#there are PLENTY of easy ways for people to record *entire* streams

[snugglyeldritchjellyfish]

tumblr users: remember to check before you reblog! if it incites an immediate emotional reaction, it might not be accurate! misinformation is an issue!

also tumblr users: discord is evil and violating your privacy with this New Feature RIGHT NOW and its SOOOO bad you guys

[memryse]

The magic of 3rd Life, or why such a simple hardcore miniseries works as well as it does

For a series which only lasted for eight sessions, 3rd Life has had a profound impact on the MCYT fandom. While it did go comparatively unnoticed on Twitter (as is consistent with YouTube-based Minecraft content as a whole, admittedly), Tumblr and other platforms have fallen in love with this series, and it’s become a vector for many fans to familiarise themselves with Hermitcraft and Empires SMP as well. But at its core, 3rd Life is a simple vanilla survival series with a gimmick. What about it resonates so much with so many people?

I would argue that its simplicity, its small cast, its vanilla gameplay “with a twist” is certainly part of it. It’s an easy series to consume, with many POVs totalling four hours or less, and it doesn’t require any prior knowledge of any of the members. Its mechanics are easy to understand. As a standalone, it functions perfectly – it’s immersive and can be followed easily by anyone, regardless of any prior knowledge they may or may not have. However, these factors alone don’t quite encompass what makes 3rd Life so special. Its true charm point lies in the format of the series, and how well it utilises improv.

[more below the cut; this is a fairly long post about 3rd/Last Life meta and my love of its improv. I'm mostly talking about 3rd Life here as it's a completed series, but this most definitely does apply to Last Life as well]

3rd Life is an entirely improv-based series. Whilst members may have a brief concept of the direction they’d like to take their series in – how heavily they want to roleplay, for example – the actual content of each session is fully improvised. Each episode is recorded in one three-hour block, and members are not allowed to play on the server outside of the allotted time other than specifically to finish builds. This time constraint prevents any planning from going into each episode, and interactions between players are completely spontaneous. Players simply run around the map looking for others to interact with (which is significantly easier with the limited world border) and chat about various events on the server, form alliances or deals, etc.

By definition, this almost completely negates the possibility of bad writing. Each player’s reaction to any server event is spontaneous, a legitimate reaction; they aren’t trying to play any specific roles or shoehorn in any specific events (with the exception of the Red King/Hand of the King roles, who were still completely improvising). Even the finale – a distinctly heart-wrenching and tragic scene – was improvised without Grian or Scar attempting to tell any specific story. According to Martyn, they weren’t roleplaying, they didn’t have any aims with that scene. It just happened to turn out in the way that it did, and they were legitimately sorry to one another. The server progressed in this natural way, and every person’s perspective tells a completely different story. It’s hard to identify any specific heroes or villains – fans of the Dream SMP can surely relate to this feeling, but I would argue that 3rd Life takes this one step further. 3rd Life is a tragedy from all perspectives, a tragedy which tells one cohesive story in its entirety before stopping as abruptly as it began.

3rd Life hinges entirely on its interactions between its members. Whilst solo content does exist – base building, for example – the majority of each session is spent interacting with others. 3rd Life is carried by its dialogue; nothing else drives the story, and yet many episodes are between 30 minutes and an hour long. It’s that dialogue-heavy. Members of the server have expressed trouble with even editing their videos because there is so much key dialogue that they don’t want to cut. People don’t watch 3rd Life for the actual gameplay, at all – there’s so little of it! They watch it for how each member interacts with the people around them. This is something not found in any other SMP I’ve encountered. SMPs livestreamed on Twitch have plenty of downtime, and people will happily watch streams on that SMP no matter what’s occurring on the server; people often watch them for their interest in specific members. Other currently popular YouTube SMPs, namely Hermitcraft and Empires, are well-balanced between solo content and interactions, and all server content hinges on the members’ various skills like building and redstone. 3rd Life is, to my knowledge, the only SMP which does not rely on building or redstone skills (what’s the point, when they’ll be dead the next week?), it doesn’t rely on the creator doing solo work talking to their chat, it doesn’t rely on planned roleplay. People legitimately just want to hear various members talking to each other. It’s a fascinatingly unique series in this regard. This dialogue-heavy aspect of 3rd Life ties back to my earlier point about 3rd Life feeling like a completely different series from all perspectives; with all of this dialogue being conveyed through proximity chat, so many events are entirely left out of other POVs, or presented in very different lights.

The pure improv format also helps significantly with worldbuilding, whilst also leaving plenty to the imagination. MCYT fandoms always require a significant amount of imagination to become invested in them, let alone make fan content of them, and 3rd Life is no exception to this. As discussed in this post, which was incidentally the inspiration for me to write this one, 3rdLife is full of lines which flesh out the series, which illustrate what happened better than can be shown in Minecraft. These lines are improvised on the spot, and are often complete throwaway lines in the creators’ eyes. In the fans’ eyes, they make 3rd Life feel alive, they provide plenty of material on which to base headcanons. Again, this isn’t necessarily unique to 3rd Life, it’s a common aspect of all Minecraft series, but I think this is where the rather angsty nature of 3rd Life comes into play. A dramatic survival game, entirely unscripted, with all events hinging entirely on your interpretation of them? It’s not hard to see why 3rd Life fans are so creative with character designs and fanfiction – hell, a lot of 3rd Life fics simply narrate canon in their own more dramatic light. Canon-compliant fics are significantly more common for 3rd Life than other fandoms I've encountered, because people hear these simple lines and want to dramatise them, put their own spins on them. I don't feel that this would be possible with any other series, not to the extent that 3rd Life fans do it. Other series' canon is either already dramatic, and so rehashing it can feel repetitive, or so lighthearted that people write AUs/new storylines. 3rd Life strikes a brand-new balance.

The development of its characters is also bolstered by improv. As no events on the server are pre-planned, members have to react completely spontaneously to anything that occurs. They don’t get time to think – only to react as though they genuinely were in that situation. As I said at the start, 3rd Life inherently lacks bad writing, because it’s not written. Ren, for instance, began 3rd Life as a kind and harmless person, with others often walking right over him. His reaction to his death by Grian and Scar’s trap spurs him to become the Red King; he raises an army and goes to war, and ends the series having taken countless lives, becoming hardened by war. He begins Last Life by isolating himself from others, seeming jaded and unwilling to form alliances, ready for another war to break out. Being improvised, it’s impossible to say how much of this was deliberate, or if Ren just started building his base without thinking about continuity from the previous season. This improv is what makes it feel so natural. It isn’t planned beforehand. This is Ren’s natural reaction to starting Last Life. It makes his character feel so much more real than it would if this was all scripted beforehand.

3rd Life is, overall, a testament to the power of improv. It manages to be compelling and dramatic without any acting feeling forced or wooden. Its characters’ arcs feel natural, because they are natural. Placing such a heavy emphasis on dialogue, with the gimmick of the server being a vehicle for interactions to happen rather than the sole appeal of the series, makes it truly feel as though we’re getting a glimpse into the characters’ lives, rather than watching a story which has been written beforehand. We get to watch everything unfold in real time. 3rd Life has a magic to it that, to my knowledge, no other SMP has been able to recreate.

[ordinaryschmuck]

The Bright Side of 2020

It's easy to say that 2020 was an awful year. Because it was. 2020 is easily one of the worst years in a while, filled with death, depression, economic collapse, a pandemic, and even the word 'poggers' becoming a thing. 

Seriously, what the hell is 'poggers?!' The more I see it, the less it makes sense to me!

2020 was filled to the brim with so many awful moments. In no way should we forget any of it, and heaven forbid that we ignore all of it.

But that doesn't mean we should let the bad overshadow the good.

As we enter the last month of the dumpster fire that is this year, let us look over the good that came from it. Because I don't want to end 2020 with a whimper, but at least with a little glimmer of hope.

So here is my list:

Joe Biden has been elected as our new president, and the entire world had collectively celebrated. Sure, Trump is reacting to the news like a toddler who won't share his ball and decided to run home crying to his mommy. But by January, we will never talk about this man again, and America will remember him as he was back in 2016: A bad joke that wasn’t that funny to begin with, and has been annoying to hear since the beginning.

Our new vice president will not only be the first female VP but will also be a VP who is an African American, an Asian American, and an Indian American. It doesn't make up for the years when old white dudes were in charge, but it's a start. So let's take a moment to appreciate our new VP, shall we...That was nice. Next!

Voice actors who are people of color are given more of a chance to voice characters who are POC as well. It gets better as white VAs are getting replaced with VAs with the correct background to perform as specific characters. You can make the argument that a voice is a voice and that it doesn't matter who the face behind it is as long as the performance is still good. But if you're going to go the progressive route anyway, then why not go all the way with hiring actors to portray their own race/culture?

Several comedians kept us laughing despite how the year got worse and worse and how emotionally drained they were because of it. Laughter is the best medicine and boy, does it help that I can still laugh off the pain this year brought.

On a darker note: Online personalities Ryan Haywood from Achievement Hunter and Adam Kovic from Funhaus were revealed to dealing in sexual misconducts with their fans. On the surface, this seems like a bad thing. And with the betrayal and heartbreak that came from it, it certainly seems like so. But look at it this way: These monsters would have continued to do such awful things, regardless if they got caught this year or not. And while it pains me to know so many good videos are going to be deleted, some of which helped me on days that I needed a laugh the most, it is good knowing that Haywood and Kovic won't get away with what they did again. Because we won’t let them.

Back to a lighter note: A rare yellow turtle was discovered in India, and I am in love with this thing! I thought it was a mustard stain at first when I saw the photo, but it's a turtle. And it's adorable. And I will not rest until I find it and give it cuddles it deserves. Which is all of the cuddles.

So many incredible LGBTQ+ representations were given this year! Yes, that whole thing with Dean and Castiel was unforgettable as much as it is unforgivable. But if you ignore the live-action side of things and look at animation, you will find things are brighter than a rainbow over a pride parade. Catra and Adora finally kissed in a moment that was both satisfying and beautiful. Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn became a couple in Harley Quinn, giving comic fans something they wanted for years. Adventure Time fans were given a forty-five-minute episode filled with adorable moment after adorable moment of Marceline and Princess Bubblegum being an operant couple. Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts has a character who explicitly says, "I'm gay," and even gets a boyfriend in the end (I think. I haven't finished the show yet). And Disney has finally, F**KING FINALLY, taken steps in the right direction with their new hit: The Owl House. A series where the main character is a bisexual Latina who has a same-sex love interest that has an explicit crush on the main character.

And while we're on the topic of entertainment: HOLY S**T, have you seen the quality content we got this year?

Amazing animated shows came out with hit after hit with series like The Midnight Gospel, The Owl House, Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts, Central Park, and many, many more. Shows that are hilarious, beautifully animated, and tell compelling stories with equally compelling characters.

Adventure Time, Animaniacs, Eddsworld, Phineas and Ferb, and Crash Bandicoot came back with revivals, reboots, specials, and long-awaited sequels that were not just as good as they were before leaving, but in some ways, are even better.

A recorded performance of Hamilton can now be seen on Disney+, meaning that theater kids can finally see the show they have been obsessing over since that soundtrack came out.

HBOmax took shows from DC's piece of s**t streaming service, meaning that fans can watch Doom Patrol and Harley Quinn on a service that's actually worth the price...Titans can suck a dick. But Doom Patrol and Harley Quinn! Doom Patrol and Harley Quinn!

Avatar: The Last Airbender and Community is on Netflix now...so go watch them.

Spider-Man: Miles Morales is a game that stars the famous bi-racial Spider-Man, that also shows off the color and diversity that is present in the people of Harlem. And given what happened this year, that is definitely appreciated. Not to mention that I’ve heard it's a fun game on top of that!

And that's just the s**t I can think of off the top of my head. There are plenty more good things that came this year, some of which I'm sure is better than what I put on this list. All a person has to do is do some research, which I encourage you to do yourself.

Don't let 2020 win by beating you down. Instead, let's focus on the bright side to stop the dark shadow of a year from taking over.

And I'm begging you: Keep this list going! It's not a bad thing to give people good news for a change.

[detective-crescend]

break up with your girlfriend (i’m bored)

There is a game that Klavier Gavin sometimes likes to play.

‘Likes’, however, may not be the appropriate term.

It isn’t a nice game, or one that makes him feel like a particularly good and decent person. And yet, when he wins—which he almost certainly does, on all but two notable occasions—the rush of chemicals that his victory incites within his clearly damaged mind will cover up all but the most persistent cries of outrage from what remains of his decaying moral compass.

It is a private challenge, it is a weakness he has long since conceded to… it is played like this:

There are plenty of people in the world who would love Klavier Gavin simply for what he represents. Conversely, there are people who will despise him for those very same reasons.

When the small voice in the back of his mind begins to speak too loudly—the one that sounds so very familiar, calm and leveled while it interrogates his every action—when he, in turn, begins to doubt himself, Klavier will search out the nearest member of the latter group. The more this individual seemingly dislikes him, the better the effect. And, having identified someone who must dislike Klavier more than he dislikes himself, he will do whatever is necessary to change that person’s opinion.

Sometimes it is as simple as attention and kindness, gifts and persistence; sometimes it is through a display of vulnerability or chagrin that is only somewhat manufactured for the moment. Though Klavier’s motivation for doing so is horrifically selfish, the goal is to be perfectly genuine in his search for their affection. It needs to be; only once his target has offered up their adoration can he tolerate himself once more. If it is a false version of Klavier that they are idolizing, it only strengthens the voice’s position inside his own mind.

The point of this game is emotional intimacy, not physical. Klavier has never been in the game of intentionally breaking hearts. One of the cardinal rules that he has set for himself, then, is that his appointed convert must be maintained as a friend, not a lover. In actuality, the majority of the rules pertain to limits and boundaries—monetary, time, distance, and attitude—or to create clear definitions of what constitutes a win or a loss of the game. It is important, Klavier feels, to keep things consistent among matches and, therefore, fair.

But, although Klavier has flourished in this diversion since his now distant childhood, he had also never encountered a contender quite like Apollo Justice before.

It wasn’t that Apollo was particularly difficult to read or to predict what it might take in order to shift his perception—on the contrary, Klavier had known exactly what needed to be done to achieve his goal almost immediately upon meeting the man. Whether or not Klavier is capable of it, however, is where the debate hinges.

There are rules that will need to be broken, for one thing, along with a set of small, concealed truths that must be unearthed—things that Klavier had long since been in the habit of burying below several layers of his own psyche. As of this moment, there are only two that Klavier has managed to excavate and examine with any sense of composure.

The first, that Apollo has beaten him so thoroughly in Klavier’s own game that their exchanges have ceased to be a game at all. Instead, they have taken on the frantic and impetuous nature of an entirely different emotion. Klavier’s desire to win Apollo’s affection had ceased to be a simple desire; it now felt like a need, pulsing bright and warm from somewhere so deeply within him that he had long since stopped believing it was possible to feel this way at all.

The second truth—both far more recently understood and infinitely more frightening—is that the aforementioned need may, in fact, be love.

It is not as pleasant an emotion as he had once anticipated, more like gnawing hunger that rumbled when Apollo was absent and roared with an open maw when he was nearby. It made Klavier indecisive and introspective in an entirely different way than the voice in his head, made him overthink every word he spoke and every thing he did when Apollo was nearby. It made him impulsive and greedy, wont to push his luck at every opportunity he could possibly take.

And, as luck would have it, this emotion was ruining any chance he could have with Apollo in the process.

“I am performing at a local studio tomorrow,” Klavier is attempting to begin one afternoon, in the immediate aftermath of a trial he has just lost. Though he’d meant the words to sound suave and unintentionally cool, the force of Apollo’s indifferent gaze strangles the words into an awkwardly insistent rush. “Would you like to come, as my guest? You may bring Fräulein Wright as well.”

Before him, Apollo’s dark eyes narrow, his hands still in the process of packing up the strewn remainder of his courtroom notes. “What kind of performance?”

“It is for a streaming service, ja?” Klavier replies, grinning through the nerve induced flips his stomach has been performing since the moment he opened his mouth. “They invite artists to come for an interview and to cover a song of the audience’s choice. There is usually free food and drinks.”

“So no Gavinner’s music?” Apollo looks skeptical.

“Nein, I promise.”

Another moment of cautious consideration is given before Apollo eventually, reluctantly, nods. “Trucy’ll kill me if she finds out I said no. Text me the address and time.”

Of course, it isn’t until hours after the requested message had been sent that Klavier thinks to check the status of the polls online that will decide the theme of his performance. One glance is all it takes to know that his invitation could be nothing but an absolutely terrible idea.

The damage, however, had been done.

As such, Klavier wakes the next morning with his emotions an odd amalgam of dread and anticipation that carries through the remainder of his day. By his arrival at the indicated studio—far earlier than the time he had provided to Apollo due to the ever-necessary addition of hair and makeup—Klavier is certain he has thought of nothing else the entire day other than Apollo’s arrival.

“Trucy couldn’t come,” Apollo says later, looking exceedingly uncomfortable in clothes other than his courtroom ensemble. It is the first time since the Guilty as Charged concert that Klavier has seen him in anything so casual; he had forgotten that, in the absence of hair gel and when wearing something that is not a shocking scarlet in hue, Apollo looks good. Good enough that Klavier is far from the only one casting surreptitious looks as they walk together from the lobby to the studio.

Those small glances are enough to send his imagination into a tailspin that, consequently, causes his response to be just moments too late to sound entirely casual. “But you still came.”

“I already said I would,” Apollo replies, ignoring the delay with a dismissive shrug. “It would’ve been rude to bail at the last second. Anyway, Trucy made me promise I’d record your song. When is it, by the way?”

“Twenty minutes—I won’t keep you for too long, ja?”

The problem is, during a performance, Klavier is practically incapable of any sort of critical thought at all. Years of practice have led to a near Pavlovian response to the appearance of a camera in his face; at just the glint of a lense reflection, any doubts or worries he had previously been wrestling with will be delicately tucked away to make room for the public persona Klavier presents to the world.

The same thing happens, here. Within moments of the interview starting, Klavier forgets about his apprehension in having Apollo present for this performance. By the time he eventually starts to sing, he’s forgotten about Apollo sitting just beyond the camera in a plastic folding chair all together.

The song picked for him to sing is almost certainly a joke, intentionally selected due to his recent and rather outspoken declaration of bisexuality. But Klavier has never been one to back down from a challenge or to let anyone know they’ve gotten under his skin. His take on Ariana Grande’s morally bankrupt classic is stripped down and irrevocably smoky, just the sound of Klavier’s voice and an electric guitar with absolutely zero changes to the lyrics, as was expected.

Klavier is not singing to Apollo, precisely—as far as he is aware, Apollo does not have a girlfriend from which to break up with—but a song will always sound better with some sort of emotion attached to it. Klavier has long been in the habit of searching any lyrics that are not his own for a handhold that he can grab on to relate to; here, the idea of wanting someone unavailable, no matter the cause, is an easy enough choice.

And things go seamlessly for the majority of the song. It isn't until nearly two minutes in, just as Klavier is finishing the bridge, that his gaze slips past the camera he has just recently glanced up into, and finds Apollo’s eyes wide and locked upon his. Perhaps it is not entirely professional, to maintain uninterrupted eye contact with the opposing counsel as the lyrics “you can hit it in the morning like it’s yours” are murmured seductively into the microphone bent towards one’s face. The suspicion is confirmed when, thirty seconds later, the song’s end is met by an uproar of applause from everyone except Apollo, who stands and leaves the room altogether.

“Stop messing with me,” Apollo shouts in the parking lot when Klavier has finally caught up with him. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, I don’t know what sort of advantage you think you’re playing at, but stop.”

[foreverdavidbyrne]

David Byrne’s interview in NME magazine

In 1979, David Byrne predicted Netflix. “It’ll be as easy to hook your computer up to a central television bank as it is to get the week’s groceries,” he told NME’s Max Bell, sitting in a Paris hotel considering the implications of Talking Heads’ dystopian single ‘Life During Wartime’.

He predicted the Apple Watch in that interview too: “[People will] be surrounded by computers the size of wrist watches.” And he foresaw surveillance culture and data harvesting: “Government surveillance becomes inevitable because there’s this dilemma when you have an increase in information storage. A lot of it is for your convenience, but as more information gets on file, it’s bound to be misused.”

In fact, over 40 years ago, he predicted the entire modern-day experience, as if he instinctively knew what was coming. “We’ll be cushioned by amazing technological development,” he said, “but sitting on Salvation Army furniture.”

The 68-year-old Byrne says today, “You can’t say that you know,” chuckling down a Zoom link from his home in New York and belying his reputation for awkwardness by seeming giddily relieved to be talking to someone. “It’s crazy to set yourself up as some sort of prophet. But there’s plenty of people who have done well with books where they claim to predict what’s going on. I suppose sometimes it’s possible to let yourself imagine, ‘Okay – what if?’ This can evolve into something that exists, can evolve into something more substantial, cheaper – these kinds of things.”

It’s been a lifelong gift. Byrne turned up at CBGBs in 1975 with his art school band Talking Heads touting ‘Psycho Killer’, as if predicting the punk scene’s angular melodic evolution, new wave, before punk was even called punk. In 1980, Talking Heads assimilated African beats and textures into their seminal ‘Remain In Light’ album, foreshadowing ‘world music’ and modern music’s globalist melting pot, then used it to warn America of the dangers of consumerism, selfishness and the collapse of civilisation. Pioneering or propheteering, Byrne has been on the front-line of musical evolution for 45 years, collaborating with fellow visionaries from Brian Eno to St Vincent’s Annie Clark, constantly imagining, ‘What if?’

The live music lockdown has been a frustrating freeze frame, but Byrne was already leading the way into music’s new normal. Launched in 2018, the tour to support his 10th solo album, ‘American Utopia’, has now turned into a cinematic marvel courtesy of Spike Lee – the concert film was released in the UK this week. The original tour was acclaimed as a live music revolution. Using remote technology, Byrne was able to remove all of the traditional equipment clutter from the stage and allow his musicians and dancers, in uniform grey suits and barefoot, to roam around a stage lined with curtains of metal chains with their instruments strapped to them. A Marshally distanced gig, if you will.

“As the show was conceptually coming together, I realised that once we had a completely empty stage the rulebook has now been thrown out,” Byrne says. “Now we can go anywhere and do anything. This is completely liberating. It means that people like drummers, for example, who are usually relegated to the back shadows, can now come to the front – all those kinds of things – which changes the whole dynamic.”

With six performers making up an entire drum kit and Byrne meandering through the choreography trying to navigate a nonsensical world, the show was his most striking and original since he jerked and jived around a constructed-mid-gig band set-up in Jonathan Demme’s legendary 1984 Talking Heads live film Stop Making Sense.

The American Utopia show embarked on a Broadway run last year, where Byrne super-fan Spike Lee saw it twice and leapt at the chance of turning the spectacle into Byrne’s second revolutionary live film, dotted with his musings on the human condition to illuminate the crux of the songs: institutional racism, our lack of modern connection, the erosion of democracy and, on opener ‘Here’, a lecture-like tour of the human brain, Byrne holding aloft a scale model, trying to fathom, ‘How do I work this?’

