Jane is? Either way, this is a call to subtly dissuade and it’s not going to work because Karkat is stubborn as hell once he gets his head into something and he did. Tough luck.

The call is over, Dirk is back into the staged fray, so Jake thinks about Dirk’s capricious nature.

DIRK: Sorry for the momentary diversion, Jake. Now where were we?

JAKE: Momentary??? Gadzooks man you were on the phone for half a friggin hour!

JAKE: I know you like to get the crowd all hot and bothered but we are supposed to be professionals here!

...no wonder the crowd was starting to get so upset. Half an hour?! Just how slowly were the Striders talking?

Jake pulls out rhymes that honestly reminds me of Dave’s old rapping convos from like Act 1 or 2, peppered with old-timey sayings. It’s the kind of thing that makes me wonder how Jake is popular all over the planet. It’s said it’s out of pity, but goodness, that must be a metric ton of pity. The rap fight ends with Dirk sedating Jake to take another call. Geez, no wonder you’re not on his good graces anymore, Dirk.

Aaaanyway, back to John. He has gathered everyone back at his childhood home, ready to start the discussion on how to get rid of Lord English once and for all.

Jake is sort of ruining the mood anyway by bouncing away on your old Green Slime pogo. Doesn’t he realize how dangerous that thing is? Of course not. The fool.

To be frank that thing looked fun to me, even though I wouldn’t ride it without a helmet. John needs to appreciate more the painful playground elements in his life.

It’s nostalgic to read a convo with the kids. I hadn’t realized until now I missed Jade’s goofy mannerisms. Jade was always someone I was so fond of. Heck, all of the kids are people I’m fond of, although I’m less fond of Dirk and Jake than the rest. My opinion of Homestuck may not be as high as it once was, but the characters are something I still appreciate.

John answers a question: what happens to the people from the timelines they all left? Who knows. They may have stopped existing, which I’m sure is something they’d have liked to know before, but there’s nothing that can be done about that. Better start planning so they don’t die horribly and make nothing matter, alright.

The planning is mostly disorganized and structureless, although some common themes that often recur involve you and your original three friends leading the charge, since you are the oldest and wisest, and therefore the strongest, with the exception of Jade, whose gaudy array of powers make her the most formidable of the group, bar none. Aside from that, it appears the consensus is that the melee will likely devolve into an absolute free-for-all—at least going by the general patterns of incoherent banter, shit-talking, and points of pedantic tactical disagreement plaguing the jam session.

Sounds about right. I still think Jade would be very useful in the fight as long as she’s actually there and not...getting knocked out by mailwomen-turned-winged-dog. Maybe this time there’ll actually be something about the kids getting into a fight with Lord English. I’m not really going to hope for that too much, given how Hussie is not into catering to orderly narratives, but eh. No harm in dreaming.

The reunion ends when Jake eats dirt when he falls from the pogo, and in all this there wasn’t even a word about the plan. Not a good omen for the ‘show everyone fighting Lord English’ dream, really. The kids all talk together, some of them meeting each other for the first time, while John wistfully stares at Dad Egbert who is visible through the window.

The sun is hitting the glass in such a way that you can’t see his face.

Ah, yes, how could I forget the eternal sun that was in Dad’s vicinity all the time, that’s why his face always appeared mostly blank. That’s why the sun was right beside the Homestuck letter logo, it’s always there. Besides, if it’s a bad idea to go talk with Dad Hebert, may I ask why they’re all gathered in this yard, one week before the meteors strike? I know I’d be alarmed if I looked out of the window and saw seven hooligans and one adult hanging out in my yard.

There are other things to be wondering about, anyway, like the fact John may not be seeing these as real versions of his friends. Then again, in my opinion, he’s thinking a bit too hard about this. Of course he’d feel kind of detached, simply because of the age difference. That’s hard to overcome. Is it time to leave and go possibly die? Grab hands and hope it’ll go okay!

No, seriously, why am I taking like a page for John’s retconning and like three and half for Dave and Karkaroni’s Elect-a-Troll 20XX? Oh well. Dirk is still in the stadium, apparently their shows always ends in a riot, making me wonder how are they popular with people. Public disorder doesn’t really paint a good image of you. The caller is Rose, and she’s not feeling happy.

ROSE: The bottom line is this.

ROSE: I am ascending, and it is terrible.

Is Rose reaching Nirvana? How else am I supposed to interpret ‘ascending’? It’s not like she’s not a higher existence already, what with godhood and all.

What’s going on is that Rose is being plagued from visions and a higher awareness of her alternate selves’ lives and tribulations, giving her something close to omniscience when it’s about the universe, and Dirk is going through that too, which I suppose helps explain how he knew what Dave wanted to do. That’s what Dave will have to go against? Good luck to him.

I have to wonder if Dirk being such a stalwart Jane supporter is fueled by his recent omniscience. Maybe he knows something Dave and Karkaroni don’t, maybe the warning he gave them was something he foresaw. That aside, then he also must have known how useless it was to call Dave and that it wouldn’t make much of a difference. Having omniscience must seriously suck. At least Dirk has a way to work with his omniscience in a way that won’t wreck him apart, and I’m curious what it’s going to be. That said, though, a story about Dirk and Rose having foreseen a nasty future and working to stop it even at the cost of a few valuable friendships would be interesting. I’d read that.

Any conversation that will come from this will be at the studio later. I for one am looking forward to it, I admit. It’s an interesting topic, rich with possibilities and potential for development. It’s a shame these are epilogues, though. In the end, this will go nowhere, I imagine. Isn’t it a pity when you come across an idea or a plot that could span an entire story, but you know it’s not likely to come to fruition? Real shame, that.

I think I’ll stop for now. I have read only seven pages out of forty-three or so, but this should be enough for now. I can’t say I have been...enjoying this. I’m interested, but not really happy so far. Maybe it’s because a couple rather questionable things have come out of the blue and for the life of me I can’t make them fit with the characters or the story. Strange.

Also, something about the writing style is...off. It’s far more descriptive than Homestuck usually was. Most of the time it’s nice, other times I wonder if it was necessary. Still, I wonder where this will go, so at least the epilogues have that on its favor. Just for that, I think liveblogging it will be worth it.

Still, these epilogues are non-canon, aren’t they? If they’re canon can you please tell me that? Thanks, readers! So, for the time being, this update ends here.

Next update: next time

[obaewankenope]

#TriggerWarning #Terrorism #Death #Murder #Extremism #Islamophobia #Xenophobia #Nazi

I have to be honest, I am so angry and hurt and upset right now about the #ChristchurchMosqueAttack because I have lived in a Muslim country and they were some of the kindest people I have ever known. All the xenophobic, Islamophobic bullshit on the news, spread online, endorsed by politicians like #BorisJohnson, #DonaldTrump, #NigelFarage and so on gets my back up like nothing else.

