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libradusk · 5 years ago

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5 For Fives | (1)

Chapter Title: The Weight of Duty

Word Count: 3,944

Pairing: ARC Trooper Fives x Reader

Summary: Even though he shared the same face with over a thousand brothers, you always thought that his smile shone the brightest across the galaxy.

warnings: chapter has mentions of injury but nothing super heavy, yet.

a/n: First meetings aren’t always glamorous, also sir is used as a gender neutral term.

Chapter 2

It should have been no more than another routine inspection - another tour around one of the Republic’s numerous military bases, carried out with bordering identical technique and protocol to the countless others you had been allocated to shadow previously. Simple, painless, easy - especially considering you had been working alongside Captain Rex and Commander Cody for quite some time now and were no stranger to the tight ship they ran between them.

Initially you had considered the Rishi Moon inspection no differently to how you had its predecessors. It had been difficult to view it as more than just another extension of your duties to the Republic war effort. This form of assignment had long since devolved into an almost mundane routine, shoehorned between battles and skirmishes that required the more physical side of your prowess. You couldn’t deny that the visits were far from an unwelcome task, in an odd way they added a sense of rare sereneness to your list of duties as the war raged on. The men you encountered were always in good spirits after receiving praise for their contributions towards keeping the war effort running smoothly. This was especially true for the newer additions to each post, who practically glowed when Cody so much as looked in their direction - and struggled not to pout like scolded younglings whenever Rex pointed out the sloppiness of their barracks. More than anything though, seeing the men at each destination settled into their own close-knit brotherhoods formed a warm contrast to the overly sterilised and bordering artificial atmosphere you had come to witness on Kamino whenever your presence was required by Master Shaak Ti.

You had suspected that your attendance had never been truly needed from the start, so to say. The combined experience and respect both Rex and Cody possessed was ample - they certainly had no real need for a Jedi to oversee them evaluate the competence of their own men. Yet they never showed any sign of protest - and neither did you, outwardly at least. The two soldiers were pleasant enough company, as were the numerous waves of their brothers-in-arms that you had encountered at each stop the starship deposited you at. It had reached the point that the more months that passed by with the war, the more familiar faces you came to recognise the sight, and the absence of during your rarer return visits.

The latter of which was quickly becoming an all too common occurrence as the Separatists continued to grow stronger still and the numbers of casualties rose accordingly.

It was a fact that did little to ease the gnawing sense of guilt that had been bubbling towards the forefront of your mind with a vengeance as of late. Though you understood the importance that the inspections held, the thought that your own attributes as a Jedi would be better served fighting alongside these men - as you had many times before, had begun to rear its head with vicious frequency. As the cycles ticked by your mind had become almost overwhelmed with the sheer number of casualties and missing men you had to report back to Shaak Ti on Kamino each time. You had known how overworked your Jedi senior had become as of late, her involvement with the Kaminoans forcibly entwining closer each cycle - regardless of the outcome of each battle the Republic were faced with. Your kinship with the Togruta, as well as your longstanding dedication to the order and cause had always ensured your cooperation with whatever task you were designated. It was important to you to attempt to ease the workload of your closest peer in whatever way you could. Yet despite this, the longer you had spent within the frontlines of the army, the more you had learnt the multitude of ways that distinguished each clone from every one of his brothers - it had all affected you so deeply that it had become difficult for you to set eyes on an optimistic young rookie and to not automatically think of how the Kaminoans, and the majority of the Republic, saw them more as munitions than living men.

The thought of how the production of the army had swollen to accommodate the demands of the war now turned your stomach and the knowledge that you were due to return to Kamino in the coming few months only aided in forcing the bile further up your throat.

Cody appeared to have picked up on the spike in your uneasiness as you had boarded the Obex that afternoon. He had offered you a tight smile and the reassurance that your visit to Rishi Station would be both short and painless given the size of the base and the tranquility of its barren landscape. Rex had even chimed in to joke that the most action any of the troops ever encountered on Rishi was if one of its native fauna, the giant Rishi Eel, somehow found its way past the blast doors.

How wrong they had both turned out to be.

The atmosphere on the station when you finally disembarked on the moon’s surface had felt unbalanced, insidious even. You had held firm suspicion that there was more at play than simply the assigned troopers being “sloppy,” as Rex had so eloquently put it. The bizarre holocomm interaction a very apprehensive trooper had established while the three of you were in orbit had already made you uneasy. Even when your feet touched the ground of the Republic property you couldn’t shake the warning surge of adrenaline that had you reaching for your saber as you fell into line behind the two troopers.

Your suspicions were all but confirmed the moment the “deck officer” had stumbled disjointedly towards your group, with a pattern of speech that matched the jagged movements of his limbs. As soon as that red flare had cut its way through the navy curtain of sky above you the eerie atmosphere appeared to ignite alongside it. No sooner had Rex shot down the droid that was masquerading as one of your own did the three of you find yourself surrounded on all sides by Separatist commando droids.

You initially managed to hold your own on the small landing platform - noting between deflecting shots that their blaster comprehension and protective armour easily trumped that of an average battle droid. Despite your perceived competence however, you failed to heed Cody’s cry for you to take cover as you lifted a hand to force push an advancing flock of drones over the edge of the platform. This slip up earned you a vibrosword cleaved through the shoulder of your dominant arm, courtesy of a particularly unrelenting commando who had already withstood several shots of the commander’s blaster to ambush you from behind. The resulting blow from its blade was mercifully weakened enough to not sever the joint too deeply, but it ended up being enough to force you to drop your stance and almost your lightsaber in response. You shudder to think what may have become of you had Rex not made the tactical decision to grab your withering form and hurtle you both off the edge of the platform. You can recall the heat of an explosion rippling through the air as Rex had lowered you both to the ground with the aid of his ascension cable, the wreckage of the Obex scattering like meteorites around you as he did so - glittering in the starlight alongside the droplets of blood that trickled from your shoulder.

It was as you had watched them break from your flesh and fall that your thoughts had twisted in dark amusement despite the searing pain stippling across your upper body. Your unspoken wish to provide more hands-on support to the troopers had finally been granted once more - just not in the way you had expected.

And then you had met them. Or rather you had stood back and weakly protested as your comrade had pointed his blaster at the three bewildered men that had stumbled into the canyon space before you. One by one they had scrambled to remove their helmets at Rex’s command, revealing three almost identical faces. Cody’s body had obstructed most of your view as he attended to your injury, but even with the threat that the blood loss posed to your focus, you had easily deduced that these men were not primed for the type of combat you yourselves had barely just escaped. Rex seemed to have echoed your sentiment, as you had practically felt him smirk through the visor of his helmet at the way the rookies visibly flinched once the maws of a Rishi eel broke through the tension of the scene seconds later. The captain had made quick work of the beast, shooting it dead with flawless accuracy - face never wandering from the group of clones that stood before him. You had felt Cody’s body vibrate with a ghost of a chuckle at the way the men all but fawned over Rex’s prowess with a blaster.

Whatever serenity that had established itself was quickly shattered not long after both your groups had introduced themselves. You discovered that this “batch of shinies” was in fact the only surviving remnants of Rishi’s defence: leaving you all hopelessly outnumbered with no transport, limited weapons and medical supplies as well as a shoulder so badly injured that you were barely able to scale back up the cliffside without threatening to tear it open further - nevermind wield a saber optimally.

Eventually the six of you managed to make it back to the main control room through a tumultuous mixture of force and trickery that would have put a Jedi mind trick to shame - it had become apparent to both you and Cody then, that Anakin’s unconventional style of doing things had rubbed off on Rex more than the captain would ever admit aloud.

What small victory you had acquired however was soon dashed as you were called towards the control room’s viewing port. Staring back at you then through the murkiness of space had been an entire Separatist fleet, armed to the teeth and advancing on your location - no doubt in search of the missing signal from the battle droids you had slain prior.

A seed of doubt had planted itself within the depths of your brain at that moment, cultured with the knowledge that even an experienced Jedi knight stood little chance outnumbered by an entire fleet of commando droids likely spearheaded by Grievous himself.

And yet somehow your unlikely group had persevered.

Despite the odds being so heavily skewed against you, the resulting conclusion to the Battle of the Rishi Moon had trumped over whatever chaos the six of you had experienced at its beginning. Though you had ultimately ensured victory for the Republic by denying the Separatist invasion, your victory had nonetheless branded itself a costly one.

Fresh, hot guilt seared through you from the moment you were hauled aboard the Resolute by General Skywalker. It had been a narrow escape for you in particular, having previously resigned yourself to expending what little strength you had left on reinforcing the blast doors shut with the force while the boys attempted to set up an explosion to extinguish the threat of the droid fleet. It had been thanks to the bravery of one clone in particular - Hevy - the most rambunctious of the rookie trio, who had insisted for you all to abandon your post while he bought you the time you needed to escape.

His sacrifice had been the only thing that had ensured the rest of you had time to navigate through the station’s vent system to where your rescue had finally emerged to liberate you from the doomed outpost.

It was the type of guilt you knew would remain branded on your conscience long after the scorch marks had healed over your flesh.

------

Your skin itched as you marched through the corridors of the Resolute, thoughts buzzing so loudly in your mind you were certain you could feel them echo within your bones. You had seen men die in battle countless times before today, yet there was something particularly bitter about this incident that struck you deeper with each step you made towards the medical wing. Five rookie troopers and their sergeant had died attempting to warn you and defend a base that had been left to burn alongside their bodies. Five inexperienced soldiers whose remains were left to char and mangle alongside those of the same droids who had murdered them.

Five men whose lives had been snuffed out of existence just as they were so close to being reunited with their brothers on the frontlines - who were so close to tasting what little opportunity they would have to breathe air that wasn’t as cold and sterile as that on Kamino and Rishi.

But through it all, the thought that cut the deepest was that you knew the lives and sacrifice of these men were no more than an afterthought to the Republic and their kaminoan creators. You had simmered with that knowledge aboard the Resolute climbed upwards and away from Rishi Station, watching with a heavy heart as the outpost shrunk to a burning flicker along with the bodies of its protectors.

Your blood threatened to boil over as you had all but spat your report to Obi Wan and Anakin before the generals had kindly dismissed you to go and treat your wounds. You knew that they felt it too, perhaps for them it was hidden beneath the layers of unfaltering loyalty they held towards the Republic, but it was a bitterness that lived in both of them as well. Their faces spoke where their words did not reach you.

“These men were brave - they were born to be. Their deaths will never be in vain while the Republic still stands. They have done their greatest duty.”

These same words, uttered countless times by more figureheads than you cared to remember, were beginning to ring hollow to you now - more so than ever before. They all but slipped from you in searing strips across your flesh, pulsing in time with the blood that dribbled down your shoulder.

“You should really slap a bacta-patch on that wound, General.”

A familiarly accented voice pulled you from your thoughts. It was as though its owner had obstructed the trajectory of your march with his entire body, forcing your pace to slow as you approached the only other person in the narrow walkway. Your eyes climbed to reach his own from the floor-bound position you hadn’t even realised they had fallen to.

A clone stood to attention before you with a tight-lipped smile, his gaze flinching from your shoulder to your face in time with your movements. It took a moment for you to fight through a sudden wave of lightheadedness that protested across your vision at the abrupt movement, but you soon came to recognise him as one of the surviving rookie soldiers that had escaped alongside you.

His tone was distinctly shaken, but undeniably charismatic - almost oddly casual by clone standards.He spoke to you like you were an old friend, not a Jedi knight that he’d met and battled beside for the first and almost last time in his military career. It struck you as bizarre considering the horrors he had just experienced not even a full day beforehand.

You zoned out as the memories resurfaced. It granted him enough time to lean forward and offer you a friendly pat on your good shoulder. His breathy chuckle whipped through your ears as the contact twisted your body to a sharp halt, the nerves still buzzing even after he retracted the offending hand away with a start.

“I am not your General.”

You winced as at the sharpness of your tone, the words oozing with a venom that seemed alien to you. The shock quickly made way for another flood of shame as you watched him visibly flinch with surprise at your outburst. You knew you had no right to speak so cruelly to a fellow soldier, especially one that had just risked his own life to ensure you kept your own.

The feeling only swelled more in the silence that forced its way between your bodies as he composed himself and stood back to the attention of your tired gaze. A drawn out sigh of frustration left your lips as you mumbled an apology. Your good arm raised slowly to press its shaky digits against your temple in a futile attempt to quell the stress migraine that was knotting itself there. Since when had the ship’s lights seemed so bright that they burned you? The ache behind your eyes almost rivalled the throb of your shoulder at this point.

You squinted through the pain in an attempt to regard the trooper properly. His armour shone a sharp white as he fidgeted under the corridor’s lighting. The plastoid surface was devoid of any severe marring or decoration that you had seen numerous times on his brothers’ uniform. What grime and blaster residue did litter its surface appeared fresh and smeared, as if he had attempted to haphazardly wipe it away with the palms of his gloves in a hurry. The red ribbon of the medal signifying his recent admittance to the 501st battalion served as the only smattering of colour across the entire ensemble. Its medallion hung heavy on his chest piece, the metallic surface reflecting almost painfully in the artificial light. You were grateful to tear your eyes away from it. Instead you pulled your gaze upwards across the plains of his face, stopping once you connected with an all too familiar pair of brown eyes once more. He blinked back owlishly at you, head tilting involuntarily under your scrutiny.

Underneath the dark hairline of his crew cut sat a freshly inked tattoo of the number five, the skin around it still reddened and peeling in places. Everything about him seemed younger than the majority of the other clones you had encountered before, and it all served to twist the blade of guilt further into your stomach. CT-5555, Fives, your assumption had been correct - he was indeed one of the “shinies” that had assisted you, Rex and Cody against the Separatists targeting the Rishi Moon. The same rookie who’s first taste of real battle had resulted in the deaths of all but one of his squadmates.

The guilt twisted deeper still - now it was your turn to flinch like a wounded animal as you curled into yourself inwardly.

“Fives, I’m sorry. I had no right to speak to you like that,” you punctuated your sentence with a sigh, head bowing in apology to the wide-eyed soldier. He deserved more from you than a half-mumbled apology, “No doubt you have even more on your mind than I do after all this.”

To your surprise, the corner of his lips flickered with a playful smirk for just a moment before it pulled back once more into the composed expression befitting of a soldier. He practically buzzed with unspoken energy and you could feel the mirth blossom in his gaze as his eyes flickered between your own, posture visibly relaxing as he did.

“No hard feelings, uh, sir.”

There's still a sense of uncertainty as he addresses you, but the surprising enthusiasm with which he salutes you is somehow able to coax the wisp of a smile from you too. It's almost endearing really and you aren't completely sure how to feel about it.

“At ease, Fives. You’ve more than earned it after today.”

He grins openly then and your eyes draw to the shadow of stubble that peppers his jaw, signifying the beginnings of a beard. A reminder of his individuality, you think. Distracted, you absent-mindedly move to cross your arms until a sharp flash of pain from your shoulder reminds you that there is more to your injury than just a dull ache.

Fives’ grin falls as you cringe, hand quickly extending to brush against your forearm for a moment in concern. The warmth of his gloved fingers barely skims against you before his military protocol seems to beat him back into place this time. Fives bites back a curse as ungraciously stumbles over his own feet with the effort. His failed attempt to save his graces is so comical that you can’t help but chuckle over the sight of him. You’re not entirely sure if the blood loss has caught back up with you, or if it's just because of how animated he is - but somehow he had effortlessly become the only thing to pull a laugh from you in weeks.

The expression he shoots you when you stand back to full height is nothing less than perplexed. You can’t blame him for his bewilderment - after all you were supposed to be a Jedi Knight, a high-ranking member of the military and representative of an ancient order renowned for their serene temperament. Yet here you stood, having snapped between scolding him to laughing at him in mere minutes as you bled out onto the metal floor at your feet.

“Um, should I accompany you to the medbay, sir?” he cocks an eyebrow at you as he speaks, and you’re sure you catch the way his lips fight against the curve of a smirk once more.

A nervous habit? Or did he simply peg you as an amusing fool with overly turbulent emotions? The shake of your head answers his question, yet the smile refuses to slip from your face.

“I’m sure I’ll survive on my own. I’m positive it's nothing so serious that slapping a bacta-patch on won't fix it.”

He tilts his head with a smile as you echo his earlier sentiment, exhaling from his nose and allowing his posture to ease just slightly. It is at that moment you know everything is right between you once more. Content, you offer him a short bow of your head before turning to resume your march towards the medical bay. You continue to feel his gaze on you even as your back is turned, and you tilt slightly to catch his eye again, taking care to support your injured shoulder with your spare hand now.

“...Fives?” your tone is a tad more playful than you intend as your words are thrown across the corridor - you mentally blame his aura as being far too infectious to your weakened state,

“I hope our paths cross again now that you’ve been made part of the 501st. I’ll be watching out for you, you’re interesting.”

The last part slips out before you can halt it, but the way his smile flashes so dazzlingly under those horrible bright lights reassures you that your comment was most definitely well received.

He shoots you another eager salute and his medal clatters noisily to the ground as his arm catches it with the motion. This time the laughter that leaves you is so heavy that you’re positive it can be heard from the other side of the ship. Your bad shoulder protests with the force of it, but it just feels so good to laugh again after so many miserable months of war that you can’t bring yourself to care.

You steal another glance backwards before rounding the corner, catching his eyes one last time despite the distance. He throws you another cheeky smirk, teeth still peeking out from behind his lips as he bends to retrieve the offending medal - and as he raises a hand in a lazy wave you’re sure he flashes you a wink.

“I’ll hold you to that, sir.”

#5 for Fives #star wars reader insert #fives x reader #star wars imagine #ARC Trooper Fives #hooooo boy here we go #time for more formatting hell #mine #clone wars #fives reader insert

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calligraphist-artemisia · 4 years ago

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3 | Masquerade

Written for Kidgetober 2020. Day 3 - Free Day.

Summary: Alternate Universe. Princess Katla of Altea sees a golden opportunity to get a first-hand look at the new Emperor and Empress of Daibazaal and decide for herself whether or not they’re trustworthy. It’s too bad she’s been forbidden from attending the masquerade. Not that she’ll let that stop her.

Also posted on AO3 under the username Kishirokitsune. Titled as “The Scent of Autumn”.

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3 | Masquerade

Technically, she wasn't supposed to be there.

It had been decided phoebs ago when planning for the masquerade first began that she and her brother would not be in attendance for their own safety. They couldn't risk the entire royal family being in one place, especially when their peace treaty with the Galra was so recent.

Katla agreed with them at first, but as the phoebs went on, the newly established Emperor Kolivan and Empress Krolia showed that they were capable of keeping their word as they withdrew their forces and took to issuing reparations with little complaint. It wasn't that Katla wanted to get dressed up for some fancy party but that she wanted to see them with her own eyes and find out if they were as genuine as they seemed to be.

So she donned a pretty dress and found a mask to cover most of her face, shifting her features ever-so-slightly so no one would spare her more than a passing glance. Her overall plan was fairly simple to make it easy to adjust for things going awry, but her main goal was to stay away from anyone who stood a chance at recognizing her and staying just long enough to see the Emperor and Empress.

The biggest thing she had to remember was that she couldn't afford any distractions.

She couldn't go off and chat with the genius inventor Slav for an hour to discuss his theories on alternate realities or find High Priestess Allura to have another discussion on Altean Sages, no matter how tempting both of those ideas were.

Katla tried not to yawn at the unending babble of small-talk happening around her. She smiled politely at a passing Galra who wore an elaborate golden mask and then turned away so he couldn't examine her more closely. She was fairly surprised at how many Galra were in attendance, though she supposed it made sense since their sovereigns would also be there to celebrate the treaty.

What wasn't a surprise was the fact that there wasn't much (if there was any) mingling between the Alteans and the Galra. It was as though a clear line was drawn in the room and very few dared to cross it.

Had she been attending as princess, she would be expected to do something about that, but since she was undercover, she was free to continue lurking in the background, free of royal burden.

The best part was not having to wear an overly elaborate dress whose skirt was wider than she was tall. The gown she'd chosen for herself was sleek and green with an empire waist and a high neckline embroidered with curling vines and tiny red flowers. Both sleeves completely covered her arms and across the backs of her hands, where a thin band looped around her middle finger to hold them in place. The skirt brushed across the tops of her low-heeled shoes.

Simple, yet still appropriately elegant for the masquerade.

Katla continued to observe the room, meandering her way through the crowds to get different vantage points. On her second pass across the invisible line which divided the room, someone clothed in heavy black fabric stepped into her path and softly spoke a question:

“Excuse me, miss?”

Katla went rigidly still, sure that she was about to get called out by one of the guards. She slowly lifted her eyes to his face and her panic dropped straight to confusion at the glimpse of purple skin beneath the scaled red mask he wore.

Definitely not one of the Altean guards.

“May I ask for a dance?” he asked, holding out his hand.

Katla forced a smile onto her face as her planning began to topple around her. She couldn't say no; the atmosphere was too delicate for her to refuse a dance with a Galra. “I would be delighted,” she responded as pleasantly as she could muster.

He swept her away onto the dance floor, where they attracted more attention than Katla was comfortable with. She had to hope that her disguise would hold up under the scrutiny of the masses and that it would be aided by the common knowledge that she was not meant to be attending the masquerade.

She just needed to think positively. Dancing with a visiting Galra opened up a new opportunity for her to talk to someone on the inside, so long as she tread carefully with her words.

Katla had never been the best at that.

“You’re very good at this,” she complimented.

“Thank you,” he responded. There was a momentary pause and then he leaned a little closer and lowered his voice to say: “That is a high compliment from the Princess of Altea.”

Katla nearly reeled back in surprise, but his steady hand against her back kept her in place. “How-?”

He casually spun her so she was facing away from the majority of the crowd. “I recognized you from all of the photographs I've seen, but I don't think anyone else has. I won't tell anyone. I just wanted to talk to you. Please, princess, one dance and I'll leave you alone.”

Katla did her best to keep her cool. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“You... don't recognize me?”

“Should I?” she retorted.

Even as she bristled over the way she'd been called out and wanted nothing more than to get away from everything and everyone, she stayed where she was and took a moment to examine him more closely. His clothing told her nothing. The overcoat was made of a thick material and patterned with scales to match his mask, while the under-suit was a dark gray and hugged close to his body. It all screamed of protection rather than style – but that wasn't uncommon for the Galra. From what little Katla could see of his face, she could tell his skin tone was more purple than blue and that there was the beginning of a darker stripe rising from the underside of his jaw and going up his cheeks.

It was the stripes that sparked something in her memory.

They were remarkably similar to the ones Empress Krolia had.

That meant...

“Prince Keithir?” Katla whispered. When he nodded, she dived into an apology. “I'm so sorry! I didn't recognize you!”

“I think that's the whole point of the masks,” he remarked, tilting his head to one side. “There's nothing to forgive, especially when I wasn't supposed to be here either.”

Katla chanced a glance around the room and found there were still too many eyes on them for her to be comfortable. “We shouldn't talk here. Do you see the door on the west side of the room closest to the north corner? Go through there and make the first left you come to. Near the end of that hall, just before it splits left and right, there's a door on your right. Go through there and you'll be in the garden. We'll meet there in twenty doboshes.”

Prince Keithir nodded in agreement. “Is there a specific spot in the garden?”

“There's a new installation nearby. A raised bed full of juniberries and marmora blossoms that's meant to symbolize the peace between our people,” Katla said.

“Then I will see you there,” Prince Keithir agreed.

They continued to sway to the music as it came to an end, politely bowing to each other once it was over before going their separate ways. Katla wandered back into the crowd of Alteans, mingling with them until the staring stopped and she was able to slowly make her way towards the door.

There was a moment where she deliberated on whether or not she wanted to go meet him, but her curiosity won her over in the end. Whatever he had to tell her must be important if he snuck into the masquerade for the sole purpose of speaking with her.

Or maybe, a part of her whispered, maybe he was there for the same reason she was.

Katla was looking forward to finding out.

#voltron #kidgetober #kidgetober 2020 #kidge #fanfiction #day 3: free day

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stevenuniversallyreviews · 5 years ago

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Episode 133: Dewey Wins

“But...I’m hurt.”

I started reviewing the Week of Sardonyx in late 2017. It was slow going thanks to grad school and student teaching and licensing tests and my job (boy do I not miss those days), but I’d clawed my way through Cry for Help in October and Keystone Motel on the first Sunday of November. In those reviews, I wrote at length about how this was the most devastating arc of the series, a massive argument spanning multiple episodes with no easy answers.

Then the Friday after my Keystone Motel post was uploaded, Cartoon Network dropped the Breakup Arc on us all at once, and I had to make some edits.

There’s no official name for the span of episodes between Dewey Wins and Kevin Party, but considering it features not one but two breakups, with only one reconciliation by the end, I think my nickname is apt. Just under a fifth of Season 5 is devoted to six consecutive episodes designed to make us miserable, and on top of being an outstanding sequel to the Week of Sardonyx, it’s the best precursor we’ve got to adolescent trials of Steven Universe Future.

The Week of Sardonyx is strengthened by numerous previous episodes where Pearl does bad things without consequence, making it something of a shock when her actions are finally addressed. In a similar way, we’ve been taught from Log Date 7 15 2 and Kindergarten Kid and The New Crystal Gems that emotionally draining arcs are followed by cooldown episodes, and Dewey Wins sounds like the name of a fun adventure with our goofy mayor. There’s no situation where the Breakup Arc would be a pleasant affair, but the pattern adds an extra layer of angst as our anticipated relief period ends up more stressful than the arc we needed relief from.

But not every big arc gets a cooldown. Our very first, ending with Jailbreak, is followed by one of the Breakup Arc’s major prequels: Full Disclosure, an episode about missed phone calls and the importance of keeping friends in the loop regarding space adventures. The ghosted party is flipped, as Connie now refuses to talk to Steven, and watching his struggle gives an even greater appreciation for Connie’s own turmoil (not just from Full Disclosure, but Steven’s reckless self-sacrifice).

We know something’s wrong from the moment we see her, in a way that’s different from Greg and the Gems’ wide-eyed concern. Her discomfort manifests just as it did in Mindful Education: a downcast expression and curt demeanor made more apparent by Steven’s cheery chattiness. But because she’s the only one of them that has truly taken the lessons of that episode to heart, she soon expresses her feelings outright (after a brutal “Of course I’m happy to see you”—Grace Rolek only needs one scene to be the episode’s MVP). Her complaints are all valid: this is not the first time she’s been left on Earth, and her sense that Steven isn’t taking her seriously is confirmed when he can’t even take her seriously within the conversation. She’s as direct as she can be, but when Steven refuses to acknowledge her pain, her anger takes over and she shuts him out. Lion’s side-eye is icing on the cake.