“I didn’t know how much of a fan Spike was!” Byrne laughs today. “He’d even go, ‘Why don’t you do this song? Why don’t you add this song in’. We knew one another casually so I could text him and say, ‘I want you to come and see our show; I think that you might be interested in making a film of it’.”

Are the days of the traditional stage set-up numbered? “Yes, I think so,” he replies. “At least in theatres and concert halls the size that I would normally play, yes. The fact that we can get the music digitally [means] a performance has to be really of value. It has to be really something special, because that’s where the performers are getting their money and that’s what the audience is paying for. They’re not paying very much for streaming music, but they are paying quite a bit to go and see a performance, so the performance has to give them value for money… It has to be really something to see.”

How does David Byrne envisage the future possibilities of live performance?

“I’ve seen a lot of things that hip-hop artists have done – like the Kanye West show where he emerges on a platform that floats above the stage,” he says. “I’d seen one with Kendrick Lamar where it was pretty much just him on stage, an empty stage with just him on stage and a DJ, somebody with a laptop – that was it. I thought, ‘Wow’. Then he started doing things with huge projections behind. There are lots of ways to do this. I love the idea of working with a band, with live musicians. ‘How can I innovate in this kind of way?’ It’s maybe easier for a hip-hop musician who doesn’t have a band to figure out. The pressure is on to come up with new ways of doing this.”

In liberating his musicians from fixed, immovable positions, American Utopia also acts as a metaphor for freeing our minds from our own ingrained ways of thinking. As Byrne intersperses Talking Heads classics such as ‘Once In A Lifetime’, ‘I Zimbra’ and ‘Road To Nowhere’ with choice solo cuts and tracks from ‘American Utopia’, he also dots the show with musings on an array of post-millennial questions: the health of democracy; the rise of xenophobia and fascism; our increasing reliance on materialism and online communication; the climate change threat; the existential nightmare of the dating app; and, crucially, the distances all of these things put between us.

“The ‘likes’ and friends and connections and everything that the internet enables,” he argues, “even Zoom calls like this, they’re no substitute for really being with other people. Calling social networks ‘social’ is a bit of an exaggeration.”

Byrne closes the show with the suggestion that, rather than isolate behind our LCD barriers, we should try to reconnect with each other. In an age when social media has descended into all-out thought war and anyone can find concocted ‘facts’ to support anything they want to believe, is that realistic?

“I have a little bit of hope,” he says. “Not every day, but some days. I have hope that people will abandon a lot of social media, that they’ll realise how intentionally addictive it is, and they’re actually being used, and that they might enjoy actually being with other people rather than just constantly scrolling through their phone. So, I’m a little bit optimistic that people will, in some ways, use this technology a little bit less than they have.”

A key moment in American Utopia comes with Byrne’s cover of Janelle Monae’s ‘Hell You Talmbout’, a confrontational track shouting the names of African-Americans who have been killed by police or in racially motivated attacks – Eric Garner, Trayvon Martin, George Floyd and far, far too many more. Does Byrne think the civil unrest in the wake of Floyd’s death and the rise of the Black Lives Matter movement make a serious impact?

“We’ll see how long this continues,” he says, “but in projects that I’m working on – there’s a theatre project I’m working on in Denver, there’s the idea of bringing this show back to Broadway, there’s other projects – those issues came to the fore. Issues of diversity and inclusion and things like that, which were always there. Now they’re being taken more seriously. The producers and theatre owners realise that they can’t push those things aside, that they have to be included in the whole structure of how a show gets put together.”

“At least for now, that seems to be a big change. I see it in TV shows and other areas too. There’s a lot of tokenism, but there’s a lot of real opportunity and changed thinking as well.”

Elsewhere, he encourages his audience to register to vote, and had registration booths at the shows. He must have been pleased about the record turnout in the recent US election? “Yeah, the turnout was great. Now you just got to keep doing that. Gotta keep doing it at all the local elections, too. It was important for me not to endorse a political party or anything in the show but to say, ‘Listen, we can’t have a democracy if you don’t vote. You have to get out there and let your voice be heard and there’s lots of people trying to block it.’ We have to at least try.”

Will Trump’s loss help bring people together after four years with such a divisive influence in charge?

“Yes. I think for me Trump was not so much a shock; we knew who he is. He was around New York before that, in the reality show [The Apprentice], we knew what kind of character he was. What shocked me was how quickly the Republican party all fell into line behind him, behind this guy who’s obviously a racist, misogynist liar and everything else. But it’s kind of encouraging – although it’s taken four years and with some it’s only with the prospect of him being gone – that quite a few have been breaking ranks. There are some possibilities of bridge building being held out.”

But, he says, “It’s too early to celebrate,” concerned that Senate Majority Leader and fairweather Trump loyalist Mitch McConnell will use any Republican control of the Senate to block many of Biden’s policies from coming into effect. “[This] is what happened with Obama… I want to see real change happen. [Climate change] absolutely needs to be a priority. The clock had turned back over the last four years, so there’s a lot to be done. Whether there’s the willpower to do everything that needs to be done, it remains to be seen, but at least now it’s pointing in the right direction.”

How will he look back on the last four years? Byrne ponders. “I’m hoping that I look back at it as a near-miss.”

American Utopia is as much a personal journey as a dissection of modern ills. Ahead of ‘Everybody’s Coming To My House’, Byrne admits to being a rather socially awkward type. He claims that a choir of Detroit teenagers, when singing the song for the accompanying video, had imbued the song with a far more welcoming message than his own rendition, which found him wracked with the fear that his visitors might never leave. How does someone like that deal with celebrity?

“In a certain way it’s a blessing,” Byrne grins, “because I don’t have to go up to people to talk to them – they sometimes come up to me. In other ways it’s a little bit awkward. Celebrity itself seems very superficial and I have to constantly remind myself that your character, your behaviour and the work that you do is what’s important – not how well known you are, not this thing of celebrity. I learned early on it’s pretty easy to get carried away. But it does have its advantages. I had Spike Lee’s phone number, so I could text him.”

Talking Heads drummer Chris Frantz’s recent book Remain In Love suggests that the more successful Byrne got early on, the more distant he became.

Byrne nods. “I haven’t read the book, but I know that as we became more successful I definitely used some of that to be able to work on other projects. I worked on a dance score with [American choreographer] Twyla Tharp and I worked on a theatre piece with [director] Robert Wilson – other kinds of things – [and] I started working on directing some of the band’s music videos. So I guess I spent less time just hanging out. As often happens with bands, you start off being all best friends and doing everything together and after a while that gets to be a bit much. Everybody develops their own friends and it’s like, ‘I have my own friends too’. Everybody starts to have their own lives.”

The future is far too enticing for David Byrne to consider revisiting the past. “I do live alone so sometimes it would get lonely”, he says of lockdown, but he’s been using his Covid downtime to cycle around undiscovered areas of New York and remain philosophical about the aftermath.

“We’ll see how long before the vaccine is in, before we return to being able to socialise,” he says, “but I’m also wondering, ‘How am I going to look at this year? Am I going to look at it as, “Oh yes, that’s the year that was to some extent taken away from our lives; our lives were put on pause?”’ We kept growing; we kept ageing; we keep eating, but it was almost like this barrier had been put up. It has been a period where, in a good way, it’s led us to question a lot of what we do. You get up in the morning and go, ‘Why am I doing this? What am I doing this for? What’s this about?’ Everything is questioned.”

Post-vaccine, he hopes to “travel a little bit” before looking into plans to bring the ‘American Utopia’ show back to Broadway, and possibly even to London if the financial aspects can be worked out. “Often when a show like that travels, the lead actors might travel,” Byrne explains, “but in this case it’s the entire cast that has to travel. So you’ve got a lot of hotel bills and all that kind of stuff. We wanted to do it. There might be a way, if we can figure that out.”

Once we all get our jab, will everyone come to recognise that, as Byrne sings on ‘American Utopia’s most inspiring track, ‘Every Day Is A Miracle’? “Optimistically, maybe,” he says. “There will be a lot of people who will just go, ‘Let’s get back to normal – get out to the bars, the clubs and discos’. That’s already been happening in New York; there’s been these underground parties where people just can’t help themselves. But after all this it’d be nice to think that people might reassess things a little bit.”

And with the algorithm as the new gatekeeper and technology beginning to subsume the sounds and consumption of music, what does the new wave Nostradamus foresee for rock in the coming decades? Will AIs soon be writing songs for other AIs to consume to inflate the numbers, cutting humanity out of the equation altogether?

“It seems like there’ll be a kind of factory,” Byrne predicts, “an AI factory of things like that, and of newspaper articles and all of this kind of stuff, and it will just exaggerate and duplicate human biases and weaknesses and stupidity. On the other hand, I was part of a panel a while back, and a guy told a story about how his listening habits were Afrofuturism and ambient music – those were his two favourite ways to go. The algorithm tried to find commonalities between the two so it could recommend things to him and he said it was hopeless. Everything it recommended was just horrible because it tried to find commonalities between these two very separate things. This just shows that we’re a little more eclectic than these machines would like to think.”

And in the distant future? Best prepare to welcome your new gloop overlords. Byrne isn’t concerned about The Singularity – the point at which machine intelligence supersedes ours and AI becomes God – but instead believes that future technologies will emulate microbial forms.

“I watched a documentary on slime moulds [a simple slimy organism] the other day,” he says, warming to his sticky theme. “Slime moulds are actually extremely intelligent for being a single-celled organism. They can build networks and bunches of them can communicate. They can learn, they have memories, they can do all these kinds of things that you wouldn’t expect a single-celled organism to be able to do.”

“I started thinking, ‘Well, is there a lesson there for AI and machine learning, of how all these emerging properties could be done with something as simple as a single cell?’ It’s all in there… when things interact, they become greater than the sum of their parts. I thought, okay, maybe the future of AI is not in imitating human brains, but imitating these other kinds of networks, these other kinds of intelligences. Forget about imitating human intelligence – there’s other kinds of intelligence out there, and that might be more fruitful. But I don’t know where that leads.”

His grin says he does know, that he has a vision of our icky soup-world future, but maybe the rest of the species isn’t yet advanced enough to handle it. But if we’re evolving towards disaster rather than utopia, we can trust David Byrne to give us plenty of warning.

December 18, 2020

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2020 - Day 11

Switching it up a little today by seeing things from a new character’s perspective...an alien oc, to be exact! This was actually an idea that I had written down before Whumptober came around, not sure whether I would actually ever getting around to writing it or not, and it came to mind when I saw the theme for today. I did use trope-appreciation-tuesdays for a couple of ideas, but am not tagging today because some of the content goes against the blog’s rules. Hope you enjoy!

Read on AO3

Read on FFN

Day 11 - Defiance

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Warnings: restraints, torture, mild blood, broken bones, referenced child abuse, foster home mention, whipping

"Keepabopatikiluzovatica!"

The furred Yrexan winced, already knowing what this conversation was about, before turning to face his friend. “Yes?”

“Keepa, how goes it with our guest?”

He rubbed his elbow, a nervous tick of his, before bending his knees nonchalantly. “About the same, I suppose.”

His friend frowned. “The captain is getting impatient. He wants that information.”

“And he’ll have it!” Keepa protested. “It’s just...well, the creature is stubborn. It does not matter what I do to him, he does not seem to care.”

“Well, then, perhaps you should do more. Or perhaps someone else should take over the job.”

“I have it under control,” Keepa snapped, baring his teeth. “I’m the enforcer of this team, am I not? Just have patience.”

He turned and stormed off, heading directly to the prison area of the ship. In truth, he really didn’t feel like he had this situation under control. He had joined this band of rogues and thieves under the impression that he’d be strong-arming those who owed them GAC, maybe occasionally giving someone a good beat down if required. He could do that. He was good at it. 

What he hadn’t expected to be doing was extracting information from a prisoner who happened to be the most stubborn creature he had ever come across. Anyone else, Yrexan or otherwise, would have been spilling out every bit of information they knew by that time. 

But not this boy. Not anywhere near it. Reaching his cell, Keepa paused outside and watched for a moment, unnoticed. He was a strange looking creature. Virtually hairless other than the top of his head, where fur grew long and untamed, nothing like the well-kept fur of a Yrexan. And his body was so unnaturally pale, it was as if something had sucked all of the color up into his far too dark eyes and hair. Skinny, too. Far too easy to break...or so Keepa had thought upon first seeing him.

The first day, the boy had been asked very politely to share information on where the rest of his team, the legendary Voltron, was located. They had their hands on one paladin now, yes, and his lion, too, but Emperor Zarkon - may he reign forever - wanted all of Voltron, and would pay untold riches for it. He, of course, had refused to tell them, refused to even speak, in fact. That was not entirely unexpected. 

That was when Keepa had taken over. He had given him his classic beat down, complete with plenty of blood pouring from the boy’s nose and lip, and possibly a few cracks in his more delicate bones. Any moment now, he had thought, any moment he will beg me to stop, say that he will tell me everything. 

But the begging never came. When Keepa finished his work and stood back, the boy had painstakingly levered himself up off the floor, swiped the back of his hand through the stream of blood on his upper lip, and spat out a wad of red-tinged saliva at Keepa’s feet. 

“Are you ready to talk?” Keepa had demanded.

And the boy had smiled. Smiled, with blood-stained teeth, and huffed a breathy sound that was possibly a laugh. “Griffin’s cronies hit a lot harder than you do.”

As if Keepa was supposed to have any idea what that meant! He wanted to ask what in the stars a griffin or a crony was, but instead he just stared incredulously, not knowing what to make of this blood-stained creature, before mumbling something like, “I’ll be back,” and retreating from the room.

The next day he had been a bit more prepared. He repeated the beating, knowing it would hurt even more on an already sore body. The fascinating blue and purple spots that decorated the pale skin from the day before were evidence that the boy was not, in fact, invincible, just apparently more resilient than most. Still, he wasn’t nearly as surprised that time when he finished and was spoken to in that casual voice again.

“You know…” The boy didn’t bother getting up this time, remaining on his back and staring up at the ceiling. “I had this one foster…whenever I would get into fights at school, I’d always come out on top. But when I got home and he found out I’d been in another fight he’d beat me himself. Couldn’t fight back against him. So it didn’t really matter how much damage the other kids did, ‘cause he was always gonna make it three times worse.”

Keepa merely stood and blinked, unmoving, before turning and leaving without a word. Clearly beating was not going to work. That was the message, he supposed, behind the creature’s rambling. He’d have to come up with something more...creative.

So the following day, Keepa had marched into the cell with a mission, snatching up the arm that wasn’t chained to the wall and holding it tightly at the wrist and elbow. 

“Tell me where to find the rest of Voltron, or I will break your arm in two.” It sounded very threatening. There was no doubt that he meant what he said.

So he was once again taken aback when the boy laughed aloud. It was a short laugh, and wheezed a bit, no doubt because of his injured chest, but it was a laugh, nonetheless. “That...that’s your plan?”

Now Keepa felt he was being ridiculed. Growling, he made good on his word and brought the arm down over his knee. It broke with a loud crack. The boy screamed, doubling over to let out a continuous stream of pained noises through his teeth.

This, he thought, was hopeful. Not once during the two beatings had the creature made a single sound, but this had obviously affected him. Now he would break for sure.

The boy let out one more long moan, then grunted, “Quiznak.”

Yes, Keepa wanted to say, tell me, tell me!

“I’ve officially lost count of how many bones I’ve broken.”

“What?” The response was out his mouth before he could stop it.

The boy straightened, wincing as he did so, and tucked the injured arm gingerly into his abdomen. “It’s been so long since I last broke one. I knew how many it was before, but now I’ve forgotten. I can tell you how many times this particular arm has been broken, though.”

“H-how many?”

“This makes three. Once was my fault, I fell out of a tree. The other time was that one foster, you know the one I was telling you about?”

Keepa had left the room before he could go any further. What kind of creature was this? And were all the people of his planet so used to violence? 

Now, standing outside the cell on day four, Keepa gathered his determination. He wasn’t going to let his previous failures deter him. He would get that information for his captain, no matter what it took. Unlocking the door, he strode confidently into the room, snatching the creature up by his broken arm, which of course elicited a cry of pain. He made swift work of shackling that free hand to the opposite corner, leaving the boy’s back toward him. 

Retrieving the leather strap that hung at his waist, he readied himself. “All you have to do is tell me the information I seek, and this will stop.”

The strap cracked across the boy’s shoulders, and he jolted but did not make a sound. Keepa brought it down again, and again. The creature was wearing a black suit of some kind, but he knew that even through that the strap would sting. Soon enough, the fabric couldn’t even hold up any longer. It began splitting under each impact, leaving bright red welts behind that stood out against the pale skin. Still the boy stood his ground. 

Keepa’s arm was growing tired, but his frustration was stronger. He kept going until he drew blood, and still he did not quit. By the time the boy finally slumped forward, collapsing to his knees on the ground, the back of his suit was completely shredded, and criss-crossing bloody lines were everywhere.

Panting, Keepa dropped his arm down by his side, rolling his shoulder a few times. Then he stepped over one of the chains and stooped down to look the creature in the face. Unconscious. Of course he was. All of that, and he still hadn’t done any more than grunt.

He unshackled the wrist of the broken arm and allowed the boy to fall the rest of the way to the floor, then leaned against the wall and waited for him to wake. When he did, it was with a groan, and he rolled over as quickly as possible to get off his ruined back.

“Are you ready to talk now?”

Silence. Then a pained, “No.”

Keepa nearly shouted in aggravation. “Don’t tell me that you’ve had experience with this, too!”

The boy continued staring at the wall in front of him, talking much quieter than usual. “Would you believe me if I did?”

He couldn’t be serious. “Let me guess, this ‘foster’ that you keep speaking of?”

The creature hummed a little. “No, actually it was a different one. A woman. She was a psychopath.” He shifted a bit and grimaced. “Been a while, though. Kinda forgot...how much it hurts.”

Standing up straight, Keepa waved his arms in the air. “Yes, it hurts! All of it hurts! I know that you are in pain, you can barely even move. You haven’t had anything to eat since you got here, either, so you must be hungry. It’s been four days.”

“Haven’t broken my record yet, then.”

Keepa groaned. “My point is, maybe you have experienced all of these things before, but that does not mean that you aren’t in pain now. Why do you continue to resist? Why won’t you help yourself?”

“Because,” the boy growled, suddenly sounding like a completely different creature. He slowly, painfully pushed himself up so that he could level a fierce glare at Keepa. “I don’t care about helping myself. I care about protecting my friends. If all those fosters beating the heck out of me couldn’t even make me call my social worker, then I can assure you, nothing you can do to me is ever going to make me rat out my friends. Doesn’t matter if I have experience with it or not. I won’t do it.”

For a long moment they just stared at one another. Keepa had never met someone so...so loyal, in his entire career. In his experience, everyone had a breaking point, no matter what they had to give up, and usually they did not have to be pushed very far. But this boy...suddenly he had a distinct feeling that he was telling the absolute truth, and that he never would get anything from him.

[altumvidetur]

Haikyuu!! Fic Recs (MatsuHana)

Fic Recs Masterpost

So, I was thinking about the coronavirus pandemic and what I could do to help people out. I’m isolated because I’m at higher risk, so I can’t really offer to go out for my elderly neighbors or my family… but I thought I could try to help keep people entertained.

Because I don’t have an AO3 account right now, I’ve been compiling fic recs for my own amusement for a year or so. And I thought – maybe that’s the time to share these with everyone? So everyone will have plenty of things to read while they have to stay at home, or even to escape anxiety a little bit if you’re forced to go out.

Of course, these cater to my own tastes, so you may find stuff you don’t like around here. I never include works in progress. The Mature and Explicit works will be in italic. I ask you to READ THE WORK’S TAGS before continuing, so you won’t find anything that makes you uncomfortable.

I’ve decided to split it in a series of posts, starting with my OTPs. So here we go with some MatsuHana!

rated m for, by orphan_account

He should have known that there was a Specific Reason™ why it was so absolutely vital that he and Matsukawa specifically meet for a reading of the script. He should have known that there had to be some evil catch beyond sitting in a tiny, cramped studio with his newly sworn enemy.

Hanamaki stares at the title of the script he’d so gracefully neglected the night before.

FORBIDDEN PARADISE

“Excuse me,” Hanamaki starts, raising a pen in the air while staring blankly at the packet in his free hand. “Just to clarify, you want me to record a boy's love CD with Matsukawa?”

of weather, of leisurely tensions, by b_minor

Two boys share an umbrella.

Don’t Lie, Bright Eyes, by tookumade

“Where do you see yourself in twenty years?”

It’s nearly one in the morning and Matsukawa, tucked up comfortably in bed next to Hanamaki, is on the verge of drifting off into blissful sleep when the question stirs him.

“Why are you trying to give me a late-night existential crisis?” he mumbles.

-

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 4 - leaving home)

Roses, by h_lovely

(Summary by me: slow burn, friends to lovers, things are kinky, I’m pretty sure this is the best MatsuHana I’ve ever read.)

You’re in Pink (and I’m in blue), by Hyeyu

Takahiro held his gaze a few seconds in silence before he sighed. "...It's only been a week, okay? S'not serious yet."

“Not serious yet?” Something jumped in Matsukawa’s jaw and he abruptly released Takahiro’s hand, sending the petals cascading to the ground. Takahiro was going to have to clean them up before the others started streaming into the clubroom, and wouldn’t that be fun. “You’re coughing up fucking flowers, Hanamaki.”

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”

-

Hanamaki Takahiro has 99 problems and Hanahaki flowers make up 98 of them.

Good Bad Ideas, by tookumade

When Oikawa asks his friends to help out at his nephew’s birthday party, they get a little more than they bargained for.

(written for Haikyuu!! Rarepair Week - Day 1 - beginnings, celebration)

texting (with a capital S), by parenthetic

Hanamaki breaks his No Texting In Class rule, and it's all downhill from there.

Wet Your Whistle, by darkmagicalgirl

Hanamaki gets a job as a bartender. Matsukawa likes his uniform. (Alternatively: Matsukawa tries to ignore his huge crush on his friend-with-benefits. He fails.)

[obnoxious clucking noises], by parenthetic

On the last night of their last training camp together, Oikawa has a bad idea, Hanamaki goes along with it, Iwaizumi sort of wishes he had better friends, and Matsukawa proves himself to be particularly adept at intimidation tactics.

Love Doesn’t Come with an Instruction Manual, by plumtrees

Seijou 3rd years (now college freshmen) go to ToyCon. Oikawa has a spaz attack over Star Wars, Iwaizumi is his designated babysitter, Hanamaki is adorable, and Matsukawa doesn't know how to deal.

Here Today And There Tomorrow, by tookumade

A first meeting on opposite sides of the volleyball net, and chance meetings afterwards without it.

A Ring of Cream, by plumtrees

Hanamaki has never been one for grand romantic gestures, has never been one for romantic gestures at all, but Matsukawa's a stubborn guy.

Who can't bake for shit.

Iwaizumi and Oikawa (mostly Iwaizumi, really) to the rescue.

Morning Glory, by darkmagicalgirl

On their days off, Hanamaki and Matsukawa's mornings follow a sort of routine.