There is NO EXCUSE for terrorism except to spread terror. It's an act designed to gratify the terrorist and terrorist movement and force those targeted to give into the unreasonable af demands of the terrorists. A majority that is dominant and has the power in a social situation but feels threatened by a minority is one that is aggressive, violent, and oppressive that solves its problems through socially or state sanctioned violence.

The attackers in the Christchurch attack are white extremists. They're terrorists. White terrorists. Radicalised and xenophobic. Islamophobic. They attacked two mosques, killed at least 49 people, and streamed the attack live online. This is not just "senseless violence", this is not "a violent act". This. Is. TERRORISM.

So many reports and news articles and social media hounds roll out the "terrorist" label for anyone who is even a little bit tanned, but hardly ever do for white people. The guy who killed a British MP is a terrorist. The man who drove his car into London Bridge and went and attacked Parliament is a terrorist. The shooters of Jewish Synagogues in America are terrorists.

This is a fact.

They wanted to terrify and kill innocent people and they used violence to do it. If the British government could happily brand the IRA as terrorists then they sure as hell can brand those mentioned as terrorists.

To do anything less is to see Muslim, Jewish, non-white lives as less deserving and less worthy of respect. And that shit is the basis of intolerance and xenophobia.

Fuck that shit.

Call them what they are and give those who have been murdered the dignity that is heaped upon the victims of non-white terrorists, you hypocritical bastards.

[rainhalydia]

for the character ask: Taena Merryweather, and Victarion Greyjoy

Thank you, lovely!

Taena Merryweather

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would banghogwarts house: gryffindor | slytherin | ravenclaw | hufflepuff i’m scrapping that out because i’m done with this system and also, none of those characters even went to school anyway. for the characteristics, I’ll say she’s cunning.best quality: she keeps a cool head in a crisis, that’s for sureworst quality: honestly, most of her qualities are bad, that’s just the way she’s drawn, but i think she highly overestimated her skill to influence and control people, not only cersei. she’s good at that, sure, but not as much as she thinks she is.ship them with: no one, really, but her and cersei could make for an excellent bad-wrong shipbrotp them with: again, no one, she would probably be the worst toxic friend so maybe margaery or cersei can get her thenneeds to stay away from: cersei and all the tyrells. basically if you’re already rich don’t put yourself in a position where you could lose everything just to get even more rich

misc. thoughts: i think she has probably learned her lesson about dabbing in politics with people way more cold-blooded than her. i mean, she’s pretty cold to begin with, what with lying on tyrion’s trial, but by now she must have realized that the tyrells would throw her under the bus if necessary and that cersei is the metaphorical bus, and that she was lucky to escape when she did. she’s disposable to all these people for all that they seem to like her, so i hope she retires from the capital permanently with her child.

Victarion Greyjoy

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would banghogwarts house: gryffindor | slytherin | ravenclaw | hufflepuff same as above. he’s very loyal.best quality: that loyalty, as stated above.worst quality: he has several, darling homophobic, xenophobic and misogynistic slaver, rapist and wife-murderer that he is, but what aggravates me most about victarion is that he lacks self-awareness just enough to fall short on some very important realizations about himself and the old way. i know this is very, hm, hypocritical of me given that theon is my fave character and the greyjoys are my fave house, but this is somehow worse with victarion. theon at least is trying very very hard to not be self-aware. but victarion is trying so hard to be and he fails so much at that. Then again, i’m 100% sure that if he realizes that not murdering his wife was an option, he’d kill himself, he wouldn’t be able to cope at all. i despair of him even when i sympathizeship them with: NO ONE! he should not be allowed near anyone sans-pants until he’s gone through so much terapy! Especially asha - eugh, dude, she is your niece!brotp them with: balon, i guess. they probably liked each other best of the brothers, which tells me that balon at least didn’t make fun of victarion for being dumb.needs to stay away from: euron, all his relatives, dany, asha, all women, probably dragonsmisc. thoughts: i’m maybe in the minority here, but i don’t think his chapters are funny at all. he could easily have been a normal guy, like, an average dull but okay dude who didn’t rape women or murder people and was boring as fuck but not violent, if only he didn’t grow up in a culture that idealized that stuff. as long as someone did away with euron too, that is. also, i have a feeling based on nothing at all that he likes children as long as they’re not mean to him, aka, don’t laugh at him. also, the way he is honest to god traumatized by laughter is the saddest thing :(

[abundantchewtoys]

HS Epi: Meat p10 reaction

So, with little fanfare, we've passed the point in time that is the Masterpiece.

I wonder if John's next interaction with the outside world will be granting himself retcon powers, or whether from his perspective the next thing is being summoned by Vriska. That being said, I wonder how Vriska will react to seeing these people emerge from the house artefact, you'd think she'd be very surprised. Will John & co. have felt it to be hours from their perspective, being trapped? Or longer? Can't have been years, or their relative age difference wouldn't matter any more.

Also, is Davepetasprite^2 nearby for their confrontation with LE? If not, this definitely won't be the final showoff! But if she is, well... I wonder how things turn out, this almost can't already be it for Lord English. Then again, if the perspective now switches back to Earth C for a long time, by the time we switch back the plot could be culminating.

I also wonder if there will be any interaction with the people outside the Black Hole's event horizon (I know, contradiction in termini there). Like, post-retcon Aradia, who'd been watching the mayhem unfold.

---

"Jane Crocker sweeps into her office" Well then. That answers that. Mary Poppins-style entry for them, then? :P Courtyard Droll isn't around to be wielding an umbrella, fortunately.

I'm interested to get a good look into her mind, given all we've heard said about the state of Earth C, and Dave's mistrust in her. Also wondering how her relationship with her Dad has evolved over the years. Wouldn't at all be surprised if he was still leaving supportive notes as well as confectionary in her office.

Blaperile has a good point, Dirk might be coming around, being her campaign manager. Their relationship was always interesting, due to the similarities to as well as the differences with John & Dave's.

"The sun cuts through her venetian blinds, painting butter-yellow strips of light all the way from one end of her impeccably tailored office to the other." In other words, exactly the state in which a private investigator likes their office to brood. :P Stations may change but demeanors don't do as quickly.

"It’s a lovely day, like most days, so not terribly remarkable except for the horrid news that she has just received at her customary morning press conference." There's competition afoot and its name is Vantas.

"[Jane] brushes her hands over her hips to smooth the wrinkles out of her powder-blue pencil skirt. Then she hems, haws, puffs out her cheeks, and takes a very deep breath before snatching a pillow off the nearest couch so that she can scream into it." So majestic. And such a Jane thing to do, too (even though Rose started the whole screaming into pillows for Homestuck), remember the time she was being 'supportive' when Jake was contemplating Dirk's affections? Both times, really.