My biggest issue with Dewey Wins, however, is Steven. I’m torn, because it’s easy to justify his behavior throughout the episode as a result of recent trauma and the relief at surviving such a harrowing experience (and, later, the same sleeplessness that made him snap in Rose’s Room and Warp Tour). It makes sense that his martyr complex is intensified by his experience with Lars, that he falls back on helping others at the cost of his own well-being on instinct. But his flippant dismissal of Connie’s emotions still feels off, especially because it comes with a heretofore unseen swagger about his own heroism. She pours her heart out, making it clear that she wants to keep being Jam Buds but he’s making it really difficult, but every word goes right over his head. This is a version of Steven that somehow doesn’t get that “hurt” can refer to emotions instead of physical damage.

Throughout the episode, but particularly in this opening scene, Steven feels exaggerated for the sake of honing Connie’s argument. Perhaps it’s necessary, considering how easy it is in first viewing to see his sacrifice as noble rather than selfish; we need to see a more extreme version of his behavior to understand that going it alone was a bad move, or else Connie’s arguments seem small against the scale of the stakes. It’s further complicated by the fact that Steven’s sacrifice was noble, even if it was selfish at the same time. This isn’t a case where Steven is fully right or fully wrong, so it’s bound to be confusing to hear that his traditionally heroic move wasn’t as great as he (or we) first thought.

So yeah, I get why Steven is acting this way for the sake of the show. And, again, I can find reasons to explain his sudden emotional idiocy, making it leagues better than a true Annoying Steven episode. But it still comes across as clumsy to me; I can see the wheels turning to move the plot along in a way that’s normally hidden better on this show. His final monologue where he realizes that Connie felt the way he feels about Dewey abandoning the race feels like something from another show, a show that’s way more on-the-nose than Steven Universe is at its best. It was probably the right move, because as much as I can’t stand it when media is patronizing to young audiences, this lesson is complex enough that it’s worth a little clunkiness to ensure that the message gets through to smaller viewers. But compared to the elegance of our recent space adventure, Dewey Wins sacrifices polish for clarity when we usually get both.

But enough about what doesn’t work for me, because so much of this episode works for me. Even if his behavior feels forced, Steven provides seamless in-universe exposition recapping his space adventure. His follow-up conversation with Sadie has the same kind of douchey detachment that he shows Connie, but in a way that’s far more consistent with his character: dismissing Connie’s emotions is out of left field for him, but it makes plenty of sense that he’d see Lars as “okay” despite being trapped in space, considering the alternative was a very real death. And, of course, there’s the matter of the episode’s actual hero.

Nanefua Pizza has been my everything since Beach Party, and it’s thrilling to see her gain more prominence in the tail end of the series. Her beef with Mayor Dewey has been running since Political Power, the Dewey episode that established all the flaws that drive him out of office in Dewey Wins. Then, she responded by rallying rioters to tip over his truck, but now she takes a more civic-minded approach to effect real change. Still, she’s driven by the same anger at Dewey, and can only become a true force for good when she gains a new appreciation for his struggles.

While the correlation between Dewey and Steven is obvious well before Steven straight-up says there’s a correlation (a moment that’s made easier to swallow when Dewey points out he has no context for Steven’s friend troubles), the general conflict between Nanefua and Bill(iam) is a more fascinating study on blame. At first, both candidates believe in the power of blame, with Nanefua laying all the city’s troubles on Dewey’s inaction and Dewey arguing that taking the heat is his greatest strength: in his mind, there’s not much he can actually do about the cosmic misfortunes that befall Beach City, but giving its citizens somebody to blame gives them a sense of control that’s necessary in a chaotic world. And both of these viewpoints can be found in Steven’s self-image.

Steven, like Nanefua, is quick to lay blame when anything goes wrong. But Steven, like Dewey, sees the absorption of blame as a virtue. So he loops between those two positions, looking for someone to blame at the drop of a hat and only finding himself. The ensuing guilt make him want to fix the problems of others to atone, rather than focus on the underlying cause of his own issues, and if that sounds familiar it’s because Steven Universe Future is entirely about how important it is to break this loop.

But obsessing over fixing things is also how Pearl tries to solve her argument with Garnet in the Week of Sardonyx: she focuses on finding Peridot instead of doing anything about her own actions until she has no choice but to talk things out. And, as I said back in my Friend Ship post, it evokes something Pearl once said about humans (which it turns out applies to Gems):

“They want to blame all the world's problems on some single enemy they can fight, instead of a complex network of interrelated forces beyond anyone's control.”

When was this said? In Keep Beach City Weird, in regards to Ronaldo. The same Ronaldo who poured gas on the fire in Full Disclosure by presenting the idea that heroes are aloof and keep their friends at a distance. So in a way, the Breakup Arc can be chalked up to ignoring the good Ronaldo lesson but taking the bad Ronaldo lesson to heart. But more on him in Gemcation.

Steven’s turmoil lends a somber edge to Nanefua’s powerful change of heart, where she rejects her past choice to blame Dewey. She apologizes for her own part in pointing fingers, because blame is a lousy substitute for getting things done, and forgives him for not being perfect. She pitches the act of helping as a community effort, rather than something that any one person must do alone; she remembers that the lyrics are “we can be strong in the real way.” She’s giving Steven all of the answers well before Steven Universe Future shows how much his guilt loop will continue to plague him, but he isn’t ready to listen yet, and leaves the debate dejected instead of empowered. (Considering Jenny’s appeal to taking breaks during trying times in Joy Ride, and an adventure with Kiki about not spreading yourself too thin on behalf of others in Kiki’s Pizza Delivery Service, this is the third time a Pizza woman’s fantastic advice has gone ignored by our hero.)

Even Dewey seems better off than Steven, accepting defeat by acknowledging that Nanefua would make a better mayor. And he’s right! She sets up actual services to account for alien threats, services that end up changing the universe in a way Dewey’s brand of keeping the peace never could. He may need a new job (Sadie foreshadows both his fate and her own imminent career change in one fell swoop), but there’s a sense of calm as he passes the torch after a full episode of Joel Hodgson’s hammy anxiety.

I appreciate that Dewey is allowed some points in his favor even as he flubs his way out of office. Yes, he should be more thoughtful and attentive: his vow to find a new donut shop kid when presented with news that Lars is trapped in space is even broader than Steven’s reaction to Connie’s pain, but the mayor has always ridiculous so I don’t mind at all. Yes, he should try and do something to address the concerns of his citizens beyond saying everything will be fine. But it’s not lost on the show that it isn’t easy running a town that’s a lightning rod for alien encounters, so Dewey remains sympathetic even if his ineptitude must be addressed. After all, if he’s gonna stand in for Steven in a metaphor that’s clear enough to be monologued about, it’s important to point out that it’s okay when you fail against impossible odds. Neither Dewey nor Steven can do everything on their own, no matter how much power they wield.

Steven might skip a few crucial lessons of Dewey Wins, but he at least learns one. Perhaps in an earlier season, that would be enough to mend fences with Connie. But time makes you bolder, children get older, and she’s getting older too. She’s been more than patient with being treated like an afterthought, so the moment she’s had enough is bound to be a big one. Thus, we end with a cliffhanger, one that pulls Steven into the same landslide that’s surely consuming the rest of the town after his kidnapping. The Barrigas are missing a son, and Sadie’s missing a romantic friend. Bill Dewey is no longer Mayor Dewey, and Nanefua has a whole new set of obstacles to face. Greg and the Gems have their son back, but his kidnapping was traumatic for them as well, and Connie gets that trauma on top of her stated complaints. And Steven had learned two lessons instead of one: it’s important to take your friends seriously, and timing is everything.

It’s gonna be a rough week.

We’re the one, we’re the ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!

I do like it, really. But Steven’s behavior takes it down a few notches, regardless of my ability to find ways to explain it. Great episodes don’t require the audience to seek ways to justify a character’s weird behavior. There’s more good than bad here, but I’d be lying if I said I loved Dewey Wins.

Top Twenty-Five

Steven and the Stevens

Hit the Diamond

Mirror Gem

Lion 3: Straight to Video

Alone Together

Last One Out of Beach City

The Return

Jailbreak

The Answer

Mindful Education

Sworn to the Sword

Rose’s Scabbard

Earthlings

Mr. Greg

Coach Steven

Giant Woman

Beach City Drift

Winter Forecast

Bismuth

Steven’s Dream

When It Rains

The Good Lars

Lars’s Head

Catch and Release

Chille Tid

Love ‘em

Laser Light Cannon

Bubble Buddies

Tiger Millionaire

Lion 2: The Movie

Rose’s Room

An Indirect Kiss

Ocean Gem

Space Race

Garnet’s Universe

Warp Tour

The Test

Future Vision

On the Run

Maximum Capacity

Marble Madness

Political Power

Full Disclosure

Joy Ride

Keeping It Together

We Need to Talk

Cry for Help

Keystone Motel

Back to the Barn

Steven’s Birthday

It Could’ve Been Great

Message Received

Log Date 7 15 2

Same Old World

The New Lars

Monster Reunion

Alone at Sea

Crack the Whip

Beta

Back to the Moon

Kindergarten Kid

Buddy’s Book

Gem Harvest

Three Gems and a Baby

That Will Be All

The New Crystal Gems

Storm in the Room

Room for Ruby

Lion 4: Alternate Ending

Doug Out

Are You My Dad?

I Am My Mom

Stuck Together

The Trial

Off Colors

Like ‘em

Gem Glow

Frybo

Arcade Mania

So Many Birthdays

Lars and the Cool Kids

Onion Trade

Steven the Sword Fighter

Beach Party

Monster Buddies

Keep Beach City Weird

Watermelon Steven

The Message

Open Book

Story for Steven

Shirt Club

Love Letters

Reformed

Rising Tides, Crashing Tides

Onion Friend

Historical Friction

Friend Ship

Nightmare Hospital

Too Far

Barn Mates

Steven Floats

Drop Beat Dad

Too Short to Ride

Restaurant Wars

Kiki’s Pizza Delivery Service

Greg the Babysitter

Gem Hunt

Steven vs. Amethyst

Bubbled

Adventures in Light Distortion

Gem Heist

The Zoo

Rocknaldo

Dewey Wins

Enh

Cheeseburger Backpack

Together Breakfast

Cat Fingers

Serious Steven

Steven’s Lion

Joking Victim

Secret Team

Say Uncle

Super Watermelon Island

Gem Drill

Know Your Fusion

Future Boy Zoltron

Tiger Philanthropist

No Thanks!

6. Horror Club 5. Fusion Cuisine 4. House Guest 3. Onion Gang 2. Sadie’s Song 1. Island Adventure

(No official promo art for most of the Breakup Arc, given the way they were released, but I can’t be too mad when we get brilliance like this from ajora.)

#dewey wins #steven universe #su #steven universally #review

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jeanstoppable · 4 years ago

Text

20th & 21st OF OCTOBER

~change the channel~ (substitute)

~island in the sun~

(A/N: I cannot, for the life of me, make these prompts shorter. But anyways, here’s some more of my Cyberpunk oc and a bit of world building)

WARNING: Mentions of Drug Use/Dark themes

The door shut with a soft click, the metal barrier cancelling out the harsh and turbulent noise of the downpour outside, as a clear ping pierced the silence of the room, signalling the automatic lock being completed.

I tossed the drenched sling bag somewhere on the floor, hearing it land but not bothering to check where, and started peeling the equally wet jacket off my torso, leaving me in a sleeveless black top.

I should take a shower first. I thought. But my legs didn’t move towards the bathroom to my far right, instead my eyes were fixated on the desk beside my bed, and then gradually brought them up on the old painting displayed right above it.

Later. This can’t wait. Heart and mind decided, I shuffled over to the desk in a sense of urgency, grabbed the painting by its sides and then plucked it from the hook. Flipping the frame around, a black plate covered the back of the canvas. With familiar ease, I slid my fingers across the upper corner edges and found the latch, successfully unfastening the plate to unveil a couple of worn-out journals hidden inside. Untouched.

A breath of relief escaped me, my fear of the notebooks being discovered momentarily disappearing.

I picked out the one I’ve been using as of late—the tenth one if I recall correctly, since I’ve already used up every bit of space from the others—and opened the journal where it had a bookmark.

The yellowed blank pages were a frequent sight as I ran a hand across the smooth surface while my other hand pulled a pen from a cup that was also holding a heap of markers and then started writing my thoughts—

It was a common enough phrase.

“CHANGE THE CHANNEL”

It doesn’t pique interest, at least to...someone like me, so it shouldn’t raise any suspicions, right?

I hovered the nib of the pen slightly above the paper, thinking if I should continue to write about the news we’ve received today. It was shocking enough that I even had to pinch myself a couple of times to see if I was dreaming or not because the news wasn’t just good nor great---it was the best fucking thing I’ve heard in years and it also just happens to be the one we’ve all been waiting for.

Setting down the pen, I reached for the hidden compartment again, took the very first journal I owned and then absently flipped through the filled pages, the crisp, crinkling sounds tenderly jogging my memory.

I stopped at the beginning of the notebook, a reminiscing smile graced my lips as I traced the old ink with the tip of a finger.

Don’t let anyone steal this.

I snorted, of course, this was written on the day I got my ass beat and left without so much of a coin in my pocket—thus, I was forced to resort to stealing. Strangely enough, this journal was the first thing I stole and to this day, I can’t seem to remember the reason why but I do remember how awful the act made me feel, the feeling lasted for days.

Nonetheless, those feelings subsided after getting accustomed to this lifestyle. Crime practically lived and breathed under my skin, these hands and feet of mine becoming my very own accomplices.

I closed my eyes as the usual barrage of emotions washed over me: disappointment, disgust, anger, hate—so much hate and all of it was directed at the only person I can blame at the moment.

Well to be fair, not once did I deny the indisputable fact that I hated how my life turned out, how everything turned out considering that there’s no one even left to impress, no one to see me pretend as if I wasn’t so horribly broken-down on the inside.

I hated how I was still here, anchored by some self-righteous bullshit I’d placed like a burden on my shoulders that one miserable night, a burden that still stubbornly carries the promise of changing the lives of so many other people.

My gaze landed on the scribbled date at the top of the page.

It’s been 6 years since the incident.

I breathed out my nose unevenly and closed the book with a snap, pushing it aside as I returned to the previous journal and picked up the pen to finish today’s log.

It’s happening.. It’s finally happening.

Today marks the fucking day of something revolutionary as we received reports, genuine physical reports, of a planned coup in all of five districts. And I know there had been a lot of them in the past and those who participated lost their lives after being executed on the spot… However, this time around, my gut tells me otherwise.

I think I mentioned this in my previous logs; it’s about the power balance shifting. It began to tip since last year and it hasn’t stopped till now. I fiercely believe that the power will eventually find its way back to us, as it rightfully should.

This was a long time coming after all. Years and years of effort had been put in just to dethrone those who forcefully robbed us of our lives and not just that---Our identities.. Our Family and friends. The voice itself of the public.

Letting out a tortured laugh, I wrote the end of the log:

CHANGE THE CHANNEL

Simple, dismissive and yet it holds the power of treason. It speaks the word of rebellion. I’m not afraid anymore because this phrase will take us one step closer to freedom.

. . .

“...Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Positive.”

I cast my partner a skeptical glance.

“...I’m 80% sure.” He nervously admitted, purposely avoiding my prodding eyes.

A huff of disbelief slipped past my lips as I demanded from him, “What did the message say anyway?”

“It was a recorded message programmed inside a toy, it only said the time and the address before self-destructing. But like I said, I don’t think I got any of the information wrong.”

“Maybe you misheard or missed something because this—”

I swallowed the sentence and did another scan of the building in front of us, our position from an empty terrace across the street granting us to overlook the supposed meeting place, the rendezvous as it turns out was a grand and luxurious night club.

It seemed that access was only given to those in the upper class but since it was fairly new and as far as rumors go, I heard it has an eccentricity to it, so the club wasn’t bustling like the other similar establishments scattered in the district. Still, entry to the venue remains as a privilege only to those who can afford to waste money, in this economy.

I eyed the flashy neon sign just above the main doors with slight distaste and a growing curiosity.

Island in the Sun

The name certainly snatches attention.

After seeing a bunch of people dressed in stylish clothes walk out, I run a hand through my hair, suddenly feeling a tiny bit insecure about what I’m wearing.

Hell, nothing about my attire was fancy by any means so I shot my partner another worried glance, “Do we really have no further means of communication with them? Do we really have to enter through the front? Can’t we just, you know, sneak inside a window? I mean, we don’t—we’re not—”

I gestured to his clothes and then mine, “We’ll stick out like sore fucking thumbs.”

“You do make a sound point.” He murmured and then lowered his goggles to finally address me, his grey orbs illuminated by the numerous bright neon signs, “I never expected our sponsor to be this...shameless? They’re practically waving their wealth in our faces, makes me wanna take a swipe at them.”

“Arman,” I quietly sighed, “What are we getting ourselves into?”

Is this what having cold feet feels like?

My partner surveyed me for a instant before having the nerve to roll his eyes, “Just treat this as one of our regular heists, Sonya. Aren’t you the least excited to experience what it’s like partying with the upper class?”

I stayed silent, not bothering to tell him that I did have prior experience, and just rubbed my temples, a headache forming at the prospect of how tonight will go.

“Time for a channel change.” My partner winked, his wise words partnered with the small gesture cracked my lips into a smile.

He then put a hand under his chin, thinking carefully as he relayed more of his thoughts, “And maybe get laid by the end of the night.” This time, I was the one to roll my eyes and got a glower from him in exchange.

“You could use it as well… When’s the last time you—”

“Shut the fuck up, Arman.” I tried snapping back but it turned into a laugh instead.

He only grinned toothily, looking guilty but proud, “Less nervous?”

“Let’s just get this over with.”

“Wait.” He said all of a sudden.

I raised a brow in question, my hands already gripping onto the rails, poised to scale down at any moment.

“Clothes.” Arman waved a hand and I grimaced.

“Ah yeah, right.”

A terse silence passed before we both launched smirks at each other, the same heinous idea forming in our minds as he pointed towards a closed clothing shop a few blocks away.

“What say you for one more heist this evening? It won’t be as grandiose as the previous ones, I’m afraid.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

. . .

Your ass looks nice in that.

Yeah? I’m taking this one then.

...Well?

Your ass always looks great, Arman.

So you’re saying mine looks better? Thanks.

Wear a skirt and then we’ll talk.

Oh, Sonya, just watch and learn.

. . .

I leaned against a street light, scrutinising our target club while waiting for my partner to finish finding the ‘perfect outfit’ as he called it, his words not mine. In the end, I settled for a wine coloured fitted dress with a criss-cross pattern exposing my back, a black corset on top, a semi transparent blazer for my shoulders, and then I picked out simple knee length combat boots—in case the deal goes awry and we had to flee.

Hearing footsteps behind me, I peeked over and my jaw dropped as soon as I laid eyes on Arman.

He was wearing a skin tight turtleneck black dress, showing off his lean but toned figure, a beautiful velvet burgundy blazer that looked amazing on his broad shoulders and then his shoes were thick polished combat boots, almost same as mine, the only difference was his heels were an inch higher, making him look taller than he normally is.

I whistled in pure awe, “Damn, Island in the Sun is about to get a whole lot hotter.”

A smug expression graced his handsome features when he walked past me, swaying his ass deliberately, “Told you so,”

I huffed at his haughty but rightfully placed attitude and caught up to him, looping an arm around his, “Well, won’t you tell me—am I your designated arm candy or are you mine?”

“Why can’t we just be both?”

We toned down the volume of our conversation when we neared the establishment, Arman breaking off as he walked up to the main entrance. It was as we expected, one of the large bouncers blocked him immediately and then pointed to the side towards the long line of people waiting for their own turn.

Arman straightened his shoulders and crossed his arms, “We have an appointment with your employer.”

The bouncer examined my partner from head to toe, not looking the least convinced although the second after, he pressed a button on his collar, “Can you direct me to the boss’ line?”

“Hey!” A voice shouted off to the side where the line was, “Wait in line like the rest of—”

I whirled on whoever was speaking and gave them my most vicious glare, that person stopped in the middle of their sentence and then promptly averted their eyes. I scoffed at them.

“Boss, there’s two individuals here that say they have an appointment with you.” The bouncer said, nodding while listening to his receiver and then finally turned back to Arman, “I apologise but the boss doesn’t have any more appointments for tonight.”

Arman took this information calmly and then leaned in, a hand covering his lips as he whispered something to the bouncer, keeping his voice as quiet as possible.

The bouncer’s eyes widened, stared at Arnan and me before ultimately stepping aside, handing us two glowing yellow bracelets, “I’m sorry for the delay, the boss is expecting you.”

My partner brightened and accepted the bracelets, holding me by my wrist as he ushered us past the main entrance. Still confused about the whole ordeal, I reluctantly put on the accessory without saying a word, the bracelet giving a weird sting when it made contact with my skin, and then followed Arman inside.

“What was that?” I asked the moment we’re left alone.

“Did you forget why we’re here?” He quipped back cheerfully and the realisation struck me later than I would have liked.

“...What do you think this is for?” I changed the subject to both our glowing bracelets, raising mine to my eye level just to get a good look at it.

“I don’t know. Gimmicks?” Arman absently rubbed his, faintly knotting his eyebrows and then started inspecting the empty hallway we were walking through, “For a club named Island in the Sun, it doesn’t seem very hot.”

We reached the end of the hallway and the doors opened upon sensing us, revealing another set of corridors, three to be exact that split into different directions: There was muffled music coming from our right, while there’s really faint sounds of people chattering to the left, and then nothing from the one ahead of us.

I took a step towards the middle corridor, figuring it was where we needed to go but Arman blocked an arm in my way, “Don’t you want to check out the other rooms? We might as well explore before we get kicked out after our appointment.”

My expression definitely disapproved of the idea and he could see that, although I think I might’ve surprised him when I agreed to his request, “No more than five minutes.”

His grey orbs gleamed with excitement, “I’ll go this way,” he pointed to the right, “Take the left.” With that said, Arman pivoted and headed for the direction with the music, and I walked towards the left corridor.

The doors were glass so I’d seen what was inside while waiting for them to open.

I scrunched my brows in bewilderment at what awaited me. The room was massive so to say and furthermore, it has a second floor filled with—What were those? There were these weird opaque bubbles that had a hatch on the front with a keypad beside it and almost all of them were lit, vague silhouettes of people moving to and fro inside but nothing more than that.

My eyes landed on the pit with a glass dome in the centre, a couple of people were lounging on long circular couches whilst socialising with each other. I was so focused on the bizarre scene that I didn’t notice the doors sliding open and the cyborg standing off to the side, making me almost jump when it had announced itself.

WELCOME. WOULD YOU LIKE TO PROCURE AN ISLAND?

“I---uh, what...does that mean exactly?” I awkwardly rubbed my nape, feeling the need to occupy my shaking hands as I peered up at the cyborg.

WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO DEMONSTRATE HOW OUR ISLANDS WORK?

I simply nodded and the cyborg’s eyes immediately flashed bright, projecting a hologram into the empty space between us, leaving me to watch in wonder as a 3D model of one of the bubbles appeared.

ESSENTIALLY, OUR SPHERICAL ISLANDS ARE DESIGNED TO SERVE AS ADVANCED PRIVATE SUITS FOR SPECIAL CUSTOMERS. ITS CURVED WALLS ARE BUILT-IN WITH HIGH POWERED LED SCREENS THAT LETS YOU PROJECT ANY KIND OF SCENERY YOU’D PREFER AND IT’S ALSO COMPLETE WITH FURNITURE THAT CAN SATISFY TO EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOUR NEEDS.

The holograms changed and now it showed one of those glowing bracelets.

WHILE YOU’RE INSIDE THE CLUB, WE WILL ALSO EXCLUSIVELY PROVIDE YOU WITH OUR CLUB’S HOTTEST PRODUCT TO MAKE YOUR NIGHT BETTER AND MORE ENJOYABLE.

I frowned, asking warily, “Product?”

I’M PROHIBITED TO EXPLAIN ANY FURTHER DETAILS OF THE PRODUCT. HOWEVER, YOU CAN FIND OUT FOR YOURSELF THROUGH ONE OF OUR ISLANDS, THE PIT, OR IN THE PARTY ROOM.

Something cold settled in my stomach, “The party room...it’s the room opposite this one , right?”

CORRECT. NOW, THAT YOU ARE AWARE OF OUR CLUB’S COMMODITIES, WOULD YOU LIKE TO PROCURE AN ISLAND?

I shook my head, about to refuse the offer when a question crossed my mind, “...How much is one island?”

The cyborg turned off the projection and turned its gaze downwards, scanning my bracelet through its lens.

NO PAYMENT NEEDED FOR VIP CUSTOMERS.

“VIP...?” My throat dried up as I covered the bracelet on my wrist with a hand, “I...won’t be taking an island, thank you.” The cyborg merely bowed and then went back to its corner, waiting for someone new to serve.

“Shit, I have a bad feeling about this.” I said to myself, returning to the intersection from before and making my way towards the party room.

The moment the doors slid open, the music hit me and my eardrums in full blast. I winced at the intensity of it and more so at the large crowd dancing and grooving to the loud beat. It was difficult to even hear my own voice. I internally groaned, how am I supposed to find him at this rate?

Keeping my eyes sharp despite it being extremely dark and the occasional blinding strobe lights, I moved through the mob of people pressed against one another, awkwardly bumping into some people dancing and then sometimes getting pushed back. I bit my lip, refraining from picking a fight as I held on to my rapidly waning patience.

All of a sudden, someone slapped a hand to my ass and the leash briefly snapped—I quickly rounded on that person, a fist almost flying out when I saw that the hand belonged to a man a couple of inches shorter than me with a greasy sneer on his face.

“Do that again...” I fisted his shirt and followed with a violent promise, “And you’ll go home left-handed.” I threatened, my voice brimming with spite.

Once I saw the frightened understanding in his eyes, I released him and turned away. “Arman, you better show yourself right now.” I growled.

Finally, I spotted a familiar burgundy jacket behind a pillar and I set my sights on it, carelessly pushing my way through, ignoring the curses and rude remarks of the people I shoved because I have had enough of this.

I shouldn’t have to search for him.

As I got closer to the pillar, I only noticed then that he was making out with someone. Oh you’re dead. My fingers shot out to grab the shoulder of the man I’ve been searching for, ready to cuss at him till his ears fall off.