Even Though It All Went Wrong, by plumtrees

It hadn’t always been so cold. Matsukawa remembers a time where the sun shone high, its rays bright and its heat pleasant like a blanket against his skin. He remembers Hanamaki holding his hand, remembers his cheeks hurting because he’d been grinning so much. Hanamaki had opened his arms wide, and Matsukawa ran straight for them, like he’d been magnetized. He picked up Hanamaki easily and twirled them around, danced with him until they both tumbled along the grass, laughing like idiots.

He remembers because it’s all he can do now.

Crescendo, by plumtrees

Day 1 for MatsuHana Week: Online

-

The voice continues to feed him instructions, the deep rumbling purrs reverberating across his body, each hiss and click of a consonant like a sharp bite, each roll of his tongue a slide of silk against his overheating skin.

Fuck, he loves it.

Somewhat Well-Kept Secrets, by tookumade

“Why don’t they just… date already?” said Iwaizumi.

-

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 2 - cream puffs, in the background)

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time, by plumtrees

Day 3 of MatsuHana Week: Tattoos and Flower Shops

-

Hanamaki, cheeks as pink as his hair, says, "I was drunk."

"Okay?" Matsukawa prompts.

"And it's way too expensive to laser something this big."

Holy shit. "Okay?"

"Look, can't we just go with 'I made horrible life decisions in college that are now coming back to haunt me' and move on?"

morning, noon, night, by b_minor

A day in the life of two losers in love.

on the anatomy of crushes, by carafin

A part-by-part dissection of their relationship. Medical school AU.

-

‘See you tomorrow?’ Hanamaki asks. He’s still smiling faintly, still carrying about his usual air of quiet self-assurance, but there’s no mistaking the hopefulness in his voice. ‘On the bus, I mean.’

‘Yeah,’ Matsukawa says, and tries not to make it sound too much like a promise. ‘See you tomorrow.’

(Falling in love is really, ridiculously easy.)

Dating Is Not A Nine-To-Five, by tookumade

“What if,” said Hanamaki in a whisper, “we walk in and there’s a yakuza member getting his tattoos done, and he tries to kill us because we saw his face?”

-

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 3 - tattoos and flower shops, coffee shop)

To Fit Myself In The Spaces Between, by tookumade

It's late, a boring movie is on TV, and the remote control is nowhere in sight—and that suited them just fine.

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 4 - midnight, no control)

It’s not even close to your birthday, by squidmemesinc

The shoes look like they could be some kind of gothic lolita item, with thick, tall heels and Mary Jane straps that have little silver hearts on them. The socks are simple except that they run all the way up to his mid-thigh; the crisp white makes enough of a contrast with his skin that the colors flatter each other, rather than subdue them. Then there's the dress. It's just plain black, short and slim, though the skirt flares out at the waist. Takahiro's eyes run up it, stalling where it cuts off around the shoulders and has a wide boat neck trim with a thick ivory collar. The final piece is a simple pink ribbon—not even a necklace, just a ribbon—tied around his neck with the bow in the back.

Where Was I, When The Rockets Came To Life, by tookumade

In a city like this, there wasn’t much of a chance that they would meet again, and given Hanamaki’s current career of choice, if they did, then it was more than likely to be because of a cruel joke set up by fate. He was not about to let his heart be broken now. He had more important things to think about…

-

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 5 - glasses, piercing)

not like the movies, by bravely

“Here,” he says, offering the thumb back to Hanamaki. Absentmindedly, Hanamaki licks it back off. “Thanks.”

Then he blinks.

“Wait,” he says. “Shit, wait. Was that supposed to be romantic just then?”

“ — Well.” Matsukawa clears his throat. “You tell me, I guess?”

No One Else Like You, by auber_jean

"It’s not at all liberating to finally have it said out loud, because it makes it all that more real, and Matsukawa was doing really well pretending that he wasn’t in love with his best friend."

With the turn of graduation, Matsukawa finds himself choosing between a future that he has planned or something more.

live it up, drink it in, by puny

Hanamaki's not a detective, just a wing spiker with a hangover, but he's gonna figure out who gave him all these hickeys if it damn well kills him.

Begin, by Karasuno Volleygays

It's the last day of their high school years and the first day of the rest of their lives. As they spend the night under a blanket of stars, they can't help but wonder where will they go from here?

Playing Doubles, by squidmemesinc

“We always said we were going to fuck at every possible time of day,” Takahiro says, rolling his hips gently over Issei’s.

“I do remember saying that once. Do you have the calendar on hand?”

Captured Light, by plumtrees

“The smile you’re wearing in this photo,” Hanamaki continued, just a little bit sad, “you haven’t smiled like that in a long time.”

Matsukawa looked at the photo again. It was awkward; it always was, seeing himself through Hanamaki’s lens. He’d never really focused on himself whenever he looked at the photos Hanamaki took of him, but now his eyes actively trailed over his face, the crinkle of his eyes, the twinkle in them from the light reflecting off of his cellphone, the smile wide enough to show an entire row of teeth.

He tried to emulate the expression, only to realize how foreign it felt on his face.

-

A love story like most love stories, stuck between busy days and too little time spent together.

Matsukawa learns to take it easy, and Hanamaki is his teacher.

Marks, by Andramion

The room is quiet when Issei gathers the pillows under his arms and lies down. He presses his nose into his shoulder, closes his eyes and focusses on the barely-there touch of fingertips to his skin.

Hanamaki always does this, every single time.

Sure, by kiyala

Beginning university brings a lot of changes with it. As Iwaizumi and Oikawa deal with going to different universities, Hanamaki thinks about his own relationship with Matsukawa.

nebulas, by tothemoon

“You'll have to let me think about it,” Hanamaki says to him while they're looking at soup stocks in the supermarket one evening, because he knows being with someone is not as simple as he'd like it to be.

(At this, Matsukawa does not fret. He goes for the snack aisle, instead.)

Settled, by kiyala

Hanamaki and Matsukawa go for a walk in their hometown in the middle of the night, and reflect on the things that have changed since high school.

Staking a Claim, by iwaizumemes

"Do you think they can tell?"

"Tell what?"

"That we've fucked in all their bedrooms."

something of a disaster, by latenights

“This is the part where you make a wish and blow.”

“Now, let’s not get too hasty—“

“I meant the candles you bastard.”

that’s you get (for waking up in vegas), by skittidyne

“There was an Elvis?” Hajime asks.

“He was the officiator. It’s the cliché, right?”

“…Officiator of what?” Tooru asks with a look down at Takahiro’s hand.

“You can borrow my phone to pull pictures from for our wedding album.” Issei reaches over and grasps the hand with the ring on it. Everyone is staring at their clasped hands like a three-headed lobster just crawled onto the table. “You were both the best men and I was very, deeply touched by how affected you both were at the ceremony,” he says in a perfect deadpan.

(( or: iwaizumi does not want to be the responsible one, and thus they suffer the consequences, or, perhaps, 'suffer' is a bit too strong of a word ))

Wilds, by AngryKitten

Makki waded back to him, two handfuls of stones dripping lake-water. He was grinning, like he always did, like their lives were one great joke that Matsukawa only occasionally understood. Hanamaki tipped his hand, and the rocks tumbled out into the bottom of their canoe.

“For later,” Hanamaki said.

Parting Words, by kiyala

Matsukawa confesses his feelings for Hanamaki at graduation, knowing that they're unrequited. Hanamaki's not so sure about that.

we could be the greatest team, by anyadisee

Oikawa mock-gasps. “Makki! You should know that I was genuinely planning on talking about strategy! I just thought it would be polite to wait for Iwa-chan and Mattsun to get back. But since you brought the topic up”—Hanamaki opens his mouth to protest, but is ignored—“have I told you how amazing Iwa-chan is? Like, he’s just the best boyfriend ever.”

“Wow, I never would’ve guessed what with, you know, how much you’ve been talking about it,” Hanamaki deadpans.

Oikawa waves a hand airily. “Don’t be jealous that my boyfriend is so sweet and romantic.”

Now it’s Hanamaki’s turn to raise eyebrows. “Excuse me, but did you just indirectly drag Issei?"

[in which hanamaki and oikawa get competitive, matsukawa and iwaizumi are good boyfriends, and the rest of seijoh somehow get involved.]

chocolate, by tellalie

“We have to do something,” Mattsun says.

Tides That Bind, by rubyfiamma

Matsuhana Fluff via prompt #19. Things you said when we were the happiest we ever were.

Room to Talk, by holdontoyourhulahoops

In which one snarky comment from Yahaba makes Hanamaki realize he's been a dirty hypocrite all this time.

The Best/Worst Places to Cry in the City, by AngryKitten

“Okay this is going to sound weird, and I get it if you want to say no, but I know a good place to cry and it’s only like a block from here. If you need to, um, let that out or something.”

Matsukawa gets hit on while crying in public and it might be the worst thing that has ever happened to him. Or it might be the best.

plus one, by orphan_account

"Did you know we're dating?"

"What? Says who?"

"Says everyone apparently."

"Oh," Hanamaki frowns for a few seconds before shrugging and turning his attention back to the chocolate fountain. "Nice."

Making Sense, by kiyala

Sharing an apartment does very little to help Hanamaki deal with his feelings for Matsukawa. Perhaps that's not such a bad thing.

and indeed there will be time, by plumtrees

Between volleyball and the looming end of their high school years, Hanamaki thinks he’s already dealing with more than enough, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, no one else gets the memo.

-

Alternatively: “I am not in love with my best friend!” says Hanamaki Takahiro. Nobody buys his bullshit.

snakes, meth labs and something like love, by orphan_account

"Did you know snakes can give birth to between ten and 150 babies at any one time?"

Matsukawa tenses. "And how many have you, um— How many have you found?"

"Four," Hanamaki sighs, voice shaking slightly with what sounds like pure, unadulterated defeat. "So far."

Flamingo, by JanaRumpandRCJawnn

Summary by me: series with Trans!Makki, dealing with transphobia, and a nice lovely characterization of Ushijima.

it’s cold out there, by bishounen_curious

Seijoh's parties are always a mess, but this one takes the cake.

he’s a looker but i really think it’s guts that matter most, by respectableflourish

His fellow first year loves volleyball, has a chill factor verging on glacial, partakes in the type of verbal repartee Takahiro has only ever dreamt of finding in another person, and just so happens to exhibit an eyebrow and eyeliner game that is on another fucking level.

my heart beats for contract law, by orphan_account

"You had an emotional breakdown in a McDonalds drive-through."

"Mmm."

"And proposed to me."

"Shhh."

"In a McDonalds drive-through, Hiro."

Takahiro huffs out a nervous laugh, keeping his eyes closed. "You love it," he repeats, nuzzling closer.

services i can provide, by commovente

“So, what’s this?” Matsukawa asks. “An apology?”

Hanamaki drawls the words out, but he’s rambling. “I mean, I was actually going for a bribe, but. You know what, Mattsun? I’m nothing if not adaptable, so. Yes. Consider this an apology.”

it’s easy being with you, sacred simplicity, by earlgrey_milktea

a conversation at half past three.

poolside, by tothemoon

At eighteen, it'd been a matter of wading.

At twenty-five, Hanamaki tries not to fall in headfirst.

need a little sweetness in my life, by orphan_account

The smell of freshly baked bread, watching his cakes rise, listening to customers endlessly praise his desserts? All that is great but, Matsukawa thinks as he shuffles closer to the counter to greet him, the best thing about his job is the man standing in front of him.

And he doesn’t even know his name.

Lemonade, by carriecmoney

“Seriously, after Oikawa’s Oikawaness, Iwaizumi with the shoulders and the intensity and the caring about people shit and you with…” Takahiro gestures at Matsukawa’s everything. “That. What am I?”

Sing For Me, by rideahorse

The first time he hears Matsukawa singing, it’s in the shower, post-practice, when Matsukawa is likely positive no one’s around to hear it. Takahiro doesn’t even know what to think at first; Matsukawa sings just as he talks, voice a low timbre, barely changing pitch as it navigates through some melody that is so familiar yet unreachable in Takahiro’s mind. It’s English, too, so Takahiro wouldn’t understand it anyways, but that’s beside the point.

The point is that the locker room suddenly feels ten times hotter and Takahiro feels like he might melt into a puddle of very gay and very confused sludge.

Realisations, by kiyala

In which Hanamaki realises that Matsukawa is a werewolf, and has a few other realisations while he's at it.

Magical Mishaps and How to Deal, by plumtrees

Hanamaki Takahiro loved Matsukawa Issei. Sometimes. Mostly. When he wasn’t being bull-headed or overly-difficult. Which wasn’t a lot of the time now that Hanamaki thought about it. Shit. But he digressed.

Demon-mating was a for life kind of deal. Certainly not a decision one could make out of the blue, without years of prior thought and much meditation. The day he asked for his mother’s blessing, the day he planned to ask Matsukawa to be his mate, she had told him If you’re sure you’ll be happy with him, then all I hope for is that he says yes and by some miracle he did and here they are now and Hanamaki could say with all the certainty in the world that he loved Matsukawa Issei with all his heart and soul(s).

But some days…dear gods, some days…some days he just made it really, really difficult.

-

Or: Matsukawa accidentally turns Kindaichi and Kunimi into babies and guess who has to help him clean up his fucking mess.

Pink and Yellow, by hotcocoa

Hanamaki is beautiful, Matsukawa is supportive, and both of them are the luckiest boyfriends in the world.

hang out fall in love, by carafin

In which Hanamaki's humble medical practice is threatened by an intractable asshole a witch doctor who's just moved into the shop down the street. Medical/Witchcraft AU.

-

As far as Hanamaki’s concerned, and as far as bad life decisions go, setting up your witch clinic right next to an actual, proper, medical clinic is practically akin to setting up an all-you-can-eat buffet right next to a gym. Or a sex toy shop next to a church. Or a vegetable patch next to a goat farm. Or – yeah, the point is, this Matsukawa guy has totally cornered the market in Terrible-Life-Decision-Making-Skills.

Baby It’s Cold Outside, by dancingwithwings

Matsukawa looks round. And – heaven help him – he’s greeted with the guy from a couple of apartments down, the guy who dyes his hair to look like a strawberry for reasons unbeknownst, looking so disgruntled, so bedraggled, so akin to a drowning cat, that it almost makes him laugh out loud. The guy is barefoot, wearing only a towel. And the look on his face might turn Matsukawa to stone.

In which the fire alarm goes off, Hanamaki is in a towel, and Mattsun just really needs to study.

Zenith, Nadir, by tookumade

A former god realises that it's time to say goodbye.

Parallel Lines, by orphan_account

Yesterday night, Matsukawa had told his parents that he was joining math club, which lead to several confused smiles from them as they tried to figure out his change of heart.

“Didn’t you say you were allergic to competitive math?” His mom had asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, we’re very supportive of your decision, but-”

Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, they’d let it go because no sane parent prevents their child from joining math team, which is intellectually beneficial and looks very nice on college applications. This, in turn, prevents Matsukawa from having to explain that he’s joining- dear god- because of a crush.

this isn’t exactly how i thought i’d spend my adult years, by jadedpearl

When Hanamaki coughs–hacks–the guy, who's been near comatose this entire time, opens his eyes and looks over a little, seemingly with the least amount of effort possible. "Bless you," he says, but his eyes are still sleepy. Hanamaki turns his head and stares at him. "I didn't sneeze." The guy looks a bit surprised. "What?" "I coughed." "So?" "Who the fuck says bless you when someone coughs?"

The Courage of Stars, by FairyLights101

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Then again, not many things were.

sugar pink liquor, liquor lips, by h_lovely

His lips still taste like sugar and liquor; they’re rosy and plush as they fit softly against Matsukawa’s own.

What would you do (if I told you that I la, la, la, loved you?), by Frenchibi

5 IwaOi moments as seen by Hanamaki and Matsukawa ... +1 moment of revenge :'D

Shoulda Known, by fxvixen

He quickly composes his face to look concerned. “What’s the matter there, sport?”

The groan cuts off.

Hanamaki lifts his head, a few strands of hair flopping onto his forehead. He narrows his eyes at Matsukawa’s attempt of a poker face. “Never call me that again.”

~or~

matsuhana feels and cuddles

Time and Distance, by kiyala

Matsukawa is attending university in Kyoto. Hanamaki comes to visit.

Kaleidoscope, by tookumade

Fall in love in five cities.

press play, by airblends

“Makki, you want in on our intro?” Oikawa gestures with his hand.

“Nah, I already promised Issei we’d do one for his channel. There are only so many intros a man can film in a day.”

“Issei, huh?” Oikawa’s lips settle into a knowing smirk. Iwaizumi coughs into his fist, gently prying the camera from Oikawa’s hands to turn it off.

Hanamaki’s face burns up, his cheeks a fiery red. “We’re just friends,” he says, the phrase rolling off his tongue by sheer reflex. He has lost count of how many times he’s typed it into the comment section beneath his videos. At this point he might just start to believe it himself.

New Ground, by kiyala

About new cities and new relationships.

Trusting Things Beyond Mistake, by twinkrevali

"‘I–’ Hanamaki starts, then stops, turning to face the lake and frowning as the words fail to reach him.

Matsukawa pushes himself up to look at Hanamaki properly, hands resting in his lap.

‘You,’ he prompts, and Hanamaki looks at him, eyes shining.

This must be, he thinks, what they call a moment of clarity."

Would You Rather, by jadedpearl

“Y’know,” Hanamaki says, stretching his arms above his head, “I don’t even get why Oikawa is the popular one. If this was an anime, I’d be the main character.”

The setting sun burns his edges gold, alights the sharp planes of his face. Matsukawa looks away, faces forward, towards the houses that wind out of sight.

“What makes you say that?” he replies easily, because things have always been just that, with Hanamaki.

too scared to say (that i want you), by urieskooki

"How could he not hate me if he knew?"

Falling in love with your best friend sucks.

one-way ticket, by noyabeans

post-chapter 258.

-

in an alternate universe, they would be the ones on that screen, feet solidly planted on the smooth ground of the tokyo gym and the smell of air salonpas around them.

take my hand, take my whole life, too, by earlgrey_milktea

matsukawa and hanamaki, a few years down the road, and years to go, together.

all our stolen moments (i’d spend forever with you), by earlgrey_milktea

quiet moments between matsukawa and hanamaki.

it's all worth it, in the end.

Switched Jerseys, by chromyrose

After practice on an afternoon shortly before the Spring High tournament begins, they’re the last two people changing in the club room. The weather is starting to turn for the colder, and Hanamaki sighs when the cool air touches his heated skin after he takes his jersey off. He feels a warm hand on his back, and looks over his shoulder...

oh we’re fading fast / i miss missing you now and then, by earlgrey_milktea

It’s strange, missing someone. You find them in every thing you do, and you think you want them back, but you don’t. Not really. Not now, not like this.

-

issei and the quiet that hanamaki left behind.

i thought i could tame these memories to keep me company like a housecat, by earlgrey_milktea

So he stayed here, in a house that hasn’t been a home in a long time, with a cat that keeps looking out the window as if waiting for someone that isn’t coming home.

-

takahiro and the empty house and lonely cat that issei left behind.

those days are dead and gone (but we’re still here), by kythen

They're graduating today and Hanamaki doesn't want to get out of bed.

stranger things, by tinypersonhotel

In 2012, the men’s national volleyball team took home the bronze at the Asian Cup. Tokyo Skytree opened to the public. Also, the dashing Hanamaki Takahiro and painfully cool Matsukawa Issei started a radio show out of Aoba Johsai’s abandoned A/V room and accidentally became the two most popular guys in school.

Daily Password: [ ], by tookumade

“Neko Atsume?” Hanamaki says sleepily when he recognises the song coming from his phone. He opens his eyes with a mystified smile. “You’re still playing?”

-

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 1 - music)

tell them i love you, by tookumade

“Are you two serious about it, though?” Oikawa says dubiously after training when they’re leaving the clubroom together. “Could you seriously tell each other ‘I love you’?”

“Of course we’re serious!” protests Matsukawa at the same time Hanamaki says, “Of course we can!”

-

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 3 - romantic gesture)

like a river, by astersandstuffs

“Is that a confession? Are you actually confessing to me right now?”

“Hm. Yeah.”

-

Or, they still have a lot to learn (and maybe that's the thing about being together).

Baby(sitting), Maybe, by tookumade

“One day,” says Hanamaki, “we’ll look back on this and laugh.”

“Mm-hm,” Matsukawa hums.

“It’ll be a cute little story. We’ll tell our friends, and they’ll laugh along with us. They might even be sympathetic.”

“Mmmm…”

“You’re absolutely right, sympathetic is reaching way too far.”

-

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 6 - children, bonds)

Matsuhana Week 2017, by h_lovely

Day 1: music//relationship goals Day 2: competition//petty Day 3: romantic gesture//fairy tale Day 4: in danger//leaving home Day 5: food//science Day 6: children//bonds Day 7: on video//surprises

A God for Every Season, by timkons

Mortals have all kinds of foolish tales, like how Hades and Persephone's annual reunion causes the seasons. Matsukawa knows better.

Habenaria Radiata, by tookumade

Hanamaki turns onto his side so that they’re facing each other, and his smile is warm; Matsukawa feels his heart skip a beat, as it always does whenever this happens, and he wonders when he’ll ever get used to it, when it’ll become normal enough that he doesn’t get butterflies in his stomach every time Hanamaki smiles at him.

(Probably never, if he’s being honest with himself. He is content with this.)

take my heart and put it in your pocket, by Frenchibi

Issei blinks. “I ain’t drinkin’ any of your froofy Christmas Latte thingies.” “Orange Caramel Mocha.” “What?” “Vanilla Chai Latte.” “Ew.” “Cinnamon Hot Chocolate.” Issei rolls his eyes, resigned. “Fine. That doesn’t sound too awful.”

Remind Me, by tookumade

For Hanamaki and Matsukawa, their first meeting consists of a small accident, a terrible first impression, and the start of something new—maybe something better.

(In which they learn to keep trying, and to try again.)

like twinkling lights and the warmth of your hand, by earlgrey_milktea

mattsun and makki go on an impromptu date.

in a daze, by wyverning

The sound of a camera shutter goes off, and Issei lazily cracks open an eye to see Hanamaki grinning down at him, phone held loosely in one hand.

“That was the best Kunimi impression I’ve ever seen,” he says by way of explanation.

Clueless, by Elleh

If anyone had asked Issei how he’d thought his night would end, he’d have never said: catching my best friend moaning my name while fucking himself.

There’s an odd second, between Issei entering their room and sliding the door of the bedroom open, in which Issei is still oblivious. Skin prickling, a sudden dryness in his mouth, but oblivious. He’s taking his shoes off when the first moan catches him.

He stills right on the spot, a shoe hanging from his finger, the other hand half-way to opening the bedroom. Issei swallows, images of Hanamaki with a girl from the hotel, that’s why he didn’t want to come with us drink, the bitter taste that realisation leaves behind. Issei shouldn’t care Hanamaki’s having sex with someone, but the sourness turns into rage—and maybe disappointment. He’s gonna have a serious conversation about boundaries and, you know, could you let me know in advance, so I find—

“Issei… Mmmh, fuck.”