"There are, surely, a multitude of ways for a person to find out that an acquaintance is running against you in a presidential election. From a carapacian reporter, in front of twenty-six other members of the interspecies press, was not the method Jane would have personally chosen." Welp. Well, yeah, it stood to reason Dave wasn't going to say anything, given his misgivings about her. 27 reporters, huh. Kinda wondering about how representative they were to the entirety of the populace. All the bigwig stations must've been represented, of course, but then it would seem humanity has an overly large representation in those already.

"She cannot believe that Karkat would do this to her. This is no longer a political fiat (which the election would surely have been had she run uncontested by any other civilization-founding celebrities) but rather a battle between “friends.” What did Vantas think he was doing?" Well, uh, it seems that he's giving you fair competition where you seemed to be of the idea there wouldn't be any. That's not really a good starting point for a politician, Jane. Seems like her business-minded attitude is indeed influencing her campaign strategy.

"This could not have possibly been Karkat’s idea." Yeah, I'd thought she'd be on to it quickly.

"He is not cut out for politics, neither intellectually nor in the very important matter of social constitution. Certainly not when it comes to economic policy. In fact, Jane is pretty sure that Karkat Vantas would probably literally burst into flame if too many people happened to look at him at the same time, like a vampire walking out into the sun." I was going to say that's unfair of her, but then she's never known Karkat when he's aflame with purpose, only the Karkat that's been hurt too much and suffered too many losses to remain motivated. Also, of course she'd "think of the economy" first. :P That's hilarious given Dave's concerns.

"Wait. Jane lowers the pillow from her face and stares at her brass-and-glass art deco ceiling. Was that vampire thing xenophobic against Kanaya?" Well, at least we know that IF Jane's really xenophobic, as Dave fears, she's trying to become aware of when she is and doing something about it. Of course, trying and succeeding are two different things - just as Karkat.

As for it being hurtful, well... Good thing she never met Game Over Kanaya, she might have had some objections to death-by-light-from-above.

"Dave was certainly no Dirk Strider, no Rose Lalonde, no Roxy, but he had that same scheming gene, buried deep down beneath his transparent onion layers of posturing and, frankly, rather outdated humor. An instinct to plan." Well, I wouldn't have said as much - if it was genetically determined there's no reason Dave couldn't have just not inherited those genes. But then, I'm all here to see Dave's take on scheming, sure. He's had a great example in John planting ideas about apple juice in his head. The bar is already set.

"And despite being inarguably the dimmest of his family’s impressive ecto-biological stock...

Oh, dear. Stock. That’s likely a problematic word, isn’t it?" Yep, seems like Jane really is trying. Can't believe I'm saying this, but if Kankri were here, he might have some good advice for her. A lot of bad, too, but still.

"Despite being the least mentally gifted member of his family" Eesh, okay, but she's still got a lot of prejudices to work out.

"Dave has always had an awful lot of opinions on the economy. In fact, Jane cannot remember a single conversation she’s ever had with him that wasn’t about the economy. She thinks back to one time at John’s eighteenth birthday when Dave engaged her in a rigorous and rather one-sided debate about deregulation and the failure of “neoliberal austerity measures” until Karkat had to come over and put his hands over his roommate’s mouth to make him stop talking." Well, I guess he's really, REALLY concerned. Can't blame the guy, though, but poor Jane, Rose knows what that's like, being on the other side of that trailing, lumbering monologuing. At least Rose's monologue's don't meander. :P

"carapacians were widely known to be swayed by underdog populism." That's because their civilisation was founded by WV, isn't it?

"And the consorts? Who had even given them the right to vote in the first place? In any other year..." Oh, so... Does that mean the consorts only got their right to vote so recently, after 5000 years. That's... Well, that might just be indicative that until recently, their political activism was nothing to write home about.

Jane starts to chew a pencil and it's just so FITTING for her, she's so fidgety, it's probably how Jade ended up being so giddy.

"In any other year, this wouldn’t be a problem. She’d be happy to accept a graceful, temporary defeat and let Karkat play president for a couple of years. After all, unlike her, he was not immortal." ... Eesh, so, yeah, that confirms that Karkat's godhood isn't expected to be eternal, unlike the humans. They could be wrong about it.

But what is so special about the current year, is the political situation on Earth C THAT volatile, or is Jane aware of things about to unfold on a cosmic scale - or even pan-cosmic, if she knows about the events back in canon with the Black Hole 'n all.

"But Earth C’s paper-thin idyllic history was very close to a boiling point—its very first boiling point, in fact, which will have everything to do with the problematic nature of troll reproduction." Ahhhh, right. So that's why she's aiming for the reigns. Didn't think her 'political takeover' had so moral reasons. ... Or, well, at least humanitarian.

"The first generation of natural-born trolls obviously cannot be entrusted to a troll." ...

Well that's just cruel. I know she'll have reasons given troll history on Alternia and B2 Earth alike, but it's their purpose as gods to change the world for the better, together.

Guess now we get to see the parts of her thinking that gave Dave reason to brand her a fascist, semi-serious or not.

"The citizens of Earth C were able to rest easy knowing that the government held careful rein over the... well, over matters of equity. No one could possibly trust something so important to a troll, knowing what everyone knew about their violent history." So it's the hemospectrum she fears would be reinstated. She's equating their biology with their ideology then, thinking natural-born trolls are fundamentally more oppressive as to those birthed through scientific means. Oooh boy. That's a whole steaming pot of problematic thinking.

"Jane presses her eyes shut and runs her fingers along the fine-grain patterns in her mahogany-paneled desk. She is about to think something that she has promised herself never to think again. In fact, she is about to say it—this horrible, ghoulish, girlish thought that used to rule her world and make her so terribly weak. The shameful thought is expressed out loud in the form of a defeated sigh." ... Is it... "I wish Dad was here?" Even if he's still alive, she might have tried to become her own woman, cutting more ties than is healthy.

"JANE: I need Jake." Pfffff, okay, yeah, that I understand. She needs his support to swing the voters. Guess Jane is also trying very hard to be "over him", just like Jake with Dirk. I can see how well that is going for her. Now I wonder how the Nannasprites are doing.

"She spins around and, still sitting on her desk, presses a familiar entry on her phone’s contact list." Either it's Jake and it's familiar to her because she still looks at it ten times every day, or Dirk's because they get along so well and are working together on her campaign.

"JAKE: Ahoy ahoy!" ... Yeah, this is going to be so cumbersome for Jane, I can just feel it, her old feelings now causing quite the opposite response towards everything that makes Jake who he is.

"the ol’ horse tranquilizer trick." Just... just how many times has Dirk pulled this on him already? And how many more times is Jake willing to go through with their show?