��Oi! What the fuck happened to five minutes?!”

I halted as I met face to face with a stranger, and not at all my partner, “A-ah, I’m sorry I thought you were—“ My eyes flicked towards the person standing beside them.

“Arman!” I shouted, obviously relieved to see him alright but then remembered I was still pissed off, “What the hell? I was looking all over for you!”

His eyebrows creased for a moment before a loopy smile graced his lips, “Sonya! I’m sorry, I got a bit distracted…” Arman’s gaze trailed off to the side but at the same time, he gripped the waist of the man he kissed earlier closer to his body.

I gawked at him. Honestly speechless. But then I lashed out a hand to circle around his wrist, the one with that damned bracelet, and discovered that the yellow glow was at half now.

This was their exclusive product.

I fumed as I took out a spare light from the pocket of my blazer and yanked his head down to my level, “Let me see your fucking eyes.”

I shined the light on them and noticed how bloodshot they were, his pupils were unusually blown wide. I cursed again, letting out my frustrations, “Arman, you’re blazed!”

“What?! No, no, no. I-I haven’t taken any.” He stumbled over his words, making me doubt him even more.

“Excuse me.” A new voice piped in.

I flipped my attention to Arman’s...date? Lover? Who the hell cares, I completely forgot he was even there, “Aren’t you being a bit rude? Who are you anyways?” The man asked snobbishly while squinting at me.

I glared back, a dangerous smile framing my painted lips, “I’m his girlfriend. Who are you?”

“Sonya!” Arman yelled in disbelief.

The man mouth hung open and then tried explaining himself, “I-I’m—“

I held up a finger, “You know what, I don’t give a rat’s ass.” Locking an arm around Arman’s, I pulled him away from the man and roughly dragged him across the dance floor and towards the exit.

Once we got back to the main hallway, I let him go and stared him down with my arms placed on my hips, “What was that, Arman?” I gritted out, trying to be as calm as I can without blowing a fuse.

“Give me a minute.” He panted, “It’s so damn hot, ugh.”

“What are you saying, you’ve only been in there for less than twenty minutes.” I looked at him confused but then clearly saw the heavy perspiration forming on his skin, “Hey...you’re sweating really bad.”

“I’m sorry, Sonya.” He apologised, breathing large gulps of air while leaning on the wall, “I’m sorry you had to cover for me back there.”

My gaze softened as I stood beside him, “It’s nothing…”

“I know I really screwed up for not being careful, but I swear—Sonya, I swear I didn’t take any drugs.” Arman gripped my arms, looking me wildly in the eyes.

“Don’t worry..I believe you.” I assured him, wiping the sweat off his forehead, “It might’ve been that stuck-up date of yours, did you notice him touch your bracelet while you were together?”

He opened his mouth and then clamped it shut, a deeply disturbed expression slowly contorted his features, “Yeah...Yeah, he did.”

I let out a rough exhale, controlling the rage that sweeped me off, now twice as strong, “If I ever see that fucker—“

A hand on my shoulder pulled my attention back as I faced Arman, letting him see the murderous expression on my features.

“The appointment.” He reminded me softly.

“...Right…right. Are you sure you’re okay now?”

He pushed off the wall and gave me a tiny smile that broke my heart.

“...You know, you’re giving Tilly a run for her money—I mean, showing up to a sponsor’s meeting high? Not even she has the balls to do that.”

Arman chuckled, a dark look passing his expression as he bitterly said, “I bet that they’re expecting us to attend already intoxicated.”

I hummed in agreement, “So, our first sponsor’s a drug enthusiast, huh?”

“Ready?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

TBC

(A/N: I WAS SUPPOSED TO INCLUDE MEETING THE BOSS BUT ITS TOO LONG wowowow, these prompts are now integrated into my story, I swear I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this—but ANYWAYS. I’m kinda living for this unhinged oc of mine, and this duo?? I had so much fun writing about theit dynamic. However sad to say, this will be the last of them for now... as it goes, i must move on to other ignored ocs PEACEEE)

#alkinktober #inktober prompt #myoc #mywriting #cyberpunk oc #cyberpunk #cyberpunk fic #THIS WAS #SO MUCH FUN??#I am also loving this duo

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soveryanon · 5 years ago

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Reviewing time for MAG157! ;___;

- … I’d been making fun of the fact that The Corruption was the unloved Fear of season 4, since we hadn’t had any statement since MAG103… and consecutively, we got a small talk about Jane Prentiss at the end of MAG152, a Corruption statement in MAG153, and now… another one, which dealt with an identified avatar, and was, I felt, the most gruesome Corruption one we ever had. Somethingsomething about how season 4 is the “be careful what you wish for” season, uh. (Well. You never wish for a Corruption statement, you mostly note that there hasn’t been one for a while.)

Jon was suspecting that Jane Prentiss’s attack on the Institute had been a ritual attempt:

(MAG152) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … It’s all that left of her now. Apart from a… jar of ashes in my desk. Just a circle of rotten stone on an otherwise… unremarkable wall. HELEN: More of a legacy than some people get. ARCHIVIST: … It was meant to be a gate, I think. A hole that she… rotted into The Corruption itself. Maybe the start of a ritual. HELEN: Hm. Not exactly impressive, is it? ARCHIVIST: Less complex, certainly. But I think that’s the thing about– … what did Elias call it… “Filth”. I don’t think it really plans much. It just starts to grow wherever it can get a foothold and… if no one stomps it out in time: Game Over. […] I’ve been wondering what they were doing down here.

And it’s a bit terrifying to think that technically, Jane Prentiss was quite… low scale, in the harm she did during the attack on the Institute, compared to what we saw in “Love Bombing” (a whole cult minus one getting eradicated) and Amherst’s actions (contaminating the entirety of Ivy Meadows, and it probably could have spread through Nicole Baxter if she hadn’t lost/cut her hand, and eradicating the entire population of Klanxbüll):

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “I knew at that moment that there was nothing that could be done to save the town. […] I found the source of this sickness in the Parkplatz opposite the train station. The cars had been pushed to the side, clearly at great cost to the bodies of those that pushed them. And in the centre was a figure from whom the rot clearly flowed. He was sat upon a most dreadful throne, formed from a dozen, two dozen bodies mixed together like putty, eyes staring out like horror-stricken stars twinkling in the night – and their hearts beating for all to see. A moaning came from that awful seat, voices trying to scream through things that weren’t their throat – and it is a sound I shall be glad to leave behind me when I go to my rest.”

What kind of music was Amherst hearing in his dreams, to go for mass-damage like this every few years? Ivy Meadows happened during summer 2011 or 2012 (dates were a bit inconsistent in MAG036 itself, Elias said in June 2017 that it had been “five years” since the death of Melanie’s father), Amherst’s actions in Klanxbüll happened in 2013, that’s… such a short span to cause so much damage… ;; Really hoping that this concrete lasts forever ;;

- Chronology time, regarding Adelard’s actions since we began hearing about him in season 2:

* 06/02/1991 or 06/07/1991: Adelard had left a statement about the “NotThem”, calling it as such. Although it was referenced in MAG077, Jon explained in MAG078 that he had found another statement in the file:

(MAG077) GERTRUDE: Based on the interactions and effects, I suspect this to be the creature that Adelard Dekker refers to as the “NotThem” in statement 9910607. […] Based on Dekker’s statement, it would seem Polaroids are also relatively stable.

(MAG078) ARCHIVIST: I found this in the folder marked 9910602, where Gertrude’s tape had indicated I would find the statement of Dekker himself. There is nothing else in there, but I think it tells me what I need to know. This thing, this… “Not Sasha”… it’s tied to the table.

(… With an inconsistency regarding the month. Either Gertrude messed up (unlikely.), either Jonny messed up, either Jon messed up in his panic and fortunately still found a Not!Them-related statement despite going for the wrong file with the wrong month.)

* Sometime between 1991 and 1996 (since Eric knew Elias but didn’t know he had become Head before his own quitting&getting murdered): Adelard was identifiable as Gertrude’s collaborator and, amongst other things, threw a “screaming box” in the Thames:

(MAG154) ERIC: She never played dumb when I was stalked by bloated, blood-sucking things, or told me I was “imagining it” when I saw your friend Adelard drop a screaming box into the Thames.

* 04/11/1996: Gertrude recorded Lucy Cooper’s statement (given in September 1994) about the Not!Them taking her mother’s place. In her Final Comments, she mentioned a statement previously left by Adelard:

(MAG077) GERTRUDE: Based on the interactions and effects, I suspect this to be the creature that Adelard Dekker refers to as the “NotThem” in statement 9910607. If the pattern of behaviour is consistent with what he establishes, then further follow-up on this case is pointless: the thing has finished with the Cooper family and will not be revisiting them. It rarely seems to stay in the same place or with the same people for long, though it’s hard to guess at its motives. Personally, I suspect it to be an aspect of The Stranger, though that’s entirely conjecture at this point. […] It is at least reassuring to know that magnetic tape seems to escape being overwritten, so if I get changed, you can be sure this is my real voice. Based on Dekker’s statement, it would seem Polaroids are also relatively stable.

* Shortly before 12/06/2001: Lawrence Moore’s statement described Adelard Dekker, binding the Not!Them to the Web table which had previously been in Raymond Fielding’s ownership at Hill Top Road until the 70s. We don’t know how Adelard acquired the table, nor what happened to explain that he left without it and that Breekon&Hope were the ones to retrieve it afterwards:

(MAG078, Lawrence Moore) “He was black, dressed in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a thin necktie. For a moment I had the idea he might be a Jehovah’s Witness, but one look at his face dispelled that idea immediately. It was hard and stern, set in look of determination, and his short hair was iron grey. He was very thin, with aging skin stretched tight over wiry, corded muscle, and though he was slightly shorter than I was, it seemed like he towered over me. He asked if I knew the man who had left my house earlier that evening. […] At this, the old man’s eyes lit up with excitement, and I took an involuntary step back. If he noticed, he didn’t show it, walking past me into the house and ordering me to get any photos that hadn’t changed. […] He told me his name was Adelard Dekker, and that he was an exorcist, of sorts. […] Adelard Dekker stood in the corner. He was straight and motionless, his lips moving rapidly, though no sound came out of them. In the centre of the room, next to the empty box, stood a table carved from dark wood and wrapped all over with a sprawling, intricate pattern. And in front of that table was the thing that had said it was my cousin. It was long and thin, the tops of it bent against the ceiling and its stick-like limbs flailed from too many joints and elbows. Wrapped around it were thick strands of what I think was spider’s web, stretching back into the table, which I now saw pulsed along its carved channels with a sickly light. The face at the top of that gangly frame was like nothing on earth. […] I didn’t return to my house until the next morning. Dekker’s blue van was gone, and in its place was another one, dirty white. There was something printed on the side, but I couldn’t make it out under the grime. I watched two men in overalls carry that same box out of my house, load it up, and drive away. That was about two months ago, and it was the last time I saw them, the table, Adelard Dekker or the thing that wasn’t my cousin.”

(MAG079) NOT!SASHA: Once upon a time there was a monster, but no one realised. Sometimes someone did and then they were scared, so that was good. But one day a nasty man came along. A nasty man who tricked the monster and wrapped it all in webs and tied it to a table. So the monster got its friends to carry the table all around, and it still got to take faces and scare people.

* 22/01/2006: Adelard sent a letter to Gertrude regarding Garland Hillier’s disappearance in 1867 (the year of Robert Smirke’s death…) and describing Bernadette Delcour’s discovery of his old sealed flat, leading to an encounter with the Inheritors from The Extinction.

(MAG134, Adelard Dekker) “Sorry I can’t be there in person to go over all this with you. I still have a few things to clear off over here, but I thought it would be best to let you know as soon as possible. I am now certain my theory is correct: there is something new emerging. A fifteenth Power. […] Now I know what you’re going to say, Gertrude: odd doors are signs of The Spiral, empty worlds tend towards The Lonely, and eschatology is almost literally the study of The End. But this is different. I feel it. This Fear is new. This is a fear of extinction. Of change. It used to be part of The End, perhaps, when The End of humanity was to be the end of all things; but now, the fear is not of a rapture or a revelation; it is of catastrophic change. A change in our world that will wipe out what it means to be “us”, and leave something else in its place. […] These are new fears, Gertrude, and a new Power is rising to consume them. The Extinction. The Terrible Change. The-Future-Without-Us. […] I know you don’t credit my theories, and I’m sure you’ll have plenty to say on this one, but I’m going to need your help with this at some point – I’m sure of it. I don’t know how you can stop the birth of something that has no life, or mind, or… substance, but if anyone can figure it out, it’s you. I’ve never met anyone so gifted at understanding that… strange, dream logic of the Fears, and if what I suspect about this new Power is true, it could be catastrophic. Until then, I’ll keep searching for evidence, trying to find… instances and manifestations of The Extinction. I’ll keep you updated.”

* October 2008: Dekker had helped Gertrude stop The Flesh’s ritual – suggesting she use explosives? Providing them? Helping her set them up in the gnostic church?

(MAG130) GERTRUDE: When I heard there’d been survivors of “The Last Feast”, I was rather concerned that one of them might be able to positively identify me, [CHUCKLE] which could land me in all sorts of trouble! But she doesn’t seem to remember me at all. […] Dekker really came through with the explosives! It almost felt like cheating. Sad about the loss of history but Miss Wright didn’t seem to think the old Gnostic church got many visitors anyway. […] At least we know for sure that these “grand rituals” can be disrupted by conventional means, though a more… nuanced approach will be needed for some of them, I’m sure. Also… I can’t rely on having this much lead time.

* 04/01/2009: Adelard sent a letter to Gertrude describing an unnamed man’s experience in the Bright Lake amusement park in Colorado, with something Adelard identified as an Extinction occurrence.

(MAG156, Adelard Dekker) “Gertrude; I wanted your opinion on an encounter I’ve had described to me recently, and given your recent dealing with Viscera, I would very much value your input. Good job on that, by the way […]. So: what are your thoughts? I’m keen to hear your own interpretation of this account. My first assumption would have been The Flesh, based on the cannibalism and strangeness of the bodies involved, but… something about this idea of some sort of “famine world”, its location within a made-man ruin, the whole… societal aspect of it… I’d be inclined to chalk this up as a genuine Extinction manifestation. But I don’t know. Am I drawing wild conclusions, trying to fit the account into my own preconceptions? Keen to know your feelings on the matter.”

(* 03/10/2009: Gary Boylan gave his statement to the Institute, about the destruction of his village following a signal he had deciphered. No mention of Adelard Dekker in the notes.)

* Undated letter, likely circa 2012: Adelard sent a statement to Gertrude about an avatar of The End encountered when he was tracking The Extinction (without naming it), through a string of people dying by carbon monoxide poisoning in their sleep. Adelard also mentioned that Gertrude had asked him to move out some plastic explosives (he hadn’t been her provider, Gertrude had got them elsewhere).

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “I was pursuing my researches into the new emergence I mentioned earlier. I know you are dismissive of the possibility, but if I’m right, the sudden urgency of these “immediate dangers” you are so focused on could very well be a direct result. But that’s for another day, as this particular instance turned out to be unconnected. The point is, I was alerted to a series of deaths by a coroner friend of mine. […] I don’t know if my little “theoretical” is strong enough yet to start taking avatars, but this one, as you’ve no doubt guessed, turned out to be Terminus.”

* 13/05/2013: Judith O’Neill gave her statement about (mostly) unmoving creatures made of garbage, killing a researcher. Judith had been explicitly sent by Adelard:

(MAG149) MARTIN: There’s… hum, a, a note here as well. [PAPER RUSTLING] Looks like Gertrude’s handwriting? Start of a letter to… Dekker, thanking him for sending Judith to her, though… it doesn’t look like it was ever finished or sent. [PAPER RUSTLING] I assume this is another one he was trying to use to prove The Extinction? It… certainly has something in it. Mankind’s trash giving rise to something terrible. And again, fear of the other, inanimate humanoid figures. That’s all very… Stranger, isn’t it?

* Before August 2013: Adelard had apparently been the one to suggest explosives to disrupt The Unknowing. Gertrude made the following comment on 09/10/2014:

(MAG137) GERTRUDE: Another one to cross off the list. Doesn’t help with The Unknowing, though. [HEAVY SIGH] We still have Dekker’s back-up plan, of course, but… it’s very risky. To be sure, I–I think the detonation would need to happen from within The Unknowing, while it was going on.

* 14/08/2013: Adelard Dekker sent an email to Gertrude regarding his suspicion about an Extinction activity in the town of Klanxbüll, which turned out to be the work of John Amherst, from The Corruption. Adelard was poisoned during the fight, and told Gertrude what had happened and how he was choosing to die, ultimately expressing doubts about the reality or the shape of The Extinction:

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “You must forgive me, Gertrude, for any typing and spelling errors that might be in this message. My hands are shaking quite badly and my fingers… aren’t what they were. […] But I shall not wait for it to putrefy as the rot overtakes me. I have dragged those other afflicted I could find into the Parkplatz, laid them at the feet of that appalling throne, and… taken the last gifts of that… generous construction site: a dozen cans of petrol. I will sit upon that seat, and release these poor souls from their suffering. [INHALE] And hopefully make things simpler, for the ECDC clean-up crews. But it did not seem quite right to leave without letting you know what happened. And… Herr [Becker?] was kind enough to succumb to the sickness without signing out of his computer, so… perhaps you were right about The Extinction. I’ve been hunting it for decades now, and… while I have seen evidence of its influence in other Powers, I have never found anything to genuinely prove its emergence as a true Power of its own. Perhaps it is an existential fear that flows through the others like a vein of ore; or perhaps the birth of such things is longer and more complicated than I believed. For all that though, I cannot regret the time I have spent seeking it. I have done my duty; and none may ask more of me.”

So… although he sounds absolutely dead-dead, I don’t think this is the last we’re hearing from Adelard. I guess it could be possible that he had just left the Web table binding the Not!Them behind him around 2001 (though quite uncharacteristic), but we’re still missing his statement from 1991, and given that Jon had acknowledged that he hadn’t found Dekker’s own statement, I think it’s safe to assume that we could be hearing about it later (in season 5? Or in MAG160, as a “closure” to Dekker’s own story and investigations, since he was quite important through season 4?), in a written statement or through a recording with Gertrude.

- I’m a bit interrogative about the way Adelard mentioned his investigations regarding The Extinction:

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “… perhaps you were right about The Extinction. I’ve been hunting it for decades now, and… while I have seen evidence of its influence in other Powers, I have never found anything to genuinely prove its emergence as a true Power of its own. Perhaps it is an existential fear that flows through the others like a vein of ore; or perhaps the birth of such things is longer and more complicated than I believed. ”

Because the earliest he tried to summarise and essentialise what he felt was the New Power, labelling it “The Extinction”, was in 2006 (MAG134), so only seven years before his death. Was he exaggerating when he said “decades”? Or will we learn more about his genesis, as an addendum, and it was truly a long-time conviction / a dissatisfaction with Smirke’s categorisation? I had already noticed that it was strange (ha) that, although the Not!Them presented itself as a creature from The Stranger (or at least allied to it), the earliest things we know about Adelard was that he was after it… when his description of The Extinction feels very close to some of the Not!Them’s effects (although in lower scales, for the latter); so maybe he had trouble categorising the Not!Them, back then, hence his conviction that a New Power might have been emerging…? Adelard also used some of the names inherited from Smirke’s work:

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “There was… an inevitability to his movements, and I think that is when I realised he was simply serving The End, which I won’t pretend wasn’t a disappointment.”

(MAG134, Adelard Dekker) “Now I know what you’re going to say, Gertrude: odd doors are signs of The Spiral, empty worlds tend towards The Lonely, and eschatology is almost literally the study of The End. But this is different. I feel it.”

(MAG156, Adelard Dekker) “So: what are your thoughts? I’m keen to hear your own interpretation of this account. My first assumption would have been The Flesh, based on the cannibalism and strangeness of the bodies involved, but…”

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “I’ve spoken before about how keenly I have watched news of possible pandemics, which is where I suspect The Extinction may pull away from The Corruption during its emergence. […] So, it seemed it was not The Extinction as I had anticipated but simply a new and awful strain of Corruption.”

But he was also occasionally labelling them in unique ways:

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “I don’t know if my little “theoretical” is strong enough yet to start taking avatars, but this one, as you’ve no doubt guessed, turned out to be Terminus.”

(MAG156, Adelard Dekker) “I wanted your opinion on an encounter I’ve had described to me recently, and given your recent dealing with Viscera, I would very much value your input.”

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “I have spoken to you before of Christabel, my… contact within the ECDC. She had a run-in with the Crawling Rot some decades ago, and has since then kept me up to date with any incidents they have encountered which display “unusual” properties.”

(Though that last one was also used by Arthur Nolan in MAG145: “Found a mass of the Crawling Rot growing, a while back. Managed to get a hold of the property before it became too big. Gotta wait ‘til it blossoms before we can properly burn it.”)

It is curious that, of all people, we didn’t get Adelard’s story of his first few years, how he came in contact with the Powers, with Gertrude, why/how he came to tracking down avatars, so I think there is a good chance we could get a statement about it, indeed. After all, we keep hearing stories of/from people who have been dead for a while; what I’m curious is when/how it could be done in a way that would “add” something else to the current storyline, if we’re done with The Extinction after the season 4 finale…? (Unless we aren’t.) Or it could be about categorising, or the concept of “Faith” against the Fears, I guess.

- There is something heart-breaking putting together his ways of addressing Gertrude in his messages:

(MAG134, Adelard Dekker) “Gertrude; Sorry I can’t be there in person to go over all this with you. I still have a few things to clear off over here, but I thought it would be best to let you know as soon as possible. […] I’ll keep you updated. Stay safe. Adelard.”

(MAG156, Adelard Dekker) “Gertrude; I wanted your opinion on an encounter I’ve had described to me recently, and given your recent dealing with Viscera, I would very much value your input. Good job on that, by the way; I’m sure the gnostic temple was a great loss culturally speaking, but I can’t help but admire your directness when it comes to dealing with this sort of thing. […] So: what are your thoughts? I’m keen to hear your own interpretation of this account. […] Keen to know your feelings on the matter. […] Oh – one more thing: if you do try to follow up with my source – and I know you have your own ways of finding him should you wish – please be careful. He told me, near the end, that he had recently been worried he was being followed. He keeps catching glimpses of a thin figure in the distance, or disappearing around a corner, and I can’t quite get past the detail that there was no reflection at all in the mirror he used to return. If my suspicions are correct, there’s little either of us could do for him; but do take care, should you make contact.”

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “Gertrude; It should all be here, though god knows I was tempted to take a block for myself just in case. […] Anyway, you owe me a favour. And… maybe another one once you read this. It might come to nothing, but it’s something you should probably be aware of. […] I’m sure you can take care of yourself, of course, but I thought it would be worth letting you know. Good luck, Gertrude. And enjoy the fireworks.”

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “You must forgive me, Gertrude, for any typing and spelling errors that might be in this message. […] This is the last time you will hear from me. You must trust me on that and not come looking. Not that you would; I know you’re too smart for sentimentality, especially after what I have to tell you, but I feel it worth saying nonetheless. […] I’ve wondered, Gertrude, whether you are truly as fearless as you seem; or if you are simply a master of disguising your terror…! I suppose I’ll never have a chance to find out. I rather hope it was the former. However much I disagree with some of your methods, it feels good to believe there are people in this world who can stare down the devil without flinching. […] But it did not seem quite right to leave without letting you know what happened. And… Herr [Becker?] was kind enough to succumb to the sickness without signing out of his computer, so… […] I am proud of the work we have done, and it has been an honour to do it alongside you. Goodbye, Gertrude. May you find your rest where no shadows are cast… and no eyes may see you slumber.”

Politely beginning all his letters with “Gertrude”, except for the last one, which began with apologies. Ending each ones with little words of encouragements and concern (“Stay safe”, “do take care”, “good luck”)… up until that “goodbye” in the last one.

Something that MAG157 put into a new perspective, too: in MAG137, Gertrude had mentioned “Adelard’s back-up plan” to thwart The Unknowing. That recording had happened in October 2014; Adelard had been dead for more than a year at this point. When she sighed right before mentioning him, was it only a pragmatic sigh, linked to the fact that she was a bit at a loss to counter The Stranger? Or was it also because she had lost her closest ally, and someone she had been seeing as a friend despite herself, and who wasn’t there anymore…?

(And in the end, Gertrude didn’t have the time to stop The Unknowing and to follow through with Adelard’s plan. Jon, Tim and the others followed in her footsteps and, without knowing, also in Adelard’s, accomplishing the plans of two dead people…)

(- There is still The Mystery Of Gertrude’s Death and thinking again about MAG113 made me realise that, UHOH???

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “Anyway, you owe me a favour. And… maybe another one once you read this. It might come to nothing, but it’s something you should probably be aware of. […] I cannot make any guarantees Justin Gough will remain in the state I left him. And it seems that, as he deals in dreams, it may be worth your while to keep an eye on the statements you take, in case he finds his way here. I’m sure you can take care of yourself, of course, but I thought it would be worth letting you know.” […] ARCHIVIST: This was found tucked into a hard case containing… many blocks of plastic explosive, kept by Gertrude Robinson in a storage unit that I can only assume has… extremely lax oversight. It is unclear if she ever read it. […] I know there are more important things to be doing, but I did ask Basira to have a quick search for Justin Gough, see what might have happened to him. There are records of his residence in an East London care facility until 2015, when he disappears from their records. Several deaths among the staff apparently occurred at roughly the same time. And it will come as no surprise that the inquest returned a verdict of carbon monoxide poisoning in each case. I’m not too concerned, to be honest, my dreams are, uh... well, let’s just say I don’t think they're going be letting anyone else in any time soon.

… Adelard had explicitly warned her about an avatar from The End who dealt with dreams, who went loose again in 2015.

… And Jon wasn’t sure that Gertrude had read this message.

… And in March 2015, Oliver, End-touched person, soon to become avatar, had described his own dreams of Gertrude, terrified, being the target of the vines usually announcing people’s death…

We know that Gertrude didn’t die when she should have (she was still alive in April 2015, if she didn’t lie on the date), and Elias confessed to her murder, and she had plain mundane bullets in her body… But it’s actually extreeeemely suspicious that Justin Gough escaped the year she died? Was The End involved in her death a bit more actively than just through Oliver’s visions…? Or was Oliver’s vision the fate awaiting her if Justin had managed to kill her?)