IOU, by Karasuno Volleygays

Matsukawa Issei goes in for a tattoo and ends up with an interesting new friend in Hanamaki Takahiro. Soon his visits to his tattoo artist's studio in the back of a restaurant become a highlight of his days, and that's before feelings start to wriggle their way into the picture.

take a screenshot, it’ll last longer, by h_lovely

It’s all fun and games until someone pops a boner in a staff meeting.

lapsus linguae, by astersandstuffs

“I’m literally your best friend,” Matsukawa says.

Takahiro pauses. “Shit. You’re right.”

Reflex, by hiuythn

Nobody likes to talk about how Hanamaki and Matsukawa met, which is a shame, because they both think it's the funniest fucking thing to ever happen to either of them.

my way home, by tookumade

Matsukawa has been sitting at their freshly-placed dining table and staring at his copy of their new apartment keys for at least an hour.

(Hanamaki checks his watch. Okay, five minutes; same thing.)

first light, by tookumade

Iwaizumi and Oikawa immediately break out into booing and gagging noises, because as much as they both think themselves mature and reasonable people, they are honestly idiots. Matsukawa just grins and takes a sip of his own beer, pleased, but Hanamaki is frozen, eyes wide and a blush creeping across his face in a way that had nothing to do with the beer.

Tactical Retreat, by Karasuno Volleygays

After years of getting their asses handed to them by the seemingly psychic Iwaoi bond, Issei and Takahiro opt to spend the rest of their paintballing trip engaged in other activities.

Mirror Flower, Water Moon, by h_lovely

Matsukawa’s gaze lingers on Hanamaki. He’s talking about something, ranting on and Matsukawa isn’t sure about what at this point. He should be listening really, how rude of him. But spring has just sprung and the little pink petals dotting the sidewalk match so pleasantly with the strawberry shade of Hanamaki’s short-clipped hair.

(Or, a study on timing and how to get it right.)

quidditch gloves, parchment, and custard cream, by h_lovely

After class, Matsukawa finds Hanamaki in the tall cushy grass by the lake.

[haberdashing]

Labyrinth

Statement of Avery Horner regarding her experiences with an unusual patch of forest in a local park.

on AO3

Statement of Avery Horner regarding her experiences with an unusual patch of forest within a local park. Original statement given February 6th, 2020. Recording by Artemis Lee, archival assistant for the Usher Foundation.

Statement begins.

Okay, before I get into what happened to me specifically, I should probably give you guys some background. I mean, you’ll probably dig up a lot of the same information eventually--I assume, anyway, I don’t really know a ton about how all this works--but I might as well save you the trouble, right?

So, this is about a park right by my house called Old Pines Park. You’ve got my address from the intake forms, shouldn’t be hard to find from there, it’s literally right down the street from me.

The first weird thing about the place is that there are no pine trees in Old Pines Park. As far as I know, there never have been. There aren’t too many pine trees in the surrounding area, either; just not the right climate for them, I think? Could be named after someone named Pines, I suppose, but the time I tried looking into it I didn’t find much, certainly not detailed information about some famous person from my boring suburban hometown with that surname. That’s just... what the park’s called, for whatever reason.

Also, despite the park being, like I said, right down the block from where I live, I don’t have much in the way of childhood memories associated with the place. There’s a fair few parks in the area, though, so maybe it’s just that all the other parks had bigger playgrounds or nicer scenery or more sports equipment or whatever. It’s not the biggest park around, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some people didn’t even know it was tucked away back there, just an old playground and a grassy field with a small, dirty pond in it.

And the woods.

That’s the main thing I want to talk about--the woods there. Calling it “the woods” is probably- no, definitely overstating things, but I’m not sure what else to call it. It’s on the edge of the field, just a somewhat-thin strip of land where the trees are much denser than elsewhere, to where you can’t see through to the other side.

When I was growing up, my mom always told me not to go in the woods there. She claimed they’d found a woman’s body there once, though I never really believed her. I looked it up not too long ago, though, and sure enough, there’s a news article from when I was a kid about a body being found in Old Pines Park. Didn’t say it was in the woods, but I believe it. Didn’t say what had happened to the body, either, or whose body it was. Just a brief blurb, “jogger finds body,” end of story, apparently.

Come to think of it, I’ve never seen anyone jogging in Old Pines Park, especially not in the woods--the landscape’s not exactly the most conducive to exercise--but the news article definitely said it was a jogger who’d found the body. Why’s it always seem to be joggers who find dead bodies like that?

Anyway.

I actually listened to my mom about not going in the woods for longer than you’d probably expect. I never had much of a rebellious teenager phase, and what little rebellion I did attempt didn’t involve the park just down the road. I think I went in the woods once with a friend when I was a kid, but I barely remember any of it, and I don’t think we went far. It wasn’t until after I’d gotten back from college that I decided to see what the woods had in store. (Yes, I live in the same house after college graduation that I did throughout my whole childhood. Not proud of it, but it is what it is, I guess.) I didn’t tell my mom what I was doing, didn’t tell anyone, just went out exploring by myself.

There’s a clear entrance to the woods on the end of the park closest to my house, an opening where the trees part and you can walk through without any difficulty. The ground dips down a bit where the rest of the park ends and the woods begin, and depending how much it’s rained sometimes there’s a bit of water there, but it’s not hard to get past.

I didn’t get very far the first time, though. Just a few feet from this entrance and the sometimes-stream beside it, there’s a chain link fence that blocks off part of the way--and more importantly, there’s a hole in that chain link fence that’s plenty big for a person to get through. On the other side of these strange, mysterious woods is... a strip mall. There’s a few fast food restaurants, a furniture store, a bunch of storefronts for sale. Nothing that exciting, really, except...

Okay, don’t laugh, but I’m really into Pokemon Go, even now. And that strip mall has a Pokestop in it--one of the places you go to get more items in the game. Dunno why, since there’s nothing that neat there, but it does. So for months I’d occasionally go through the woods just far enough to get through that hole in the fence, spin the Pokestop in the strip mall, and head back. I’m not exactly the most adventurous person out there, so even that was a bit of a thrill to me, especially knowing that it’d been forbidden back in my childhood.

At some point I noticed that the hole in the fence that let me cut through to the strip mall had changed--before it was just like a bit of fence had been torn out entirely, but now a metal bar around shoulder height was still in place, so I had to duck down when making my way through. Still plenty of space to get through, though, so it didn’t really bother me; it was just a bit odd, especially since I hadn’t seen any in-between stages where the fence got built up before being torn down again.

One day I was out walking my dog, Biscuit, and after I popped through the fence and back I decided to go further into the woods, see what I could find.

First off, I didn’t notice it so much when I was just ducking in and out, but while the area’s objectively pretty small, when you’re in the woods of Old Pines Park, it really feels like... well, like you’re in the middle of the woods. The foliage is dense, and there’s not too much to remind you of civilization besides that fence on the side and the occasional garbage wrapper.

Biscuit and I followed the fence along for a bit--I figured it’d be easy enough to find our way back with that as a landmark--and we found a decent-sized stream that must lead into the park’s pond, but where it comes from I’ve got no idea, since everything’s built up around here and there’s not much in the way of rivers. I vaguely remembered seeing the stream before, maybe that one time I went with a friend, but it was still an interesting sight. It didn’t look like some pristine bit of nature, though--the water was discolored, and the wrappers and similar debris I’d noticed before seemed to be clustered around the stream.

We kept going, and before too long I found a second hole in the chain link fence. This I definitely didn’t remember from my one foray into the woods in childhood. Looking through it, I saw a white building that looked pretty big, and kind of industrial? It was pretty nondescript, and I’ve forgotten most of the details of it by now, I just know it was big and white and I had no clue what it was or what could be inside, even though basic geography suggests it must only be a few blocks from my house at most. I thought about going through, but it looked like the sort of building where you could get in trouble for being on the premises without permission, and I wasn’t looking to get arrested for trespassing, so I just kept going.

I think this was about the time I checked my phone--I still had Pokemon Go open, I usually do whenever I leave the house, I’ve joked with my mom before about how convenient it is that I always have a GPS in my hand--and noticed that it wasn’t getting a signal. Specifically, the game still showed, but there were no features on the map, no Pokemon, nothing to indicate where I was. It didn’t say that it was having trouble with the GPS, though, it just... didn’t load the map at all.

The woods got thicker and denser as I moved on, and eventually there wasn’t much of a path left to follow alongside the fence as there had been. The only thing close to a path, inasmuch as I wouldn’t be attacked by tree branches if I followed it, led away from the fence and deeper into the woods. I figured what the hell, and I followed the sort-of-path further in, even though it took me away from the fence, from the one major landmark this place had.

I went kind of slow at first, but Biscuit kept pulling me along. She was loving it. Maybe she’d just gotten sick of taking the same path every walk and was glad for the chance to explore, smell new things, wander a bit. A few times I had to pull her back and remind her that while she could get through that tiny gap in the trees, I couldn’t, so we’d have to find another way around. (Biscuit’s a pretty small dog, so she’s good at fitting through narrow spaces like that.)

As I kept walking, the path, such as it was, got less and less clear, and I stopped seeing any garbage laying around, any signs that this place had been touched by human hands before. I had to do a fair bit of ducking and weaving to keep going without getting scratched up too badly, but Biscuit was so excited about the whole thing that I felt it was worth it.

Then the path went from hard to find to just straight up not there, and I went to turn around, and... I couldn’t see the fence behind me. I could swear we hadn’t gone that far--I didn’t think the woods were even spread out enough that we could go that far--but apparently we’d managed to leave the fence behind.

I did my best to backtrack, but it was slow going, especially since the “path” had never been an actual path with clear markings, just the way that was most devoid of trees that would slap me in the face. Also probably doesn’t help that I have a horrible sense of direction--that’s one reason I like having a GPS in my hand at all times, but the map on it still wasn’t working. Biscuit didn’t seem to get what I was trying to do but then, hey, that’s dogs for you, am I right?

I felt like I kept going in circles, like I wasn’t getting anywhere, and I still couldn’t see the fence, and I was succeeding less and less in my “don’t get scratched by stray tree branches” goal, and I had no idea where the entrance I’d gone through was from here, or the garbage-laden stream, or any other landmark I could use for guidance...

What I ended up doing was just letting Biscuit lead the way. I figure dogs have a good sense of smell, maybe their sense of direction is good too. She always seems to know which way to turn on our usual walks, too, so maybe this would be the same? At the very least, it couldn’t hurt... well, it could, but so could continuing to wander around aimlessly on my own devices. It sounds ridiculous, I imagine, but... I trust this dog, and I know she trusts me too, and I figured if I couldn’t get us back home, maybe she could.

And it worked. Not too long after I just did my best to give in to Biscuit’s pulling and let her be the guide, she led me in one direction, and sure enough, the fence reappeared, and I could see one of the holes in it in the distance.

You’d better believe we stayed right up against that fence for the rest of our trip in the woods, up until we stumbled back out of the entrance.

My phone buzzed right as we left the woods, and the map was back, everything displaying just fine. But as I looked at my phone more closely, I noticed the time on it was only three minutes after I’d decided to go further into the woods than I normally did. I don’t know how long I spent in there, but I am damn sure it was longer than three minutes.

Since then, I’ve gone back to only popping through to reach the strip mall, and even that I’m not doing as much as I used to... and last time I went to do that, the hole in the fence was different, with some metal wiring still in place near the foot of the hole as well as that metal bar. More importantly, though, there was a No Trespassing sign up. I don’t know how many other people know about the hole in the fence there, how many other locals have figured out that little trick, but I couldn’t help but think that sign was put there specifically for me. Still don’t feel like getting arrested for trespassing, so I just turned around and left, Pokestop be damned.

The sign only forbids crossing the fence into the strip mall, though. It doesn’t forbid walking deeper into the woods again.

And part of me wants to go back, to go even further into the woods. I want to see if I can find my way out the other end all by myself. There must be a way, right? I mean, that stretch of land only goes on for so long, it’s not that big of a park. I’ve been resisting the urge for a while now, but I keep thinking about it. I feel like it’s not a matter of if I’ll go back in the woods, it’s when. 

I wouldn’t bring Biscuit along, though. Partly because I want to see how much I could do without her help and without her pulling me through gaps I can’t pass through, but partly because... if anything happens to me when I’m in there, if I end up like that woman whose body got found in there all those years ago, I want to make sure Biscuit doesn’t get in trouble with me.

It’s one thing to take risks like that for yourself, but I wouldn’t do that to someone I love. That’s going a step too far for me.

Statement ends.

[everythingsablr]

The Wanderer

What happens when a Scout gets forgotten, presumed dead, further into the Titan forest than has ever been gone before?

And what happens when that Scout survives, thrives, even? Despite bearing a child that wasn't meant to be, especially not then.

This is the story of a teen born outside the walls, among the trees, knowing nothing but a life a hundred meters above the ground. And finding her way to these mythical walls her mother always told her about

The Wanderer is an in-progress, slow-burn OC/Reader Insert Attack On Titan fanfiction that as of yet has no set character of which the reader will end up with, though the choice will be between Hange Zoe, Jean Kirstein, and Levi Ackerman. Hit read more to read the prologue. ~2k words

PROLOGUE:

EXCERPTS FROM FLORA ALLAWAY'S JOURNALS CIRC. 831

WRITTEN ONE YEAR AFTER STRANDING.

The world had come back to me tinted in red. Upside down and quiet.

I liked the quiet.

You never hear it behind the walls. It’s too crowded. Too cramped and locked in.

I never liked tight spaces.

I guess that’s why I joined the Scouts. I was tired of being trapped like a rat in a cage.

I had found myself strung up in a tree, deep in the Titan’s Forest, deeper than we ever had gone before due to being chased down by multiple abnormals, for many days by horseback; my ODM gear the only thing keeping me up. I was alone. My horse's carcass was at the foot of the tall, tall tree I had somehow found myself in. It appears to have been squashed.

As I hang there, trying to remember where I was or how I had gotten there, I realize it is not silent. Not quite.

I can hear…. Birds?

Their gentle warbling is soft and beautiful, and I see a deer peering through the trees, maybe fifty meters away. This is unheard of within the walls, human desperation devastating any natural wildlife inside them. It’s prettier than the photos Erwin’s shown me, in the books we were never supposed to have.

Erwin…

The thought of him was what finally pulled me out of my reverie.

There were signs of a fight, struggle, everywhere, but far below me, I was.....unusually high. I found no corpses but plenty of blood, plenty of scrapes of my own including a nasty gash across my eye. I'm not that pretty anymore, unfortunately.  

‘I must have been thrown or tossed by a blast…’ I had thought to myself. So I gathered what I could from my horse and started searching through the trees.

I ran out of gas within hours. Food from my pack in days,

Hope in weeks.

My gear off of my horse and the lines out of my ODM gear allowed me to string my tent up high into the trees. And it was there, I planned out what I didn’t know would be the rest of my life.

And the beginning of someone else’s.

The treehouse was the product of six months of nonstop work put in by myself upon realizing that I had no way home. I was too far into the tall trees of the Titan Forest in the deep, deep southeast, with no mode of transportation. I was stranded in a sea of people-eating giants, and it became clear soon enough that no help was coming. They think me dead. I know that now.

A couple of the six remaining blades from my ODM gear were broken and turned into axes; my scout training along with my knack for hunting and gathering that I had picked up growing up in the small population of people in Dauper combining into pure survival tactics.

The sounds of my chopping down branches always inevitably brought a couple of titans but as time went on I became more and more accustomed to climbing trees, to the point where it became second nature. As easy as walking by the river.

Despite the name, the titans I came across were few and far between in the forest, never tall enough to reach me in the hundred-meter treetops; their arrival always preceded by an eerie, breath-stealing silence, as the birds and other fauna go into their own hidey holes.

Once at a certain height, though, I found they eventually lose my scent, and therefore their interest in me. It was rare that I ever had to jump from the trees to dispatch one, but if I did it was almost surely an abnormal. One that would just stand there for days, watching me. Almost seeming to...think. As though it were analyzing how it would be able to get to me. I didn’t like those ones, so they were dispatched with quickly. No one likes being watched. Especially by bulging-eyed freaks. It was four months into my new hell of a life when my stomach began to bulge, and I had to sit down, in my half-finished tree hut and fully realize where I was and what was truly going to happen.

Could I do this? Bring a child up in this world away from the world? Was that possible? Or should I…

The glint of green-tinged sunlight shining off the blade of my knife had drawn my eyes towards it, and as I got closer, I could see myself. Perhaps for the first time in many months.

My coiled red locks were thick and tangled, and my eyes, near the same shade of the leafy treetops above, are bloodshot and raw.

“I could end it all now. ‘ I had thought. I was tired. I was ready. I was so ready…

But when I grabbed that blade again, when I looked into it, looking for myself, I swear to you upon the Gods above Erwin, I saw you. I saw your stupid eyebrows and your steely gaze.

I saw your smile.

I felt your touch. And for a moment it all fell away and you were there with me, a hand on my stomach, feeling the baby kick for the first time. And I realize that I had to survive. I had to survive as long as it took for you to meet your daughter.

If you’re reading this, Erwin, you have. At least I hope that’s who is handing you this note right now. Pretty girl, hair as red as mine and eyes as sharp as yours?

She’s beautiful, isn’t she?

She’s smart. She’s sharp, quick, and everything you could ever imagine. And more. I hope you get the chance to witness it.

I love you, Erwin.

My knight in shining armor I never thought I needed.

Until the Gods bring us together again,

Flora Allaway

Year 847

Sixteen Years After Stranding.

Long, freckled fingers trace over the words written into the pages of the well-worn journal, salty, bitter drops dripping from the teen's face as she reads the journal for the last time where she was now sitting.

Morrigan was sitting on her knees in the middle of their home far above the ground, held up and of thick, woven branches, sixteen years of adapting and evolving turning the structure from something a little more than an unsteady shack- into a sturdy home, with walls made of wood planking, holes sealed in with mud, roof watertight with clay found from digging a bit deeper underground. They even had a small fireplace, and a chimney that chipmunks got stuck in quite often unfortunately for the critters, but fortunate for the women, who had enough to make gloves, and slippers, and even me out of.

The walls were lined with animal skins - over a decade of hunting and recording the local fauna.

Whitetailed deer.

Wild Boars.

Hares,

Even a fox or two.

Arrows made with owl feathers.

Grappling hooks made with ODM wire and antlers, there wasn’t a part of Morrigan’s wardrobe that wasn’t the skin of some animal that had sacrificed its own life for her and her mother to keep their own.

They learned to respect the forest that housed them because you can tell if you’re safe; based on the sounds of the forest. They’ll tell you if you should be quiet.

It had been a week since her mother had last come home. The longest amount of time by far. She was always back within two, three days tops. She had a caution to herself that Morrigan always teased her for, for her daughter was always almost a little too daring with her own life, always wanting to go further, whereas her mother preferred them to be safe.

And they were, for fifteen years.

It was soon after Morrigan’s fifteenth birthday, when they noticed a distinct shift in the Titans’ migratory patterns.

A titan or two would wander by inevitably around three to four times a week, usually coming from all directions, usually right after they would return to the trees after hunting or foraging, their scent being far enough to attract the monstrous beings. But, at one point in the early summer, something changed. Drastically. From the south. They all came, it wasn’t one massive rush, but enough of a stream to keep the forest quiet of all natural life for many days, weeks. By the time the birds started singing again, Flora and Morrigan’s cheeks were sunken in and they were lucky to be alive enough to hunt. Flora knew that something had happened. Something had happened to the Walls. She felt it in her soul. But she couldn’t go. She couldn’t take her daughter, no matter how capable she thought she was. She was just a child.

It was a year after the event her mother called “The great migration.” And they hadn’t seen a Titan in almost a month.

Which is just what made her mother’s disappearance so strange.

‘ Was now really the time where you weren’t careful enough, mother?’ Morrigan thought to herself bitterly, snapping shut the journal and tucking it to the bottom of her leather pack. The cloak she wrapped around herself was rabbit fur, waist-length and various shades of brown to near black, the hood entirely covering her face and wild mane of fiery ginger hair.

Her pack was filled with exclusively essentials, her waterskien strapped to her waist and her knives on various bodyparts, she stares at the two, untouched blades her mother had left. From all that time ago. Morrigan wondered why she’d never really used them, but had simply taught Morrigan how to at the ripe age of 12.

But she thinks she understands now, as she puts them in the sheathes she had watched her mother painstakingly take weeks making, sheathes that not only strap to one’s back and provide easy access, but don’t impede ones’ movement while swinging/running through the trees. As she’s about to step outside what she’s known as home for the past decade in a half for what she knows is the last time, she hears the silence. It’s deafening. She pauses, hand on the loop of twisted bark that served as their door handle, holding her breath as she pulled it open, not expecting anything immediately, but the eventuality of encountering a titan was enough to set one on edge. But when she opened the door, it was not green-filtered sunlight that met her. It was the disgusting, hot, wet breath of a Titan.

She felt her heart skip, once, twice, three times, processing what was before her in both slow motion, and the speed of light. It was between ten and twelve meters, it’s hair a ridiculous bang ordeal, with wide, accusatory brown eyes and a sneer upon its lips. It was disgusting. The thing  had climbed the wide-based tree across from their home, using that one to avoid shaking theirs. It was… stealthy. That was the only thing Morrigan could process before a massive hand was reaching for her. She threw herself through the door, knowing that if she didn’t, she’d be stuck and die for sure; her body inevitably being ripped apart and devoured by this vile creature

The grappling hook was swung, and it luckily hooked onto a tree branch, swinging her quickly behind the Abnormal and allowing her to perch just above it, unsheathing the blades and grimacing, eyes staring down its naked form with pity-laced disgust. For all she knew, this is the monster whose fault it was for her mother not coming home. It was that thought that launched her off of the branch, before the creature could even turn around and try at her again, she had done what her mother had taught her, and what those people behind those walls were supposedly “so good at.”

‘ One meter across ten centimeters wide…’ She thought to herself, as she slashed across the back of the Titans’ neck. She knew she had done it correctly when the thing slumped forwards, falling and hitting every branch on its’ way down. It had begun steaming almost immediately, and she crinkled her nose in disgust. “Good riddance.” She said softly, before shaking herself off and resecuring all of her things. This was going to be quite the journey. She wasn’t sure if she was going to find her mother or the fabled “Walls” first. But she knew she refused to die until she found both. The Wanderer is updated weekly on fanfiction.net and archiveofourown.org  and is currently two chapters deep, with many more to come.  I tend to forget about Tumblr so updates here will not be so frequent though I will try and remind that the chapters are up elsewhere. Have a good one and I hope you stick around!

[drlissahawthorne]

marked me like a bloodstain

Who: Clarissa Hawthorne & Charlie Hawthorne-Mills ft. Andrea Hawthorne-Mills

When:  Saturday, December 5, 2020

Where: Hawthorne-Mills home

What: Clarissa calls on the aid of her sibling-in-law to help her make sense of her jumbled thoughts from the night before.

Warnings: talk of past abuse

Word Count: 1650

Notes:  Part 3 of 3. Part 1. Part 2.

The first thing Clarissa did when she got to Andrea and Charlie’s place was take a nap. She’d spoken briefly with them about what had happened, figuring it was best not to worry them more than she was already liable to. Then, after she’d slept for nearly five hours, she’d set herself up in the basement recording studio, deciding she wanted to work through as much of what she’d tried to create the night before as she possibly could.