"JAKE: Which i suppose i should have seen coming, as dirk has ended all of our matches in this fashion for the past week." ... Jake. Jake, honey, you need a coach. A non-robotic one. Or settle for a non-shitty spirit guide. I know that narrows it down to basically zero, as far as sprites are concerned, but still.

"JANE: Oh dear. That sounds absolutely terrible, Jake. Is there anything I can do to help?" I wouldn't like it if Jane keeps pretending to care for Jake if there wasn't any truth left to the gesture.

"JAKE: Help? Gadzooks woman! I hardly think myself in need of help. JAKE: Its a jolly good adventure working with someone so predictably unpredictable as our good friend dirk!" Then again, it would be hard not to get exasperated by all of this... airheadedness, well meaning as it is.

"You would think that Jake enjoyed the sadomasochistic nature of his and Dirk’s personal and professional relationships. Judging from the last conversation about election strategy with Dirk, he seems to be perfectly aware of this feature of Jake’s personality. You can’t be too nice when courting his endorsement, Dirk would say. He doesn’t respond to nice." So Dirk is still being rather methodical in his interactions with Jake. :/ But I mean, Jake does respond better to challenges, at least initially. He appears not be scared off/by Dirk though, I wonder how he's worked through his feelings about their breakup?

"something big and hollow and metal connecting with Jake’s head. When Jake comes back to the phone, he’s yelling into it." Jake's life is just like a cartoon on even the best of days, isn't it?

"I appreciate very much that you have called me out of the blue to say such nice things to me with no ulterior motive!

From anyone else, this would have been a portentous statement. However, Jane knows that Jake English could not have possibly meant this with anything but the utmost sincerity." Well, I wouldn't mind it for Jake to have developed a level of self-awareness, but yeah... That's unlikely by now, isn't it?

"JAKE: Because i must note that although i try to stay sporting about what comes at me, i cant say that i am chuffed about how much of my correspondence lately has to do with the marketing of my image. JAKE: Its beginning to feel like all people want from me is to stick my derriere on a signpost for their own profit." ... Well, okay, he's become self-aware to the extent he realizes people idolize him and pine for his affections. But that's just because he was so very much affected by that during the session. It'll take a lot longer for him to pick up on more subtle and rarer things, though.

"It must be so difficult. For you more than the rest of us, due to your, let’s say... JANE: Natural gifts? JAKE: Huh?" Well, guess he doesn't realize his good looks yet, at least.

"JANE: But you know that I have always wanted what’s best for you, right? JANE: And I am ready to give that to you. JAKE: To give me what? JANE: The best, Jake. The very best." That could be very ominous, "what's best for you". But what would it be if it were sincere? A way to follow in his Grandma's footsteps, while ensuring he doesn't blunder and blow up anyting unintentionally?"

Jake is quiet a moment, and Jane can hear the rusty gears turning in his head." Insert "*thinking*" smiley here.

"JANE: You should stop by to see me this evening! JAKE: Do you mean my evening or yours? Were in different time zones right now and i dare say that the sun just went down here so if you wanted to have a soiree on my time youve missed your chance." It'd be a fair question, assuming Jane could've been in his neighbourhood. I'm sure their meetup won't go quite as nefarious as pretending they're dating to the press, right? ... Right, Jane?"

Jane feels her fake smile flexing so hard that it was beginning to hurt. Oh yes, she loved this man in basically every category that you could possibly love a person, but sometimes talking to him is like trying to build a house of cards while riding a mechanical bull." Ah, so they were facetiming? :P Note the past tense in 'loved'. :/ Well, old flames do still elicit feelings of friendship, a lot of times.

"JANE: Mine, of course! I’ll have the best year of your favorite crocodile-made scotch flown in from the Consort Kingdom and we’ll have a little catch-up.

Jake actually hates scotch, and only drinks it for appearance’s sake. But for this—for this unbelievably pivotal moment in the history of the planet that they created with their bare hands—Jane is willing to spend a few thousand boonbucks to watch her old friend pretend to sip at the same glass for a couple of hours while prattling on." So: A) Crocodiles might be living in Scotland, if the scotch authentic. Highlander Crocs in kilts and playing bagpipes. Glorious. B) Boonbucks are the currency running the economy, which explains how they can all be so rich. Of course, their influx of cash could've disrupted the economy, but if it had Dave's would've already complained about it. C) Guess there's never been something as disruptive to happen to Earth C as the Mother Grub, then. Not even natural disasters. D) Plan Fake Date is apparently, actually going to happen.

"Time to work your magic, Crocker." Magic being ruthless business-minded political scheming, I hope. Since she's serving Jake drinks he doesn't like, it'll all be for pretense, down to the drinks too. But I wouldn't like to be in Jake's shoes if she starts to fake-fancying him.

[thesffcorner]