- One Nice Thing (aesthetically) is that I really experienced Adelard’s realisation right along with him? I assumed that the town was under a new Extinction threat, assumed we were on the verge of meeting our first Extinction avatar… and then, as Adelard already introduced the idea that he had been Wrong and began describing the cause of the town’s downfall, I suddenly realised that OH NO, LANKY AND BROWN COAT, IS THAT–

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “No pale spectre in a lab coat, or twisted golem of petri dishes and test tubes. No; he was… lanky, wearing an ill-fitting brown suit and a smile. I’d never previously had the misfortune to meet him, but I knew the description well enough to recognise John Amherst.”

… and it was.

(MAG036, Nicole Baxter) “The door to the reception opened, and a tall man stepped out. He was rail thin and wore a faded brown suit that seemed to have been cut for a much fatter man. His eyes were a watery blue and his dark hair stood on top of his head in an unruly mess. He must have been around forty, but had a nervous sort of energy to him.”

(MAG055) JORDAN: He was tall, maybe 6ft5? But it was hard to be sure of his shape inside the huge, brown suit he was wearing.

(Extra funny thing is that “ill-fitting brown suit” + “a John” also feels really close to how Jon probably looks like from the outside.)

- I’m so sad for Adelard, but also so proud of him in a way?! It’s a really strange feeling because we’ve never heard him live (so far?), but he was still a reassuring figure in some way. I was anticipating that he could have snapped, because I Remember Oliver, but no: although he was giving up pretty fast when it came to saving their potential victims, Adelard was simply someone who would fight what he identified as evil, putting his life on the line when it came to stopping threatening avatars. It’s interesting to compare what we heard of him with Gertrude: Adelard was firm, a bit callous at time, but not keen on sacrificing people to reach his goals, and was personally involving himself in the cases he was investigating… to the cost of his own life, as it happened in MAG157. (So it was not “like Oliver”, it was “like Gerry”. If you like a character, and you feel like they could be helpful/do some good: either they’ve turned into a monster since then, either they’re dead. … Though, now: we… have no Characters Who Are Helping left still alive at the moment – hoping that it could mean that Team Archive will more or less try to go that way but ;; Not very optimistic about it.)

Adelard had expressed that he was afraid of the idea of dying in his sleep:

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “I’ll even make it a statement. Give your patron something to keep it satisfied. It’s not like I sleep enough to worry about dreams. […] It’s odd, isn’t it? Sleep. That you can never remember or fully pin down the exact moment you lose consciousness. Just lying there, waiting to find yourself in a dream without the first clue or interest in how or when you got there. Or to find your eyes closed and force them open to sunlight and morning, only realising that sleep has happened in retrospect. I wonder if… death is the same way? No clear dividing line, just… gone, only to realise after it’s happened, except for the fact that there isn’t an after. Is that a comforting thought or a terrifying one? Depends on who you are, I suppose. It bothered me when I was young. If I thought too hard about the concept of sleep, of exactly what it was, I would worry myself, and end up having to turn the light on, and read for an hour or two. Everyone always talks about how they want to die in their sleep, but honestly, I think that’s the death that scares me the most.”

So ;; Best outcome you can hope for really is dying on your own terms, uh. We got it with Tim, and Adelard got to face his own death awake, in a situation he chose to put himself in, also turning it in one last “good” action (putting an end to the suffering of the villagers who… indeed couldn’t be saved at this point):

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “This is the last time you will hear from me. […] Perhaps I’m simply prevaricating, trying to cling on to a few more precious minutes of life – but that’s not me. I know what awaits me, and must have no hesitation in going to my reward. [SCOFF] I know you’ve never had much patience for my faith, but perhaps it will provide you some small peace knowing I face my death gladly, knowing I have done my duty before God. […] For all that though, I cannot regret the time I have spent seeking it. I have done my duty; and none may ask more of me. I am proud of the work we have done, and it has been an honour to do it alongside you.”

“Faith” was present in more than one aspect in his last message: as his religion, which had driven him (and in hindsight, I realised that there had been a few words from that lexical field in his past statements) and in which he found comfort in his last moments; as his belief in Gertrude and their “work” together. And, in parallel, there was also a loss of faith, as he was hypothesising that he may have been wrong all along about The Extinction as a Fifteenth Power:

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “so… perhaps you were right about The Extinction. I’ve been hunting it for decades now, and… while I have seen evidence of its influence in other Powers, I have never found anything to genuinely prove its emergence as a true Power of its own.”

So, it was a bittersweet ending, but one that didn’t feel utterly crushing either. On the one hand, it’s still a death; it’s upsetting that Adelard died while neutralising a dangerous menace who had caused harm to many people, it’s sad that his death was caused from a Corruption avatar while Adelard had been running after The Extinction all this time – he did something brave and amazing in his last actions, but it would have had more meaning, for him, if it had been against The Extinction… and precisely, John Amherst was a tipping point making Adelard lose faith in his theory. But it’s still honourable, and fits Adelard well, as someone who made that world a bit less dark, who was keeping in mind circumstantial victims without always getting lost in the Big Plans and the Big Picture like Gertrude:

(MAG078, Lawrence Moore) “Then he instructed me to go to my bedroom, and not to leave until he told me it was safe. I did protest at that, and I asked him how my locking myself upstairs would help save Carl. There was no sympathy in his voice when he told me my cousin was dead, that nothing would bring him back, and that my best chance to not join him was to stay in the bedroom until everything was over. He did not seem inclined to tell me what he meant by “everything”.”

(MAG134, Adelard Dekker) “I may try to interview her again later, though I have my suspicions she may find herself disappearing. She has that… quality about her, I’m sure you know what I mean, o–of an unfinished meal. And I can only hope that when the second course starts, she can remember her way back to Garland Hillier’s apartment once more.”

(MAG156, Adelard Dekker) “… Anyway, I was following up on a young man who had apparently had a nasty experience whilst exploring the ruins of the Bright Lake amusement park in Colorado. You will forgive me if I withhold his name, as I have all the verification I need to be convinced he’s telling the truth, and I find it hard to believe any follow-up you’d be interested in doing would be beneficial for him. He’s earned his anonymity. […] He keeps catching glimpses of a thin figure in the distance, or disappearing around a corner, and I can’t quite get past the detail that there was no reflection at all in the mirror he used to return. If my suspicions are correct, there’s little either of us could do for him […].”

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “I think that is when I realised he was simply serving The End, which I won’t pretend wasn’t a disappointment. But still, I thought if I could deal with him and save a few lives, I might as well. […] I was not quick enough to save the man who lived in that house. Truth be told, I didn’t especially try. I didn’t think I would be able to move quick enough to do so, and was more concerned with being quiet and thorough. […] I knew it wouldn’t kill him, he’s too far from human for me to do so, but I thought that scrambling his brain a bit was probably my best bet. And I was right, as far as it goes. He survived what I did to him, and when the police picked him up after an ‘anonymous tip’ about a break-in, he was barely able to speak, and I very much hope I managed to sever his dreams.”

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “I knew at that moment that there was nothing that could be done to save the town. But I could perhaps identify the cause – and identify it I did. […] So, it seemed it was not The Extinction as I had anticipated but simply a new and awful strain of Corruption. Still. It was not something I felt I could leave to run its course unopposed. […] I have dragged those other afflicted I could find into the Parkplatz, laid them at the feet of that appalling throne, and… taken the last gifts of that… generous construction site: a dozen cans of petrol. I will sit upon that seat, and release these poor souls from their suffering. [INHALE] And hopefully make things simpler, for the ECDC clean-up crews.”

And it’s so soft that his last words were for Gertrude, not berating her, but almost… comforting her?

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “For all that though, I cannot regret the time I have spent seeking it. I have done my duty; and none may ask more of me. I am proud of the work we have done, and it has been an honour to do it alongside you. Goodbye, Gertrude. May you find your rest where no shadows are cast… and no eyes may see you slumber.”

(Wishing her the best, uh. I can read the mention of “shadows” as innocuous, but I also wonder if it might not be a direct reference to something of Gertrude’s personal history with The Dark?)

(- I also mean: gdi, what is it with season 4 and the way it’s offering me New Ships For Gertrude. We got Gertrude/Agnes, a bit of Web/Gertrude, I was wondering if she didn’t used to have some Feelings for Eric, now I’m REALLY digging Gertrude/Adelard, gdi.)

- Adelard died in August 2013, Gerry in late 2014. Gertrude had previously lost Michael sometime after late 2009 (MAG126 mentioned the upcoming “Great Twisting”), although in his case, she had minutely planned his sacrifice. I’m not sure Leitner was a good judge of character (was Leitner good at… anything.), but he had gotten the feeling that she was getting lonely:

(MAG080) LEITNER: I think she was lonely. I didn’t meet her until about six years ago, after she’d lost the last of her own assistants. She would mention them sometimes. I believe she missed having someone to talk to on occasion. ARCHIVIST: I… I didn’t know Gertrude had assistants. LEITNER: Of course. Three of them, each meeting an unpleasant end.

(During her last year, Leitner was apparently her last “ally”. That’s telling how low she was, and how bad the situation was, I guess.)

Those were rough years for Gertrude, uh? I wonder how much Adelard’s death impacted her – if she took it in stride, or if it almost made her crumble; they had been allied for at least twenty years, at this point, and it really sounded like she trusted him; there was a very specific enthusiasm when she mentioned the explosives stopping The Last Feast in MAG130?

… on the less bright side, I wonder if Adelard’s death was what pushed her to try and seek out Gerry? She had promised to find him in August 2008:

(MAG154) ERIC: I want you to find my son. If Mary is… if she’s gone, or worse… I want you to make sure he’s alright. GERTRUDE: [HUFF] I’m not exactly a mother figure. ERIC: You could hardly do worse than her. GERTRUDE: Fine. But I don’t know what growing up with Mary has done to him. If he’s… gone rotten, I can’t promise anything. ERIC: I understand. GERTRUDE: I suppose he might be useful. ERIC: Oh, sentimental as ever.

But we know she didn’t do it right away:

(MAG111) GERRY: In the end it was Gertrude who saved me. She came to me when I was desperate, nowhere to go, and she offered to help. […] I think you know the rest. I joined Gertrude’s work for a few years. Didn’t realise how ill I was until it finally caught up with me. Then I died.

Gerry mentioned that they had worked together for “a few years”, but Mary Keay ~died~ in 2008 according to MAG004 and haunted Gerry for “five years” according to him in MAG111, so that would put Gertrude finding him around 2013 – so, they worked together for a bit less than two years, before Gerry died. It could be that Adelard’s death was the reason why Gertrude finally decided to honour the promise she had made to Eric, and if so, yikes. Still utilitarian until the end, uh.

(Though: did Gerry remind her of Adelard, at least a bit, in the way he was waving his way through the Fears and neutralising supernatural occurrences and/or begrudgingly helping people to get out…?)

(- Adelard wondering about whether or not Gertrude felt fear reminded me of Arthur’s comment about it:

(MAG145) ARTHUR: [SCOFF] Yeah. … But you don’t actually care about Them, do you? […] All your energy is focused down here, on monsters and… murderers, and all the things doing the dirty work for Them Beyond. You know plenty, sure! But you don’t have that obsession, that stupid urge to try and understand and… classify things that use logic and reality like weapons. GERTRUDE: Hm. Per–perhaps. ARTHUR: [CHUCKLE] Always respected you for that. Takes a strong stomach to not give a shit. GERTRUDE: Eh! You’ll forgive me if I’m not overjoyed at the compliment?

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “I’ve wondered, Gertrude, whether you are truly as fearless as you seem; or if you are simply a master of disguising your terror…! I suppose I’ll never have a chance to find out. I rather hope it was the former. However much I disagree with some of your methods, it feels good to believe there are people in this world who can stare down the devil without flinching. [SHORT SNEER]”

And 1°) it obviously puts Georgie to mind, though in her case, her inability to feel fear was inflicted on her, and 2°) … Oliver had seen Gertrude terrorised in his dreams:

(MAG011, “Antonio Blake”) “Getting closer I realised that there was a person sitting at that desk and it was them that all of this scarlet light was flowing into. I could see none of the figure’s body beneath the flesh that enclosed them, but as I moved around I saw the face was uncovered. It was your face and the expression upon it was far more fearful than any I had seen in eight years of wandering this twilight city. That was when I awoke. […] If you do see this in time and read this far, then to be honest I don’t know what else to tell you. Be careful. There is something coming for you and I don’t know what it is, but it is so much worse than anything I can imagine. At the very least you should look into appointing a successor.”

… so I don’t think Gertrude couldn’t feel it, which means she was probably just really good at hiding it. On the other hand, creature and monsters feel fears and are fed by it, so would it even be possible to fool them if she wasn’t truly fearless?)

- ;; Something bittersweet, too, is that… Gertrude apparently Learned from Adelard and took a page from his book when it came to concrete:

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “I can’t deny some pride in my solution, Gertrude. In all our discussions of how to contain a being that we could not destroy… I’m not sure we ever hit on a method quite so neat…! I am no builder but, by the end, I think you would have been hard-pressed to criticise how well that concrete had been laid – and Amherst four feet beneath it.”

(MAG103, Dylan Anderson) “If you hadn’t turned up that evening, I don’t know what I’d have done. I know a monster pig wasn’t what you were looking for, but I do appreciate your advice. When you explained the situation, I hoped you’d have some special trick for dealing with it, but I suppose welding scrap metal around the pen and filling it with cement just about works, even if I do owe Mason a favour for borrowing his mixer. I’d have thought the thing would at least try to break free while I did it, but… thank heaven for small mercies, I suppose. A huge block of solid concrete. What ought to do with it? Some sort of engraving, maybe?”

Monster Pig happened in July 2014, so eleven months after Adelard’s message. And Jon had also noticed that Gertrude’s computer had receipts involving “petrol”:

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “I have dragged those other afflicted I could find into the Parkplatz, laid them at the feet of that appalling throne, and… taken the last gifts of that… generous construction site: a dozen cans of petrol.”

(MAG066) ARCHIVIST: There’s also the matter of the products she was ordering. There were several online orders of petrol, lighter fluid, pesticides, and high-powered torches. They are sporadic, but notable in that she did not drive, smoke or work in pest control.

… So maybe it was also an idea she got from Adelard’s last actions. Utilitarian, and/or an homage, in a way.

- I’m also HUMMMM re:Adelard, because if there is one thing that’s been recurring when he was depicted fighting avatars or monsters, it’s that he tended to notice what he could use in his surroundings and improvise a lot…

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “Truth be told, I didn’t especially try. I didn’t think I would be able to move quick enough to do so, and was more concerned with being quiet and thorough. The cutlery drawer was largely empty, but after a minute’s searching I did find what I was after: a long, metal skewer. Did you know there are certain forms of brain injury that cut you off from your ability to dream?”

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “At first, I was struck almost with despair, having nothing to hand with which I might attempt a confrontation with this creature. But upon retreating some ways, and considering my options, I realised I actually had… almost the exact resources to hand that I might need. A few minutes spent scouting the surrounding streets even revealed a small construction site, almost precisely suited to my requirements. I returned to the cordon and took what I needed: a stretcher, as many quarantine sleeves as I could carry, and a syringe. […] I loaded the gear into a wheelbarrow I had taken from the building site along with a thick metal chain, and began to head back towards the Parkplatz, stopping only to fill the syringe from a can of garden pesticide I had noticed during my earlier sweep of the houses. […] I dragged the thing over to the building site, and with the last of my strength threw him into the hole that had been left. By this point, the concrete truck I had turned on earlier had been mixing for some time, and it was a simple matter to open the pump and… pour the contents of its hopper down on top of him.”

And isn’t it a bit like Basira?

(MAG142) MARTIN: Would have thought Basira would’ve had more sense, though. DAISY: When Basira and I were partners, I’d see this happen sometimes. She can read a… situation like no one I know, always seems to know the right move, but for all her research, she never wants to put a plan together. I think she just hates all the unknowns, the… variables. [SIGH] Contingencies. If she spots an advantage, she’ll… grab it, and trust herself to figure out the details as she goes. MARTIN: Hm. DAISY: It’s worked so far.

- Aaaah, so confirmation/a few more things about The Eye’s effect!

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “My hands are shaking quite badly and my fingers… aren’t what they were. Even so, just knowing where this is going, this… statement [CHUCKLE], I can feel The Eye’s power on me, be it ever so slight. Steadying me; helping the words flow. Is it strange that… here… now… that seems almost a comfort…?”

I was wondering if something wasn’t at work in the same way as for live statements since people’s letters were so articulate too – it sounds like just being conscious that you’re sending a message to the Institute and/or an Archivist and/or to an agent of The Eye is enough to put you under The Eye’s spell, because your tale interests it? GOSH, it was so sad that Adelard was aware of it, but also that he was potentially stalling since, as long as he was giving a “statement”, he wouldn’t drop dead or reach a state of too much pain to continue…

I’m curious about the fact that the letters Jonah Magnus was receiving were of the same kind – clear enough to be read as statements. Was it “simply” because his penpals from the XIXth century were quite educated and used to sending long, articulate letters? Or was the fact that they knew they were sending them to Jonah influencing them? If so: was it because he was under The Eye’s effects… or because, specifically, he was an Archivist at the time…? (We still don’t know where Jonah fit, back then, if he was more like Elias, or more like Jon… He was collecting supernatural stories, at least.)

- More on the medium Adelard used to give this statement later, but it was explicitly an email:

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “You must forgive me, Gertrude, for any typing and spelling errors that might be in this message. […] But it did not seem quite right to leave without letting you know what happened. And… Herr [Becker?] was kind enough to succumb to the sickness without signing out of his computer, so…”

1°) It… worked on a computer. It went through. We only know for sure that statements don’t record digitally in audio form but I was wondering about written ones, whether they could be typed down… Not sure if that’s a confirmation that yes, they can; or if there is something wrong with this statement; or if it’s that somehow, “something” (Web?) helped Adelard’s message to go through.

2°) … There was no static at any point of it during Jon’s reading. I don’t know when statement-reading static has happened for the last time during narration, but there were many moments in this statement at which there could have been, when describing supernatural things…? Why didn’t the tape recorder react to anything at all during the statement, even though Adelard described his encounter with a very powerful avatar? There were no quoted words or verbal exchanges, yes, but the tape recorders don’t only go All Staticcy at those. Overall, I realise that Jon’s last readings haven’t produced a lot of static? Iirc, there was nothing since MAG148, except for a few lines in MAG153 (“Love Bombing”), when there were direct quotes. Is there something hidden in the fact that the tape recorders are reacting less lately…?

- Adelard’s death was Sad News, but I’m so glad that we learned that John Amherst was actually neutralised a few years ago… in the same episode in which we got confirmation that Melanie is alright, is not regretting her choice one bit, and that it didn’t go supernaturally “wrong” or anything.

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … No, you’re right, I’m sorry. A–are you alright? MELANIE: Yes! I’m, hum… actually doing okay…! ARCHIVIST: That’s good. MELANIE: [SOFT CHUCKLES] My therapist isn’t happy about it, you know? Uh, unsurprisingly. Tried to have me put away, but they, uh… they let me come here. It’s, it’s been good for me, though! I… I feel alright. I’m, hum… I’m not scared anymore.

I was so afraid that John Amherst would be re-emerging, thus giving Melanie an incentive to go back to business in order to avenge her father? But nop! John Amherst was sealed under concrete five years ago! We’re not safe from him freeing himself, but it’s a hypothetical, not an active threat. Melanie is just free to… enjoy her life. Really free from All That (at least right now), and she… really sounded like she had found peace ;w;

I do also like that it seems like she’s back to the world. The Institute was a closed universe, with its personal rules – only Section 31 officers go when something happens, the Archives team has been isolated (Jon also mentioned that the regular staff didn’t want to talk with him much lately); but now, Melanie is back to another world, with its own rules and workings. Yes, gouging your eyes out is self-mutilation, and means you need help (although in practice, institutionalisation can make things worse); yes, your therapist is going to get worried about it. (The fact that Melanie still said “my” therapist also said, to me, that she was still seeing her? But aouch for the therapist; she must be used to compartmentalising, she must be used to patients self-harming, but probably not to the point of what Melanie did…)

I’m not absolutely sure it was the intended impression, but I reaaally felt that Melanie was currently on painkillers and/or tranquilisers? Her voice sounded almost too relaxed, she sounded like she had just woken up together with The Admiral, and Georgie was insistent on her resting. Nothing negative there – I would find it a bit reassuring for her to be medically handled right now, actually! Doesn’t have to be forever, doesn’t invalidate her words about feeling fine. Just. Melanie is not isolated; she needed help, she sought it, she did something that is understandably perceived as self-harm by society, and she is being tutored to make sure she can relearn to function. (I also wondered, at first, if Georgie was talking to The Admiral or to Melanie because she sounded a bit too cautious rather than tender and concerned, to me? So that would fit, if Melanie’s under treatment right now, and really not needing the extra strain.)

- We lost Tim and he left… so many… Bi babies… in his wake…

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: Look, is she here or not? She–she said she was staying with you. GEORGIE: Yes, she’s here. ARCHIVIST: Really? Where’s all her stuff? GEORGIE: Bedroom, why? ARCHIVIST: … No, I just– [STATIC] Oh. Oh! I’m sor– I didn’t– I didn’t realise you were… to–together… GEORGIE: That’s ‘cause it’s none of your business. Now leave.

(MAG086) MELANIE: Then there are some old cuttings about Robin Patton. […] Hmm, wasn’t bad looking, before… well… that.

(MAG106) MELANIE: I don’t think so; Georgie Barker? She does What the Ghost?. […] Well, she and Jon, they… dated. BASIRA: Yeah? MELANIE: I mean, it was years ago.

(That’s also putting another light of Melanie’s discomfort when she mentioned that Jon&Georgie had dated – I was assuming it was mostly because Urk, Don’t Wanna Think About Jon’s Romantic Life since she was Eww at the concept of thinking about him sleeping with Martin, but. (ALSO, the beauty that in the same breath, we had Melanie talking about Georgie, describing past Jon-Georgie, and mentioning Martin’s ~fussing~ over Jon.))

“What’s the Ghost?” is officially queer culture! ;w;

I’m SUPER GLAD for Georgie to get a girlfriend, very !! but a tiny bit less over Melanie&Georgie being together at the moment – but that’s mostly because 1°) I also REALLY love Deep And Very Important Platonic Relationships, and Melanie&Georgie had been that to me so far with Georgie helping her, and we… don’t have a lot of deep friendships at the moment (quite the contrary, we have a lot of pairs who are (not all confirmed but STILL) romantic in nature: Martin-Jon, Basira-Daisy, now Georgie-Melanie), and personal taste but I would have liked to hear about Melanie re-learning to function outside of the Institute before learning that she’s actually romantically involved with the person who had supported her in her steps towards recovery, 2°) … I’m super concerned about Basira&Daisy because, if one romantic relationship had to be canon-canonised, I was expecting them to get that first, and I’m Still Super Afraid About Daisy’s Chances Of Survival By The End Of The Season, so a bit heartlessly strategical here, but thinking that giving us Georgie/Melanie miiiiight be a way to not… destroy all the wlw romances. If Daisy dies, I’m also losing the only Intense Platonic Friendship we have at the moment (hers with Jon), so, sob.

… But then, Melanie is saying that JON IS A FRIEND

(MAG157) GEORGIE: Melanie, you don’t have to do this… MELANIE: It’s, it’s okay. He’s… welcome. As a friend. But that’s it. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … Right. MELANIE: But you’re not after a friend, are you, Jon?

AND I WAS NOT EXPECTING THIS NEW CHALLENGER!! IT’S SUCH A WILD DEVELOPMENT THINKING BACK TO THEIR FIRST INTERACTIONS…………………

(MAG028) MELANIE: I knew you guys were a bit… slapdash, but this is absurd. ARCHIVIST: No doubt you’re used to a higher calibre of equipment when pretending to see ghosts in old churchyards and mental institutions. MELANIE: People like a show. People like our show. And, even if we do ham it up a bit, even we do add a bit of sparkle, we’re still more respected and evidence-based paranormal investigators than you and your lot. [NERVOUS, DISPARAGING LAUGH] ARCHIVIST: We are not “paranormal investigators”. We are researchers. Scholars. MELANIE: Whatever. […] ARCHIVIST: Hmm. And you’re sure you weren’t… dreaming? MELANIE: Are you serious? ARCHIVIST: I just have to check every possibility. Obviously working in your field, you must have quite a powerful imagination. MELANIE: Great! Great! I should have known this was a complete waste of my time.

(MAG063) MELANIE: You look like hell. ARCHIVIST: It’s been a hard few months. Look, can I help you, because if you’re just after another shouting match… MELANIE: No! I… I actually do need your help. ARCHIVIST: Hm. Interesting. MELANIE: Alright, can you not be an arsehole about it? I just need access to your library. […] I don’t exactly have the “academic credentials” you guys demand. So I apparently need someone to vouch for me. And you’re basically the closest thing I’ve got to a friend here. ARCHIVIST: We’ve spoken once, and we ended up screaming at each other.

So yes, losing a platonic relationship but getting a new friendship in the process ;w;

- I’m not sure the scene actually played this way? But given how The Admiral purred:

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: Ah– [DOOR OPENS] MELANIE: Oh? What’s go–, what’s going on? You… you woke The Admiral… GEORGIE: Hey, hey, easy; it’s–it’s alright, he was just leaving. ARCHIVIST: Melanie, I… MELANIE: Jon…? ARCHIVIST: Yeah, it’s… me. GEORGIE: It’s alright, Melanie. Jon, leave. [ADMIRAL STARTS PURRING] ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry, I just… […] I suppose not… GEORGIE: Okay [ADMIRAL MEOWS IN PROTEST], you’re done. [PURRING CEASES] ARCHIVIST: Yeah. [INHALE] Yeah, I am.

I pictured The Admiral rushing towards Jon as soon as Melanie opened the door, more or less climbing on Jon until Jon secured him in his arms. The Admiral’s purrs were loud, so he had to be close to the tape recorder, right? And given his protest when Georgie cut in, she removed him from a comfy place, so that wasn’t Melanie’s arms.

(So: I pictured it as The Admiral in Jon’s arms AND Melanie petting it, able to find him through his purr. Melanie’s voice sounded like she was doing something else at the same time, to me? So yeah. Very close, very intimate, very comfy.)