After about an hour of trying and failing to make sense of even a little of it, she called on Charlie. Charlie was a music producer and the kind of person who could understand the gibberish she’d come up with in her haste to dump out every part of her brain into words. Which is how the pair of them ended up sitting at the piano, staring at a cluttered mess of mismatched phrases across the multiple notes on Clarissa’s laptop.

“So, what exactly were you doing last night that this happened?” They asked with a soft laugh.

“Uh, I think they call it coping with trauma?” Clarissa groaned. “He was my last boyfriend, the guy that made me choose between him and my work.”

“Oh, and you ran into him last night?”

“Yeah,” She sighed. “It was a nice night and then I got home and it was like everything I’d tried to ignore and bury and move on from, came out. Like, I just couldn’t focus on anything else, and even then, I wasn’t entirely focused.”

“You’ve certainly come up with a lot in a short amount of time, it seems. Can’t say all of it will be worth something right now, but we can definitely feel it out, see what we come up with, y’know? I’m honored that you’re even letting me near this. I know you’re not looking to make music, but…” Charlie drug out the word and Clarissa bumped them with her shoulder.

“Don’t even go there. This is just me working through shit. If it turns into something worthwhile, then it does, but we’re not going there.” 

Charlie held up their hands. “I know, I know.”

For a while they just worked on picking apart different notes and rearranging them, creating new documents with better structure so that things really did resemble poems or songs, versus the madness that had spilled from Clarissa’s thoughts. Eventually, however, they managed to get it down to one document that they really wanted to dive into. It was still messy, but it had the first line that had really come to Clarissa in it.

“‘You drew stars around my scars, but now I’m bleeding.’ Good line, raw as hell too. So, tell me about this guy. Tell me how this came to be, what caused this?” Charlie urged with a soft smile. Clarissa’s face scrunched up, looking at the other words in the document, glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“So, we met in Pittsburgh, he’s a few years older than me, I wasn’t looking for anyone, y’know? I’d been kind of cast aside by every other lover I'd had. People not wanting to deal with the fact I was losing my eyesight. And he came along and he was sweet and caring and he made me feel wanted. Like I was someone’s favourite. Like I was his favourite. And We did all this stuff together and it was amazing. But, I was already hurt and I didn’t want to see that with every positive thing that came of our relationship, there was a knife marking me in such a worse way.” Clarissa shrugged a little. “He was horrible to me, but every time I doubted, every time I felt those insecurities pop up and I felt unwanted or unworthy, he made me feel amazing and wanted again. So I kept falling for it, for him. After every fight. Every unresolved argument. No one else really saw it, except for Jill and I refused to believe her. He was a typical abuser, if there is such a thing.”

Charlie just nodded as Clarissa spoke, copying and pasting and adding pieces to the document they were working on. They obviously had ideas and Clarissa found it absolutely enthralling to see them work. To see them in their element like this. Sure, they’d helped her work on the arrangement she used for the Riptide cover, but this was different. This was what they were really good at. Taking the bare bones of a song and fleshing it out. Making it grow and expand and become something real and tangible.

When they were done typing, they showed the screen to Clarissa. “This is what we’ve got, it’s a starting point. Let’s give it a melody and see where it takes us, yeah?” 

Clarissa looked it over, whispering the lyrics to herself, trying to get a flow for them. It was definitely something that needed to be slow, easy going. Melancholy in a melody. The idea of reminiscing, even longing, for something now gone and past. The pain of loss still lingering despite the years that had passed.

Before she could even really think about what she was doing, she was finding her bearings on the piano and then started playing one of the melodies she’d thought of the night before. It wasn’t the one that had been strongest, but it was the one that felt right. Like it was meant to along with whatever this song was. Something rather simple but complex in its emotions.

“To kiss in cars and downtown bars was all we needed, you drew stars, around my scars, but now I’m bleeding cos I knew you, stepping on the last train marked like bloodstain,” Clarissa started to sing. It wasn’t a beginning. It didn’t feel like one, but it was definitely something. Something that she could work with.

“Let me see that,” she motioned for the laptop and Charlie handed it over, watching her type away. “So, when we met, it was this big event and I’d gotten sort of dressed up, nice shirt, heels, lipstick, and I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Pittsburgh, but there is an unnatural amount of cobblestone. And y’know, there’s this weird visual I have of that day, the sound of high heels on cobblestone, vintage tee, I’d literally sent someone the message ‘new phone, who’s this?’ I’m pretty sure. Like it was just this really vivid day in my memory, and not just because I’d met him, but that definitely plays a part.” Clarissa explained before hanging the laptop back, her additions at the top of the page.

“That’s really cool as a visual, actually, can you start playing again?” They asked as they looked over what she’d written. She obliged and as they moved along to the melody they started rearranging what she’d written, once again turning her stream of consciousness into something resembling song lyrics. They then started to add more. “I like this visual of clothing and memories. Is there anything about him you can tell me that could work with that?”

Clarissa thought for a while, scrunching up her face a bit, fingers still idly playing the notes of what was definitely turning into a song. “Drunk, late at night, dancing. Probably fall, so he was wearing jeans, and being silly, he’d joke about kisses being the fastest way to heal a broken heart, some days I think he was right about that.” She laughed a bit, watching as Charlie continued typing.

By the time Andrea called the pair of them up from the basement for dinner, they were bubbling with excitement. They had something that actually resembled a song on their hands. It wasn’t anywhere near finished, but it was far more than they’d had when they started and it made Clarissa feel a lot better, both about herself and everything that had happened since the day before.

“Well, you two have certainly been hard at work, haven’t you?” Andrea teased as they set the boxes of takeaway down on the kitchen table. “I figured I’d be nice and order takeaway, so we could do something together while we ate and before I lost you both to the basement again.” 

“Sorry, I know I came over to hang out and have barely seen you.” Clarissa apologised and Andrea just shook their head.

“Please, I haven’t seen you this excited about something since… Lissa, it’s been years. You weren’t even this excited when you got the job in Brooklyn. I’m just happy this is turning into something good for you. There will be plenty of time to hang out and do things when this is done. I mean, you’ll be back in here in two weeks anyway, and then you’ll be here for a week and we can catch up and do stuff then.”

“But, we really should be nice and play a game with them while we eat, what do you say?” Charlie smiled and Clarissa nodded.

“I think we can do that, might be a good thing to give our brains a break, right?”

“I certainly think so, but you’re the one with the doctorate.” They all laughed as they dished food onto plates and got settled to play a game.

Two hours later, all three would find themselves in the recording studio as Clarissa performed, for the first time in full, a song Andrea had helped dub ‘cardigan’ and for good reason. It was a start to something, what that something was, Clarissa didn’t know, but what she did know, was that Jill, and anyone else privileged enough to hear it, would definitely like it. Maybe not as much as she did, but they would. It sounded a lot like healing to Clarissa, and that was something anyone who knew her would be able to get behind, or so she hoped.

[hollerace]

Mrs. Wahlstrom--Feb 5, 2021

How do you get into a fight the first time you see someone? When you’re the ripe old age of six? That’s the way it happened with Lloyd Tichey and me. We had just moved in to Midfield Avenue. I saw a kid across the street, playing between the two garages that took up the block. I crossed the street to inspect and got pelted with a clod of dirt for my trouble. I found a hiding spot and armed myself. After a brief fusillade, I poked my head out; so did Lloyd, who said, “My mom’s got iced tea.” Within first sips, our friendship was cemented. Lloyd was younger than I, not by much. He was a bit taller (who wasn't?) and better at sports and games. The surrounding streets were our arena, with plenty of kids and fewer cars. Were moms really allowed to drive? Not in our neighborhood. It didn’t take us long to confront a common enemy. Mrs. Wahlstrom lived next to me and anointed herself the personal enemy of kids having fun. She appeared regularly in attempts to quelch our enjoyment. Some of the games could attain high volume levels, particularly kickball. The sport was similar to baseball. An inflated ball would be rolled to the “batter.” You can figure out the rest. Four bases, hits, runs, enjoyment. Wacky Wahlstrom, as we called her, used her porch as her pulpit. Fortunately for us, she was a native Swedish (we guessed) speaker. Diatribes, accompanied by boney, croney finger-points, began with, “You keeds,” followed by screechy, unintelligible syllables, accented with various avian screeches, hoots and gabbling. Since she was a grownup, we didn’t sass her back, nor did we listen to her admonitions. Occasionally, a ball would find its way onto her porch. The nearest kid would race up there to retrieve the precious piece before she could confiscate it. Lloyd Tichey (pronounced “Ticky”) feared her least. He would march right up to Mrs. Wahlstrom and face her down until she surrendered whatever she had just nicked from us. One time, during a game break, I opined, “I wonder if there was ever a Mister Wahlstrom?” Several theories ensued. Lloyd’s stance was, “There was a guy, once. He musta killed himself.” We howled. Lloyd had an older brother, Barry, who was in my grade. He was quiet, virtually tacit, forever riding his bike down to Birch Creek to fish. An even older brother (Jimmy, I think) lived elsewhere. He was wild-eyed with bushy uneven hair and given to loud forms of addressing anyone. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING, TIMMY?” he would shriek as he raced from his car to the house. I never knew how to answer him. Mr. Tichey was a dapper, tanned, mustachioed man who travelled for work. His wife always looked furrowed; she seemed to worry a weathered washcloth in her hands as she walked about the neighborhood. She was followed everywhere by Baby Myra, a rotund little girl whose face needed constant swipes by her mom’s accessory. Their house smelled of cabbage. All the kids looked to Lloyd for leadership. He was a skilled organizer of games--a natural arbiter. If there was ever a problem, Lloyd seemed to rule. For a time, Dark Mark Longuiel, who lived down by The Field, started hanging around our street. He readily disagreed with anyone, and always seemed champing for a dispute. He even got mad at Ellen Botsford, who was far and away the prettiest girl who played with us. (Yes, we needed no Title IX; we just naturally went co-ed.). Lloyd Tichey got in his face. Harsh words, no blows, no Mark. As we grew, street play lost its popularity. We rarely saw Mrs. Wahlstrom. Once, when she was inching her ancient DeSoto down the driveway at a glacier’s pace, little Martin Botsford yelled, “Hey, Wacky Wahlstrom!” Lloyd immediately shut him down. “Leave her be,” he said sharply. Little Martin was already growing into quite the pain. But the little old lady seemed to fade into her dun, once-burgundy house. “She must have eighty Wiffle Balls in there,” remarked Lloyd one time. He remained an untitled leader in the ‘hood, but I was his consigliere, so to speak. Lloyd would ask me Big Questions. Many of these were about the aforementioned Ellen Botsford.

We were approaching the age where kickball dimmed in intergender activities. Most summer evenings, we played a game of Chase. This was a sort of an offshoot of the classic pastime, but much more hiding was effected as opposed to any seeking. I was just emerging from one of my favorite lairs, behind Crabby Creiner’s shed. I just happened to spy Lloyd Tichey and Ellen Botsford sneaking out of Muldoon’s lot, which provided excellent leafy cover. They were holding hands.

Wait! What? Suddenly, the rules of every game changed. Such manual interlocking was a brave, new world to a pre-shaving Catholic boy, at once exciting and terrifying. But Lloyd and Ellen? No way! No wonder all the questions.

I guess I liked some girls. There was a brief crush on Lisa Longborg, who was our eighth-grade lunch monitor. A veritable amazon at five-seven, she would camp at Sister’s desk while we ate on days too wet for recess. I would invent reasons to approach the desk while she sat there, imperious over her bologna-on-Wonder (pencil-sharpening was a good one), managing to sneak glances at her ever-burgeoning mammarial development. I wasn’t the only boy to attempt this ruse.

There was also the exotic, raven-tressed Ann Marie Pandolfo, whose glamour faded for me when she ironed a Paul Anka image on the back of her coat. This also garnered the disapproval of The Good Sisters.

I barely had the chance to recover from this tectonic shift in my life-views when another tremor hit. Lloyd announced that his family was moving up to Northfield, a suburb some ten miles north of town.

It seems Mr. Tichey had earned some sort of promotion at work, enabling his brood to improve their lifestyles. I was forlorn at first, then resigned.

The school year was bearable (Lloyd went to the public school), but that first summer loomed dusty, empty and stifling. There was the LAG (Lark Avenue Gang) for fun, just a couple of blocks away. Games of Chase still took place. Again I hid alone, noticing that more and more couples were pairing off.

My father even drove me up to Northford once to visit. The streets had no sidewalks or phone poles, with names like Chipshot Road or Rolling Mews Lane.

The Ticheys had a big, split-level ranch, a bigger yard. As neat as it was to see Lloyd, the entire scenario loomed disjoint, foreign. Even Baby Myra seemed clean, and the  house didn’t smell of cabbage

.I didn’t realize our city was slowly draining. People, stores and services were migrating. And a friendship faded, tattered pages of memories from a book hidden away on a musty shelf.

Not long after, I went off to Campion Prep; Lloyd ended up at Northfield High. I found the drums and Lloyd did the same for basketball. Our teams never played each other, for my school kept  an urban schedule. But the Despatch would cover Lloyd’s games, where his star would shine brighter as we neared graduation.

No sports legend, I even took Ellen Botsford to the movies once. She later ditched me for a Campion U. guy who had a sleek Honda bike. Who could blame her?

When I returned home after my freshman year at Sacre Coeur College, I fielded an odd phone call. It was from Mrs. Tichey. Her voice trembled as she told me how Lloyd had joined the Marines right after graduation. This unnerved me. I had thought for sure that a hoops scholarship awaited him. I asked for a way to get in touch. She gave me an FPO address. I wrote to him in vain.

Two summers later, I was rehearsing nightly with a local band, awaiting our maiden visit to a recording studio. One evening, a long Cadillac convertible pulled up to the house. Inside was Lloyd Tichey, in civilian clothes, but looking every bit the cut-and-pressed Marine.

Surprised, I hopped in, and we drove down to Lady’s, the seawall where Park Terrace met the Sound. It was his father’s ride, but Lloyd produced some cold Schaefers.

“I’m sick of this Honor Guard, shit, Timmy,” he began. An influential state senator from Northfield had arranged for Lloyd to secure this light-duty post at the governor’s mansion in Hartford.

“But, Lloyd,” I said, “this keeps you out of the war. Easy going.”

“Bullshit. Anyone can carry a flag. I’m a Marine; I want to fight.” I saw this was no time to voice my concerns over the Viet mess we had gotten into. His anger blossomed: sharp eyes, tightened features. I felt the tension.

We drank in silence. We both knew an argument was futile. As he dropped me off, we shared a brief hug, something we had never done as kids.

Our lives, like two opposing streams, changed courses, each divining its own path, surging forward in separate worlds.The ne

xt May, I read in the paper about Operation Georgia in Viet Nam. What made me notice was that the 9th Marines were involved. Lloyd’s unit.

I didn’t get a phone call. Reading the article in the Despatch galvanized my spine. I didn’t care about the heroes in Quang Nam province. But the article did include that a Lloyd Tichey of Northford wouldn’t be returning home. His remains, however, would.

I gleaned that there would be full military honors at Quantico, but not until a viewing was scheduled here in the city.My mom had sold the house by then, but on the day of the wake, I drove down Midfield Avenue. Why? An unseen force directed me down our old street. Maybe I wasn’t that surprised to see a cab pulled up next door to my old house.

I parked and walked over to the cabbie. “What’s the fare?”

“Some Mrs. Wallstorm. Goin’ ta Wolke’s funeral parlor. Sposta wait.”

I tipped him and told him to grab a better fare. Soon, she appeared on her porch. Hunched over like a question mark, she made for the stairs. I hustled over to help her. How old could she be? She seemed ancient when we were kids. I cradled her elbow as she descended.

“I gotcha, Mrs. Wahlstrom,” I said. She finally looked up, peering at me through veiled, powdery crinkles. I was afraid her arm, impossibly frail, would collapse under my grip.

“Oh,” she said, “leetle Teemy. We go see Lloyd, no?”

We drove the mile or so in silence. Every other time I had listened to her, she was yelling at me. This, somehow, seemed more appropriate.

My buddy, Juice Staley, worked at Wolke’s, so he procured a wheelchair for my passenger, who seemed grateful. We briefly stood beside the closed casket, bedecked with Old Glory. We were greeted by a forlorn Mrs. Tichey, looking uncomfortable in a dress. No husband in sight. She was propped up by Myra, now a young woman. I could see Mrs. Tichey’s washcloth lingering on a nearby chair. Jimmy, no longer wild-eyed, comforted Barry. The scene was fraught with an uncomfortable confusion.

 No one seemed to recognize Mrs. Whalstrom, and I saw no fruit in explaining who she was. Some folks, obviously from the suburbs, entered to pay respects. This eased my tautness. Mrs. Wahlstrom gave me a look that said, “Enough,” and we made our way out.

We passed a Marine officer, all gussied up in his dress blues. He said, “Folks, you might want to stay. We are having a color guard, and an armed salute…”

Mrs. Wahlstrom, still in her wheelchair, was having none of this. “YOU GO TO HELL, MEESTER! ALL YOU KNOW IS FIGHT! FOR WHAT? TO KEEL YOUNG BOYS LIKE LLOYD!”

The man bristled and said, “You best get her out of here, you damned hippie,” he said. I answered with a mock, left-handed salute.

All Mrs. W. could manage on the drive home was, “I guess I told heem!”

At her house, she said, “You come in for tea, Teemy. You must.” How could I refuse this?I had never dared to venture through the door before this moment. I was a bit frightened as I did so. “You seet, Teemy,” she said, leading me into a living room. I rested, cradled in comfy cushions bedecked with lace antimacassars. I could smell the furniture polish and soak in the patina of age that seemed to settle on everything.

Then, I shot out of my seat, drawn to an opposite wall. It was covered with decorations, almost a shrine. There were dreamed newspaper clippings (“Tichey Scores 38 in Tourney Win”); pictures of Lloyd as an All-Stater. Handshakes, trophies: a celebration of Lloyd’s career. Looking further, I could see clips from my Who’s Who in American Colleges honors. Even that shot from an old Billboard when they handed out those Sesame Street gold records.

I stood there, in awe (was it joy? terror?) as she brought in the tea. She sensed my questions as we sat.“

I had no keeds, Teemy. You and Lloyd--good boys. Noisy but good. So I follow you, like you was my own boys.”

As the murky, late-afternoon sun slithered through the blinds, I could hear the thump of a ball and the shouts of youth. I fought tears mightily.

Somehow, it all made sense.

[katastroficwriter]

Fic title, "vulnerable"? :)

vulnerable

Summary: Kiibo and Ouma should never be together.

Especially when exploring a decrepit high school with rotting floorboards.

In which Kiibo and Ouma dug themselves a deeper hole than expected when they accidentally crashed to the bottom of a run down school with no other way out.

Tags: Supernatural, Heart-to-heart conversations

                                         ———————————-

“So ghosts, am I right?”

“GAAAH!!! SHUT UP! STOP TALKING ABOUT GHOSTS! I DON’T SEE NO GHOST! GHOSTS AREN’T REAL! YOU PROBABLY JUST MADE GHOSTS UP!” Momota’s sudden outburst easily grabbed everyone’s attention from whatever conversation they were having..

The next thing they saw was the face-splitting grin that slowly took over the supreme leader’s face.

“What’s the matter, Momota Kaito-chan, “Luminary of the Stars”? Scared of a few ghoooooosts~?” he cooed mockingly. “Then again…you know what they say! The more terrified they are…the louder they howl. Wow~!  You’re such a big coward, Momota-chan!”

“SCARED? ME? Of-of-of c-course not! Why the hell would I b-be s-scared of something that doesn’t even e-exist!” the astronaut stammered, taking a couple of steps back. “And I’m no coward!”

“I beg to differ, Momota-kun. There have been countless traces of the souls of the dead roaming in plenty of villages I’ve visited in the past, ku ku ku…” Shinguuji added, waving his index finger a little. “It was truly a wondrous experience. I still remember it as if it were only yesterday.”

“See? Even Shinguuji-chan says they’re real,” Ouma snickered. “And that’s why I want to see them for myself!”

“I-It has to be a lie! You probably roped Shinguuji into this! As long as you’re involved, it has to be a lie!” Despite the strength in Momota’s accusation, everyone can tell how badly his legs were shaking like a newborn fawn’s.

“You’re just afraid of the truth, that’s why you always dismiss it as lies,” Ouma tapped at his lips with a deceitfully serene smile.

“Everybody settle down!” Akamatsu huffed, placing her hands on her hips. “Anyway…what’s with this sudden interest in ghosts, Ouma-kun?”

“Finally! Someone asking the right questions. I knew I can count on you, Akamatsu-chan~” Ouma waved his arms up and down with uncontained excitement. “You see…I wanted to propose a class bonding activity in the form of a test of courage!”

“A test of courage? Hah! I’ll ace that like how I aced my astronaut exam!” Momota slammed a fist against his chest, color returned to his face.

“After your shameful display? I highly doubt that,” the supreme leader made a show of flicking dirt off his nails.

“Ouma you bastard–”

“But a test of courage in Spring? Isn’t that a little…off-season?” Shirogane spoke, raising her hand. “Wouldn’t Summer or Autumn be a more suitable time for those kinds of things?”

“Oui, Oui! Shirogane-chan!” Ouma crossed his arms over his chest. “But you see, the abandoned Saishuu Academy would be demolished next month! We absolutely cannot afford to wait for Summer or Autumn!”

“Saishuu…Academy?” Saihara lifted the bill of his hat as he spoke. “Why there?”

“Huh? Is there something going on with Saishuu Academy, Saihara-kun?” Akamatsu tilted her head to the side.

The detective tugged his hat lower, “Um…none that I know of. It’s just…my great-great-grandfather used to go there during his time.”

“Exactly!” Ouma pointed at the detective. “Saishuu Academy is one of the, if not the oldest school in the entirety of Japan! It’s bound to house a lot of ghosts in it!”

“What makes you so damn sure about that, you gremlin? It’s not like people fucking died there!” Iruma scoffed.

“Shut your stinky mouth and listen, pig, you might actually learn something if you do,” Ouma slammed a hand on his desk.

“H-hiiee!” 

“The school has a clean record, sure. But I’ll have you know that Saishuu Academy was in fact built over an execution ground for criminals! A prison! There’s plenty of deaths on that land, that’s for sure!”

“Nnngh…you’re probably just lying again!” Yumeno pointed an accusatory finger at the leader, though her bravado was belied by her pale face. “Y-you’re just saying that to d-disrupt my mana flow!”

“Oh, but what Ouma-kun said is in fact true,” Shinguuji chuckled. “I even have records of it in my lab. I would present it to you all, however, it’s a very old record and thus very fragile to the elements. I do not wish to damage it.”

“S-stupid! This idea is stupid anyway! Why do I have to go through a test of courage when we already know how courageous I am!” Momota slammed his fists together. “G-ghosts or a-ayakashi, or y-y-youkai, they aren’t r-real and are just stories invented to t-torment the feeble-minded!”

“No need to be shy, Momota-chan, we all know you mean you,” Ouma smiled. “Anyway! If anyone wants to join in the fun, just go meet me and Kiiboy by Saishuu Academy’s school gate. I’ll only wait for 10 minutes. I’m entering the school whether or not you all come, just saying.”