The Word Is Murder

I haven’t been conflicted on a book like this, in a while. The Word Is Murder is a murder-mystery novel written by Anthony Horowitz. It follows, Anthony Horowitz as he gets approached by a Detective named Hawthorne to write a book about a case he’s been called to consult on: the murder of a woman who just six hours prior, went to a funeral parlor and planned her own funeral. I read Anthony Horowitz’s previous book, The Magpie Murders, but before that I had been a massive fan of both his work for the Hercule Poirot and Midsomer Murders TV series. I had mixed feelings on The Magpie Murders; I thought the actual mystery was great, but there were many points in the book, where I felt like Horowitz used the characters as mouthpieces for his own opinions and frustrations with current politics, culture and the publishing industry, and I found I didn’t agree or like with a lot of what he said. So I’m having a real hard time discussing this book, because, unlike in Magpie Murders where you could make the argument that description is not endorsement, and that those are the opinions of the characters (even though one of the character seemed to be quite an obvious self-insert), here we are reading from the PoV of Anthony Horowitz. He has written himself into the story like John Byrne into The Trial of Galactus. It’s a literary device that creates interesting tension, because I was left wondering how much of the book was actual life, and how much was fiction. But it also created a massive problem, because it was very hard for me to distinguish between the opinions of the characters and the opinions of the author when they are literary telling me that I should view them as the same person. I am not in the habit of seeking out media that I know would piss me off. I am aware that homophobic, or racist, or xenophobic people exist, and I don’t think that authors should only be allowed to have them in their fiction as villains. But I’m just tired; tired of having to read about horrible men that I’m forced to sympathize with or excuse their behavior because they are ‘geniuses’; tired of uncritically presenting dangerous and violent ideas in fiction; tired of the unawareness of who your audience is, and alienating so many people because of callousness. Horowitz seems to really like layers in his book; there’s a lot of meta commentary in his work, not just on the genre of crime fiction, but also on the author as a person who is both responsible and part of the story. And unfortunately, to me this whole book read as one long meta on ‘problematic’ white men, and why we should just ignore their very obvious failings, and even sympathize with them because they are so good at their job. Before I go into that, let me talk about the actual plot of this book. This is a very classic, very Sherlock style murder mystery; there are many references to A Study in Scarlet, which at this point is probably the most overused and over-referenced Sherlock Holmes story. I will say that the references were relatively subtle, and the mystery was interesting enough to keep me engaged on its own level; I wanted to know who had killed Diana Cowper. I also appreciated that, like a good mystery writer, Horowitz had given us all of the clues to the case, and the misdirection came in how the characters interpreted the clues or what they considered important. I really liked the little argument between Hawthorne and Horowitz about what details are written into the book, and how mentioning or omitting the wrong thing can lead the audience into the wrong direction. The push and pull between writing something that is true and something that is compelling was very interesting, and I enjoyed the bickering between Hawthorne and Horowitz about that. Unfortunately, I have to say that I would have probably preferred this story, had Horowitz not written himself into the book. For starters, there’s a moment in the book, where he’s having a meeting with Peter Jackson and Steven Spielberg, that’s such a shark jumping moment, I had to pause the book and skim it. It made me feel such a severe case of second hand embarrassment, not to mention how much I LOATHED that Horowitz allowed Hawthorne to bully him into doing what he wanted anyway, and said nothing about it. The older I get, the more I sincerely dislike when people try to modernize Sherlock and Watson’s dynamic. The early seasons of the BBC show got away with it, because early on, Sherlock wasn’t a complete prick to Watson, and what they were dealing with was on national security threat levels. Sherlock wasn’t just some random detective, he was solving an international conspiracy, and even still, I disliked how easily manipulated and spineless Watson was in a lot of scenarios. Here, it’s even worse, because this isn’t supposed to be fiction; it’s supposed to be real life, and having Horowitz blindly decide to go chase down a lead and then getting himself in mortal peril was ludicrous! Not to mention Hawthorne BLAMING Horowitz for interrupting him during an investigation and which leads to a character’s death because Hawthorne gets distracted (????) and then again blaming Horowitz, instead of just telling him not to go anywhere near the lead suspect or just simply letting him tag along to Canterbury! The other thing I really hated, were the actual characters themselves. We will get to Horowitz, but I want to talk about Hawthorne first. Hawthorne is supposed to be the Sherlock type character; I liked that he had a chameleon type personality where he would change his character based on who he was talking to; what I didn’t like was his casual xenophobia and violent homophobia. The xenophobia was quite subtle, but once you were looking for it, it was there. He treats the immigrant, queer and black characters supremely poorly, is a lot meaner to them and snappier, while being needlessly kind to the white, straight women. I also didn’t understand why Horowitz had grown to care for/like Hawthorne; Hawthorne was a dick to Horowitz the whole time, he hijacked his life, his free time, his house, ruined what was probably the most important meeting in Horowitz’s life, he almost got him killed because he refused to talk to him, and was needlessly and purposefully secretive about his life. I also hated all the little jabs he does at the expense of Horowitz’s writing; if you hate the way he writes so much, then why the fuck do you want him to write your book? Then we have the fact that Sherlock, the most famous asexual character in the literary canon, was turned into a divorced straight guy who is a raging homophobe, for no goddamn reason! Why was it necessary to give Hawthorne a wife and child? So he can act all indignant around the queer characters? So he has a justification for pushing a 60 year old man down the stairs with handcuffs? His homophobia is never properly addressed; it doesn’t influences the plot, he doesn’t grow and change, and I downright refuse to believe that Hawthorne is a real human being and any of this happened. He is entirely Horowitz’s creation, so why would you chose to write about a white homophobe, instead of someone, anyone else? What message are you sending to your readers, queer readers who like your work and stories? That we should gloss over Hawthorne foaming at the mouth because a rich man dares to be openly gay, and calling him a pervert and implying he’s a pedophile, because why… to humanize him? Implying that he must be closeted himself, because it’s 20 fucking 19, and the stereotype that all homophobes are closeted queers still won’t fucking die. Then we have Horowitz. I’m assuming making himself kind of dense and very overprotective of his writing was intentional, but even still this character just made no sense. I like that he was proactive, but why on Earth did he agree to write with Hawthorne? Why was it necessary that this was himself, and not a character? Because if I am supposed to believe that Horowitz the character, really is Horowitz the author, then I am left with the uncomfortable realization that he is someone who is willing to excuse and gloss over blatant homophobia, and xenophobia, just because Hawthorne is good at his job. Plenty of people are good at their jobs, and they don’t go around calling gay men perverts and pedophiles, or push cuffed suspects down the stairs! Even the limp anger Horowitz has when he realizes that Hawthorne is a homophobe, is not because he actually cares about those gay friends he has; how it would make them feel knowing that he’s glorifying a man who wants them dead or in a mental hospital. No, he’s worried writing about Hawthorne might ruin his career. Then he uses this as a way to lash out at the ‘media’ who supposedly took his statement that a landlord refusing to provide a service to a gay couple on religious basis, as what it actually is: homophobic. No, death threats are never called for, but you don’t get to pretend people are just sensitive, because you exposed either your ignorance or your bigotry for the press to see. Then we have the ending. Horowitz is just petty? I mean sure, he did almost die, though I wonder how he didn’t realize until that point that the woman at the signing was related to Hawthorne. The mystery was good. Horowitz’s writing is always good. But I can’t get behind any of the messages, and I do NOT want to support a series about a homophobe and his author friend. I will not be continuing the series and I don’t think I will read anything else from Horowitz again.

goodreads

[nightcoremoon]