(Kudos to Georgie for stepping back once Melanie began to talk about herself, without interrupting! She’s a good! Jon also has learnt his lesson from MAG131 and did not interrupt, listened to her! Sadly, Georgie is losing Awesomeness Points because… she retrieved The Admiral before he was done purring? D: Kitty crime??? Georgie, how could you do that to the cat? D:)

- I found Georgie a bit less harsh about Jon, too: not saying that her stances in season 4 haven’t been valid, far from it! But she’s still fair, and she didn’t blame him for Melanie’s injuries, she only pointed out the sacrifice Melanie had to make in order to flee, and wanted to make sure that Jon wouldn’t undo it, which was… extremely legitimate.

(MAG157) [CLICK–] [MUFFLED SOUNDS OF THE STREET] GEORGIE: No, Jon, you’ve done enough! ARCHIVIST: I just need to talk to her. GEORGIE: What don’t you understand? She mutilated herself to get out of that place, and there is absolutely no way I’m letting you involve her again! ARCHIVIST: Look, is she here or not? She–she said she was staying with you.

(And she was right about Jon threatening to pull Melanie back in, since Jon acknowledged he wasn’t really after a “friend” in current circumstances.)

Since Melanie did acknowledge that it might have been hard for Jon to tell her about Eric’s statement, I wonder if Georgie won’t mellow down about Jon a bit, given that Jon has indeed been trying a bit more, lately…? That will depend on Jon’s state at the end of season 4 (are we “losing” him forever? Or will he still try to not totally give in to The Eye, without cutting their link?), but it could be a possibility…

(I liked what we saw of Jon&Georgie’s friendship in season 3 a lot é_è Jon had remembered their break-up as having been a bad one, and despite it, they were getting along in season 3, and Georgie could be harsh and fair with him, so… I still want to cling to the hope that they’d manage to get back on speaking terms at some point, if Jon doesn’t fall entirely and keeps trying like he has begun to do… Maybe there could still be a way for them to build something again… maybe…)

(- At the same time: yes, Melanie&Georgie are legitimate to want to stay out of the supernatural business and to not participate in it anymore.

… On the other hand: if “bad things are coming” and an apocalypse is launched, and the world is changed, and monsters are let loose into the world because what was left of Team Archive wasn’t powerful/competent/numerous enough to prevent it… they won’t have any right to complain about what happens. But that’s interesting, because still “nobody is right/wrong” in their situations, even when they’re not directly harming anybody; if nobody is there to stop powerful avatars, like Adelard did, or to prevent rituals, then what would happen? More victims, probably. So, at the same time, it feels like it’s nobody’s and everybody’s responsibility to step in when they can.)

- Okay, so Basira&Daisy were unavailable, and Jon didn’t have anyone else, but still SOBBING that “someone I can trust” turned out to be Melanie, because gnnn. After learning about Eric’s statement, they made different choices, but I’m so soft for the fact that Jon still valued Melanie’s opinion and…

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: Melanie, I… MELANIE: Jon…? ARCHIVIST: Yeah, it’s… me. GEORGIE: It’s alright, Melanie. Jon, leave. [ADMIRAL STARTS PURRING] ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry, I just… It’s Martin. MELANIE: Jon… don’t… Please. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … No, you’re right, I’m sorry. A–are you alright? MELANIE: Yes! I’m, hum… actually doing okay…! ARCHIVIST: That’s good.

… wanted to make sure she was fine!!! Even in the midst of urgency, of the fact that Martin was very likely in Big Danger and Not Fine, Jon still took the time to ask Melanie about it!!

- Jon Learned but at the same time, so many poor choices of words…

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: Look, is she here or not? […] Look after yourself. Both of you.

jON… Being an Eye avatar doesn’t mean you have to be insensitive about it…

- ;; Overall: I’m sad that… Jon has indeed learnt. He didn’t dash to the tunnels, trying to find the centre on his own, or to go fight Peter. He immediately understood he needed to think about the broader picture, about who could have wanted him to listen to the tape and read the statement, and his first instinct was to want to talk about it with people he could trust.

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: Am I just hearing what I want to hear? I need a second opinion, but… Basira and Daisy are… “out”, somewhere. […] I need someone I can trust. [LONG SIGH] […] Please, Georgie, it’s not– … I just need to know I’m not overreacting to something, I need an outside perspective.

It’s mostly that, due to circumstances, all his options have been cut. The timing of Daisy&Basira leaving is definitely too suspicious to think that it was unrelated and had nothing to do with getting Jon isolated, worried, and prone to being easily manipulated into doing something… so I’m guessing that the point was that someone/thing (Elias, Peter or Annabelle) is trying to get him to reach the centre. But Jon did try, and indeed, what other options would he have at the moment? Waiting for Basira&Daisy to come back, while Martin could be getting sacrificed? With the current configuration, I can understand that Jon is not keen on risking it… although, yeah. It’s undoing all the “trust” he was forcing himself to give Martin from afar during this season – his understanding that Martin had a plan, and that Jon had to hope Martin knew what he was doing to ensure Martin’s success. Jon made a mistake once when he tried to “Know” about Peter’s plans at the end of MAG139… and is probably doing a new one right now, confused by urgency. (“A tiny… hairline fracture, which destroys everything.”, to quote MAG139 orz)

… and hum. You know what had previously claimed to bank on Jon’s worry for someone to get him to level up a bit more?

(MAG135) ELIAS: Fine. Consider it a test – things are… coming, things that will need Jon to be far stronger and more willing to use his connection to our patron. His performance during The Unknowing was… disappointing. I needed a way to force him to harness his ability more acutely than he had before. The coffin was a useful tool; Daisy an adequate bait. BASIRA: Then you messed up. Way he tells it, he doesn’t know how he got out of there. ELIAS: But he did. And his powers were no small part of it. Even if he required some assistance, they were what saved him. And he’s still achieved what no one – mortal, monster, or anything in-between – has ever been able to. He climbed out of The Buried. BASIRA: [DRY SIGH] What was the point? You won’t be getting your ritual off from in here so, what do you need him for? What’s so important you need him stronger?

Still squinting very hard about The Bastard and the concept that ~no, he’s not getting his ceremony off from his prison~.

- Amongst all the exchanges, this moment was probably my favourite:

(MAG157) MELANIE: It’s, it’s okay. He’s… welcome. As a friend. But that’s it. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … Right. MELANIE: But you’re not after a friend, are you, Jon? ARCHIVIST: I need an ally. MELANIE: Then I can’t help you. [SHORT SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I suppose not…

Because it immediately conveyed that… Jon wasn’t seeking an opinion about whether or not to try to get involved and help Martin – that opinion would have been a “friend’s”. No; at this point, Jon had already decided to go in. And I like that Melanie, of all people, was immediately able to pinpoint that.

- Laughing forever, though, that YESSS, rule of three re:Jon and wlw:

(MAG089) ARCHIVIST: I just… er, you were a friend of Agnes Montague, correct? JUDE: She’s not one of your little stories.

(MAG117) ARCHIVIST: I think Basira is the same, she's coming along to back-up Daisy, or so she says. I–I– I don't quite get those two, I suppose. What they’ve done, seeing what they’ve seen… It’s a hell of a bond.

I can’t believe it took Beholding’s powers for him to realise. (Though, to be honest: he knew Melanie&Georgie were friends, Georgie was going on dates with other people in season 3, we don’t know whether Georgie is poly or not, so it wasn’t a given that they had gotten together sometime before this episode.)

- You know things are dire when, in the last few episodes: 1°) even Jon said “fuck”, 2°) Jon knocked on a door, not only once but twice.

(MAG146) [CLICK–] ARCHIVIST: [BREATHING HEAVILY, FRANTICALLY BANGING ON A DOOR] [A DOOR CREAKS OPEN] [DISTORTION SOUNDS, BRINGING CONSTANT STATIC] HELEN: You rang~?

(MAG157) [CLICK–] [FRANTICALLY BANGING ON A DOOR] [A DOOR CREAKS OPEN] [DISTORTION SOUNDS, BRINGING CONSTANT STATIC] ARCHIVIST: Helen…! HELEN: Jonathan~?

(Well. Banged on a door that wasn’t there.) Reminder that there is few knocking around Jon, and he still diiiiid it, times are… what they are.

(- When was the last time that someone called Jon “Jonathan”? I only remember Georgie’s “Jonathan Sims, are you trying to save the world?” from MAG093, and Elias in his first appearance:

(MAG017) ARCHIVIST: A complaint? I could just as easily complain about her wasting my time! ELIAS: That’s not how it works, Jonathan.

Helen had been generally replying to Jon on the same level when it came to names/designations, so was she just playful, or was this a way to point out that “Helen” is technically as formal as “Jonathan”, and not something someone close to Jon would call him? Even Melanie calls him “Jon”. Why “Jonathan” suddenly? Just for the variety?)

- SAD for Jon that his option as “ally” was… Helen, given what we’ve seen of her lately:

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: I need to know that’s in there, what’s at the centre, it’s–it’s important, Martin… I need to know. HELEN: [CONTAINED TITTER] That’s a shame. Because I’m afraid I’m not going to tell you. ARCHIVIST: What…? Why not? HELEN: Because I have a good enough sense of what’s going on to know that it will be much – more – fun – without – my – involvement…! [HELEN LAUGHS AND LAUGHS, ECHOING] […] ARCHIVIST: Just tell me what’s going on – please! HELEN: Bad things, Archivist. [HELEN LAUGHS AND LAUGHS, ECHOING] Really – bad – things!

It sounds like she’s going full Distortion lately, uh? She seemed comparatively so stable and straightforward, in MAG131…

- AHHAHA, Helen had reminded Jon about her sharpness recently:

(MAG152) ARCHIVIST: Huh? You’ve got hands. HELEN: Sharp enough to pull out worms. Kill a few old men. Maybe stab an overeager Archivist… ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] HELEN: But my physicality is as much an illusion as everything else about me. Think of me… as a bear trap. Not a sword.

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: I don’t have time for this! [STATIC] What is at the centr– [SHARP SOUND AS HELEN GRABS HIM BY THE THROAT] HELEN: No. We are not playing your game now. ARCHIVIST: [PAINED SOUNDS] HELEN: Don’t forget how sharp I can be, Archivist. Perhaps here, now, you’re powerful enough to learn what you want from me. But if you try, I promise you I will resist, and only one of us is going to survive the attempt. [SHARPING SOUND, RETREATING]

“Not a sword”, uh.

And we’re back to Jon getting whumped and threatened by everyone. It’s… interesting that Helen felt that Jon’s compulsion was an actual threat – it had annoyed Jude, too, but Helen directly went for the throat (… apparently, it was actually truly the throat in the script, Anil said). Would getting straight answers from The Distortion cause it harm on an essential level, like it potentially happened with Breekon when Jon “extracted” his statement and got to “know” him?

- Also interesting that Jon’s compulsion is apparently getting stronger? You would think that Jon’s powers would begin to crash and burn since he’s quit taking live statements, especially since Helen advised him to get a victim to replenish himself, but nop. Is it still from the power-boost Jon got when he chose not to die? Is it because of the new Fears he experienced over season 4 (Flesh taking ribs out of him, going and getting out of The Buried, staring at the Dark Sun)? Is it because we’re in 2018, and it’s supposed to be kind of a zenith for Beholding given that it’s the Institute’s anniversary…?

- … I was very scared that Jon might have forced a statement out of someone on the way to Georgie’s, but given how Helen invited him to find one right now, doesn’t seem to be the case!

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: Fine. [PANTING] Can you take me there? To the centre? HELEN: I honestly don’t know. But I’m not inclined to risk it. ARCHIVIST: Damn you! HELEN: Run home, Jon. Find a victim on the way~ Chaos is coming, and I think you’d best be ready.

Which is a relief ;;

I’m… super worried about Basira and Daisy, who left Jon absolutely unsupervised, and with Jon proving that he is able to go outside. Melanie is not there anymore either to check on him, and Jon had told Martin juuust a few episodes ago that:

(MAG154) ARCHIVIST: Honestly: thank you. [EXHALE] It’s been hell, but… I–I did need to hear it. MARTIN: Oh, hum… Uh, g–good. Heh. Are the others… helping? ARCHIVIST: Oh! [DRY CHUCKLE] They’ve been keeping a… very close eye on me…!

… but no, it’s really not the case right now ;; And I’m worried again. What’s the point of Jon getting caught and made to stop in the last third of the season…? I still feel like if he makes new innocent victims, then it’s indeed over for him (there would be nothing to differentiate him from other avatars who feed and prey on innocents to stay alive); is his withdrawal a step towards something else…? Or is it to exemplify that there could have been another option, that Jon didn’t hold to it and crashed himself down in the end…?

- From their point of view, I’m REALLY worried that Daisy&Basira left suddenly, leaving Jon unsupervised and alone because… why would they.

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: Am I just hearing what I want to hear? I need a second opinion, but… Basira and Daisy are… “out”, somewhere. They left in a hurry and didn’t tell me why; now, their phones are going to voicemail. Maybe they’re just… on the Underground, and probably th– … That doesn’t help me now. [SIGH]

The way Jon phrased it, it seems like he saw them leaving (it wasn’t that he couldn’t find them or anything), so? Why would they choose to not tell Jon? What could make them leave together, Daisy included, when Daisy was still “weak”? They could be trapped in Helen’s corridors right now (like Tim&Martin at the end of season 2), or in The Lonely because Peter wanted to get Jon absolutely isolated, but I’m still a bit baffled about why they would leave Jon unsupervised and without telling him anything.

1°) Is it that Basira managed to convince Daisy to Hunt again (nooo, Basira, don’t…), and to go after Trevor&Julia… ;; (Or Julia&Trevor were spotted somewhere, and they left to get them with Daisy trying hard not to Hunt.)

2°) Same thing, but with Annabelle Cane?

3°) Maybe they left for the tunnels on their own because something’s happening down there/Basira found something about it in the Archives, and it was really important to not talk about it (because Elias Watching, or The Web having its many eyes on him) and/or because Jon is still an avatar of The Eye…?

4°) Or plainly: they read Adelard’s statement, were the ones who left it on Jon’s desk, and are trying to stop Peter&Martin. … Would still be very stupid, tho, because OF COURSE Jon would panic about it ;; Unless they read it, hid it, and something else pulled it out to get Jon to panic. Could Martin have contacted them about something they need to do without Jon knowing? Basira knew that Martin was planning to go for a self-sacrifice; if it’s tied to this, it could explain why they didn’t tell Jon anything regarding their departure.

5°) … It would still go back in the “but why not tell Jon!!” category, but I’m really worried that there is something very wrong with Elias’s prison right now, hence why they left in a hurry – that either he has disappeared (and/or was “Peter’s map”, so Peter got him out), either the prison is unresponsive and it turns out it has been under Elias’s control for a looong while. He didn’t seem too upset about the prospect of going in MAG120, the Institute was built with strong ties to the Millbank prison (so it’s not an unfamiliar place for The Eye to thrive), and we still don’t know what he’s “eating” (/how come Elias is fine, as an avatar of The Eye, while Jon is suffering so badly from withdrawal? Is Elias himself really under withdrawal?)…

(MAG120) POLICE OFFICER: By all means, mister Bouchard: why don't you have a look in my head, and see exactly what will happen to you when you mess with me. ELIAS: [GRUNT] There will be no need for that, inspector, I’m sure we’ll get along famously. POLICE OFFICER: Good. ELIAS: Best of luck, Martin. Ah, let the others know I shall be thinking of them. MARTIN: [SIGH]

(MAG127) BASIRA: Can we cut the bullshit? ELIAS: What “bullshit” might that be? BASIRA: The part where you pretend you don’t spend your whole time watching us. ELIAS: … Sometimes I’m eating.

+ There is the fact that Elias spent this entire season in prison, and I have trouble picturing him still inside at the beginning of season 5. He’s getting out before that.

- ;; GODS, Jon listening to Martin&Peter’s exchange was so tense and heartbreaking… we knew that Jon had listened to previous tapes, but it was something else to hear his deep breathing, really heavy and conveying how much he was… upset? Worried? Angry about Peter?

(MAG157) [CLICK–] [VERY SHARP SQUEAL OF DISTORTION] MARTIN’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “… Will I be coming back?” PETER’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “You’re not going to die–” ARCHIVIST: [LONG, SHAKY INHALE] PETER’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “–if that’s what you’re asking–” ARCHIVIST: [EXHALE] PETER’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “–but… no. If all goes well, you won’t be.” ARCHIVIST: [DEEP, SHAKY BREATHES] MARTIN’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “[LONG INHALE, EXHALE]” PETER’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “How does that make you feel?” ARCHIVIST: [EXHALE] MARTIN’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “… Nothing.” ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] MARTIN’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “[SNORT]” ARCHIVIST: [LONG EXHALE] MARTIN’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “Nothing at all…!” PETER’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “Excellent. I’m so proud of you, Martin.” MARTIN’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “I really don’t care.” PETER’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “Perfect.” [CLICK.] ARCHIVIST: [LONG INHALE, EXHALE] This… tape was left on my desk.

1°) I was wondering, but Peter’s voice indeed records on tape!

2°) Complete with the squeal of distortions that are his trademark when we’re hearing him live. So it’s indeed something that tampers with the recording a bit, but not to the point of being inaudible.

3°) It was the worst pre- and post-supplemental to hear when it came to Martin… the one when he sounded the most “lost into the Lonely”…………. And he had said he wasn’t sure whether he still cared about ~Jon hearing his voice~ at the start of it…

And at the same time: given how Martin had been so self-aware of being recorded, of Peter being potentially in the room… the question is still open. Elias did acknowledge that Martin was manipulative:

(MAG138) MARTIN: … What? [HUFF] That’s it? No, no monologue, no mindgames? You love manipulating people! ELIAS: That makes two of us. MARTIN: [HUFF]

And was it only about keeping tapes from Jon behind Peter’s back? How much can we trust of what we heard from Martin during season 4? Even Jon had managed to hide that he had attacked people from his recordings; it took Jess’s complaint and Helen calling Jon out for him to admit what he had done. Does Martin truly not “care”, as Peter was glad to hear, or was Martin feeding Peter what he wanted to hear, too…?

(tl;dr Web!Martin is not dead as long as Martin is still alive :|)

(- I'm Still Not Claiming That It’s Romantic On Jon’s Part Until We Get A Very Explicit Confirmation Because I Wanna Raise The Bar Higher, but: Jon… Jon, you big worried bi…

Urk… The fact that he went “Martin” first, before giving Helen a formulation that she probably wanted to hear (=> Jon as an Eye-avatar Wanting To Know…))

(- Last minute Extinction speculation, but I wonder if Adelard’s most important speculation in his last message wasn’t this one:

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “while I have seen evidence of its influence in other Powers, I have never found anything to genuinely prove its emergence as a true Power of its own. Perhaps it is an existential fear that flows through the others like a vein of ore”

… what if, indeed, The Extinction had never been a Fifteenth Power… but a kind of enhancer? Every time Adelard was prone to label an occurrence as an Extinction one, it felt like it was operating on a big scale. What if The Extinction is indeed something new, but mostly boosting good old Fears into something bigger, scarier, more effective – and a few of them, such as the Corruption, would obviously be more compatible than others?)

- There are indeed so many options about who left the tape and the statements, and why:

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: [LONG INHALE, EXHALE] This… tape was left on my desk. I don’t know by who, but to my mind there are… three options. Martin has left it here, to let me know that… whatever the situation is with Peter Lukas, it is entering its final act and he needs my help. Alternatively, Peter may have left it here to… goad me into action? Or just to gloat, to highlight my helplessness and everything. [SIGH] Or Annabelle Cane is trying to manipulate me into thinking it’s one of the other scenarios. Previously, the Spiders have made their presence clear when they’ve sent me… “hints”, but I can’t take that for granted. I don’t know what to do…! [SIGH] There’s a statement with it. It looks pretty recent – hm! First time in a while I’ve been… wary of reading one. … Still. I guess… [LONG INHALE, EXHALE] [PAPER RUSTLING] […] This, uh… this changes things. I–I think. … If Martin found this, r–read it already, then perhaps he’s having… second thoughts about, about Peter and The Extinction, this… this could be a cry for help, his way of asking me to follow him without Peter knowing, or… [EXHALE] Or what? I don’t understand – Martin’s been quite clear he doesn’t want my help…! Am I just hearing what I want to hear? I need a second opinion, but…

1°) But Jon casually ignored the fact that the statement was a last message, sent to an Archivist, to say goodbye, and that… that could have been what Martin was aiming at. (I’m not really digging that Martin would have done that without leaving a message on his own, though; even if he were to stop caring about Jon, he would still keep in mind that Jon would be prone to doing drastic things to try to save people, or to run into danger. He got a whole discussion with Daisy about it in MAG142, and asked Basira not to tell Jon that he wasn’t planning on coming back just a few episodes ago.)

2°) The tape and the statement have been left by different persons/things, and had different purposes, and/or one of the factions could have subtilized something else to prevent Jon to connecting dots.

3°) A big question is also who was aware of Adelard’s last message (and of his death). I lost my bet that Peter had killed him, but still: it’s extremely suspicious that Peter never mentioned in front of Martin the possibility of getting Adelard’s own help… so he must have known it wasn’t an option. We never heard Martin questioning about it, so… Martin might have found out, or guessed about it, too.

4°) Adelard’s message was explicitly an email:

… And Peter’s not good with computers:

(MAG126) PETER: Anyway, I’m very excited to see this rota you’ve put together. Never had much of a gift for– MARTIN: Okay. PETER: –administration myself; too many variables. Now, this box on the left, that’s the library stuff, yes? MARTIN: What? N–n–no, th–th–that’s, no, those are the dates, I– … Look, are you sure you don’t want me to teach you? It’s, it’s a very simple program– PETER: No. No. Can’t stand computers. Besides! That’s why I have an assistant, isn’t it? MARTIN: [SIGH] Yeah. I guess so.

Unlike Annabelle (who was very interest in the www in MAG123), and unlike Martin. Who printed it out? Gertrude? Or someone else, very recently?

- ;; Is next week Jon trying to reach the centre of the tunnels already (and unknowingly being Peter’s map, being tracked when thinking he was tracking Peter&Martin?), using or not using Leitner’s supernatural copy of The Seven Lamps of Architecture, or going to ask Elias for help because he’s desperate………………… I don’t see many more options for Jon at this point… There is still the Threat of Jon’s inner door looming here:

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] It’s… hard. It’s like there’s a–a–a door, in my mind. And behind it, is… i–is the entire ocean. Before, I didn’t notice it, but now, I know it’s there, and I can’t forget it, and I can feel the pressure of the water on it. I, I, I can keep it closed… but sometimes, when I’m around p–people, or–or places, or… ideas, a drop or two will push through the cracks, at the edges of the door. And I’ll… know something. BASIRA: … What happens, if you open the door? [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: I drown.

… and I’m dreading that yes, he would try to open it to find the centre, in order to find Martin… ;; (And that there is actually no centre; only Jon, with his sea of knowledge, in the middle, thus precipitating the bad things Helen was cackling about.)

- As usual: what are Elias/Annabelle/Peter’s plans and aims, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrgggg

(- Hi, guess who was there at every 38th episode of a season so far:

(MAG038) ARCHIVIST: Urgh. Urgh. [SOUND OF CHAIR SCRAPING] I see you… [THUMP… THEN SOUND OF COLLAPSING SHELVES] [NOISES OF EXCLAMATION] [DOOR OPENS] SASHA: Alright? ARCHIVIST: Ah… Yeah. A… spider. SASHA: A spider? ARCHIVIST: Yeah. I tried to kill it… the shelf collapsed. SASHA: I swear, cheap shelves are… Did you get it? ARCHIVIST: Ah… I hope so. Thinks so. Nasty, bulbous looking thing. SASHA: [CHUCKLES] Well, I won’t tell Martin. ARCHIVIST: Oh, god. I don’t think I could stand another lecture on their importance to the ecosystem.

(MAG078) ARCHIVIST: [WHISPERED] It is remarkably easy to buy an axe in Central London. Harder to sneak it into Artefact Storage but not impossible. I don’t know if destroying this is going to kill that thing… but I am damn sure it’s going to hurt. […] Hollow. Just cobwebs and dust.

(MAG118) DAISY: Shut. Up. BASIRA: It’s just cobwebs. ARCHIVIST: There’s no such thing as just cobwebs! I don’t like it. TIM: Tough.

MmMMmmmMMmmmMMMmm.)

Title for MAG158 is… ouft. F–finally, I guess?

So, hum. Beholding, I guess? (It would be the 5th one this season if we count MAG138 as mostly Eye’s… ;;) And probably tunnels stuff. Depending on how the groups are split, could be Peter&Martin, Basira&Daisy&Elias or Elias&Jon, I guess… I’m mostly expecting no statement and a two-part climax like in season 3, but if there is a statement, I guess it could be read/told by Elias, whether alone or ~in company~ (a letter to/from Jonah Magnus? Another thing from Smirke’s earliest days? Something related to [the title itself]?).

Regarding the… less concrete aspect of the title, it… could be either about Elias (is he really confined.), either about Jon and his powers, I guess……………… could be Jon opening his ~inner door~ to try to find Martin/the centre of the maze, too……………….

#mag157 #tma liveblog #tma season 4 #long post/#5 #tma spoilers #the magnus archives

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scripttorture · 6 years ago

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So. I have this story where MC is a slaveborn, was bought by a powerful man at the age of 7. This man basically planned on training him as a soldier - in the long run - to use him for his State-sponsored PMC's dirtiest missions, the ones where there's high mortality risk and the actions must not be linked to the company, etc. Training is harsh and brutal, it's full of horror and humiliation and it does involve torture, because they are trying to make MC "resistant to pain and interrogation [1/6]

byenemies" (I know it doesn’t work that way, but these individualsare torturers themselves, they believe in these methods.) This beingsaid, in my story this man kind of succeeds in coercing andbrow-beating MC into compliance and deference (meaning that he’ll endup doing a host of shitty things for the PMC), he convinces MC he’snothing more than a property, a tool to be used in various ways forthe efficiency and safety of the city, and so on. BUT. What I’mtrying to do here is [2/6]presentingthis kind of mental process as a result of *abuse* (and pre-existingabuse also, i.e. being born in slavery), not *torture.* I mean, Iwant to make it clear that MC’s personality, identity and willpowerget gradually crushed because of his terribly young age (and the factthat every tie he had previously with family and friends getssevered, much like it happens to actual child soldiers) that makeshim prone to manipulation (not as in ‘brainwashing’ but as in'gaslighting and [3/6]weaponizationof guilt complexes and a lot of nasty stuff that actually mighthappen even in a more common scenario like domestic child abuse’),because he’s put in a do or die situation where he has no choice butfollow through with orders otherwise he dies, until he actuallystarts internalizing the whole situation and it slowly becomes dailyroutine. I guess that what I’m asking is: how does this sound to you?How can I write it effectively so that it’s blatantly clear thattorture/pain [4/6]arepart of MC’s ordeal but they’re not the reason he ends up obeying?Because I know that torture doesn’t change hearts and minds, I don’twanna paint that picture. It has to be more about surviving andadapting and believing in something because it feels there’s nofuture - and no past - beyond that. (I want to reassure you that Ihave already picked symptoms for MC and that during his time as thisman’s slave he’ll never stop trying to enact passive resistance, eventhough actively [5/6]hedoes what he’s told and he kind of believes he has no right to deemit bad and he deserves it etc. I mean, this is not going to be just astory about a broken victim who does nothing but be his Master’s toy– it’s going to be a story about finding awareness, finding thestrength to fight back and break free and oppose to this wholesystem. It just starts, and for a very large swathe stays, in a worseplace.) [6/6]

Hi.I’m the anon who sent that 7-part ask about the enslaved boy boughtby a PMC. I re-read my words and I realized there was room formisunderstandings: when I said “who planned on using him aschild soldier” what I actually meant was “he started totrain MC very harshly since he was 7 and MC did take somewhat distantpart in military actions during his childhood as part of a'observe&learn’ process, but he wasn’t scheduled for active dutyon his own until he was a teenager. Just to be clearer!