“Wasn’t this supposed to be a class bonding activity?!” Chabashira raised a fist.

“That was a lie, really. I’m just making this announcement in case I die while exploring the place, nishishi! That way you’ll know where to look for my remains.” The leader hopped off his seat and approached the albino robot, who was currently sitting idly by the wall in sleep mode while he charged.  “Speaking of which, I really love nature so make sure you spread my ashes in the forest, okay?”

“B-bullshit! Stop fooling around!” Momota gritted his teeth.

“That aside…did Kiibo-kun already agree to this? I didn’t think he’d be the type to go on trips like this one,” Amami rubbed his nape.

“Oh, he doesn’t have a choice, really,” Ouma proceeded to poke and prod random buttons on the robot’s body. “I just needed something to take paranormal photos of! Kiiboy’s a machine, so he can definitely detect ghosts and print out a photo for us or two!”

“H-hey, you should stop messing with Kiibo, what if he blows up or something?” Momota shuddered had the thought. He still needed to go to space! There’s no way he’s going to die from an explosion!

“…Mmm? Huh? Up already? But I’m only at 79 percent…” Kiibo mimicked a yawn. “How did–”

“Morning sleepyhead~ Wanna go on a test and courage with us later?” the supreme leader flashed the android a toothy grin.

“O-Ouma-kun? Test of courage?” Kiibo’s brow furrowed as he began perusing the recording of the conversation which he slept through. “What for?”

“Just for some good ol’ class bonding,” Ouma tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. “You have no choice by the way, I only asked you for the sake of formality.”

The albino frowned at the remark after reviewing the entire conversation he missed. “You might as well have forgone the pretense of being polite, Ouma-kun. Go use your smartphone instead. After all, it’s still a machine which can also take photos.”

“Whaaat? No way! It has to be you, Kiiboy!” Ouma shook the robot by his shoulders, fake tears streaming down his cheeks. “Your flashlight function is way better than a phone’s! And you don’t need to hit a shutter just to take a photo! You’re more useful and convenient than any old smartphone for this!”

Kiibo paused at the unexpected praise. “…You’re just saying that to butter me up.”

“I’m nooot! I don’t just mean your camera function, I also mean your recording device! You can pick up subtle sounds right? Maybe you can pick up the messages of the dead too! That would be so cool! Come on Kiiboy, pleeeeeeease?” Ouma gave the android his best puppy dog eyes. “And didn’t the professor fix your shitty battery usage problem? That makes you even more useful!”

“Well…true…” Kiibo rubbed the back of his head, still a little weirded out from the leader’s behavior. “…Fine, I guess. But only to keep you out of trouble.”

“Yippeeeeee!!!” Ouma released the robot’s shoulders and started jumping around. “You’re the best, Kiiboy!”

“Kiibo-kun is so easy to sway as always,” Yonaga chimed.

“He still has a ways to go,” Hoshi tugged his hat lower. “He’s too soft, which is exactly why Ouma never stops bothering him.”

“That said, who’s going?” Amami asked, turning to look at the others. “I hardly know anything about the school since I’m almost always overseas, so I’m kinda curious about it. I’m going.”

“I will. I can’t help but worry,” Akamatsu raised her hand. “If something goes wrong, having more people around would make it easier to find help.”

“I will too! It would just be like Ghost Hunt! I’m so pumped!” Shirogane bounced in her seat excitedly. “I actually learned some basic warding spells from some monks for my cosplay research. If something does turn up, we won’t be completely helpless!”

“I’ll pass, this is a waste of time,” Harukawa played with one of her pigtails. “Not to mention dangerous. This is just asking for trouble.”

“I’ll pass too, unfortunately! I have to offer a special prayer for Atua tonight. I can’t afford to miss it,” Yonaga squished her cheeks together.

“I’ll go. I would love to do some recording of my own. Maybe I would be able to discover something new to add to the one I already have,” Shinguuji chuckled.

“Hyahaha! I’m cumming alright! I’m gonna take my ghostbusting gear with me!” Iruma grinned. “Ghosts or not, as long as I can test out my babies then it all checks out!”

“Gonta and Toujou-san are still away on a trip. It’s a shame that they can’t go,” the artist sighed. “Everyone seems so lively about the idea!”

“I don’t want to risk my entry in the next Tennis Tournament if I get in trouble for this,” Hoshi murmured. “Take care though. Don’t want any of you getting hurt.”

“That’s sweet of you, Hoshi-kun,” Akamatsu smiled.

“Well I’m not going! Tests of courage are nothing but a sneaky ploy for degenerate men to get handsy with girls!” Chabashira huffed.

“Mmmm…I’m going, I want to test out my exorcism magic I’ve been honing…” Yumeno rubbed her chin with a thoughtful look.

“If Yumeno-san is going then I will too~!!!” Chabashira pumped her fists in the air.

Saihara chewed on his lower lip before nodding to himself. “I’m going too. I’ve never seen its interior before, but I’ve heard rumors that it had plenty of secret rooms.”

“Wh–you too, Shuuichi?!” Momota gaped.

“It’s totally okay if you don’t come, Momota-chan! Just because your bestie is going doesn’t mean you have to. You don’t have to push yourself so hard,” Ouma cooed.

“Why I outta–”

BING! BONG! DING! DONG!

Ouma said nothing but smirked at the astronaut as he was literally saved by the bell, much to the other Ultimate’s chagrin. Their homeroom teacher entered a few minutes later, successfully ending their discussion about their plans later.

—————————————————-

“I’ll have you know that I’m leaving as soon as an hour is up,” Kiibo spoke as he carefully avoided stepping on rotten floorboards.

“What? Why?” Ouma stared at his partner in disbelief. “Don’t be such a spoilsport Kiiboy! Live a little!”

“Yes, I want to live, that’s why I do not want to stay here any longer than what’s necessary,” huffed the android. “I don’t want to worry the Professor for staying out too late. Not to mention this entire building is a hazard to everyone.”

“Tsk, fine, whatever. But you better get some good shots of ghosts you hear? I don’t want to leave this school empty handed,” Ouma pouted.

“That’s hardly something I can control, Ouma-kun,” Kiibo sighed.

Before entering the school premises, everyone drew lots for their pairs: Kiibo and Ouma; Shirogane and Shinguuji; Saihara and Yumeno; Chabashira and Iruma; and lastly, Akamatsu and Amami. It turned out that Momota’s evident fear of the supernatural made pairing up easy for everyone. They were all going to enter the school in that order, but they were free to explore any of the academy’s floors.

“Still, this really is a big school,” the android said with awe.

“Mmhm! It has tons of stuff in it. A church, a dormitory, clubrooms–” Ouma looked around the area, taking note of tattered and worn school festival fliers still posted on the cracked walls. “The land the property was on is really big, they were going to tear the school down and build a new mall.”

Kiibo looked at the fliers with dismay, “That’s…a bit of a shame. To have a place so full of memories get torn down for something like this.”

“Yeah. But time waits for no one. Money makes the modern world go round. Something abstract like memories don’t have economic value,” Ouma frowned, but eventually relaxed. “Anyway, detected any ghosts yet?”

Kiibo reviewed his memories and shook his head. “Sorry, still nothing.”

“Gahhh that’s so lame. How about we take the other way around?” Ouma huffed.

“N-NGAAAAAH! WHAT IS THAT? A ZOMBIE?!”

“Yumeno-san calm down! That’s just an old human-body model!”

“SAIHARA WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO YUMENO-SAN?!”

“Quite the loud bunch aren’t they?” the raven-haired Ultimate shook his head. “Maybe that’s why ghosts aren’t showing up. Maybe inviting them wasn’t such a good idea.”

“I think it’s better this way,” Kiibo chuckled. “The more the merrier, as they all say.”

“Nishishi! Maybe so,” Ouma huffed in amusement. “Mm? Hey, have we checked this room before?”

“Hmm…I don’t think so,” Kiibo looked up at the rusty signage above the dislodged door. “The library, huh.”

“Oooh! They probably have valuable books left behind, that’s a nice find. Let’s go in!” Ouma grabbed the android by his wrist, skipping through the doorway.

“Wait, not so fast Ouma-kun! The floor might give out–”

*CRACK*

“Huh?”

“Ouma-kun, hold onto me–!”

The floorboards had collapsed under their combined weight the moment they took their first step inside the old library. Down, down, down, they crashed. How many floors have they gone down exactly? None of them could keep count with both of their eyes shut tight. The only thing Ouma could register was the feeling of falling and strong metal arms wrapped around him protectively.

————————————————————-

CRAAAAAAAASH!

Akamatsu’s head perked up at the loud noise. “Oh no…”

As though reading her mind, Amami pulled out his cellphone and sent everyone a text.

‘Yell out your names if you’re safe. If you’re inside a room, get out so we can hear you.’

The pianist and the survivor nodded at each other before initiating the roll call.

“AKAMATSU KAEDE!”

“AMAMI RANTAROU!”

There was a beat of silence until the next person followed.

“YU-YUMENO HIMIKO!”

“SAIHARA SHUUICHI!”

“IRUMA MIU!”

“CHABASHIRA TENKO!!!”

“SHINGUUJI KOREKIYO!”

“SHIROGANE TSUMUGI!”

Silence followed.

“That can’t be right…where’s Ouma-kun and Kiibo-kun?” Akamatsu’s forehead creased with worry.

“That could only mean that they were the ones who crashed. We better look for them fast, they’re probably hurt,” Amami hastily tapped another message, telling everyone to meet up at the entrance hall. “Let’s go.”

“Okay.”

Akamatsu and Amami carefully proceeded towards the meeting place, mindful of their footsteps now more than ever. Shirogane and Shinguuji arrived at the designated place before everyone else, followed by them, and the others arrived shortly after.

“Ouma’s probably messing with us again,” Iruma scoffed, tapping her finger against her arm.

“I agree! What if he didn’t do his roll call on purpose to spook everyone after destroying part of the school!” Chabashira nodded.

“I don’t think Ouma-kun would do anything to risk his own safety,” Saihara murmured. “Not to mention, Kiibo-kun was with him.”

“Correct! Even if Ouma-kun decided not to do roll call, Kiibo-kun still would have done it himself,” Akamatsu’s brows furrowed in concentration. “Was anyone near the crash?”

“I was on the first floor with Shinguuji-kun,” Shirogane raised a hand. “We heard something crash nearby but we didn’t see anyone at all. If Kiibo-kun and Ouma-kun did fall…shouldn’t we be able to find them on this floor?”

“That’s a good point.” Amami rubbed his chin. “How close were you to the crash, exactly?”

“Not very close, but I can pinpoint us to its general direction,” Shinguuji raised a hand.

“Alright. Everybody stay close. We can’t have anyone else getting hurt,” Akamatsu took a deep breath and slapped her cheeks. “No use panicking! Focus, focus!”

“Shouldn’t we call the fire department for help?” Saihara asked.

“But what if they were taken by ghosts? No one would believe our story!” Yumeno interjected.

“Shh! Everyone focus!” Shirogane turned to look at the others. “Now’s not the time to entertain thoughts like that. We need to try looking for them first before calling the fire department.”

“I’m on board for that. We practically broke some rules just entering this shithole,” Iruma flipped her hair.

“We’re here. I’m not sure of the specific source of the sound, but it should be around here,” the anthropologist proceeded to tie his hair in a neat ponytail.

“Okay, let’s split the rooms among ourselves. Got it?” Akamatsu regarded her friends with a look of determination.

“Got it!”

Their search didn’t end up being completely fruitless when Saihara managed to locate a hole in the infirmary’s flooring. But that very same discovery led them to their next problem. If there was a hole on the flooring of the first floor…then where does it lead to exactly? They were met with darkness even after flashing their lights on the hole. Ouma and Kiibo should have landed on the first floor if not any of the floors just above them.

“This is a big problem.” Amami concluded.

————————————————————

“Ouma-kun. Ouma-kun, wake up.”

Ouma hissed in pain as he shifted to his side. “O-oww…what–what happened?”

“The floorboards collapsed from under us and we fell a couple of floors down,” Kiibo replied, helping the supreme leader sit up. “Take it easy, you have a slight head injury and a twisted ankle.”

Ouma instantly raised a hand to touch his head, only to feel his scarf wrapped around his head. “What floor are we on, exactly?”

Kiibo pursed his lips. “…We would be in the equivalent of the basement floor. I reviewed my memories and we already went past the first floor by a couple of levels.”

“The basement level? The map didn’t have anything like that at all,” Ouma withered in pain, resting his weight on the robot.

“That’s what I thought too. This was probably one of the secret rooms Saihara-kun meant,” the albino paused to point at the spot across them. “…Though judging by the look of those rusted iron bars…we’re actually inside an underground dungeon.”

“If it weren’t for the fact that I’m in pain and we’re currently stuck, I would have thought that this was cool,” Ouma groaned. “Tch. There’s no use texting the others, there’s no way there could be reception in a place like this.”

“…I’m sorry, Ouma-kun.” Kiibo looked down.

The supreme leader raised a brow. “For what?”

“If only I had the ability to fly, I could have gotten us out of this mess right away,” the android explained. “I don’t have the strength to carry you out of this room either.”

“You could have just explored the area, searched for the exit and then come back for me afterwards,” Ouma huffed.

Kiibo shook his head. “That’s a risky idea. I don’t want to leave you alone during a crisis like this. What if more of the school gives out? If I left, there’s a big chance that we’d be separated by debris and only one of us could get out.”

“That’s…true. Heh. I guess my head isn’t working as well as I hoped right now,” Ouma chuckled half-heartedly. “I’m…sorry too. I got us into this mess in the first place. I wasn’t being careful earlier, so we fell. We’re more or less even.”

Kiibo was taken aback by the sincere apology, but did not dare to comment on it. They couldn’t exactly afford to bicker during an emergency like this one. It was clear that Ouma was too hurt to put up his usual mischievous demeanor, too.

“I’m glad you were my partner.”

“Huh?” the albino stared at his companion in confusion.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ouma huffed as he slowly sank into a lying down position, resting his head on the robot’s cool lap. “If I had fallen with anybody else in our group, one of us would have already died; or worse, both of us would have just died and rotted together with this school. Look at you. It was a nasty fall, but all you have are scratches. You really are something, huh.” He grinned up at the albino.

Kiibo chewed on his bottom lip, a little embarrassed from the praise. “I don’t mean this in an offensive way, but–”

“Go ahead and say it.”

“Okay.” The albino took a deep breath. “Ouma-kun, did you rig the pairing lots so that I would be paired up with you? You did point out all of the convenient tools and functions I had for your exploration idea…”

Ouma simply chuckled in response. “You probably won’t believe me, but that was all luck. I never really cared about who you get paired up with, I just wanted the ghost pics.”

“I see…I thought just as much,” Kiibo nodded along. “I wonder if…the others are looking for us right now.”

“They are. You’re with me after all. If it were just me alone, they probably would have just left me behind,” Ouma sighed nonchalantly. “Then again if I were alone, I’d already be dead. Nishishi!”

Kiibo frowned. “Even if you were alone, we would still look for you, regardless of whether you’re dead or alive.”

“And what makes you say that, Kiiboy?”

“We’re friends, Ouma-kun. If such an obvious answer wasn’t clear to you, then you probably need to rest as much as you can right now,” the robot’s frown eased after finishing his sentence.

“Heh…I guess I can do that,” the raven-haired Ultimate shifted in his position a little, careful not to aggravate his aching leg as he did so. “I don’t wanna sleep in a shithole like this though, so you and I are going to be talking for quite a while until we get rescued.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Kiibo smiled.

Being stuck in a very deep hole was probably the worst time to start getting to know a person more. But since that person is Ouma, a crazy situation like this is probably the only thing that could get him to talk sincerely. From his love for shounen manga to his hobbies, these were all things Kiibo had hoped to learn from the supreme leader at school and not in some hidden dungeon.

“Kiiboy, can I level with you for a moment?”

“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing for a while now?” Kiibo lifted a brow.

“Just shut up and listen to me,” huffed the other teen.

“Alright, sorry.”

Ouma released a sigh before speaking. “…I honestly think I’m going to die here. But even if I die, surely you won’t. That’s why I want you to record something for me.”

“…You mean a will?” Kiibo’s forehead creased with worry.

“Haha! Not quite,” Ouma shook his head. “Just some things I wished I was able to tell everyone before we both got into this mess. A confession of some sort.”

“Ouma-kun…”

“I want you to show it to everyone in the worst case scenario,” Ouma continued. “But if I ever survive this, whatever I’m going to say is going to be just between you and me. Understand?”

“Y…yes, I understand,” Kiibo nodded, though his worry was still very much present on his face.

“I’ll start now, ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“Then I guess I should start about my parents…”

——————————————————————-

It had already been more or less two hours since Kiibo and Ouma crashed. The firemen struggled with trying to figure out how to pull them out from such a deep and dark pit. The realization that their two classmates had fallen lower than what they had expected brought chills down their spine. It took the firemen another hour to finally be able to rescue the missing Ultimates, much to everyone’s relief.

The EMTs carefully strapped Ouma to a stretcher and ushered him into the ambulance so they could take a better look at his wounds. Everyone then got off with a heavy scolding both from the rescuers and their respective parents for doing something dangerous without even contacting an adult. Though for Kiibo’s case, he was praised right after for his quick thinking during the emergency, otherwise the supreme leader would have been in a critical state.

“I hope you all learned a valuable lesson from this experience,” a fireman huffed.

“Yes, sir…” the teens all responded in unison.

“Let’s go home and get you fixed,” Iidabashi gave his son’s hair a ruffle. “Also cleaned up, you’re terribly dirty.”

Kiibo’s gaze lingered at the ambulance before turning to look at his father. “…Okay.”

The premises of Saishuu Academy was completely locked down the next day in light of the incident during the previous night. Both Kiibo and Ouma were sought after by the Newspaper Club, determined to secure an exclusive interview from them regarding their experience of being trapped. Unfortunately for Ouma, his twisted ankle prohibited him from escaping their pesky advances. And just as unfortunately for Kiibo, he still had the stamina of a senior citizen, but his father did improve his strength in order to assist him in emergencies.

“Ouma-kun, may I speak with you for a moment?”

It took Kiibo about two weeks before he could muster the courage to talk to the raven-haired Ultimate. They had to keep a facade that things were back to normal after all.

“Depends on what you wanna talk about,” Ouma leaned against his chair. “If it’s about that then no. I don’t want to hear anything about that stupid school anymore.”

Kiibo shook his head. “It’s…kind of related, but it’s not about the incident.” He pulled out photos from one of his pockets. “I thought that maybe…you needed to see this.”

Ouma lifted a brow, curious, as he accepted the photos.

The android shifted in his place. He specifically chose to speak to Ouma today since everyone was out eating at the cafeteria and the supreme leader had slipped away from the group not completely unnoticed. It was the only chance where they’ll have some form of privacy during school hours.

“UWAAAH! WHAT THE HECK! THAT’S SO CREEPY!!!” Ouma shuffled out of his seat in a panic, haphazardly throwing the photos on the table.

“…You did say you wanted photos,” Kiibo murmured as he picked the photos up. It was a photo of his memory during the incident; specifically the time right after they landed in the hidden dungeon. For a brief moment, he had caught a glimpse of a woman cradling Ouma–she disappeared as soon as he blinked though. That was why he wasn’t able to record her face in high definition.

“Y-yeah! But not when it involved me!” Ouma pointed an accusatory finger at the photos in the albino’s hand. “Have an exorcist burn it!”

“But Ouma-kun…” Kiibo shuffled through the different photos and picked one out to show the other Ultimate. “I think…it’s your mother.”

Ouma’s eyes visibly widened at the photo. It wasn’t taken inside the dungeon, no, the setting was entirely different. In fact, it was right when Ouma got brought inside the ambulance. A translucent woman stood waiting outside of the ambulance. Thanks to the lighting, her face was properly recorded. Even more so when she was looking right at Kiibo, giving him a wave. 

Jet black hair, soft, lilac eyes…

Her features alone were a dead giveaway that she couldn’t be anyone else but Ouma’s mother. 

Ouma shakingly took the photo from the android, this time staring at it with awe instead of fear. “…It’s really her…”

“Yes. That’s why I thought that you needed to see this,” Kiibo scratched at his cheek nervously. “…Do you really want to have these burned?”

Ouma let slip a sincere smile, “…Maybe not.”

Kiibo perked up, pleased to be able to make him smile.

Bonus:

“I’m only keeping this one. Buuut—!” Ouma snatched the photo of the hidden dungeon and showed it to the android. “You definitely have to show this to Momota-chan!”

Kiibo shook his head, “I don’t see why you need to–”

“Show me what?” both Ultimates turned their heads to face the astronaut.

The android paled at the very sight of the grin that took over the supreme leader’s face.

“Kiibo showed me this really cute photo he took on the way to school! And I thought you’d like it too!” Ouma chimed, slightly limping his way towards the taller Ultimate to hand him the photo.

“Momota-kun, wait–!”

Alas, Kiibo’s words fell on deaf ears.

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!!”

“Nishishi! So ghosts, am I right~?”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, OUMA!!!”

———————

If you’re wondering why I never explained what those memories were…that’s because Ouma survived. Kiibo’s not obligated to show you what it was.

[lilibetts]

The E(X) Files

S1E01: Descent Into Eldervair

“Welcome to Eldervair Court, please enter your code now,” the pleasant, computerized female voice prompted. Betty groaned, because of course she had stopped the white Toyota Highlander too far away to reach the keypad. In her defense, this car was given to her by the Bureau as a part of her cover and she'd only been driving it since this afternoon. The thought of the mountains of paperwork she'd have to fill out if she so much as scratched its paint filled her with dread.

“Please enter your code now,” the recording prompted again. Was it her imagination or did the recording sound exasperated? Betty cracked the driver's side door open a fraction and leaned through the window to punch in the numbers she had memorized the night before.

“Please enter your co-- Welcome home, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I don't think I'll ever get tired of hearing that, do you, Snookums?” The sardonic male voice piped up from the passenger seat.  

Betty breathed through her nose, silently counting down from ten before she turned to glare at her pretend husband for the next few weeks. Agent Forsythe Pendleton Jones (“the third, unless you have a daddy or necrophilia kink”), aka Jughead, was partially slouched in the seat.  He no longer sported his ever-present crown beanie, though Betty wouldn't put it past him to have it stashed in a box somewhere. For someone who had his head covered most of the time, his hair looked criminally good.

And Betty had a right to complain- the humidity had made her hair wavy and frizzy. Inherit her mother's 'great hair' genes, she did not.

“Speak for yourself, Buttercup.”

Jughead wasn't Betty's usual partner, but Kevin was taking a well-deserved vacation. (His reaction, when he found out Jughead and Betty would be partners? “Oh dear god, there'll be no self-restraint there. None.”). Jughead didn't have a usual partner; he'd been heading up the X-Files division on his own in his tiny basement office.

She wasn't sure if she'd been partnered with Jughead because she was one of the few agents who didn't make fun of him, either behind his back or right to his face, or because her superiors were tired of her go-getter personality and quick close rate on cases.  Or they had decided 'who better to pretend to be husband and wife than two agents who used to be married to one other?'

Barely sparing a glance at her ex-husband fidgeting in his seat, Betty moved the gearshift back into 'Drive' and steered the vehicle through the now open gates.