Callout post: me

lying, manipulative, hold grudges, constantly paranoid, would absolutely 100% check out a teenager if nobody was looking because "it's a harmless crime", liar, cycle through idealization and devaluation, 'sick of fat people trying to be the next civil rights issue and making it that much harder to get civil rights for people who are ACTUALLY oppressed like gee idk poc and muslims and the mentally ill and queer people', frequently fantasizes about committing violent acts against people I rationalize they deserve it including family members, untruthful, attention whore, pedantic AND pretentious, tells lies, doesn't believe in one sister's claim of sexual assault (went to smoke weed with the alleged perpetrator), UNAPOLOGETICALLY AGAINST ASEXUAL EXCLUSIONISM (LITERALLY FUCK YOU DUMBASS FOURTEEN YEAR OLDS WHO SHRIEK THAT QUEER IS A SLUR, SHUT YOUR GODDAM FUCKING WHORE MOUTHS YOU DUMBASSES AND GO THE FUCK OUTSIDE OR READ A BOOK), would absolutely punch a child over an insignificant internet argument, secretly sought out sexual pleasure from two friendly seemingly platonic encounters with two girls I just met within twenty four hours, overreacts to the slightest provocations and has bitches at or vagueposted at several people who did not deserve it, has used mental illness and physical handicap to evade trouble from being late for work because video games and laziness and excessive sleep, has spent maybe a thousand dollars on fast food in 2018 alone, evades bills for medical care from an actually great clinic, lying sack of garbage, gave up on calling out family's bigotry and is now an accessory to prejudice, despises terfs predominantly for their refusal to fuck me because of being trans and yet meanwhile would not engage in sexual relationship with another trans woman or cis man unless reeeeeeeeally drunk, can and will blame being sexually assaulted as a child which probably didn't even happen because I don't think I remember it, unabashed furry, probably as addicted to video games and masturbation AND LIES as I almost was to alcohol, pretended to have almost been an alcoholic just to "win" facebook arguments about addiction, doesn't give a fuck my dad almost died from heroin JUST because he's a *little* homophobic and racist and classist and xenophobic because of a christian upbringing, would literally fucking murder him if he EVER PUTS HIS HANDS ON ME AGAIN, only slightly depressed because of laziness and a lack of drive and ungrateful to my family because hey they didn't kick me out for being trans so HEY THATS SUPPORTIVE ENOUGH FOR SOME OTHER PEOPLE SO WHY CANT I BE HAPPY WITH THAT, legitimately salty about ~the friendzone~ and just makes fun of incels because everybody else does, takes the moral high ground for not being a misogynist even though I don't deserve a pat on the back a lap dance and a blowjob for not hating women, overly sensitive about stupid things, thinking about faking having a trigger warning for more discourse credit, HUUUGE ASSHOLE to men I deem unattractive for no other reason than every single ugly fat guy I've ever met has been an asshole, rationalizes it after the fact because they eventually say something shitty because all men are terrible, probably a little bit of a cisnormative misandrist because trans men tend to be much better people, finds trans men attractive (specifically and significantly more so than cis men) so must clearly be fetishizing them, relatively okay with people referring to me as deadnamed and the wrong pronouns so probably just lying about being trans to everyone including myself, not 100% okay with the hijab for 'no reason other than all organized religion is evil and opposed to its mandate and the shame it forces on many women in many situations the exact same way I'm opposed to no sex before marriage and wives being subservient to their husbands and treating women as property in the torah and quran alike because ITS ALL BRAINWASHING' so is clearly not unlearning islamophobia and doesn't want to let that go, hypocrite because I believe in the basics of judeochristianity

and loathe atheism and atheists entirely because their smugness and smarm literally sets my blood pressure through the roof of what is safe and normal and yet claim to hate all organized religion, mansplains yet gets so pissed off when other people mansplain to me, judgmental of other cultures because they don't have the exact same values that I have, james gunn apologist, talks and talks and talks about anarchosocialism all damn day but would beat the shit out of a coworker for leaving me to do things because they're lazy because "any job worth doing is worth doing well" and other capitalismisms, literally couldn't give less of a fuck that his mother is dying because people die but it's no reason to make my life slightly harder and making me work hard when I work because BOO HOO MY LEGS HURT FROM THE LITERALLY MOST MILD CASE OF MUSCULAR DYSTROPHY I COULD'VE BEEN BORN WITH, hasn't actually performed real suicide attempt ever but still claims to have done so to attain sympathy that may result in physical affection, countless other shitty terrible things that yeah I recognize are bad but CANT SEEM TO CARE BECAUSE I HAVE DEPRESSION... WHICH IS THE WEAKEST FUCKING EXCUSE IN THE WHOLE ENTIRE GODDAMN WORLD

I am not a good person, okay?

I just pretend to be sometimes.

I'm sick of doing it, I'm sick of trying to do well and earn people's approval by doing and saying the right things only to just be ignored which is a step up from receiving many anons that hey, never actually told me to kill myself, but did take my words out of context to paint me as a racist. I am not the kind of racist who would vote for trump and march with the kkk. that is one of very few good things I can say about myself. but I'm an arrogant, violent, and angry opinionated perverted manipulative judgmental lying asshole. I'm not a good person. I have let myself fall so much and I deserve to be alone. my only connections to people were built on personal gain and I swear to myself that I do love them but those feelings fall away in direct correlation to how much they interact with me. I could love you to the point of obsession and stalking and one month later be completely and totally disinterested. I'm a bigot who pretends to not be bigoted and just parrots what other people say not because I believe it but because it's the right thing to say, and I only say what the right thing is to say because whenever I say a good thing something good will happen to me and if I say a bad thing something bad happens to me. it's all just self preservation, nothing else at all. but now I'm at the end of a road of just trying to do good and I'm alone. out of the only two friends that I can really say that I have left, one is far away and trapped in a guilt spiral that I caused by being too clingy, and the other has been behaving in a way my mind has decoded as defensive around me which makes sense as I have been very... the best way to describe it would be the way a dudebro incel interacts with any person who possesses a vagina/breasts but sneakier. in both relationships I've pushed my own wants and desires in extremis... I can't for the life of me recall the last time I have ever offered something in return other than my own company or paying for a meal at a restaurant or I guess transportation. and instead of sex I just want them to express even the slightest bit of intimate platonic physical affection towards me but that's still a lot to offer someone who has clearly expressed the existence of a sexual and maybe something near the realms of romantic in one of the cases physical attraction because for this aspec it's practically the same fucking thing.

and I've manipulated them to attain this goal. at this point my shit brain has considered just fucking going to town on my wrists with a razor blade to draw sympathy so that I'll get a hug or something beyond just a simply hello/goodbye, and finding a way to induce tears to concoct a sob story to reach the same end result, and one time very briefly via threat and intimidation so you can clearly see that I've gone far too into irredeemable territory. I've been playing and replaying cry of fear because it's just too similar to my own issues and the first ending where he just kills everyone he loves and then himself... I see me in that ending. and it scares me so much more than the sprinting screaming twitching one hit kill chainsaw guy ever will. I don't want that to be me, I want to change something, but I just can't get the help that I need. I had hoped to go for a domino effect, where if I could be cuddled for like five minutes or something, I'd have the energy to be more hygienic, which would make me feel capable enough to take on two jobs, which would get me the cash flow I need to pay my bills and take care of my hormones, which would put me in the headspace necessary to effectively use psychological help, which would let me get over my illnesses and actually become a more successful person instead of the pathetic husk I am here in non-fantasy land.

but that won't happen.