Thank you for the clarification but just to be 100% clear that is being a child soldier according to the legal definition.

Child soldiers are not always used for front line active combat. Sometimes they’re used as messengers, cooking or cleaning staff, to transport equipment or a variety of other things that aren’t active combat. But all of these count. Whether a child used by an army fights or not they are a child soldier.

For the purposes of story telling it is a useful distinction to make. I understand exactly why you’ve made it. But keeping the legal definition in mind helps because it broadens the scope of sources you can use.

If you were ruling out accounts by child soldiers age 7 before, on the grounds that they were probably fighting- You’ve now got a whole new host of things that apply.

I put together a list of books and other sources on child soldiers in this post here. You might find them useful.

You might also get something from Kara’s books on modern slavery. I’d suggest Modern Slavery: A Global Perspective as the most relevant simply because it covers a broader range then his other two books.

You’ve given me a really helpful level of detail here and before I go any further I wanted to thank you for that.

It’s clear that you know you’ve picked a difficult plot. But everything you’ve describe sounds possible to me.

I think a lot of the difficulty with these plots is wrapped up in that: ‘possible’. There’s a strong tendency for authors to treat these extreme scenarios as black and white.

They ‘heroically’ resist (to the point they’re unaffected) or they’re ‘broken’ and become a passive object. Too often we write about these scenarios as if they can produce one definite, sure-fire outcome.

The truth is messy. Compliance is part of that mess.

Because it’s possible but it’s never certain. And it’s often narratively tempting to cut out the complexity, to make things nice and simple and easy to write. Which does everyone a disservice.

I’ve read anecdotes from a few anti-slavery activists describing how some slavers hire fake aid workers/anti-slavery activists to try and make their victims too scared to seek help. And it does intimidate some victims, but some still try to escape and some still succeed.

And you can show those different responses here.

Your main character complies but in the kind of setting you’ve described he’s far from the only slave. And since the MC is in this situation for years he would meet others, he’d hear stories. You can establish that his response is not the only response by mentioning others as background details.

Here are some possibilities.

Seeing other enslaved people physically resist or attempting escape.

Hearing rumours about successful escapes.

News stories or rumours about attacks on slavers.

Rumours about anti-slavery activists.

Fleeting contact with anti-slavery activists.

Those probably all sound a bit obvious so let me put them in context with some summarised anecdotes.

A lot of the women Kara interviewed as part of his work on modern slavery described seeing escape attempts. Most of these stories ended with the victim being caught by slavers, tortured and killed. This was often done in view of the enslaved women in an attempt to intimidate them.

In most cases the enslaved women didn’t actually see the escape attempt itself and weren’t always aware how many other women were held. Which means that the slavers were creating a sort of pattern; the majority of escape attempts the women heard about ended in them watching the person who tried to escape die.

When enslaved black people in the American south were fleeing north a lot of southern slavers responded with rumour campaigns. They told slaves that the people who successfully escaped were worse off.

I haven’t read enough of those rumours to say if there was a pattern to them. But the ones I remember were addressed towards specific, undeniable escapes. They (completely falsely) said things like, the escapee was homeless, jobless and isolated. They described them starving and begging for food-

This was all designed to discourage escape attempts by creating the impression escapees were worse off then slaves.

One of the things that seems consistent about historical slavery in the Caribbean and Brazil is how goddamn paranoid white people were. There was a massive and pervasive fear of uprisings and also smaller scale violence such as poisonings.

The impression I get is that slavers were so afraid of this and talked about it so often that it would have been impossible for slaves to be unaware of these fears. This might not have been helpful to anyone actually planning something but it can be used in a story to add to that background impression that other responses are possible.

All of these are things that can be worked in with short scenes or a few sentences.

Once you have that background of other possible responses you can start weaving them in with the reasons why this character isn’t acting in those ways.

Personally I think that part is the harder task.

I tend to emphasise that people in highly abusive situations are still making choices. I believe that is true. But these are not free choices.

It’s a lot easier to falsely position something as a free choice (and hence attach blame) or falsely position the character as completely controlled (and hence defined by the abuser). I think a lot of well meaning authors fall into one trap or the other. Recognising it as you’ve done is essential. But- keeping that balance is always going to be hard.

A lot of this will come down to execution and how the piece comes across to individual readers. Whenever that’s the case I recommend finding people to read over your stories and check that the scenes are working the way you want them to. I’ve found face to face writing groups very helpful. If that’s not an option for you then a good beta reader (or several) is the next best thing.

But back to the question of writing coercion. Let me put in some examples of how that constrained thought process could be used for your story.

The character’s seven at the beginning. Let’s say that he’s young the first time he sees an escape attempt. It’s well thought out and planned, it involves multiple people. He’s told he can’t come because he’s too small and too slow, he’ll slow everyone else down. But it’s exciting seeing this, for a moment he looks up to these people more then anyone else in the world-

And then they get caught. And he sees them murdered or tortured for attempting to escape.

He gets older. Life is horrible and hard. But he keeps hearing stories about how much worse it is if you get away.

I’m not sure whether you’ve got a more urban or rural setting here but either way you can come up with horror stories about exposure, lack of food and lack of clean water.

As an example of each- In the winter in some Russian cities someone who collapses at night can just end up covered in snow, frozen solid and not found until the spring (that’s an urban legend I’m unsure how true it is). In rural Europe ripe deadly nightshade berries look almost like blueberries and can be found in a lot of hedges. They taste sweet and the poison only kicks in hours later. In parts of South America fresh water pools can hold a brain eating amoeba, there’s no treatment or cure for it. The organism gradually eats you away.

These sorts of stories mix in with the reality of being enslaved: the exhaustion, the hunger and the way that hunger and exhaustion can combine to produce intense apathy. When doing anything is difficult then actually acting on ways to escape can become too hard, too triggering, too risky.

Someone new sneaks into the compound and tells stories about how they’re going to help people escape, who wants to come? And may be the MC wants to, he thinks about it. But fear can paralyse and he doesn’t know if he can trust this stranger.

A few days later the stranger vanishes and everyone who said ‘yes’ to them is publicly punished. Not making the attempt starts to look like wisdom.

Bring up the legitimate fears anyone trying to leave an abusive situation has when they’ve spent their life dependant on the abuser.

How is he going to eat? Where is he going to stay? How will he ever get the money he needs to survive? What happens if he gets ill or injured, who would possibly want to take care of him? If he fails won’t it make things worse? If he succeeds won’t people come after him? What if he’s caught again? What if running away just puts him in the hands of another abuser? What happens to the people he’s grown up with if he escapes? Will they be punished in his place?

Whenever people ask why victims ‘don’t just leave’ they ignore these questions. And they are real questions.

Show that. Mix practical assessment of his chances with a paralysing stream of anxiety based around all the ways every single step of an escape could go wrong.

Show how goddamn scary the unknown and lack of support (of everyone he’s ever known) can be.

If you’re worried about readers interpreting this as due to pain or torture rather than deep, practical fears- Well this character is enslaved for a very long time. Much longer then the modern average (across types of slavery it’s around four and a half years, for debt bondage it’s a little over five). He’s not going to stay in one constant emotional state for that entire time.

If you’re leaning in to depressive symptoms and the apathy things like starvation can cause then you can use torture and it’s aftermath to show a sudden, shocking surge of anger, aggression. You can show it sparking, however briefly, a will to rebel.

Even without that symptom set I think you could use it in this way. You could have him actually acting a little and getting half way through escape preparations before bottling a couple of days later.

Wrapping this up-

It’s clear you’ve put a lot of thought into this story. You’ve read up at least a little on the subject matter. You’re concerned about doing it justice. That’s completely understandable.

Don’t let your concern or the fear that you might do a bad job paralyse you.

Write.

You’ll make mistakes in the process. That’s OK. Writing is a learning process and the beautiful thing about it is that we can always go back and correct our mistakes.

You’ve set yourself up for a long and difficult project. But it is achievable. Break it down. Tackle it a little at a time. Take breaks. Seek advice from other writers.

You can do this.

I hope that helps. :)

Availableon Wordpress.

Disclaimer

#Anonymous #tw torture #tw child abuse #tw child soldiers #tw slavery #coercion #compliance #compliance under threat #writing victims

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maevefiction · 6 years ago

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Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 51

Nothing will ever prepare you for the birth of your first child. Nothing. Trust me on this. Go ahead and do your research, attend Lamaze classes, dot the i’s and cross the t’s of the fifty line-items that make up what you believe to be a thoroughly comprehensive birth plan…you’ll be informed, and aware. But on that day, when you’re in the midst of it, and immediately after…that is some seriously next-level shit. It’s an other-worldly, out-of-body experience, one in which you’ll feel like you’ve gone straight to the ninth circle of hell and then, with nothing more than the sound of a gasp and a cry, achieved the penultimate goal of spirituality…nirvana.

We’d chosen the Portland Hospital mainly because Dr. Phillips practiced there as a consultant, but also due to the fact that it was a private establishment with state-of-the art technology and a neonatal intensive care unit on-site. Having a midwife was an option, but since I was an ‘older mom’ it felt best to err on the side of caution and deliver with a caregiver in the room who could authorize and perform medical procedures immediately. During our initial tour the guide had mentioned that the likes of Victoria Beckham and the Duchess of York had chosen to give birth in the VIP Deluxe Suites, along with a host of other rich and famous folks. The cost? Approximately $2700 per night, not including medical fees. The perks? A private entrance and exit, catered meals, an extra bed for partners wishing to remain overnight, a lounge area and an en-suite bathroom in addition to the delivery area, which provided for all possible birthing options, including a tub for those who desired an aquatic scenario. With typical medical costs added in we’d be looking at around $30,000, double if I wound up needing a C-section. I balked until we actually saw the VIP rooms…there was no disguising that this was, indeed, a hospital, but the space was bright and airy with light wood floors and furniture, all hints of color varying shades of grey and purple. The lounge was decorated similarly, and the couch and set of chairs would comfortably seat at least six. The bathroom was large, with a purple and white diamond-tiled floor, light-wood cabinets, white marble countertops, a white marble a walk-in shower with a bench, a soaking tub, a higher-than-normal toilet, and a bidet. I’d never seen anything like this associated with a hospital setting, and had been expecting something utilitarian and claustrophobic. This just felt…peaceful, and very much like home. It made me momentarily forget that hey-o, a watermelon sized human will be coming out of your vagina in this very place before you know it, and that’s what sold me on the place, in the end. The tour guide asked us if we’d like the suite redecorated to our tastes, which would add another $40,000 or more to our total, dependent upon said tastes. I said no thank you as politely as possible, deciding right then and there to make a matching donation for whatever our bill total was to a local maternity support organization.

I was wheeled into our suite at 10:32 PM, contractions timing at eight minutes apart. Despite my desire to wait to change into the purple and green tie-dyed delivery gown I’d found online and carefully packed in the go-bag, I was cajoled into donning the Portland’s version so Dr. Phillips could examine me immediately and determine what stage of labor I’d reached. It was cream-colored and patterned with tiny red rosebuds, which did not please me in any way, shape or form. I’d begun to express my displeasure, but as I placed my feet into the bed’s stirrups another contraction began, the pressure starting at my lower back and working its way around to my stomach, fading after forty-five seconds or so. After he’d completed poking and prodding my internal nether region the verdict was rendered – my cervix was approximately fifty percent effaced, dilation at six centimeters. All my vitals were as they should be, so Tom and I were left to our own devices, instructed to let the nurse stationed at the door of our suite know when the strength and duration of my contractions intensified significantly and/or began occurring less than five minutes apart.

At 11:18 PM the nurse, a lovely dark-haired young woman with sky blue eyes named Bridget, knocked twice and entered, our go-bag in hand. As she placed it on the chair nearest the door I noticed that her hair, styled in two long braids, was decorated with both a bright pink and an electric blue bow tied at the bottom of each one…which was, in all honesty, adorable. I sensed that my resistance to the rosebud monstrosity that had been thrust upon me might have given her the impression that I was going to be one of ‘those’ patients, so I quickly dug around in the duffel for my trusty bag of truffles and told her to help herself after saying thank you. She grinned from ear to ear, stating that Lindor truffles were her very favorite. I said me too, showed her my sterile-wrapped gown, and our encounter ended with a gentle high-five. The healing power of chocolate…so grossly underrated.

As soon as the room door closed behind her I untied Rosebud, wriggled out of it, then walked into the bathroom to deposit it in the laundry bin. Tom followed me, still-wrapped tie-dye gown in hand. When I turned around to face him, he gasped, and I paused, head tilted to the right in confusion.

“What? Is there something hanging out of me? I’d like to think I’d feel it if that was the case, and I sure as shit can’t see…”

He shook his head slowly. “No. It’s just…you’re so…so…”

“Enormous?”

“You are not enormous. Do you remember New York? The night we went to DANIEL? You in that red dress, so beautiful, the embodiment of Aphrodite, and I said…”

I nodded, my voice hushed as I recalled his words. “You said the only way you could imagine that I’d ever be more beautiful than I was in that moment is if I was heavily pregnant with our child.”

He smiled softly, expression quickly turning to one of reverent contemplation. “And there you are, standing before me, naked as the day you yourself were born, about to bring our son into this world and I…I…Maude, the love I have for you…my heart is so full I fear it may burst, and my soul, it’s…it’s…free. Soaring. Light surrounds you…it always does…but right now, it’s so radiant, so luminous…it’s almost too intense to gaze upon, but I find myself unable to look away.”

I took a single step toward him, and as I lifted my right foot to take a second my uterus decided it was once again contraction time, but my discomfort level jumped up two notches on Allie Brosh’s Better Pain Scale from the last one, which had been a four, ‘My pain is not fucking around.’ This one was a six, ‘Ow. Okay, my pain is super legit now.’ I couldn’t speak, and it just kept going and going and going. Tom tossed the package onto the sink counter as he strode to my side, offering himself for me to lean on, arms wrapping around me as he whispered in my ear.

“Breathe, my love. Breathe. I’m here. I’ve got you. Breathe. In, then out. In, then out. I’ve got you.”

In, then out. In, then out. He breathed with me, and as instantly as it had begun, it ceased. He released me slowly, kissing me on the forehead as he pulled away. I reached out and took hold of his forearm.

“How long was that? Do you know?”

He nodded. “Around sixty-five seconds by my count. I’m thinking we should get your gown on and have Dr. Phillips come back in. You?”

“Probably not a bad idea. That’s right on the edge between active labor and transition.” I let go of his forearm and he walked back to the counter to retrieve the gown, carefully pulling the plastic apart and removing the bright fabric, then shaking it out to unfold it. He grinned, holding it up in front of himself.

“I don’t know…I’m quite fond of this. Perhaps I should wear it instead?”

“Go for it. I’m fine with staying just the way I am. Everyone’s going to get a good look at my hoo-ha anyway…why bother to get dressed at all?” I was only half kidding…the thought of wearing clothing at this juncture seemed not only unnecessary, but unnatural. He stared at me blankly, and I lifted my arms out to the side. “Come on. Do the deed before I change my mind.”

His brow furrowed. “Maude, if you feel that you’d be more comfortable…”

“I was joking. Mostly. I’m going to wear it for now, and if I want it gone somewhere down the line I’ll just…take it off. Does that sound reasonable? Also, I really, really want an ice-cold Coke. Which is totally unrelated to our current topic of discussion but fuck, I am thirsty.” The gown was a wrap-style with snaps at the shoulders, and as he was leaning in to fasten them my eyes met his. “Thank you. What you said before…I’m so blessed to have you as my partner in this, and in my life.”

He kissed me soundly on the lips, then guided me over to the bed and pushed the call button. Bridget was inside the room before Tom’s finger fully lifted off the button, and he relayed the details of what I’d just experienced. She agreed that Dr. Phillips needed to check me right away, then rushed out the door to track him down. The bed had been lowered so I could heft myself in and out of it without looking like a seal flopping around in the sand, and once I was appropriately situated I turned to Tom, smirking as I attempted what was likely an incredibly sub-par imitation of Loki.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll have that drink now.”

There was an apartment-sized refrigerator in the lounge area, complete with an ice maker, and an adjacent beverage cart contained glassware. I’d peeked inside the fridge earlier and found it stocked with all the things we’d requested…Coke, water, mocha flavored coffee creamer, half-and-half, orange juice, and small containers of chocolate milk. Tom chuckled as he jogged out of my sight, and I could hear ice clinking and the sound of a soda can hissing as the top was popped. He reappeared, beverage in hand, just as Dr. Phillips knocked once and entered the room with Bridget.

“So, Maude, Bridget tells me you’ve had in increase in intensity and duration?”

I nodded, holding out my hands and making a ‘gimmie’ motion to Tom as he walked around to the left side of my bed and handed me the tumbler of Coke. I counted five ice cubes as I brought it to my lips and took a long, enormously satisfying sip. “Mmm, oh, that is SO good. Thank you. Sorry, Dr. Phillips. Super thirsty. Yes to the increase in intensity and duration. Significant, intensity-wise.”

“Well, let’s have a look, then. And remember, if you change your mind about pain management, all you need do is ask, all right?”

Pain management medications were off the table for me, the only exception being an epidural if the need for a C-section arose. Tom had even begrudgingly pinky-sworn that if I wavered, he’d remind me that I wanted to experience holding Henry for the first time stone-cold sober. Repeatedly, if warranted.

“Thanks, Dr. Phillips. I’m still a ‘no’ for that option, though.” Bridget raised the bed, slid the stirrups out from their hiding place and guided my feet into place as I handed my glass back to Tom. Just as Dr. Phillips finished donning his gloves and sat down on the wheelie stool there I was, back at Contraction Central and he got his first glimpse of Trucker Mouth Maude before the pain paralyzed me completely. “Holy shit, what the actual fucking fuck, mother fucker?!”

Tom, who I assumed had set my drink down on the side table, reached out to take my hands in his. “Remember, in, then out. In, then out. In…then out.”

As soon as the pain subsided enough for me to speak, I couldn’t resist squeezing in a witty retort between breaths. “That’s what…got us…into this…in the first place.”

Tom and Dr. Phillips roared with laughter while Bridget blushed several shades darker than the pink of her braid bows, and I leaned back on the bed, not even having realized I’d shifted forward. Dr. Phillips gave me another minute to relax, then resumed his evaluation. As he finished he glanced up at Bridget and nodded, and she nodded in return, then left the room. He stood, walked across the room to remove his gloves and deposit them in the proper receptacle, then returned to stand on the right side of the bed, opposite Tom. His expression was stoic, and just as I’d begun to panic the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile that quickly grew into a giant grin.

“Maude, you’re fully effaced and eight centimeters dilated…which, as I’m sure you’re aware, means that you’re in the transition stage. You may feel the urge to push, and let me know of you do, but it’s best if you’d hold off until you’re at ten centimeters. In the meantime, let’s get you properly set up with some monitoring equipment. Bridget’s gathering the team, and Tom, you’ll need to put on a gown…”

Tom nodded. “Yes sir. I do need to change my clothes first, though.” He squeezed my hands gently. “Will you be all right if I leave you alone?”

I pulled my hands from his, releasing him. “Yep. I’ll be fine. Go. Hustle that bustle.”

He grabbed the go-bag and walked quickly toward the bathroom, managing to be back at my side just in time for another contraction. This one lasted for almost two minutes according to Dr. Phillips, and it was downright beastly, leaving me panting. And thirsty. I turned to Tom to ask for another sip of soda and when I noticed what he was wearing I was completely and totally blown away. Biting my lip, I reached out to touch the ratty old used-to-be-black V-neck, and when I looked up at his face he was smiling, a sweet, bashful smile that evoked within me a whirlwind of emotions. My voice cracked when I finally found the correct words to formulate my question, even though I was relatively certain that I already knew the answer.

“Tom, is that…is that your lucky shirt?”

He placed his hand over mine, and after so many months of bump-stroking the feel of a flat stomach against my palm was oddly foreign. His voice was little more than a whisper. “You remembered.”

“I remember. You were wearing it the day you got the call from Ken, and you were wearing it the first time you saw me when you were jogging on the beach in Hawaii, and now…”

He interrupted, reaching out with his free hand to cup my chin. “I’m wearing it because today is the first time I’m going to see our son.”

Bridget’s arrival with two other staff members in tow cut our moment short, and Tom put his gown on over his lucky shirt and running shorts while I was fitted with sensors to monitor my blood oxygen level, heart rate, contraction strength, as well as Henry’s heart rate. A blood pressure cuff that would automatically inflate in order to take a reading every few minutes was added to the mix as well, and I realized that this was it, I was in the proverbial birthing bed and would remain as such until said birth occurred. As if on cue, my innards clenched and tightened like a vise grip. An alarm sounded on one of the monitors and Dr. Phillips, who’d been engrossed in conversation with the staffers as they were on their way out the door, spun around to investigate. His eyes widened, which of course freaked me right the fuck out. Said freak-out must have been obvious as he immediately held up both hands, palms toward me.

“Nothing to worry about, that one’s to let me know that it’s time to get my ducks in a row. I’ll scrub up straight way, Maude. It would appear that you might be seeing your little one a good bit sooner than I anticipated.”

While Dr. Phillips prepped, Tom jogged back to the bathroom to retrieve the go-bag, then jogged back to me. His voice was measured and calm when he spoke, but despite his best efforts to keep his shit together, his hands were shaking like crazy as he set the bag down and began rifling through its contents.

“Okay, we need music. The Beats pill is in here somewhere, isn’t it? I don’t see it…oh fucking hell, did I forget to put it back after I used it last week? Fuck.”

Dr. Phillips once again took his place on the wheelie stool and I pointed a thumb in Tom’s direction. “Allow me to apologize for his foul mouth as well…mainly because I think it’s partly my fault…”

Tom snorted. “Partly?” He turned toward us, holding the Beats pill in his right hand and raising it up over his head. “Music shall be had, as victory is mine. I just need my…” His face fell. “Shit. Shit shit shit… where’d I put my fucking phone? This is unbelievable. Can’t things go as planned just one fucking time?”

I could feel a tingling sensation, one that I now recognized as an indicator of an impending contraction. This wasn’t something I’d expected, him losing his cool, and I had no idea how to handle it or calm him down. And, it frightened me because though, as always, I hated to admit it…I needed him. Nothing else mattered…not the birth plan itinerary, the lighting, the music…all of that was extraneous bullshit. My words came out considerably harsher than I’d wanted them to, but the pain had begun to creep in and I knew there wasn’t much time to say what had to be said.

“Tom. I don’t need the music. What I do need is…YOU. Oh fuck me, here we go…” I squeezed my eyes shut in order to attempt to fully focus on breathing as I navigated through and away from the pain, barely hearing Dr. Phillips commenting that I was doing an excellent job and to keep with it. I exhaled with a groan, feeling someone first touching, then rubbing my back. The pain was so much more intense…so much worse than I’d expected…that the phrase ‘drawn and quartered’ crossed my mind, and as it waned I flopped back onto the raised head of the bed. The rubbing had ceased, and I wanted it to resume, so I opened my eyes to determine who the appropriate party to screech my demand at happened to be. And there he was, one hand on the left rail, the other holding the bed’s controller. My partner, my love…my Tom. He didn’t notice that I’d opened my eyes at first, so I watched him quietly evaluating the lift and lower options until he looked up and saw me staring back at him. His head tilted slightly to the right, lips pressed together tightly, corners of his mouth turned upward just a fraction. He let go of the rail and reached out to stroke my left cheek, then ran the back of his hand down the side of my neck, voice hushed with repentance.

“Very sorry about that.” I shook my head back and forth slowly, smiling ever-so-softly. “No, that behavior warrants an apology. It was incredibly selfish, and…”

I shook my head again, firmer and faster. “While I appreciate that, allow me to remind you that we’ve never done this before and thus have no fucking idea as to what we’re doing and neither of us like to roll that way, so…” I cringed as the tingling began anew, and he held up the controller.

“May I try something?” I nodded, and as he pushed a button the head of the bed reclined away from me. I frowned until he put the controller back in its place, bent to remove his sneakers and socks, then carefully climbed into the bed behind me, long legs coming to rest to the outside of mine. The stirrups prevented contact from my hips downward, but everywhere else we were touching, and the warmth of his body against me immediately reduced my stress levels by at least half. One arm wrapped around my belly, the other across my upper chest, his chin coming to rest on my left shoulder. “How’s this?”

I leaned my head against his, placing one hand atop the arm cradling my belly. “Exactly right. Thank you.”

Neither of us bothered to inquire of Dr. Phillips whether or not this was a permissible arrangement, me because even if he deemed it not allowed I would have told him to fuck right off. But nicer. Probably. Tom’s reason for not asking, I imagined, was related to his consideration of my anticipated reaction. But there wasn’t an opportunity to debate either way, in the end, because it was contraction time again and I found myself singing those words in my head to the tune of Ace Frehley’s ‘Cold Gin’, featured on his solo album way back in 1974. Strange to be thinking of things you’d absorbed during your stint with a former lover while giving birth to your husband’s child, but we’re just puny humans who have little to no control over how our hard drives are structured. While we were together I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around Norman’s devotion and dedication to his son, but now…hmm, maybe that’s why those wires crossed. Problem resolved, trouble ticket closed. Onward with the pain train, destination push it, push it real good…because despite Tom being right there with me, literally and figuratively holding me up while whispering constant encouragement into my ear, I was relatively certain that if this wasn’t over soon I was going to die. And shortly thereafter, as the pain reached its pinnacle and the contractions seemed infinite in their duration, I found myself pretty close to wishing I would.