Eldervair Court was a massive, walled community in upstate New York— built into a partially cleared section of Fox Forest. As they began to make their way down the winding drive, the multitude of trees gave attractive cover, but nearly blocked out the sky entirely. Given that the weather that day was overcast with gray skies, Betty was immediately unsettled by how isolated she already felt from the world beyond the walls.

The trees faded away just enough to reveal rather enormous but attractive red-brick houses, each on top of a sloping grass hill, with stone steps and pathway leading to the front door. Georgian architecture, Betty thought. Maybe revival, maybe original. Just how old was this community? They hadn't been able to figure out when Eldervair Court was incepted.

The houses were all completely identical; the lawns perfectly manicured with attractive rows of rose bushes. Not a single speck of what might be termed 'character' could be found. They looked, for lack of a better word, perfect.

It gave Betty war flashbacks to her own childhood.

“These aren't houses,” Jughead muttered, right leg jiggling anxiously as he stared out the window. “These are mini-mansions.”

Betty frowned, the surrealism getting to her. “Yeah, I wouldn't say it's all very Stepford Wives, but...”

“More David Lynch's Blue Velvet meets Tim Burton?”

“Something like that.”

As she turned into the driveway, Betty spotted an expertly coiffed redhead in a black sleeveless blouse and red palazzo trousers standing up on the porch with a ruby-red grin on her face. Clearly she was the welcoming committee.

“Showtime,” Betty muttered as she plastered on the smile she'd learned from Alice Smith Cooper.

“It's almost like meeting your mother all over again,” Jughead groused under his breath, eyes trained on the woman on their new porch. Betty didn't even dignify that with a glare.

As they exited the SUV, the moving truck with two other agents backed up into the space next to them. The weather here was still warm for late September, so Betty had dressed semi-casually according to a popular Fall Fashion Pinterest board and Jughead wore a nice pair of new black trousers and a blue sweater that did fantastic things for his eyes.

(She'd given him that sweater several Christmases ago.)

The redhead sauntered up to them on towering red stilettos. “Bonsoir, Fletchers!” She trilled. Now that they were closer, Betty could make out the shape of the woman's broach— it was a spider.

"'Will you walk into my parlour?' said the Spider to the Fly.

She was met at the top of the driveway by a petite pink-haired woman, this one dressed in all black and floral platform ankle boots. Once she struck the perfect couples pose, the redhead addressed Betty and Jughead: “Welcome to Eldervair Court, we're the Topaz-Blossoms and yes, we're domesticated lesbians.”

“Cheryl,” the pink-haired woman scolded lightly, the soft smile on her face telling Betty she was used to her wife's dramatics.

“Sorry TT, I didn't mean to engage in bisexual erasure. 'Domesticated lesbians' just has a better ring to it. Forgive me, mon amour?” Their noses rubbed together in an Eskimo kiss before Cheryl remembered her new neighbors existed. “As you can see, EC is a progressive, open-minded community, as long as you keep your lawn up to regulations!”

Sensing that Jughead was about to make a sarcastic comment, Betty beat him to the punch. “That's wonderful! I'm Juliet and this is my husband, Holden,” she introduced them, patting a hand on Jughead's chest to warn him to watch his mouth.

And also sell that they were definitely a married couple, not a pair of divorced FBI Agents. Nothing to see here, let's move on.

“I'm Toni,” Pink Hair said with a small wave. “Cheryl and I live two doors down, next to the Andrews'.”

Cheryl clapped her hands. “Now that we've dispensed with the niceties, since you two took your sweet time arriving, we're going to have to hurry if you're going to make the six o'clock cutoff.”

“Cutoff?” Jughead frowned. Glancing down at her phone, Betty saw it was 4:51.

“The six o'clock cutoff? All move-ins must be completed by 6 PM. It's in the R&Rs.” Cheryl intoned, as if that ought to have been obvious.

Toni at least had the grace to look regretful. “Yeah, you're really going to need to brush up on the Rules & Regulations. They're the price we pay to keep this community successful.”

“We'll definitely read it through carefully,” Betty promised. “It's just been so busy lately, what with the move and all...”

Cheryl had already whipped out her phone and her thumbs flew over the screen. “I've conscripted some of your new neighbors into helping with the unload. With my superior delegating skills, we'll have you moved in in no time at all!” With a flip of her hair over one shoulder, she was off, barking out orders at the people crossing the street towards them; Toni made a beeline for the moving van.

Betty and Jughead shared a look before they made their way to the front door. In front of the columns on either side of the porch sat two statues, their grotesque features seeming to leer at her. Gargoyles. They were gargoyles. A shiver made its way down her spine.  Keep it together, Betty, she told herself as she slid the key they'd been sent into the lock.

From the entryway, the view of the home was magnificent, there was no other word for it: high ceilings, paneled walling, and tall windows that let in plenty of light. There was a sweeping staircase and the hardwood floors looked to be dark maple and wide planked.  Jughead curled a proprietary arm around her back, resting his hand on her hip.

“Now, Lambchop, what do you think? Is this the place for us or what?”

They'd lived in a tiny two-bedroom in Queens, a paradise before Jughead's undercover gang assignment destroyed them from afar.

“It's right out of a dream, Bugaboo.”

Tap-tap-tap-tap. Shaking off her sudden melancholy, Betty turned at the sound of heels on hardwood on to face Cheryl's approach. “This place is downright immaculate,” she pretended to gush. “I would love to send the previous owners a Thank You note.”

Cheryl made a disinterested noise. “Whatever suits your sensibilities, Juliet dear. You can give it to me and I'll send it on to them,” she said with eyes downcast, pretending to study a scuff mark on the floor.

No, you certainly won't, Betty thought with a vicious stab of satisfaction at catching someone in a clear lie. Because Dilton Doiley was dead and his wife, Ethel, had gone missing.

A steady stream of people with boxes started coming through the open door. In the distance, Betty could see their undercover movers unloading the first of their carefully selected furniture. Now, there was a job: join the FBI and use your interior design degree to stage undercover agents' homes to help sell their cover.

“So,” Cheryl carefully enunciated. “What is it that you do?”

“Oh, I'm the social media manager for an event planning company in the city and Hols here is working on his third novel.” Betty beamed with pride at her pretend husband's achievements. Thanks to Amazon and Kindle Unlimited, it was disturbingly easy to backstop Holden Fletcher's novelist career in such a way that it was believable that the couple could afford to live in Eldervair Court.

The Bureau hired out-of-work English Majors and MFA degree-holders to do things like this, too.

Cheryl made another noise, clearly not impressed by what it is that they do.

That's when it got a bit weird. A redheaded man, who had been introduced to them as 'Archiekins' by his immaculate wife in pearls and a dark plum sheath dress, shouted out the time.

“5:40!”

The stream of neighbors turned into frenzied rapids. Before they knew it, all the boxes were inside, as well as the furniture, if not in the exact room they belonged. By 5:58, everyone was exiting the house with words of welcome and half-formed plans to have dinner tomorrow night.

“We'll leave you to it. Toodles, Neighbors!” And with that, Cheryl closed the door with a flourish behind her.

“Dear god,” Betty groaned, shoulders slumping.

“Yeah, nothing weird going on here at all,” muttered Jughead before he turned away from the front door. “Hold on, you didn't let me carry you over the threshold—“

Betty simply rolled her eyes and made her way toward the kitchen. They'd brought two coolers full of food to last them until they could go grocery shopping tomorrow. The Bureau had only intended to give them one, but Betty had renegotiated the second, knowing what kind of appetite Jughead had. She wanted to get the perishables into the fridge before it was too late.

She stopped short when she caught sight of the two items on the granite countertop. “Ju-” she caught herself in time. “Sweetie, come see what our neighbors left us!” she called out.

In less than two seconds she felt the heat of him at her back. “Well, wasn't that nice of them?”

Next to the enormous, spiral-bound binder that proclaimed 'Eldervair Court: Rules and Regulations' on the cover, was an ivory box with two detailed black-and-white creatures stenciled onto it. Inside the ornate red frame, written in Gothic lettering were the words:

Gryphons & Gargoyles

[theanimeview]

The Summer of Online Anime Cons - Review!

By: Peggy Sue Wood | @peggyseditorial​

OKAY. This review has been way overdue, but in my defense, I wanted to wait until Summer was officially over, and for me, that meant the Crunchyroll Expo needed to happen before making this post. So let's get into it:

This summer, in addition to the Big Three Anime Weekend (where people could attend Anime Expo Lite, Funimation Con 2020, and Aniplex Online Fest all at once), we also had Comic-Con, the Virtual Crunchyroll Expo, and several other small conferences happening online like the Toonami special. 

The events I "attended" happened to all be free (woohoo!), and to be perfectly honest: I LOVED it. I hope that they have more virtual conventions like these in the future.  It's not because I don't love in-person and live conventions. I mean, anyone that knows me personally knows that I love conventions, traveling, dressing up, and more. I am a massive nerd for literary/professional/writing conferences and actively seek them out to attend throughout the year (if not present at them). I love anime conventions just as much and see them as a way to geek out with people from all over the world who share the same interests I do (and often know the niche anime/manga/webcomic/etc. that so few of my regular friends know about or have any interest in seeing!). 

However, I think that Anime Expo has seriously fallen apart in recent years. It's something I've been more than vocal about in the past, like last year. Last year, as much as I did have fun, the convention space was overly crowded. AX is one of the largest anime conventions in the US, and overcrowding isn't unexpected given the size of it; however, since 2017, the convention has gone from simply full/crowded to claustrophobia-inducing. Enough so that someone like me, who had never felt claustrophobia before in their life, became overwhelmed and physically ill due to the number of people touching me on all sides as we attempted to shimmy down packed hallways. As a reference, I usually love enclosed and or crowded spaces--like, my mom and I frequented packed swap-meets as a child that I loved navigating. I also grew up with six older siblings, in a home next to Disneyland... so, like, crowds are not an issue for me, which is why I never expected to feel the level of anxiety I did in that horrible 2017 crowd, which repeated in AX 2019.

Add on to that panel experience: whereas before people could and would regularly slip in and out of panels with lines sometimes being outside the door for smaller rooms with more popular content, now the lines for most programs are often placed outside, in the heat, with attendees asked to line up sometimes hours in advance to have even a chance of attending. To my knowledge, Sakura-Con and several other conventions I've gone to in the last few years don't have that problem, and it's a fair guess as to why but let's leave that topic for another day.

By comparison, the virtual convention was a breeze! Yes, sometimes I had to sacrifice going to one panel over another, but who hasn't had to do that at conventions before? Ultimately, I could enjoy the panels from the comfort of my own home in PJs. I didn't need to worry about food, overheating in the sun, or finding the bathroom while at my house. I didn't get to meet new people (😥), but I did get to "attend" with friends of mine that can't go to conventions regularly for health reasons.

My major criticism of the virtual conventions can be summed up pretty easily. One issue I found was that the scheduling of three digital-conventions in one weekend was far too tight, but that was quickly mediated by the Funimation and Aniplex groups banding-together and merging the events so that Day 2 of FC2020 was a split with AOF2020. Another criticism I had is the lack of shopping--but I'm sure my wallet and bank account were relieved to find that I was much too entranced in panels to care about putting my cards through a ringer. I thought I would be upset by panel cancellations, but since virtual conventions are new and since panel cancellations happen at live conventions too, I can't say I'm all that upset by them. Not to mention how easy it was to handle such cancellations online when you have many more panels to attend freely.

What was probably most upsetting was, at times, the layout. Of all the conventions, I think AX and Comic-Con did the best job with panel layout. AX used Twitch live streams, YouTube, and a handful of unique call-in panels that were easy to navigate. More frustrating was the ever-changing schedule times at AX, but that happens (mainly when you are one of the first conferences navigating the online-field and thereby making all the first mistakes). Ultimately, it was EASY to get to the right "room" for the right panel. It helped too that their schedule was frequently updated, so it was rarely a question of "which room?" and "when does this thing start?" Comic-Con, which featured all their panels on pre-scheduled youtube posts, was similarly easy to navigate and enjoy. Frankly, I preferred the use of YouTube as Comic Con's primary platform for distribution more, but that's just because I enjoy being able to go back and rewatch things later.

Funimation and Aniplex suffered a bit by not updating their schedules consistently. For example, Funimation kept listing panels for Day 2 in the room merged with the Aniplex Online Fest live-stream, leaving me (and I'm sure a few others) to wonder what in the world happened to all those disappearing panels. Though, I'm sad to say that Crunchyroll Expo had it way worse. Their different "rooms" attempted to allow for many panels and multiple languages, and it suffered due to the way they handled this, among other complications. The way things were labeled for different languages meant you either had to search through the individual tabs to make sure you wouldn't miss anything, or sift through all of it at once. There was no in-between. You also wouldn't know which panel was whereafter it aired, meaning things got lost easily. Sometimes I wouldn't even know what panel was canceled, rescheduled, or entirely overlooked by me! This issue is difficult for me to find acceptable, as the Crunchyroll Expo happened months after other conventions and had arguably more time to review platform options and layouts for their digital conference. It almost felt like they were aiming for a "different just to be different" feel ultimately at the cost of user experience, which is crazy since Crunchyroll is one of the largest online anime streaming platforms in the US abroad. It would have been better for them to publish their pre-recorded panels similar to episodes of a show that people could scroll through than the disorganized mess that their expo "stages" tried to do.

With that said, let’s focus on content. 

Panels were the main focus of these conventions (obviously), and content-wise, they did NOT disappoint. AX hit HUGE on the industry panels from major licensing and publishing companies in the US and Japan. They also had the most in terms of interesting focuses. There was a healthy mix of fan panels, culture panels, industry panels, and such, meaning someone could find something of interest in nearly every hour. In fact, at the time, Casea (@madamekrow) and I were in a real panic about how to watch everything we wanted to watch. You could tell that a lot of thought had gone into making this thing work given how quickly they had to switch from live to digital, and I appreciate that. FC2020 and AOF2020, by comparison, were not as reliable in terms of those profession-based and fan-based panels, and given that they are mainly licensers of anime rather than convention planners, it makes sense. They were also up against a convention with a long history (BTW, AX celebrates 30 years in 2021). That's not to say they didn't come to the table without the cards. 

FC2020 brought it home with premiere screenings of animes to come. My favorite of their premiere list is By The Grace of The gods, set to come out in October of 2020. Meanwhile, AOF2020 lacked premieres, professional and fan-based panels but made up for it with entertainment of a different kind. They hosted all-night marathons of popular works they license, held a digital concert, and unintentionally perhaps, generally gave a place to "chill" between the stressful jumping from panel to panel. In conclusion of the Big Three Weekend, they gave the summer a phenomenal start!

Next up is Comic-Con. In my opinion, their panels were heavily movie-based as opposed to print-media comics, manga, or anime. Yes, of course, there were plenty of comic panels too, but they weren't the same as what we saw during AX, FC2020, or AOF2020. The feel was different--maybe because of content. Regardless, it was interesting. I enjoyed much of the industry-related panels, like "Manga Publishing Industry Roundtable" and "How to Thrive as an Indie Comics Creator Now!" (I mentioned before I'm a publishing nerd, right?) Perhaps most preferable to me is that the Comic-Con panels are still available on their YouTube channel, which means that unlike many other conventions, I can share the panels with friends interested in a particular series, subject, or person. I LOVE that. Share-ability is huge, and I think Comic-Con was smart to make their content available moving forward. It has certainly been great for my film-loving friends and our team members here at The Anime View (like Jenna @jkmorgan-media​).  

Lastly, Crunchyroll Expo. What can I say about this one? The panels were huge variables. I know that everyone on our team found them to be a mixed bag, myself included, as Crunchyroll opened up to fans hosting panels. This was great, in my opinion, but with that comes a bit of criticism. Some fan panels were polished, exciting, and engaging. I loved many of the mecha panels. I also loved some that were engaging discussions of a topic between people that were close friends. HOWEVER, with that came just as many who were new to public speaking, hadn't prepared much of anything and just recorded an awkward Zoom call, or worse (it's hard to describe how).

As for the smaller conferences like the mini-Toonami Con during Adult Swim’s digital conference, I don’t really have anythings specific to say so I’ll be leaving them out of this review. 

I don't want to shoot down any of the fans that hosted panels despite this negative review. It's HARD to present at conferences, and for some, it's even harder when they know they are being recorded. I remember my first conference where I stared at my paper the whole time and had to be asked to raise my voice twice for people to hear, while my friend aimed my phone at me to record the mortifying presentation for my mother. I don't blame the people that had a hard time doing this, and I fully support Crunchyroll for giving fans, particularly young ones, the platform and experience to do this. Some of those panels were very interesting, despite the presenter's awkwardness. Controversially, the handful that made no effort (and you could tell which), I don't extend that empathy.

For me, panels quality has nothing to do with camera work, lighting, or even sound in some cases (for the most part, as long as you can hear the words--awesome). I didn't need to see spot-on PowerPoint slides, anime clips to fit the conversation or hyperactivity. To me, it was all about what was being said or not said. One panel that comes to mind that I aimed to attend was about picking the right anime for you or a friend. I ended up ditching half-way through. It was, sorry to say, terrible. The hosts definitely had the energy and passion to discuss anime and interesting subjects beyond their approach to the idea of recommendations. 

For example, they spent a reasonable amount of time comparing how they grew up experiencing anime to how many people now entering the fandom have come to know it. They started by describing how they watching anime on a handful of VHS rentals from BlockBusters, while many people in my (Peggy's) "anime generation" grew up in the age of fansubs and illegal uploads; meanwhile, my (Peggy's again) niece grew up experiencing all of her anime through legal online licensing services like Netflix, Funimation, Crunchyroll, etc. After discussing that difference, they mentioned briefly (as in one time in a single sentence) that the popularity of a particular genre in anime when you entered may affect what you find most interesting before completely undercutting themselves to say that you can't recommend anything to anyone because people always think about what they like first. (I hate to break it to them, but I find it pretty easy to recommend things based on my friends' stated interests in past series. Maybe that's because I watch almost everything of every genre in anime, but also--it's not rocket science. If your friend likes thrilling action movies, you can probably name a few thrilling action animes to satisfy their interest.) It felt as though the panel's title was misleading when the answer to recommending anime is "you can't." (when, in fact, you can with little to no complications!)

Overall, for me, AX takes the crown in terms of content. They had a fantastic mix of everything you hope to see at a comic convention in addition to making it fun. Comic-Con takes the crown for best platform use and layout (AX takes a close second and Aniplex/Funimation sharing third)... Crunchyroll doesn't rank in this category. Aniplex/Funimation shares the title of Best Entertainment. Crunchyroll takes the crown for fan inclusion into the presentation spotlight. They're all winners, but if I really had to rank them, it'd be this:

Anime Expo - Title: Content is King  👑

Comic-Con - Best Platform/Layout

Aniplex/Funimation (Sharing is caring) - Best Entertainment

Crunchyroll - Best Fan Inclusion

With that, I conclude my long drafted review. Thank you for your patience, and I'll see you all next week in another post!

[nicolewrites]

darling you’re pulling on mine

what’s with me and finishing this stuff at past 12. anyways, as promised, Pikelan heartstrings verse

heartstrings

Rating: T Genre: Romance Characters: [Pike Trickfoot and Scanlan Shorthalt], Grog Strongjaw Words: 4,114

Pike exhaled slowly. She knew what love looked like, but for a long moment, when she stole a second glance at Scanlan only to find him still watching her, she wished that she didn’t. She wished she could pretend she didn’t recognize the flames in his gaze and how it twisted her stomach because love was never easy. Love was never, ever simple. 

And there was sure nothing simple about Scanlan Shorthalt.

AO3

Pike knew what love looked like. She loved her grandfather, and her friends, and she had seen plenty of happy couples. She didn’t date, not really, because she was so busy with Grog and the channel and hanging out with friends that she never saw the need to. For so long, Grog and Scanlan were the only friends that she had needed and it had been good.

But, as she sat on the rooftop lookout of Percy’s over-the-top penthouse suite surrounded by Grog, and Scanlan, and Keyleth, and Vex, and Vax, it felt more right than she could have guessed. Percy has adamantly refused to have every gathering of their odd group of friends at Scanlan’s place, even if it was bigger, because he claimed that he had had a better view. Looking out across the roof, Pike couldn’t argue with that statement.

As popular as streaming and making videos made six of the seven friends, there was no denying that Percy was cut from a different cloth with his expensive movies and family-owned record label. That didn’t dissuade him from hanging out with their motley crew instead of other A-list celebrities.

Pike loved streaming and making videos with Grog and occasionally Scanlan. First, though, Pike was a people person. She had always found it easy to read people and what they were thinking. Her friends were not immune to this scrutiny as she had seen grief and darkness in Vax’s gaze and she had been able to offer him guidance for both him and Vex’ahlia. She saw roiling anger and unchecked grief in Percy’s gaze and she saw doubt and insecurity in the bright greens of Keyleth’s eyes.

Grog was different. He carried rage with him at all times, but Pike had helped him develop a system to deal with it long ago. There was a great loss in her big friend that she wasn’t sure how to approach, so she nurtured his love and protective instincts instead and it worked. Grog was her best friend and she loved him so much.

Scanlan, on the other hand, was hard to read. As much as she tried, he was always able to keep little things hidden from her, even if she hated him for it. He tried to seem like he wore his heart on his sleeve, but there was a guard to his charm: a barbed-wire fence of clever jokes and pretty songs built to keep people from knowing the real him. Pike tried and tried and she was pretty sure she was pretty close even if she would never fully know everything little thing about Scanlan Shorthalt.

She had never been in love. Again, she barely dated because she had no need to, but as she looked across the roof at her friends, she saw love between them both platonically and so deeply it caused her heart to ache.

Vax looked at Keyleth like she had hung the stars in the sky and then had ascended to rule over them all. He barely kept his eyes off of her and his admiration was easy to read as it rolled off of him with every stolen glance or whispered word. Pike knew Vax to love intensely and wildly and she saw this when he watched Keyleth and when he cast glances at his sister to check on her.

Vex was different. She guarded her heart much more closely than her brother, but there was something about Percy, some fragment of shared trauma between them, that lowered her walls just enough that Pike could see the budding admiration and affection in her gaze. And Percy’s darkness, his grief, wavered just for a moment when he tucked his arm around Vex’s shoulders and she shifted subtly into his side.

Pike pulled her gaze away from the warmth that sparked between Vex and Percy and let her eyes wander anywhere else so she didn’t disturb the intimacy of the moment. Her mind wandered and her eyes met Scanlan’s across their half-hearted circle of deck furniture. The corners of his eyes crinkled and his smile lifted up just the tiniest bit in one corner, but he had already been watching her as if he had been waiting for her to make eye contact.

Pike wanted to hold eye contact, to silently question him, but the intensity of his gaze flustered her more than she cared to admit and she looked down. Scanlan was normally so good at keeping his emotions under a tight wrap, but the way he looked at her was warm and open and looked entirely too much like Vax looking at Keyleth mixed with Percy looking at Vex.

Pike exhaled slowly. She knew what love looked like, but for a long moment, when she stole a second glance at Scanlan only to find him still watching her, she wished that she didn’t. She wished she could pretend she didn’t recognize the flames in his gaze and how it twisted her stomach because love was never easy. Love was never, ever simple.