I'm just sitting here in the dark angsting about how nobody will touch me in a way that would produce oxytocin, and it's making me so sick, so physically sick, that it's affecting my brain too. I'm in pain, nauseous, vengeful, spiteful, paranoid, judgmental, and lonely. I'm stuck and I can't even kill myself because my mind wants me to stay alive and suffer through all of this because "oh it gets better" people have been saying that for well over half of my life. I was six or seven years old when I asked my mother to kill me, and that same level of desperation and bitterness has only gotten worse as time goes by. when does it get better? I'll tell you when it gets better, after I'm in prison or comatose or forty five years old with a cane and bad eyes and high blood pressure and lung cancer from all the secondhand smoke I've breathed in my life. when my life is over, that's when it gets better. I DONT WANT THAT. I WANT A NORMAL FUCKING LIFE RIGHT NOW. I WANT NORMAL FRIENDSHIPS AND A NORMAL HOME AND A NORMAL EDUCATION AND A NORMAL CAREER AND A NORMAL FAMILY. or at least I want someone to hold me and make me feel like I'm not so horrible and broken that I can't be touched.

but that's too much to ask for.

[thelioninmybed]

so you did a imrael/khazri meet-cute for if khazri's family never tried to kill him, but what would their first meeting be like if khazri joined the priesthood like his uncle suggested? :) thanks love u bye

There are eight gods in Zalach’ann - but no, that’s a simple lie, told so as not to confuse the peasants. The truth is that there is one god, and she is worshipped in eight aspects. 

The Lady of Spiders weaves the world and weaves us every one. She snips spent threads and she alone knows what will be left when her long labour’s done. Then there is Marath Who Rides Forth, rejoicing in war and bloodshed while her husband, Iavarin of the Hearth, preserves and mends what has been broken. There is dreaming Naphael, patron of poets, prophets and the mad, and Ilinya of scrolls and lore and secrets. Xolodano the Gilded is beloved of merchants and Valian is beloved of lovers. A whore’s god and our boy’s father danced in his temples once upon a time. The last and the least is Arteru, who walks in dark places, who is hunter and hunted, and if out lost son had kept his faith then it is Arteru he would pray to. 

If he had kept it - you understand there are some gods it is not fitting for a boy to serve? Well then…

Iavarin

“They say,” Imrael said, rising from his bow, “That the priests of Iavarin are the greatest healers upon the earth, and under it. I’ve travelled a long way to-”

“You and every other supplicant,” said the priest. He was a tall man, taller than Imrael, with a nose that would have been very handsome had he not been looking down it. “We do not barter away our magicks to pedlers at the gates.”

Imrael spread his hands, refusing to let his smile flicker. “Well that’s fine, I was proposing more an open exchange of knowledge.”

Behind the priest, one of the novices, robed in ashy grey, ducked his head to hide what Imrael was pretty certain was a smirk. The priest’s lip curled. “See him gone,” he said and turned away, robes swishing behind him, the great fire at the temple’s heart throwing his shadow out behind him. 

“I thought ‘Hearth’ implied, oh, I don’t know, homeliness,” he told the novice prodding him towards the temple gates. “Hospitality.” 

“We lean more towards ‘preserving’,” the novice said. He at least had the grace to sound apologetic. 

“I’ve seen pickled lemons less sour.”

 The novice smirked again. “I’m sorry. For a wasted journey.”  

Not as handsome as the priest but his face was far more appealing. “Not so wasted,” Imrael told him. “Buy me a drink, show me the secret passage into the temple archives, and we’ll call that hospitable.”

“A drink,” the novice agreed solemnly. “The tenets of my god demand no less.”

Naphael

“I thought,” said Imrael. “I thought. Eight gods, right?”

“One gods. God.”

“One god, eight whosits. I thought only the big one, spider lady. I thought only she could see. The thing. The fate of everything. So how come, how come your god. How come they get to do prophecy? It’s bullshit. Your god. Is bullshit.” 

That was probably a pretty stupid thing to say to a priest within his god’s own temple, but whatever they used to fuel their visions had stolen Imrael’s common sense along with his hand-eye coordination and he hadn’t had much of either to begin with. 

“It’s like a carpet,” said the oracle. He was draped across the floor and Imrael’s shins in a very good imitation of one.

“You gotta prophet harder than that. Or less hard because that actually was very prophety.” 

Propping himself up on his elbows, the oracle took another pull from the water pipe and said, less oracularly, “Can’t see much of it when you’re lying on it.”

“Ah!” Imrael cried. “I see. So you think it’s just a bit of blue with yellow squiggles, but then you sit up-” Imrael said, sitting up. “And it turns out that the squiggly bits are actually a dragon’s tail and the whole carpet is dragons fighting-”

“They’re not fighting.” 

“Dragons. But you didn’t know. Because you only saw a little bit”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.” Imrael stopped looking at the carpet and looked at the man draped across his lap instead. Pretty, in a dreamy, disaffected kind of way. “Hey, hey, if you can see the future, how lucky am I?”

“Tonight?” said the oracle. “Not very. I’m a priest.”

Valian

“Did you come to pray?” said the dancer. He wasn’t wearing much to speak of, beside a veil and some bodypaint that glowed luminescent in the temple’s dim interior, and so Imrael struggled to pay attention. “Because it’s not- um. If you go to the outer districts, there are…places. That will serve foreigners. It’s not done here.” 

“I actually came to propose an exchange.” Imrael coughed. “Of knowledge, nothing else.” That was absolutely not true, but Valian was turning out to be a decidedly conservative sex god and Imrael knew better than to push his luck in a city full of violently xenophobic misandrists. 

“Oh.” The dancer’s drooping ears lifted and his stance from self-consciously provocative to something more natural. There were other priests tending to petitioners, taller and lovelier, and actually smiling behind the veils, and Imrael didn’t think it was by chance that the one who’d been sent to talk to an encroaching foreign man was small and diffident. “If you want knowledge, the temple of Ilinya. Has it.”

“Not the kind I’m looking for. I’m a doctor-” Imrael said and then waited, as he’d learned to here, for the other man to say something disbelieving but he only tilted his head so that the glass beads on his veil clacked and chimed. 

“Iavarin is for healing,” he said.

“Preservation. But creating new things, that’s all on your guy, right?”

“I suppose.”

“And it’s criminally underresearched!” Imrael spread his hands, taking in the veiled lanterns and incense, the gorgeous frescos of gorgeous men and women engaged in anatomically improbable acts, and the shameful lack of academic rigour. “All that drive, all that desire - and that’s what magic is at the root of it - but a little squeamishness keeps anyone from considering the full potential!”

The dancer’s expression hadn’t been seductive to start with, and now it was something close to a smirk. “You’d be surprised. Most every petitioner’s here for research. Inspiration. I don’t know anyone that comes here just for sex.”

“That’s very unfair, and my purity of purpose is provable; you just said you don’t let foreigners worship.”

“I’m not very good at my job,” the dancer said. And, before Imrael could work out if that meant what he thought it did, “I’ll show you to the library.”