Thirty-seven minutes into transition, Dr. Phillips said the magic words…three sentences worth of them, actually, and if I could have reached him, I would have kissed him.

“All right, Maude. Ten centimeters, fully dilated…and with that last one, baby’s officially crowning. Go ahead and start pushing with the next. Would you like us to set up a mirror so you can view the progression?”

I didn’t find that last sentence at all magical, however, and I shook my head back and forth in lieu of screaming ‘no oh my god no do not want’. Tom, however, nodded in the affirmative. Not only did I have no desire to witness my body doing the birth thing, the thought of him seeing it was disconcerting for a variety of reasons. I turned my head toward him.

“If you want to it’s fine, I’ll just, you know, not look… but…you…are you sure about watching this? I mean…it’s…and…” I paused for a second as it dawned on me that the main reason why I didn’t want him to see what was going on down there was because somewhere, deep down in my psyche, I was afraid he’d never be able to look at me the same way again from a sexual standpoint. How could he possibly be okay with eating me out after watching our kid slide out of the same place? I grimaced, preparing to explain myself in front of people who were essentially strangers. “…what’s been seen cannot be unseen, if you catch my drift.”

In lieu of an immediate response he kissed me, running his tongue over my lips, then nudging it into my mouth. He pulled away, smiling and squeezing me gently as he spoke quietly.

“There’s nothing in this world or any other that could ever change what I feel for you.”

I turned my head to face forward again, lifting my right hand and waving at Dr. Phillips and Bridget. “Well, let’s give the man a show, then. I’ll just kick back and, oh, I don’t know…give birth, I guess?”

We all chuckled, and Bridget pulled the mirror out from the right side of the bed’s wooden base, where I assumed it was stored in a hidden slot much like the stirrups had been. It was on a pivot stand at the end of a long, foldable arm, and as she was trying to find an angle wherein Tom could see clearly but was out of my direct line of sight, I felt another contraction ramping up. This one seemed less intense, but the urge to bear down and push was overwhelmingly powerful. Instinctual, truthfully, because everything I’d planned and learned went right out the motherfucking window as my body began calling all the shots. Push. Hold. Short, intermittent breaths. Fingers wrapped around the rails, grasping with the strength of someone dangling over a cliff. And then, a reprieve, as well as kudos from Dr. Phillips.

“Well done, Maude. Well done indeed. Two or three more and baby’s head should be out.”

Between panting breaths, I managed to squeak out an ‘m’kay’. Tom was silent on the matter, and just as I was about to turn my head in his direction the pain was back and I became acutely aware of the pressure on my premium as I strained to expel what was causing it. Push, push, push…hold. Two breaths, then push and hold again. My muscled relaxed, but the pressure remained, flesh stretched to the limit and threatening to give way. Tom’s voice sounded as if he was in another room, even though I could see his arms still wrapped around me.

“It’s the top of his head. I can see him. There he is. My god.”

There were more words, but all I heard was gibberish as the contractions initiated a rapid-fire assault on my pelvic floor. One after another, with barely thirty seconds between them, which wasn’t enough time for me to even consider resting. The stretching eased briefly for one contraction, but with the next it was back and twice as strong, which made me lose my focus and cut my pushing short. When I didn’t push with the one that followed, Dr. Phillips took notice.

“Maude, baby needs you to keep pushing. We’re at the shoulders, and once they’re through, the remainder is much smoother. Rest through one more, then back at it, all right?”

It wasn’t all right…I was exhausted, I was hurting, and I was just…done. So very fucking done. But as I rested as he’d suggested, the phrase ‘baby needs you to keep pushing’ repeated in my head, so I snatched it up and made it my mantra because it was the only thing that mattered…Henry. Birth was the start of my parenting journey, the first step, the first test…and I wasn’t going to let him down. Failure. Is. Not. An. Option, Maude. Unfortunately, though my mind was willing, my body was less so. Three pushes later very little progress had been made, and realized the problem was that I felt like I just couldn’t apply enough force in my current position. I pulled myself forward on the bed rails, Tom moving with me to support my weight, and while that helped, midway through the next contraction my left foot slipped out of the stirrup and a rage tantrum born of frustration ensued.

“FUCK. Fuck me, fuck this, fuck EVERYTHING. Especially those shitty fucking stirrups. I need to have my knees, like…like…closer. To me. FUCKING CLOSER.”

As Bridget quickly began to fidget with the stirrup settings, Tom’s arms unwound from around me. I was just about to yell at him and ask where the fuck he thought he was going when I felt his hands slide up the back of my thighs and come to rest behind my knees. He pulled upward and back, his forearms now in the crooks of my knees to serve as a brace, and his hips shifted so he could lean forward and use his torso in the same fashion. When I glanced at him the expression he wore nearly made me burst into tears…it was a mixture of fear, strength, determination, encouragement and love. So much love. He craned his neck to touch his forehead to mine.

“Is that better?” I nodded, moving both our heads like bobble dolls. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Good. All you need to do is push. I’ll hold you in place, shift you around, whatever you need, all right?” Another nod from me, followed by him moving his head back to a more comfortable position. With the next contraction I bore down, leaning into him as he pulled my knees up and back, the stretching sensation so extreme I felt as if I was ripping in two. And so I squeezed my eyes shut and screamed, a raw, primal sound that I’d had no idea I was capable of making. I screamed again with the one that followed, and the seven after that as well, at which point the pressure dissipated and the pain was reduced to a stinging sensation which caused me to assume that this was it, I’d gone numb because I was finally on my way out and lo and behold, I truly wasn’t even mad at it. I felt Tom shaking and experienced a tinge of sorrow at the fact I was leaving him until he shouted and I realized he was laugh-crying.

“You did it! Maude! You did it! He’s out! He’s here! Open your eyes! Open your eyes!”

Instead of following his directive I froze in disbelief, thinking that this couldn’t possibly be real, that it was actually over, until I heard first a gasp, then a mewling whimper that quickly turned into a hearty cry of displeasure. My eyes flew open and there he was, lying on the soaked padding in the space between my body and the edge of the bed, Bridget’s left arm serving as a safety barrier while her right hand rested on his chest in order to keep him in securely in place. Dr. Phillips first snipped the cord that had tethered us, then gently wiped blood and mucous from his face. His skin was a deep pink, head covered with a thin layer of black hair, eyes still shut, fists balled and shaking as if to protest his introduction to a bright, chilly space away from everything he’d ever known. I reached between my legs for him, feeling Tom’s arms slowly lowering them so my feet were touching the mattress. Just as I was about to make contact I hesitated, unsure of how to position my hands in order to pick him up safely from this angle. Dr. Phillips smiled, patting my right hand with his left.

“You’ll do fine, Maude. One hand behind his head, the other under his bottom from the other side. I’m right here, just in case.”

I could feel Tom unsnapping my gown at the shoulders and adjusting it to bare the upper area of my chest, and as my fingers connected with Henry’s skin I felt…honestly, there’s no way to describe how I felt. It’s a moment outside of time. A life that had sparked inside me, then grown inside me was now right in front of me, breathing, moving…I could hear the sound of his voice and he was warm and alive and real and I, Maude formerly-Gallagher-now-Hiddleston, was somebody’s mother. And thus I formally introduced myself as such to my son as I slipped my left hand beneath his head and he opened his eyes and stared straight into mine.

“Henry. It’s okay, baby. Your Mamma’s right here. Still me, just a different view.” I wiggled my right hand under his bottom and lifted ever so slowly and carefully, bringing him upward and finally holding him to my chest, skin to skin. He’d stopped crying and his blue eyes were wide as I placed a gentle kiss on his forehead and watched him blink in what I interpreted as surprise. “Welcome to the world. Mamma loves you with her whole heart, her whole soul and then some.”

I turned to look at Tom, who was unabashedly weeping, and grinned with wonder. “Hello, Daddy. Your son has your eyes, I think.” He leaned forward, his arms wrapping around my mid-section as he peered over my left shoulder. I turned my gaze back to Henry, shifting so his head rested in the crook of my elbow and watched as Tom raised his right hand, fingertips first gently stroking Henry’s left cheek, then slowly tracing down and around his body all the way to his feet. I’ll never forget the tone of his voice when he managed to speak…full of reverence, love, awe, and pure, unadulterated joy.

“Hello, my Henry. My boy. My son. Welcome. I can’t quite believe you’re finally here, that I’m able to see you and touch you. Daddy loves you with his whole heart, his whole soul and then some, too.” As he resumed his stroking he reversed course, and both of us gasped when Henry opened his fist and grabbed onto Tom’s pinky finger. Tom’s eyes met mine, and the look on his face was so similar to Henry’s when I’d kissed his forehead that I totally lost it and started laugh-crying myself.

“Tom oh my god…Henry gave me that same look when I kissed him and I can’t…I can’t…” Tom began to chuckle as well, then nuzzled my neck as we both stared down at the small human we’d created until I experienced a minor contraction and remembered that there was uterine clean up to be done. Dr. Phillips saw it on the monitor and cleared his throat before speaking.

“Terribly sorry for having to interrupt, but we do need to move forward with the placenta delivery and I’d like to take a closer look to see if you need any stitches, Maude. While we’re busy with that Bridget will get Henry fully cleaned up, diapered, dressed, and wrapped.”

I frowned as she walked around the bed to my right side, and found myself suppressing a growl when she reached for Henry. My body had stiffened, and Tom must have sensed my admittedly semi-bonkers territorial reaction at the idea of someone else holding my newborn son because he extended his right hand in Bridget’s direction, palm out, causing her to pause. His voice was friendly when he spoke, but firm.

“Bridget, I’d like to be the one to clean and dress Henry for the first time…with your guidance, of course.”

She withdrew, nodding. “Certainly. I’ll bring the bassinet closer to the bed so Maude can see you both. We’ll need to weigh and measure him first, but the scale and ruler are built right in so that’s easy-peasy.”

Tom kissed my cheek and began the process of disentangling himself from me. One hand remained on my back the entire time, supporting me until he could raise the head of the bed back up to take his place. I looked up at him, biting my lip, unsure of what to say. I shook my head, frowning.

“I’m so sorry…I don’t…I just…’

He leaned in to kiss me again, this time the top of my head, despite the fact that I was literally drenched with sweat. “Please, love, don’t be sorry. I’m so proud of you right now, for that, and for everything. And in awe of your strength…” He choked back a sob. “Thank you, my warrior goddess, for taking me as your own and giving so much of yourself to provide this most precious gift…our son. Our…family.”

Though I tried to hold back my own tears, they fell anyway and began a rapid descent down my cheeks, then dripped off my chin and onto Henry. I lifted him slowly as I turned toward Tom. “Dude, here. Please take him before I start dripping snot on him too.”

The sight of Tom cradling Henry in his hands, then holding him to his chest while waiting for Bridget to lock the bassinet wheels in place was surreal…and profoundly, indescribably beautiful. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him holding an infant, and when I had previously it had nudged something inside me that I was unfamiliar with, perhaps even resistant to. And now, on February 11th, 2017, at 12:59 AM according to the clock on the wall to my left, I finally fully understood what that something was. The eternal maternal…the innate desire to create, nurture, and love another human being. Long buried, suppressed in sorrow, imprisoned by fear…shackled by the possibility of loss, and the terror of failure. As I watched my husband lower our son into the bassinet and begin to tenderly cleanse his skin of the remnants of the cocoon my body had crafted for him I felt the power of ‘mother’ rise up within me, and for the first time in my life it was a power representative of good, not evil, and it released me from my chains and banished my fears and though I wouldn’t have thought it possible, I felt more whole, more complete, than even having Tom become a part of my life had made me.

It was nearly impossible to look away, even as Dr. Phillips applied significant pressure to my belly while I bore down and pushed some more. After the placenta delivery I heard him mutter something about two stiches, and when he asked me if I wanted a numbing agent applied I shook my head, still staring fixedly at Tom as he first diapered than dressed Henry in the simple white cotton onesie with a green-tinted shadow bust of Shakespeare printed on the front that we’d chosen for him. Then came the tiny purple socks, followed by a white knit hat with his initials, HTH, embroidered on it in purple and green thread. Last came the purple and green tie-dyed baby blanket that matched my gown almost exactly, and I grinned when Tom managed to swaddle him with such perfection that Bridget patted him on the back and told him she’d never before seen such a lovely job done by a first-time parent. He lifted Henry out of the bassinet, then began to rock him slowly back and forth in his arms, humming quietly. It wasn’t anything I recognized, so I assumed it was in audible expression of what his heart was feeling. I nearly wept again, but Dr. Phillips tapped my knee in order to divert my attention. Which was warranted, because I was pretty sure he’d been talking but I hadn’t heard a single word. I turned to him, clearing my throat prior to speaking.

“Sorry, I think you said stuff but I have no clue what. Would you mind repeating, please?”

He smiled. “I don’t mind a bit, Maude. All of the placenta was accounted for, and the tear to your perineum was around half a centimeter, which is very minor, especially considering the fact that you delivered a nine pounder…”

I blinked rapidly, jaw dropping open slightly. “Wait, what? Nine? Nine pounds?”

“Nine pounds, four ounces to be exact. 22 inches long. Heart rate, respiration and coloring are all excellent and Bridget watched while Tom dressed him to make sure muscle tone and reaction were up to snuff. You’ve got a very healthy fellow there. Might have something to do with the source material.” I laughed, and Dr. Phillips shook his head. “No, I mean that, Maude. You worked hard to take care of your body throughout your pregnancy, you stayed physically active, you ate well…”

Snorting, I pointed both index fingers at him. “If ‘ate well’ equals too much sugar, caffeine, salt and a bunch of really weird shit then you’re spot on.”

He chuckled. “I might just start recommending that diet to patients if this is the end result. In all seriousness, though…you approached giving birth with incredible focus and determination, but when you faltered I began going over the C-section prep in my head because I wasn’t certain if you’d be able to continue. But before I could get to step three you were back at it, and stronger than ever. I admire your tenacity, Maude. Well done. Very, very well done.”

What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? I decided the keep it simple, stupid strategy would serve me best. “Thank you, Dr. Phillips.”

“You’re welcome. Allow me to take a moment to advise you that while you don’t feel any of it now since the oxytocin is flowing freely, tomorrow will be an entirely different story. You’ll be sore all over, especially your stomach muscles and the entirety of your pelvic floor. Since you have stitches, you’ll need to use a perineal irrigation bottle instead of paper when you use the bathroom…a bidet might sound better, but that’s off limits until the stitches dissolve. You’ll have post-partum bleeding for ten days or so, and after that light spotting for up to a few weeks. We’ll go over everything again and provide you with written instructions during the discharge procedure. Right now, Bridget will clean you up a bit and help you into a disposable undergarment designed for a heavy flow, and then you’ll be ready to give feeding Henry a go. Would you like me to send in the lactation consultant or would you prefer to attempt it on your own first?”

“On my own, please.” I winced as whatever liquid Bridget was using made contact with my skin. She apologized as she continued, then patted me dry with a soft cloth. Hefting my ass up in the air was far easier than I thought it would be, and the gauzy undies felt weird but weren’t technically uncomfortable. I looked down at myself, and though it was still puffy, my stomach no longer looked like a giant egg was lurking inside and ready to burst through my skin a la Alien-style. I’d read several articles in which women described feeling empty in an emotional sense after giving birth as a reaction to not being pregnant anymore. Me? Not so much. I was over the fucking moon at the prospect of wearing pants again. Real, actual, people pants that had buttons and zippers and pockets. I tilted my head to the left and raised my brows as I returned my gaze to Dr. Phillips, who was currently standing to my right as he waited for Bridget to finish washing up. “So…when can I, like, get up and walk around?”

“Whenever you feel ready. Move slowly, and if you feel light-headed, sit back down and rest. Let Tom do the lifting when Henry requires transporting for the next few hours, though, just to be safe. Would you like me to have the concierge bring something up for you both to snack on?”

I leaned back, resting my head on the mattress. “Oh my god YES please. Anything from our preference sheet is fine. Thank you for thinking of it. And for everything, Dr. Phillips.”

Tom echoed my sentiment, and Dr. Phillips and Bridget exited the suite so we’d have some privacy, Bridget reminding us to use the call button at any time if we needed anything at all. I reached out with both arms toward Tom, my hands making ‘gimmie’ motions.

“Hand him over, Hiddleston. Let’s see if these boobs are good for more than just looking at.”

He snorted. “They’ve always been good for more than just looking at. And while I truly never want to let him go, he’s starting to root at me a bit and I’m afraid I’m of little use to him in that particular department.”

Henry whimpered as Tom pulled him away from his chest in order to return him to me and Tom talked him through it, voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s all right, Henry. All is well. It’s time to pay Mamma a visit and have some breakfast. You’ll be warm and cozy again in no time.” And with that, my son was back in my arms again, staring up at me. I opened his blanket burrito enough to free his upper body, then removed his hat and rested him against my chest as I shifted the gown so my breasts were fully exposed. Tom was correct, there was rooting going on for sure. I took a deep breath, then used my right hand to lift my left breast and hold it up, nipple positioned directly in front of Henry’s mouth. I felt the mattress dip a smidge and moved my legs to the right so Tom could sit closer to me. Then, I waited…for a grand total of, like, thirty seconds and then…liftoff. Or latching, if you want to get all technical about it and shit. I looked up at Tom, who was staring down at Henry. When he finally met my gaze I grinned, as did he.

“My body has made food for another human being and said human being is partaking in consuming the food and is also the sweetest, cutest, most adorable human being I’ve ever laid eyes upon aside from his father. Also, it feels really fucking strange. Not bad, just…strange.”

We both stared at Henry as he continued to dine, lost in the glow, until the concierge knocked. Tom went to answer, and as the spell was broken I remembered that babies need burping and that not rotating between boobs would lead to unpleasantness. I positioned Henry carefully so his head was resting just below my left clavicle and began to pat his back rhythmically until he let loose a braaap that made me giggle-snort. While right boob got its turn, Tom fed me bagel pizzas while he wolfed down a turkey club sandwich. The suction on my nipple waned, and when Henry’s eyelids began to droop I burped him once more, then watched as he drifted off to dreamland for the first time in the outside world. Tom stood and took him from me, then returned him to the bassinet. I watched as he carefully re-burritoed Henry, put his hat back on, then covered him with a Winnie the Pooh cotton blankie. It was yellow, with all the characters printed in group in the center, and when Tom leaned down to kiss Henry’s forehead I began to weep. Tom came back to sit with me, pulling me into his arms and to his chest, weeping right along with me, neither of us speaking even when the tears were done and gone. I wouldn’t have thought that bond between us could possibly become stronger, nor the connection deeper, but that was indeed the case, though it remained unspoken because there were no words to convey how it felt or what it meant to both of us. All I could come up with in my head was that this love had been two and now it was three, and that was everything.

I showered while Henry was sleeping, Tom having rolled the bassinet to just outside the bathroom, where he kept watch on both Henry and I while texting our friends and family to advise them that our bundle of joy had arrived and that they were welcome to come to the hospital Saturday afternoon at one PM for a meet-and-greet luncheon before we went home to hole up with our kid and figure out how all this worked. We’d let Bridget know that I was up and about so housekeeping could come in and change the bedding, and once I was cleaned up and dressed in my post-birth ensemble of disposable panties, a white nursing bra and a purple silk robe, an all-encompassing sense of exhaustion overwhelmed me, and as soon as I was in a horizontal position it was lights out for Mamma. Tom rested with me, fetching Henry from the bassinet at our bedside whenever he woke and began to fuss, changing his diaper or passing him to me for nursing, depending upon what seemed to be required at the time. Sometimes it was both, sometimes neither…and I’d decided going in that I wasn’t going to be a ‘cry it out’ parent. If my kid needed cuddling, he’d get cuddling no matter the hour or situation. Overcompensation for my own mother’s shitty parenting style? Probably…but as far as I knew this might be our one and only, and I was bound and determined to offer him everything I had to give.

Part of our hospital package included a session with a professional photographer, which we decided to use during the luncheon. Tom and I had eaten breakfast at just after eleven AM, a full English for both of us, and he’d showered while I donned my outfit of the day…the addition of a pair of black cotton sweatpants and a fresh pair of disposable panties to the same nursing bra and purple silk robe I’d slept in. We worked together to change Henry’s diaper and outfit, opting for a rainbow-striped footed one-piece with a cartoon speech bubble on the front that read ‘Hello, World!’ in multi-colored script. Tom had barely finished pulling his own navy-blue sweater over his head when Simon and Luke turned up, a whole fifteen minutes early, which was, like, unheard of. And Simon, Mr. Extra Loud Especially At The Most Inconvenient Times, tip-toed into the room while whispering his greeting.

“Maude, oh my god, look at you, you’re not pregnant anymore and Tom those jeans look like you haven’t washed them in weeks is that like, a style, and where is my nephew? WHERE?” He spotted the bassinet next to the bed and bolted over to it, Luke in tow. “Oh my HEART he’s gorgeous and he’s sleeping how do you get him to sleep the girls are still forever awake and making SOUNDS also sorry not sorry I’m going to wake him up now because I want to hold him and I need to see what color his eyes are.”

I walked to join them, and even though I didn’t want to admit it, Dr. Phillips had been spot-on…my pelvic area hurt like a motherfucker. It was a constant throbbing, like a toothache, but, you know, in my uterus and vagina. Which didn’t, as far as I was aware, did not, in fact have teeth. Simon had already begun to pick Henry up but thought better of it, eyes meeting mine to ask for permission first. I nodded, and I couldn’t help but tear up at the sight of him holding my child. He’d always been so supportive and positive when I doubted this would ever happen, and both he and Luke had been by my side throughout the most horrific experience of my life…now here we all were, alive, healthy, happy and…parents. What a fucking thing. As Luke and Simon cooed over Henry everyone else began to filter in, including the concierge and photographer. In attendance were Diana and James, Emma, Sarah, Trudy, and, much to my pleasant surprise, Anne. When I asked how she’d gotten to London so quickly, she shrugged and said two days ago she’d just had a feeling and her plane had landed last night at seven PM. It was bittersweet, her being there…I loved her and had already designated her adopted Grandmamma, but her presence always had and always would remind me of the past. Even after you’ve come to terms with it all, the empty spaces where those you’ve lost once stood still remained. The brief bit of darkness faded as I participated in the game of pass the baby and pose for pictures, and I took advantage of having my hands free to shovel enough food into my face to feed three sizable adults. We all gathered for a final group shot, Tom and I front and center, with me holding Henry will sitting on Tom’s lap. Goodbyes were said, and as soon as everyone had departed we called in Dr. Phillips and Bridget for our discharge discussion. An hour and a half later we were walking out the side door of the hospital, hoping that our posting a photo of ourselves and Henry across all our social media accounts would reduce the paparazzi presence. It worked, in part at least, as there were only five of them outside…and they were all very polite and unusually subdued, so much so that when they asked for permission to photograph us we said it was fine as long as no flashes were used. We’d hired a car to pick us up and the driver had placed Henry’s seat inside for us, which made for a relatively quick getaway. Then, suddenly, we were at our destination…taking the elevator up to our place, walking inside…the Hiddlestons, ready to continue the adventure of a lifetime. As a family.

#your light in the mist #chapter 51

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rugsourcerunnerrugs · 2 years ago

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The Highly Demanding Hide Rugs Business

Hides are derived from a number of animals. Livestock, alligators, snakes, wild cats and bears are just but some of the animals whose hides are used to make different products for use in the wider hide skins market. There are both large and small scale producers of hide skin products with the volume of production generally dictated by the entities' resource capacities and the supply in their individual locations.

Worldwide, animal skins are use to manufacture a variety of products such as belts, shoes, wallets, upholstery, rugs and many more. Interestingly, the use of hides as rugs has skyrocketed over the years to become very common and famous. Its use has penetrated the market to reach both modern and traditional settings, ending up at the doorsteps, living room, bedrooms, office doors and any other places deemed suitable. They have also been used as depiction of social status and culture.

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Hide rugs are made in different sizes and come in diverse colours. Their sizes and colours are based on the source animal. The most common animal skins come in brown, black, white and a mix of the assorted patterns. However, these are just a few of the many other types available.

Making the skins to rugs involves taking them through a process of treatment to ensure that getting into contact with them does not pose any health risks. In most large scale companies, the hides are taken through a lab testing process to ascertain if they have any defects. Once they have undergone through the process and all the necessary treatments done, they are then released to the market.

It is common to see a number of sellers displaying the rugs in their original shapes as derived from the animal. Conversely, there are manufacturers who trim the rugs to unique shapes to add some great looks to them. Others also add colours to make them more beautiful and to blend seamlessly with the home or office decor. In some instances, the buyers can order for specific shapes, sizes and colours. There are only a few types of Animal skin that you can do this with, but more and more hide manufacturers are sewing hides together to make unusual patterns and shapes.

Hide rugs that have been processed properly will be soft and supple and will give many years of enjoyment to their owner. Owing to their different animal sources, some of the rugs tend to have more fur than others and the markings are very unusual. This provides users with a variety of choices for their individual needs. Each hide is unique and has its own charachteristics, that what makes them so special.

Trading in hide rugs has grown enormously. While some traders supply all types others specialise in specific animal skins. Specialisation is in this case brought about by diverse factors ranging from supply, demand, processing needs and more. Companies that specialise on particular types of animal skins are mostly large scale manufacturers that are targeting a particular market. This results in some of the companies working with specific suppliers who have the breeds of animals whose skins they need.

It has been established that natural hide rugs perform better because they are more resistant to stains and can also be cleaned with great ease. These rugs also perform better in places that expose them to more use compared to the ones that have other foreign materials added to them during processing.

However, hide rugs business is facing many challenges resulting from many legal and health restrictions. This is because the business is associated with the killing of animals. Most countries require that businesses joining the Animal Skin Trade trade must be taken through a rigorous licensing process to try as much as possible to reduce poaching of wild animals or killing of other livestock.

The prices for skin products have also been increasing as a result of the destruction of animal breeding places and the extinction of some. Still, the business is becoming increasingly lucrative because of the ever growing demand for animal skin and other related products.