And there was sure nothing simple about Scanlan Shorthalt.

-

Pike pulled her headset off, still giggling over Grog’s latest antics. Next to her, Grog was frowning, but he would get over the loss soon enough. He placed his controller on the desk and rolled backwards in his chair, leaving Pike to finish closing up the stream.

They’d been playing Wrath of Sarenrae tonight, a co-op action-adventure game. Tonight’s stream had been the culmination of several weekly Sunday night streams in a progression to fight one of the major dragon bosses of the game. Grog had been so dead set on landing the finishing blow, but Pike had managed to swing her smaller, nimbler character closer than Grog’s lumbering tank build to land the last hit. The chat had gone wild–half congratulating Pike on her kill and half laughing at Grog for failing to get the kill in the first place.

Pike closed the stream window and brought up the Major Monstahs YouTube channel. Their videos for the week were all scheduled: work out video and vlog on Monday, gaming stream VOD on Wednesday, and the monthly roast on Friday. They flipped between random vlogs or gaming videos on Friday’s normally, with the last Friday of the month always dedicated to their video series where Grog and Pike would sit and watch some of Scanlan’s videos and make fun of him.

Pike grabbed for her phone as Grog headed into the kitchen of their shared apartment. She scrolled mindlessly through Twitter for a while, retweeting some of the cool fanart that had been drawn during the stream. She had muted her mentions for the duration of the stream, but after skimming through them, there wasn’t anything that needed her attention seriously.

Just before she could lock her phone and head after Grog, it vibrated, the screen lighting up with a text.

[Scanlan] nice hit on the dragon. i told you speedboost was the spell to equip for this fight!!

Pike rolled her eyes, but opened the text app.

[Pike] you’re right, let me bow to your greatness, my liege.

[Scanlan] gasp, how dare you insinuate that i am more valuable than you. If anything, i shall endeavour to worship in the light of your glory for the rest of my days.

Pike blinked at the message, feeling her cheeks warm. She and Scanlan had been friends for so long that they’d built a steady teasing rapport and relationship over many, many years of friendship. Still, sometimes Scanlan would turn on the charm and it could catch her off guard, especially if it was in person. Pike was grateful that over text she could at least hide her flushes from him.

[Pike] :P i’ll tell my other clerics to make room for you.

[Pike] wait we’re still on for drinks Friday right? Grog’s been talking about it all week so you’d better not cancel on us.

[Scanlan] I talked to Sybil and rescheduled my Kaylie time for Saturday afternoon, so we are a go for Friday!

Kaylie was Scanlan’s three-year-old daughter. He had shared a brief fling with Sybil and Sybil had attempted to completely conceal Kaylie’s existence from her father. Scanlan had been horrified when he’d finally found out and had been heartily channelling funds to Sybil and Kaylie since he’d found out. He had fought Sybil tooth and nail to gain the right to spend time with his little girl and they’d worked out a schedule for him to see her once a week.

Pike tagged along with Scanlan sometimes. Kaylie was adorable and already had spunk and Pike loved her. She also loved watching Scanlan with his daughter because there was something gentle and open about him that she was able to see and appreciate. Plus, being around his daughter had opened up a vulnerable side of Scanlan that had hardly existed behind his barbed-wire charms.

Pike was smiling blindly at her phone as she began typing out a reply to Scanlan, but Grog appeared before she could hit send on the message.

“Hey, Pike, we gotta eat that ice cream now,” he called, his big voice booming in the room.

Pike was so startled she nearly dropped her phone, but she managed to lock it and shove it into her pocket. “Yep, coming!” she replied quickly, jumping up from her chair.

Ice cream post-stream had been a tradition for a long time. It was their cheat-treat from their usual workouts and healthy eating. She’d gotten so wrapped up in texting Scanlan–thinking about him, her traitorous heart corrected–that she’d nearly forgotten that Grog would be waiting for her.

Grog folded his arms and looked at her. “Something’s up,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but rather an observation.

Pike bit her lip. Grog wasn’t the most observant person, so she had to have been projecting her thoughts all across her face for him to pick it up. “Nope,” she lied through her teeth. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Pike,” Grog argued. “You’re my best buddy, why don’t you want to tell me?”

She sighed, her fingers skimming across the outside of her pocket where her conversation with Scanlan was on hold. “Grog, I love you, but you’re no good with secrets.”

He frowned, his nose scrunching up. “I’m great with secrets!”

“You told Keyleth she couldn’t come to Percy’s early because she wasn’t allowed to be early for her own surprise party.”

“One time,” he argued.

“You told Kima that I sit on a cushion when we stream to correct the height difference.”

Grog pouted. “Pike, I swear I’m great at secrets. Scanlan thinks so! It’s why I’ve done so well with not telling you that he loves you.”

Grog’s words doused her brain in ice water. Pike blinked slowly. She played back what her big friend had just said, but the words were swimming about and not making sense. “Grog,” she breathed. “What was that last thing you just said?”

He opened his mouth to repeat it, but seemed to realize halfway through that he’d spilled a secret he wasn’t supposed to. He clammed up, his back straightening. “Nothing, it was nothing, Pike.”

Grog immediately left the room and Pike practically collapsed back into her streaming chair. She pulled out her phone and stared at her wallpaper: her and Scanlan on Grog’s shoulders, the three of them wearing shit-eating grins, but Pike and Grog were looking at the camera while Scanlan was staring at Pike.

Sure he was a flirt, and Pike knew he had flirted with her lots, but she had just thought it was Scanlan being Scanlan. Recently, like at Percy’s, she’d started seeing more openness, but she had thought it to be just a byproduct of spending time with an adorable toddler every week.

Scanlan loved her? No, Grog was mistaken.

She wrung her hands together and worried her bottom lip between her teeth. Grog wasn’t the smartest guy, but he didn’t lie. He hated liars and he had never once lied to Pike. Even with a slip of the tongue, she doubted he was capable of telling her a lie.

She felt vaguely lightheaded. Scanlan was in love with her and she had no idea what to do with that information.

She had an urge to call someone and ask for advice, but she already knew it was a bad idea. Vax would immediately say ‘I told you so’ which was something she didn’t want to hear. Keyleth would get so flustered she’d probably just hang up. Vex’s solution would probably be to sleep with him or ignore it and Pike couldn’t stomach either of those opinions. There was a whole other thing with Percy that meant she definitely couldn’t ask him. Grog was, naturally, out of the question, but that just left her with Scanlan.

Which was her problem in the first place, so she had effectively gotten nowhere.

“Pike?” Grog called from the other room. “Are you coming for ice cream?”

Pike inhaled slowly. She slid her phone into her pocket again and stood up. “Eat the ice cream and forget about the rest,” she whispered to herself. Louder, for Grog, she called: “Coming now!”

-

Pike @thetrickfootp • Just Now

Hey Internet, it’s time for @barbariangrog and me to roast @burtreynoldsesq again and it’s a good one this month :D youtube.com/watch?v=fFTukkN

Pike sent out the tweet as the video went live and flopped onto her bed. She had managed to go almost the whole week without thinking of Scanlan or the bomb that Grog had accidentally dropped on Sunday night, but after rewatching to groom a video entirely about Scanlan, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. It didn’t help that Grog had been excitedly babbling all day about how excited he was to go for drinks that night.

Her phone vibrated and she lifted it above her face to read the notification.

Scanlan Shorthalt @burtreynoldsesq has tagged you in a tweet: It’s the last Friday of the month and I am once again regaled by the wonderous @thetrickfootp and also @barbariangrog #suchmockery #theroastofburtreynolds

Pike smiled faintly and tapped the notification. She gave the tweet a like and retweeted it with the side-eye emoji. Scanlan almost immediately liked her retweet and she put her phone down. Her hands brushed against her cheeks and she was surprised to find them warm. She rolled over onto her stomach and shoved her face into her pillow, letting out a long groan. She had no idea what was going on, but she wanted it to stop.

After almost twenty minutes of wallowing, Pike pushed herself up so that she could change into something drinks-acceptable. She hovered a hand over a loose-fitting Slayer’s Take t-shirt which she would wear with ripped jeans. At the last second, she snagged a dark purple tube top and pulled it on with the jeans. She gathered her hair up into two buns at the top of her hair and dusted some glitter along her cheekbones. She swiped on some mascara and nearly put on lip gloss before realizing that it was just drinks with Grog and Scanlan and she didn’t know why she was suddenly trying so hard.

She slammed the lip gloss tube down and grabbed her purse. She didn’t change out of the shirt and it had nothing to do with the fact that Scanlan’s favourite colour was purple. Pike walked out into the living room of the apartment to see Grog and Scanlan sitting on the couch, laughing about something. She stumbled and nearly tripped as Scanlan looked up, catching her eye, and beamed at her.

“Looking good, Pikey!” he complimented. The flirtatious tone of his voice was nothing new, but the teasing glint in his eyes felt more real this time somehow.

Pike inhaled sharply and forced a smile. “Thanks, now let’s go! I need this drink.”

-

Scanlan had entirely too much charm for his own good. He had gone to the bar to retrieve a round for the three of them almost ten minutes ago. Grog hadn’t really noticed since he was just telling some story drunkenly, but Pike could clearly see Scanlan where he stood at the bar. He was surrounded by two girls in low-cut shirts and short skirts.

Pike could see the flirty, pleasant smile on his face from across the room and it made something in her stomach boil in anger. She couldn’t help it as her eyebrows dropped into a lower position and her face scrunched into an unpleasant expression. Grog finally seemed to notice something was wrong and he cut off his story abruptly as he stared at Pike.

Pike, upon realizing Grog was staring at her, immediately dropped her gaze away from Scanlan and spun her straw through the ice cubes in her otherwise empty glass idly. Her cheeks felt hot, but she could blame it on the alcohol and her fair complexion. Grog didn’t seem to notice that she’d been glaring at Scanlan, but he just frowned as he watched her.

Finally, after an entirely too long period of time, Scanlan returned with their drinks: Guinness for Grog, whiskey sour for Pike, and an old fashioned for himself. Unfortunately, he also returned with a lipstick print on his cheek that had only been half-wiped off. Pike saw it immediately and took a long sip of her drink as she pointedly avoided eye contact with Scanlan.

Grog and Scanlan launched into a conversation again and Pike tried to contribute and stay active, but her gaze wandered and she saw the two girls from earlier were still giggling and looking over in Scanlan’s direction. She settled for pressing her lips together and sipping hard at her drink.

After another painful hour, Grog saw a woman across the bar who caught his eye and excused himself from the table, leaving Pike and Scanlan in awkward silence. Pike knew Grog’s patterns well enough at this point; he wouldn’t be home tonight, much less back to the table.

“Hey, Pike, are you okay?” Scanlan asked suddenly.

His brows were furrowed together as he watched her. Pike’s gaze snapped to his face from the table and she took in his pursed lips and curiously twinkling brown eyes. There was a lock of curly brown hair grazing the right side of his face that had slipped from his ponytail tonight. The whites of his teeth stuck out against the deep tan of his skin, complimented by the pale purple shirt he was wearing. Pike’s breath hitched involuntarily because sweet mother of god Scanlan was pretty.

She snapped her gaze to the far side of the bar and exhaled shortly. “Totally fine.”

Scanlan touched her arm lightly and PIke felt an instinctual need to rip her arm away, but she managed to force herself not to move. Scanlan’s fingers traced something along her wrist and it took her a long moment to realize he was writing something as they often did.

L-Y-I-N-G, his fingers spelt out along her forearm.

Pike forced her hackles to lie flat and she retracted her arm from his touch to adjust her shirt and shift in her seat. Now that Grog, her buffer, was gone, she felt like she needed to be far, far away from Scanlan and his charming, pretty smile and gentle eyes. She stood up, reaching quickly for her purse.

“I have a video to edit for this week I just remembered. Besides, Grog’s done for the night, so I should get home.”

She turned and headed for the door, purse and jacket draped over her arm, not even waiting to see the look on Scanlan’s face. He would obviously take her leaving as a gift and head back over to the pretty girls in the corner because no matter what Grog said, there was no way he was in love with her.

And she didn’t love him.

-

She was around five paces away from the bar in the dark street before Scanlan caught up to her, his hand tugging on her arm, turning her to face him.

“Pike, what did I do? You’ve been treating me like I burned you all night.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You didn’t do anything, Scanlan,” she lied. It was a half-truth really, because all he’d done was be himself and Pike was the one over-reacting.

He sighed and scratched at his head with the hand that wasn’t holding her arm. “Can I call you an Uber at least?”

Pike shrugged. “As long as your friends back there don’t get worried about you.” The comment came out unexpectedly bitterly and Pike blamed the alcohol. She was clear-headed still, but it had given her a bit of unexpected sass.

Scanlan stared at her. “Pike, are you jealous?”

The question caught her off-guard and she tried to laugh it off and say that no, of course, she wasn’t jealous because that would be something a girlfriend would feel, not a strictly platonic, not-at-all romantically interested friend. Instead, her voice caught because, she realized, that yes, of course, she was jealous because of course, she liked Scanlan. She probably always had.

Scanlan’s features rippled into his charming grin. “You are!” He chuckled warmly. “Wow, and here I thought I was going to be the one jealous of all your fanboys for all eternity.”

She blinked at him.

Scanlan tilted his head and the confident smile morphed into a shyer, almost self-conscious look. “Grog told me that he told you, but come on Pike, didn’t you already know?”

“Know what?” she asked, her voice small.

Scanlan shifted his weight. He dropped her arm. “I’m hopelessly in love with you,” he said firmly.

The words were barely out of his mouth before Pike leaned forward onto her toes and gripped him by the collar. She reeled him in quickly and slanted her mouth over his, kissing him hard. He tasted like whiskey and orange–something sweet and something bitter. She was about to pull away when Scanlan’s hands shot upward, sliding along her jaw as he deepened the kiss. Pike melted against him, letting one hand drift up from his collar to his shoulder and then along his back to the nape of his neck where her fingers twisted in his hair.

After a long, breathless moment, they broke apart, but Scanlan didn’t let her move back. His eyes were closed and he let out a deep, heavy breath.

“Tell me you’re not drunk,” he begged.

Pike leaned forward, exhaling shakily, and pressed her forehead against his. “Just enough for courage.”

Scanlan let out a breathy laugh. “God I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first time I met you.”

She took a moment to tug at his ponytail, loosening it as she fought to find the right words. “You drive me crazy, Scanlan Shorthalt,” she settled on.

“Good,” he replied, “because you drove me to insanity a long time ago, Pike Trickfoot.”

She kissed him again, relishing in the feeling of his warm lips against hers as his hands cradled her face. She hummed into the kiss and felt him smile as they broke apart.

“About that Uber,” she said breathily, her gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips quickly.

“My place or yours?” he asked, dropping her face to reach for his phone.

“Mine’s closer,” she replied.

“Perfect,” he said and kissed her again.

-

Several hours later, Scanlan’s arms were hooked warmly around Pike’s waist and his face was pressed into the crook of her neck. She was running her fingers through his hair, breathing deeply.

She felt warm and safe and the bubble of emotion that had been building up slowly over years of friendship finally burst. She grazed her fingernails against his scalp and Scanlan blinked up at her sleepily.

“I’m hopelessly in love with you too,” she breathed.

He smiled. “I loved you first though.”

She giggled softly. “Probably.”

His fingers ran up her side and ghosted along her chest over where her heart was as he mimed playing the piano along her skin. “I have so many songs to write for you.”

She twisted, sliding so that they were level and she could kiss him again. “I love you.”

He hummed against her and when his eyes opened after the kiss ended Pike knew that his walls were down. The barbed-wire charm had been retracted and he was laying himself bare for her, literally and figuratively.

“I love you too.”

She kissed him again and didn’t think of anything else as he rolled her on top of him and they kissed like schoolkids.

[scouthearted]

How To See Theatre Cheap!!

What’s the number one complaint I see about theatre from people both into it and who want to get into it but haven’t yet? It’s the price. I get a lot of friends who don’t understand how I can afford to see so much theatre, or who just assume I’m personally rich. Really, being a third year theatre student has just granted me a lot of knowledge about the tips and tricks on how to engage with this art form for cheap... and sometimes even free.

Bootlegs are the obvious choice that I know most people know about as far as cheap and accessible theatre goes. However, even if you wanna say “fuck you” to rich producers, know that bootlegs put the theater itself at risk, and can impose huge fines on them, which can bankrupt smaller theaters... just because they didn’t catch someone filming! Because of this, it’s not the most ethical choice and it’s especially bad if you want more theatre to be accessible. I’m choosing to keep this masterlist bootleg-free for that reason, and while I encourage people to add on their own tips and tricks, I ask that they also follow that rule!

Note for the super broke: tips and tricks that are 100% free are in bold for quick reference! Bolded but starred are those that may be free, or are free with caveats.

SEE THEATRE IN PERSON:

Usher. Contact your local community and small professional theatres and see if they are looking for volunteers. Many times, those that need volunteer ushers allow them to see the show for free! Ushering is easy and a good opportunity to get to know other theatre fans. Keep in mind: there may be a dress code or physical requirement for the job.

Shakespeare in the Park. TONS of cities across the world do this... if you don’t see your city on here, that’s not a dealbreaker either, as my city is going into its 26th year of SitP and still isn’t on the list. It’s a great chance to see Shakespeare performed, an absolutely different experience than reading Shakespeare in high school English.

High school productions. Often, these are a lot better than you might expect, especially if you are near a performing arts high school or just a school with a good theatre department. High schools often do big-name shows, usually for $10 or less per ticket!

College productions. They operate similarly to high schools, but with (usually) a larger budget and better talent pool. They may also be more experimental or obscure in their season selection. I recommend attending shows at schools that have a theatre major, as those productions often are classified as “pre-professional...” think professional theatre with lower prices, often under $15 a ticket.

Hamilton lottery. If you live in or relatively near NYC, London, Chicago, Dallas, Detroit, or San Francisco, you can and should enter the lottery to win two $10 tickets. You can enter every single day, and I’ve personally known people who have won, so the chances may not be as small as you think!

Pay What You Want Theatre Nights*. Often, community and smaller professional theaters will have nights where you can contribute as much or as little as you choose (some theatres have lower limits, but not all). These nights are often ones that aren’t as popular for audiences, such as Wednesday or Thursday, but they’re a great way to see things cheap.

Improv class graduation performances. Improv classes are becoming a huge thing among people who want to socialize without drinking. Often, these classes will conclude with a performance that’s open to the public and super cheap (my local improv school has $6 shows). Check local improv theatres or acting schools for more details.

Local festivals. Some local festivals are home to children’s performances (such as are orchestrated by Missoula Children’s Theatre), local improv, free musicals, etcetera. They’re a great place to scope out a little bit of the scene.

Discounts! If you’re a student, a senior, active military, or a veteran, you are almost guaranteed to get a discount. Other discounts may be available... see the next point.

Call and ask! If you can’t find any ways to see cheap theatre on your local theater’s marketing or website, don’t be afraid to call and ask for deals, promotions, or opportunities not listed. Theatre professionals want butts in the seats, and we want people to be engaging in this art form! We’ll do our best to help.

Playwrights Welcome*. On the off-chance you’re a member of the Dramatists Guild, you can see shows at certain theaters for free. A full list of the participating theaters is at the link, as well as further details on the program. You do have to pay Dramatists Guild dues, so not very free... but if you’re already a member, take advantage of this!

LEGAL RECORDINGS

Movie musicals. Yes, I know, we hate them, but they’re readily available and easy to get for cheap on DVD, or streaming online legally. Check out The Phantom of the Opera, Hairspray, Into the Woods, West Side Story, Sweeney Todd, Les Miserables, and many more. Many are available on Netflix!

BroadwayHD. This streaming site is exclusively for high quality professional theatre. If you have $8.99 a month, you can watch SO MUCH theatre. They also do individual rentals, but it’s more expensive to do an individual rental than to just pay for the month. The selection used to be small, but is growing quickly, and showing your support might convince other productions to put legal recordings up!

National Theatre Live. Performances from an absolutely fantastic theatre, broadcast to movie theaters around the world. Tickets run a little more than a movie ticket, but less than a live theatre performance, and they’re INCREDIBLE. 

DVD and Blu-ray selections. Often, shows are in fact recorded and available for purchase, usually older or closed shows. While the article is a little bit old, the linked article makes some suggestions, but more can be found with a little bit of looking (or check out this wikipedia article).

PBS Great Performances. Opera, musicals, concerts, plays, dance, and more... the complete theatrical experience, for free on PBS. You can watch some of them free no-strings-attached online, too, but others require a subscription service.

Starkid. This theatre company does parody and original comedic musicals (with surprising depth!), and they’re posted on Youtube for free. There’s a ton to choose from, and they’re a really good time and a great gateway if you’re intimidated by the PBS stuff.

AUDIO RECORDINGS

LA Theatre Works. Performing plays in the style of radio plays, you can stream some very good stuff if you’re interested in just listening. It’s a lot like a podcast! I also recommend poking around on their website to find more shows than on this page (and if you ever get a chance and have a little more money than this, they tour and you can see them live. It’s really cool!). 

Off Book: The Improvised Musical. Think Starkid, but audio only, smaller casts, and also, completely improvised. Every week, the podcast weaves a brand new improvised musical, along with a guest or two (including people like Travis McElroy and Felicia Day). 

Audio plays* (like what LA Theatre Works are doing) are a little tricky to find sometimes, but a little research can get you a long way. Here’s some that I found just in trying to dig more up, including Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead and the famous production of War of the Worlds. Audible is known to have a growing selection of audio plays, if you’re okay with using and paying for Amazon services.

THEATRE EDUCATION

Podcasts. Continuing on the audio theme, there’s a ton of amazing theatre podcasts that can teach a lot about the business and the art form alike. Here’s a list of twenty podcasts ranging from the explicitly educational to the news-oriented. Note, it’s about five years old. 

Theatre classes*. These are often astronomically too expensive for this list, but there is a little trick (though your ethical mileage may vary). Many theatre schools offer a free first class, like a trial offer. This is meant to help the student and teachers alike determine if the class is a good fit, but it’s also a great chance to go and learn something for a couple hours. You may then decide not to pay for further lessons at that theater, or you may decide you like it so much you want to splurge!

Guest workshops and masterclasses. If you don’t want to do the above, or if you have exhausted your local theater options, be aware of guest workshops and masterclass opportunities near you. While proper classes often run in the hundreds of dollars for a six to eight week course, these one-off classes can be as cheap as $10 sometimes, with the majority I’ve seen where I live being around $25 or so (the upper limit I I placed on things that make this list). You may be surprised at who is leading your class, too (plenty of Broadway actors run classes), and if you want to pursue theatre as a career, a masterclass or workshop looks nice on a resume.

Playing Shakespeare. The entire series can be found on Youtube, and it’s a series one of my professors personally recommended for those who want to learn how to do Shakespearean roles better.

Youtube in general. Honestly, just looking up “theatre masterclass” brings up a ton of credible and amazing stuff.

Volunteer. Learning by experiencing is truly something you can do, and there’s plenty of community theatres that would die for a good volunteer. Even if you don’t want to be on stage, there’s plenty of technical positions that cater to any and all skill sets.