Arteru

People had said there would be danger - he’d rather counted on it - but he’d been anticipating the sexy, not-actually-that-dangerous kind. It turned out being stalked through the woods by a mostly naked man was not even slightly thrilling.

The moonlight gleamed on the hunter’s bare skin, pale as the bone of the wolf skull mask he wore. There was a knife in his hand of black obsidian, sharp enough it might not even hurt. 

“I’ve heard stories,” Imrael said, voice wavering like the wind-tossed leaves on the branches above their heads. “About your god. About your hunts.” He’d also heard conflicting tales of the priesthood of Arteru; vows of purity and bloody orgies beside their kills. He didn’t think it would be a good idea to mention them now. 

“You have to kill something worthy, don’t you? And that- that should be someone who can run more than a quarter of a mile at a go, someone who’s armed, which I’m definitely not, so there’s really no point in killing me, none at all, gods, don’t come any closer, please-”

The hunter’s face was as still as his mask and his steps were silent on the leaf litter, slow and sure. He was twenty yards away, and then fifteen, shadow-dappled muscles rippling with a predator’s grace, eyes hidden by the dark hollows of the skull’s sockets. 

Imrael paced him, backing up, faster and faster as the man came on, praying to any of the gods he didn’t believe him that he would not trip over a tree root. 

Either no gods were listening or they took exception to an atheist. He stumbled and went down hard, grazing his elbows. He didn’t feel it, even though he knew coat and skin both had been torn open. The muscles in the hunter’s thighs tensed and Imrael clutched his bag to his chest, with the vague intention of throwing it as a last, desperate defence.

(It would occur to him much later that he was a wizard, but Imrael did tend to lose his head in a crisis.)

The hunter leapt. Imrael yipped and, shamefully, closed his eyes. 

There came a rush of air, a rustle of leaves, and the shrill screech of an animal in pain. No blade though. Unless he really hadn’t felt it, but that didn’t explain the yowling. 

Imrael opened his eyes again. Looked up to see something sleek and green and serpentine thrashing and flailing, long body coiling around the hunter, who had one arm about its neck, one hand on the gore-slick hilt of the knife buried in its eye socket. The drake’s flailing claws had scored darkly oozing gashes across his skin, and his mask had been knocked loose to reveal a face younger than Imrael’s own. 

The boy pressed in with the knife and, with a final convulsive shiver, the creature stilled, coils falling limp like a discarded ribbon. He ignored Imrael, who clambered slowly to his feet, wincing over the damage to his elbows, and then wincing more at the pins and needles pain as he set the skin reknitting. 

It probably wasn’t a good idea to draw the man’s attention, given he was wild-eyed and still holding the knife. 

“Thanks!” said Imrael anyway, because he’d never met a bad idea he didn’t like, and this one’s chest was heaving provocatively. “That…looks very worthy. Good job.”

The hunter, ignoring him, pulled out a knife and began to skin the carcass. 

[saints-row-2]

people have been saying that bcs Doomsday Clock is Rorschach II and not original Rorschach that its going to be dealing with people who idolise Rorschach and see him as a hero when like fucking obviously hes a terrible person and you can kinda see that if the “Rorschach’s journal” entries are intentionally badly written poor imitations of what someone think Rorschach might say instead of the writers just not being good at writing Rorschach 

and like i like that concept a lot bcs if youre going fucking shit on human decency and force out a fucking Watchmen sequel you might as well respond to one of the biggest phenomena that has come out of Watchmen fandom: people who dont fucking understand Watchmen or understand Rorschach and think hes Good Actually. but like. 

we dont know anything about Rorschach II currently or who he is or why he decided to become Rorschach but the one thing they did choose to establish about him is that hes a black man. and like, this is the first fucking issue we have no possible way of knowing how this is gonna play out but like. bear with me ok. if youre going to make a character whos meant to explore the fans who idolise Rorschach it feels like... a mistake to overlook the fact that the majority of those fans are straight white men. 

a note here; im also a white man i want to be yknow like.. open about that before i go on for another 5000 words about this. 

like when it comes to these guys like a huge part of why they love Rorschach is because he is a violent white man who is being hunted by the law for trying to uncover the truth and take a stand against society. Rorschach himself is undeniably a misogynistic nationalist and while he never (that i can recall) references race in any capacity in the comic he is a loyal reader of the New Frontiersman, which is a conspiracy theory filled rag of a paper we are explicitly shown has a largely racist, xenophobic audience. and those are the people who, if New Frontiersman published it (which Doomsday Clock seems to be implying) would be the ones who read Rorschach’s journal, which he sent to the paper.

and like. putting Rorschach’s own politics aside, the important factor is that projection. Rorschach himself seems to not particularly care about immigration or race, at least not enough to ever think or write about either (make of that what you will), but these people who love him project their own racism onto him. the people who idolise him in real life are a reflection of the New Frontiersman fans; people who believe society is degrading and that the degradation of society is hurting white men. to them, Rorschach is the personification of their white male hero, the oppressed white man who is trying to fight for the Truth thats being hidden by the... insert whatever fucking racial or ethnic class they hate here. the comic shows this as much in the New Frontiersman story they publish about Rorschach. 

the more and more i think about it the more hilarious it is how the New Frontiersman so directly fucking parodies the whole class of dipshits who idolise Rorschach. 

like my point is, if youre going to do a story about someone who was wrongly inspired by a warped idea of who Rorschach is, it feels like a mistake to overlook the inherent racial element that there is, particularly in a day and age when the violence of white men is still so fucking unquestioned. 

on the other hand entirely, if you ARE going to run with “people accept and love the violence of white men” then comparing and contrasting how people react to Rorschach II as a black man as opposed to Rorschach I as a white man could be very fucking poignant; will the exact same people still be willing to idolise and defend Rorschach’s actions if he isnt someone they can imagine to be their white defender? i can imagine almost fucking definitely not. because in their eyes, if hes not white, then he cant possibly be fighting for their warped vision of whats right. like theres an opportunity to make a really salient point here about the overt fucking racism of the people who idolise Rorschach and how society on a wider level is willing to support white violence. 

like at this stage we’re one fucking issue into Doomsday Clock so i have no idea if theyre going to bring racial politics into the comic at all. i wouldnt be surprised if they dont i expect absolutely nothing out of this comic but like. it feels like they have an incredibly real opportunity here to talk about the excused and acceptable violence of white men who have “beliefs” and itll be disappointing if they overlook it entirely. 

ok uh i dont actually know if anyone i know has even read Doomsday Clock or even remotely cares about Watchmen so i dont really know. why i made this whole fucking post but by the time i hit the 10000th word i had to just go with it. anyway i hope this post makes like. sense. if anyone can like. see the point im trying to make.