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syzygyzip · 7 years ago

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Wolf Dreams a Video Game

This essay can be read on its own, though it is a continuation of another essay titled “A Matter of Some Ceremony”. Together these essays explore the psychological symbolism of Farron Keep and the creation myth of Dark Souls.

Taking the swamp as a liminal space, a threshold of unconsciousness, with the potential to infect. We know it is a threshold from its many doors, and its proximity to the Abyss. We know it is infectious from its adhesiveness and toxin. We’ve also seen that as Ghrus are more “removed” from the swamp, the higher up they go, the more technology and civility they seem to possess. So what’s the highest point available? A tall tower -- in actuality a support column of a former bridge to Lothric Castle. The tower’s only room contains the Old Wolf of Farron, who rules the Watch Dogs of Farron covenant. To reiterate, this covenant represents a truer retention of the same foundational principles from which the Abyss Watchers have diverged. So the covenant here represents the “heart” of the environment’s teaching. And indeed, getting to this point is plainly helpful for dealing with the initiation ordeal: if one gets some distance from the matter, “removing” oneself from the swamp of sorrow, and taking on an unattached, bird’s eye perspective, one can easily see where the three flames of initiation flicker from. This detachment from the senses, engendering their easier discernment and extinguishment, is probably reflective of the wolf’s inner state, seeing as it has given itself over to stillness.

The wolf has become like petrified wood. She has given so much of her blood to all her Artorian devotees. Everything that takes place on the floor above is her dream, which is the key to the rites of initiation.

What does the dream contain? It takes place on a ruinous segment of castle wall overlooking an endless ocean at twilight (more imagery suggesting the edge of consciousness). The first sight hereupon is a huge deteriorating stone monster walking in a circle. It is a Stray Demon in whom the fire has gone out entirely. On either side of the segment, we see lowered and locked gates, signifying a blockage. With a little resourcefulness and surefooting, we can walk a small ledge around one of these blockages. On the other side of the gate there are a number of sleeping soldiers, and at the end of the wall, a similarly incapacitated drake. Near the drake are two items: the lightning bolt and the dragoncrest shield, both invaluable for conquering dragons. At the blocked gate there is a pilgrim. If the bridge were not mostly demolished, he would reach Lothric, the seat of destiny. This is an important bit of context. The game informs us elsewhere that the entire world is folding toward Lothric; it is there that they are preparing a host capable of linking the fire. The full meaning and function of Lothric is another subject, and a very dense one, but for the purposes of this essay it’s necessary to establish the fundamental symbolism: that Lothric is the setting of some soon-arriving moment of revelation; it is an event which can be variously termed but is most succinctly described as the emergence of the Self.

So, as in any dream, first we are presented with the problem. We see the transcendent moment in the distance, and that it is unreachable. There is also a gate, which once led to that epochal seat, and is still guarded by a great monster. But the fire has gone out in this demon, who walks mindlessly in circles, and when provoked is only capable of vomiting boulders of rock. Critically, this Stray Demon has some unique animation when you attack its leg repeatedly: the leg crumbles, and then the other leg crumbles from the weight, and then the rocky demon is dragging itself around with its arms, carrying on the fight. Why is the demon in a degraded state? Is it because it is cut off from its purpose, and from the generative power of the Lothric moment? Or it might just be a matter of old age, because elsewhere we find the Old Demon King, last of his kind, also losing the final spark from his ancient embers.

Then, moving down the bridge away from Lothric, we find that shuttered gate against which a pilgrim has collapsed on the far side. This seems to restate the problem: that there is blockage of the channel which leads to the Self, but the fact that it is a pilgrim who is stopped here shows us that there is a striving. Curiously, through a purported texture fluke, this unique and functionless pilgrim is golden in color. This is a helpful image for our inventory, and will come up again a little later. The pilgrim is stuck on the side of the bridge with a typical, classically Dark Souls squad of hollow soldiers, who are dormant until roused by the lantern-carrier (the consciousness principle).

The Story of Lightning A few paces beyond the soldiers, at the bottom edge, there are the crucial bits of information: the dead drake, the dragon crest shield, and the lightning spell.

Now, to fully appreciate this scene we are going to have to get straight the symbolism of The Everlasting Dragons. They are not creatures, not like the Drakes we encounter in the game; their “stone scales” are but a metaphor. The Age of Dragons “preceded” the Age of Fire, because it was not in time at all; only with the advent of the flame and its flickering did the universe know discrepancy and time. Dragons are something like patterns within a pre-differentiated milieu of consciousness; prefigurations of form; informational structures not fully realizable within space and time. In countless world mythologies “the dragon is the animating principle of every place,” because it is from their generative matrix that our world derives. And the same likely applies to Dark Souls; one only needs to look at Ash Lake to see that the many world trees are all nourished by the dragon realm. Elsewhere, Drakes and Wyverns are the “distant kin” of dragons, as the game tells us; mere shadows; catachrestic images downloaded from a subtler order of being.

Back to the scene: the drake, the descendant reduction of a dragon, is apparently dead, it is still and stonelike. Next to it are two more images of the dragon, the shield adorned with a dragon crest, and the spell “Lightning Spear.” The spell is associated both with drakes (who have lightning as a breath weapon) and with the fall of everlasting dragons (Gwyn used lightning to rend apart their stone scales). But lightning is also a very elegant metaphor for dragons as a morphogenetic principle:

In those cases where electrical energy is transmitted without benefit of wires it inevitably follows the line of least resistance, creating its own pathways in much the same way that cracks do in a solid medium. Although we tend to think of the sudden and massive dissipation of energy in lightning as an “event” rather than a “thing,” it is revealed by photography to have a quite complex form, one that bears a marked resemblance to the branching systems of a great river. These energy patterns, if we may call them that, are the very converse of those formed in fractures in a solid medium; lightning is intensely active but of limited duration, whereas dislocation patterns, such as crackle-glaze, are persistent but a mere vestige of the activity that caused them. In other cases, however, where there is a constant supply of energy to a receptive medium the “paths of least resistance” can be converted into dissipative structures. (Wade p.175)

In the world of Dark Souls, spells are stories. So this Lightning Spear spell is the story of lightning. The reading of the story then is an event that produces a thing. But the “current” runs through all these variations. A converse relationship has been noted between the diffusion of the lightning and the dislocation patterns of cracking solids. Remember that at the opposite end of this tiny scene, there is a great rocky demon who can be made to shatter in a special way. Solid matter cannot forever bear the force of lightning; the animating impulse (the “Word” of lightning; the first-flame event) eventually results in degradation, and it is this entropy that permeates Dark Souls as an omnipresent adversary.

Born into the Drama

So what we are seeing here, in this Wolf’s dream, is a reference to the cosmogenetic moment. In microcosm we see the generation of the world, and its current condition, and that it is cut off from its full actualization (Lothric). As for the soldiers, who are somehow oblivious to it all, and are perhaps complicit in blocking “the pilgrim’s progress,” well, there are a number of ways to interpret that: an allegory for the tunnel-vision militarism of the Abyss Watchers, standing at a threshold accomplishing nothing; the masses under the thrall of maya, sustaining some social/material status quo despite ruin on every side; the multiplicity of the ashen one, the different facets (roles, character classes) which are brought into unifying purpose by the “call” of the lantern-holder.

What’s beautiful about Dark Souls is that its symbolic content can be appropriately interpreted on a cosmic level, or a personal level. (That is why the linking, or snuffing, of the first flame feels like both “this world has come to an end” and “I have come to an end.”) So we can also take this scene as a birth allegory; after all, the Stray Demon is the very first enemy visible to the player in Dark Souls 1, and the Dragon Crest Shield is the sister shield to the one held by Oscar of Astora, the character who initiated the entire saga by giving the player a key out of their cell (an image of a higher self calling the child forward from the womb). Getting born is a quite a traumatic thing, having suddenly to obey matter’s restrictions, and it is therefore quite tempting to “lower the gate” on the matter/mother issue, symbolized by the Demon of course, and leave it to its own cycles without addressing the problem of embodiment.

In addition to the two items that refer to the beginning of the saga, the scene itself resembles an early moment in the original Dark Souls. Reddit user peperib has discovered a visual correspondence between this bridge and the drake bridge from Dark Souls 1. This compounds the symbolism in a few ways. Foremost, the DS1 drake bridge is the first place the player confronts a dragon(oid), and it is the first major blocked passage. The drake sits above the Sunlight Altar, which is the source of the Lightning Spear miracle, (the same spell we find by this dead drake in DS3). Right before this tableau, the player meets the famous Knight Solaire who, in identifying the sun as “a magnificent father,” supplies another image of aspiration and emancipation, and mirrors the opening scene with Oscar. Altogether this sequence is one of the most iconic in Dark Souls, and its central image is the drake surrounding an inner fire.

Back on the wolf’s dream bridge, there is no fire in the stray demon. This crumbling demon resembles the crumbling tower, and the crumbling kingdom at large. According to the Gnostics, wisdom is held within matter. If it is not engaged with, if we cut ourselves off from it, of course it falls to ruin. The Abyss Watchers are so frightened of the entropic march of matter that they have doubled down on their aggression against it: they have forgotten that Artorias held a shield, and so instead they wield two blades. But of course there is one Watcher who has a shield – the deserter, Hawkwood, the only Watcher with a face and a personality. His retention of his shield is highly loaded, given that it was Artorias’ shield that protected Sif against the violence of the abyss-corrupted primordial man Manus. In preserving his shield, Hawkwood also preserves the Artorias myth as a living reality. A Bridge Between Swamp and Summit

Hawkwood is one of several clues that ties Farron Keep to Archdragon Peak, and I believe it is this peak to which the old wolf of Farron attempts to direct us through dream language. Archdragon Peak is an area predicated on stillness. It is full of quiet and emptiness, and dragon initiates in a meditative posture who have turned to stone. It is something like an image of knowledge of the void. It is the understanding that in the chaotic, undifferentiated Abyss there is the inevitability of renewal:

“In effect, the ascent of a stairway or a mountain in a dream or a waking dream signifies, at the deepest psychic level, an experience of “regeneration” (the solution of a crisis, psychic re-integration). Mahayana metaphysics interprets the ascension of the Buddha as an event at the Centre of the World, and therefore one that signifies transcendence of both Space and Time. Great many traditions trace the creation of the World to a central point from which it is supposed to have spread out in the four cardinal directions. To attain to the center of the world means, therefore, to arrive at the “point of departure” of the Cosmos at the beginning of Time”; in short, to have abolished time. We can now better understand the regenerative effect produced in the deep psyche by the imagery of ascension because we know that [it] is capable, among other things, of abolishing Time and Space and of “projecting” man into the mythical instant of the Creation of the World, whereby he is in some sense “born again”, being rendered contemporary with the birth of the World.” (Eliade p.119)

This is all there in Archdragon Peak. The whole idea of voidness is conceptualized differently here. Rather than the black expanse loathed by the Watchers, or the Deep swallowing the church, or even the “deep sea” feared by Aldritch, here void is contemplated without attachment of affect. This is a very classically Buddhist perspective! The Abyss, the Deep, and the Sea are all “rooted” in some way: in greed, hatred, or delusion. And critically, they are all relational conceptions of nothingness; they are (loudly and profanely) distinguished from the witness.

Now, we don’t have any acolyte NPCs coming up to us and explaining what the Path of the Dragon doctrine is explicitly or anything – but the environment itself does a number of things to suggest emptiness as a present reality: The boss of the Peak is not at the end, it is rather (conditionally) in the center; the highest point of the Peak, the ascent, the end of the level, shows us only a clear sky; there are lots of little shrines and outlooks, bowls and blankets of the temple illuminated by streaks of sun. The area never really feels like you’ve completed it, because it loops back on itself, and there is no point, no requirement to come here.

Note that this is the only environment that shows both the Sun and Moon present. This place, like the twilight bridge, is a tableau which depicts the mingling of opposites in metaphor.

Havel as Anomaly

There is only one “person” on the peak, a true individual, Havel the Rock, about whom myths, stories, anecdotes, and homages have been circulating since Dark Souls 1. Or at least, it is the image of Havel. But it is a very distinct image: there is no mistaking that absurdly heavy armor, or the giant dragon’s tooth he wields as a club. In DS1, Havel was known primarily for two more things: his punishing, blindsiding combat, and how he abhorred dragons. It is thought that he deplored dragons so much, that he was playing to betray his company of Gods because he could not tolerate their association with the dragon Seath. Despite his heavenly allegiances, he was very much by himself …

There are ‘anomic’ phenomena pervading societies that are not degradations of the mythic order but irreducible dynamisms drawing lines of flight and implying other forms of expression than those of myth, even if myth recapitulates them in its own terms in order to curb them. (D+G p.237)

D+G go on to cite Moby Dick as a quintessential example of the anomic/anomalous, an image which nicely parallels Havel’s own fixation on Seath, another white anomaly, a scaleless dragon, who sits away. This obsession has caused Havel to become sort of a fringe character (locked in a basement in DS1, and now marooned on a peak); he has himself become anomalous. That’s how the becoming functions: those lines-of-flight are drawn between gates of identification, and there is this contamination. But of course Havel is an exemplar of stubbornness, he does all he can to resist contamination! Even on this Peak, this threshold of release, he is lost in contemplation on the corpse of a wyvern. He is just like the Stray Demon locked into the grooves of its obsession (guarding the gate in that case) despite the Melvillian futility of the outdated task. In fact, the Stray Demon’s soul produces the ring of Havel, confirming their identification. We can see the ring, which relieves equipment burden, as a recapitulation into mythic terms. The name of Havel is inscribed into this object, which shows us what his myth is about: the bearing of weight. It is important to endure, to cohere your identity to get to where you have to be, but to endure, like a rock, and clog up a line-of-flight (a channel of transformation), to hold too tightly to a particular identification, you will just become a colorless and cracking version of yourself. Perhaps the pilgrim in the doorway on the bridge is another caricature of Havel.

Havel the Lapis

But there is also the lapis. The stone that is conditioned and refined through all the trials of the alchemical process. Or in Buddhism, the Cintamani; the jewel or pearl of perfection. Regardless of the tradition, it is essentially a symbol of the incorruptibility of prima materia, the substance from which all things derive. In many ways, Havel the Rock is also the “stone” that the builders rejected; kicked out of heaven only to become a capstone on the peak: Havel is the ultimate NPC duel in terms of difficulty. He completes a quaternion of anomalies: the Wolf of Farron Swamp, the Stray Demon at one end of the bridge, the dead wyvern at the other end, and the Havel image on the roof. Together, these four figures compose much of the Dark Souls universe: wolf, demon, dragon, knight.

There is also something like a falling action among these four points. Once defeated at the peak, Havel’s armor will appear by the drake on the bridge. At the other end, as we know, killing the stray demon yields its soul, which becomes Havel’s ring. This can only happen, of course, back in Lothric, at the transposition kiln. So at one end of the bridge, there is the essential quality of Havel, and at the other end there is his armor, his visual likeness. Above is Havel himself, and below is the place where the player can become Havel (through transposition and PvP).

Well, that was a fun exercise. The point being that there are two pairs of tensions of spirit and matter: the lightning and demon; the knight and the wolf. This cross is rooted in Farron Keep, a swamp at the bottom of “Crucifixion Woods.” The stone can be understood as a synthesis of these 4 elemental extremes. None of these images or their associated attributes is sufficient on its own to define the prima materia, and yet all are said to derive from it. Pointless Ahead Therefore Try Giving Up

We’ve seen that by digging into this simple scene on the bridge, this wolf’s dream, we open the door to the all the mysteries of Archdragon Peak. There are images of spirit, of matter, of cosmogenesis, of prima materia, of emptiness and the ultimate nature of reality. We cycle through the game and expose ourselves to this stuff again and again. Of course it’s not a conscious process; it’s just a backdrop. It’s the circle-and-cross into which the mind of the player enters as they play Dark Souls. What’s the point of mapping out this territory?

Well, for that matter, what’s the point of playing Dark Souls? That’s a question with a thousand answers. Then, what’s the point of going to Archdragon Peak? It’s an optional area with absurdly arcane entry point (you’d have to be up on the metatext to even surmise this place existed). But it’s a popular area, rife with online activity. Some people return here because they want a challenge, or they like the dreamy environment. Practical folks see this place as required: there’s a ton of loot here that’s crucial for upgrading weapons. If you don’t nab the Dragonchaser’s Ashes, you won’t be able to access unlimited titanite chunks, scales, and the twinkling stuff. In keeping with the fantasy tradition, these dragons are sitting on a great bounty of treasure.

In addition to the infinite treasure, there’s also infinite exp: easily defeated and endlessly respawning knights, 4000 souls a pop. There’s also a unique treasure, the calamity ring, which makes all enemies stronger, extending the game in another capacity: difficulty. So whatever you consider treasure: perfected weapons, piles of money and exp, or the enrichment of elevated challenge, Archdragon Peak has what you’re looking for. It even has the singular thrill of leaping off a tower and onto the fuming head of a dragon, driving your sword into its skull, felling it at one blow, into a graceful landing – spectacular heroics! And reminiscent again of the first portion of Dark Souls 1, when you realized “how badass this game is.” This area offers a lot to keep players on the hook.

What does it mean to be hooked on a game? What is it about a game that calls to you in the middle of work, begging, “Come home and keep playing this”? What’s happening in the mind of a player who stays up to 4 AM saying to themselves, “Okay one more level,” “Okay one more invasion,” “Okay let me just do this,” time and time again? Often it is even past the point of pleasure; it may be slightly painful to keep playing, and it begins to feel like a dirty high, but you keep going because of these tiny rewards, or maybe you want to put a bow on it somehow. I remember hearing about how the creator of Katamari Damacy was dismayed to find out that people were “addicted” to his game, about endlessly rolling a ball around. Very Sisyphean premise. The whole idea of being fixated on rolling a virtual ball around would’ve sounded like a sci-fi short story a couple decades ago. But it works! The haptic hook of Katamari was what drew people in, but the chewing-gum effect of this haptic would not have sustained itself for most players if it did not have an incredibly vital world. Brimming with personality and lots of little moving parts, playing Katamari is like putting your face up to a bustling forest floor.

Dark Souls too is so incredibly vital in its world; every scene, object, enemy points to a larger story, filled in by the imagination. Players easily log hundreds of hours into playing this game, and just as much into discovering its lore. If you’re paying close attention, you’ll do well in combat. If you’re paying close attention, you’ll do well in lorebuilding. But if you’re constantly locked in combat, addicted to the rush of victory, it’s easy to miss out on the world’s richness. The manserpent summoners wish to tempt you with infinite challengers, victims to your blade. If you’re going to stand around all day acting as an execution machine, you might as well sign up for the Legion of Abyss Watchers! Let the rich land of Lothric become a one-room mausoleum. Well, we get where they’re coming from. This game is famous for the gratification that comes with the repetition of death and triumph. And actually it is often by that repetition that we come to appreciate the setting – as long as we take the time to smell the phlox. The subtlety of Dark Souls storytelling benefits from a lot of marinating. Periods of not playing.

So we nobly set the controller down and sit in dragon posture, maybe stacking stones into a cairn as we contemplate. Lol. Those dragon statues have the right idea though, don’t they? We assume they’re inert, but maybe they’re simply unconcerned with whatever’s transpiring on the peak. They’ve untangled themselves from worldly illusion; they are no longer invested in the affairs of the Souls world. I can see why the Wolf, in similar stillness, pointed to this place: it’s a great antidote to the edgelords behind the door of Farron Keep. Something like a waiting room before jumping back into the fray. If that’s what we want. A chance to pace around a bit as the lore settles.

The First Stirrings of the Mind

The Chinese dragon rolls about in the heavens a pearl of perfect wisdom, a jewel ball which emits darting flames along with thunder. A flash of lightning issues forth from the rolling sound and gives birth to the fertilizing rain. This flash is symbolic of the first stirrings of mind, of the wish-fulfilling jewel that the dragon swallows and spits forth as it rolls across the universe. With those stirrings there is a fall from subjectivity into objectivity. (Valborg)

The lore and cosmology of Dark Souls is famous for the degree to which it is withheld. This isn’t only to keep players hooked on its mystery, it is necessary to retain the vitality of the world. There must always be elements of life that cannot be pinned down, explained, or solved. There must be space. Some absence at the center, and in the enigmatic places in between. This space is generative: it gives meaning to the parts that are defined and explicated. By this method, we’ve seen how far the imagination can take players as they explore the lore, and how the practice of interpretation similarly benefits from gaps and silences. If you attempt to wage war against that space between, to take arms against voidness and cut it down with swords of discernment, it suddenly becomes the Abyss and you open yourself up to corruption. On the other hand, an embrace of emptiness and contemplation of its nature is quite liberating:

“Who sees the inexorable causality of things,

Of both cyclic life and liberation,

And destroys any objectivity-conviction,

Thus finds the path that pleases Buddhas.

Appearance inevitably relative

And voidness free from all assertions

—

As long as these are understood apart,

The Buddha’s intent is not yet known.

But when they coincide not alternating,

Mere sight of inevitable relativity

Secures knowledge beyond objectivisms,

And investigation of the view is perfect.

More, as experience dispels absolutism

And voidness clears away nihilism,

You know voidness dawn as (illusory) cause and effect

—

Then you will never be deprived by extremist views.” (Tsong Khapa)

This kind of attainment would probably be of great aid to the anxious and desperate people of Lothric. But very few of them seem to be in a place to hear it. As the linking of the fire is immanent, the contrast between the lights and shadows of the kingdom becomes extreme, and most beings we meet are clinging very tightly to their delusions and desires.

We know that the Age of Ancients had a quality of grayness; of little contrast, of little differentiation. The description is reminiscent of the clear light of the void, the ego’s oblivion during chikhai bardo, the experience of ultimate reality. The fight with the nameless king channels the imagery of the Age of Ancients myth. A sea of fog creeps in rendering the open air solid and treadable. Then the lightning-slinging lord and the drake fly in, as a pair, emitting darts of thunder and bringing the fertilizing rain. It is another glimpse of cosmogenesis; the eruption of the mind into a state of objective consciousness. This revelation comes first as one being, one Lord, the lightning termed here as a knight riding a dragon:

All the Kabalists and Occultists, Eastern and Western, recognize (a) the identity of “Father-Mother” with primordial AEther or Akasa, (Astral Light)*; and (b) its homogeneity before the evolution of the “Son,” cosmically Fohat, for it is Cosmic Electricity. “Fohat hardens and scatters the seven brothers” (Book III. Dzyan); which means that the primordial Electric Entity — for the Eastern Occultists insist that Electricity is an Entity — electrifies into life, and separates primordial stuff or pregenetic matter into atoms, themselves the source of all life and consciousness. “There exists an universal agent unique of all forms and of life, that is called Od, Ob, and Aour, active and passive, positive and negative, like day and night: it is the first light in Creation” (Eliphas Levi’s Kabala): — the first Light of the primordial Elohim — the Adam, “male and female” — or (scientifically) electricity and life.

(c) The ancients represented it by a serpent, for “Fohat hisses as he glides hither and thither” (in zigzags). (Blavatsky p76)

But then the King of the Storm is knocked from his mount, his title lost, and he becomes “the Nameless King” as he plunges his spear into the skull of the beast with which he was once identified. The dragon is obliterated. This is the moment that the material world is born:

“Fohat hardens the atoms”; i.e., by infusing energy into them: he scatters the atoms or primordial matter. “He scatters himself while scattering matter into atoms” (MSS. Commentaries.) It is through Fohat that the ideas of the Universal Mind are impressed upon matter. (Blavatsky p85)

The encounter with this Logos-like lord is surrounded by numerous stone dragon gargoyles, like pillars at the ends of the universe. Of course, this is only theater. It is a stage production of cosmogenesis, but by its image the individual may be rendered new, reborn along with the world. But to appreciate what that world is, it is helpful to climb back into it.

Return to the Swamp

At the bottom of the wolf’s tower, there are Ghru. They stand around a warm swamp, teeming with life. There are those bodies strung up everywhere. For all we know, these crucified carcasses lining the swamp are the Ghrus themselves, and have been hung there as objects of contemplation. Their method of reckoning impermanence. This swamp seems to be a pivotal place in the renewal: we see something like the reconstitution of dragons in the Elder Ghru, growing roots like the everlasting dragon from Dark Souls 1, who sits at a central place outside of time. Dragons and Archtrees are interdependent in the lore, echoing the timeless symbolism of the serpent and the tree; the kundalini and the pillar. The Ghru-dragons in the swamp wield trees as weapons, and a few of them guard a white birch tree, which stands apparently pristine in the toxic sludge. These trees are associated with Dusk and their branches grant the ability to change into an aspect of the environment. This was one of Dusk’s earliest tricks, and perhaps her defining feature. Dusk is thus another personification of prima materia: Mercurius, the clear-casting aqua permanens which takes any shape and composes all objects. The aqua permanens is also known as the universal solvent, for its capacity to dissolve any substance.

This is quite profound! The entire world is deteriorating, and Farron Keep is one of the most dramatic examples. A formerly vibrant forest with clear flowing water is now an expanse of putrid and sticky morass. And yet despite the apparent hostility to life, this place is incubating dragons and archtrees. In ancient times Oolacile cradled humanity, and it appears that a new world is destined to sprout from here again. In that regard, the wolf’s tower is also like Izanagi’s staff, the world extending from the point of impact. It also mirrors the King of the Storm driving his halberd into the crown of the dragon, an act borne of profound discernment and mercy. Is the tower a cosmic lightning rod, its connection to the heavens allowing it to transmit spirit into the fertile soil of the swamp, giving rise to the kingdoms of life?

Lightning Strike and Serpent’s Path

Another motif related to the kundalini serpent, described in Kabbalah, found in cultures the world over, and which transpires along the tree of life, is the lightning strike and serpent’s path. In which an emanation spirit imparts from the highest point, reaches lowest and densest matter, and then climbs up again in an undulating serpentine path. I have just described the “falling action” of the lightning first, but there is no authoritative point of beginning in the cycle. Yet the journey of the Ashen One is, of course, aspirational, suggesting a climbing action, and reflected in all the strivings of the other characters, all the pilgrims, all the hollows in trees reaching desperately upward. So we can suppose that the Dark Souls world represent the lowest point, the physical world of matter. This pattern imposes quite nicely onto our quaternary tableau:

It is from a place of not playing that we come into Dark Souls. We go through the game, conditioned by its challenges, subjected to its symbolism, and come out again with a new understanding of ourselves. Serpents, like drakes, are imperfect dragons. To rise in the world of Dark Souls is to become better and better at it, and all the treasures of Archdragon Peak, guarded by the Snakemen adepts, allow us to become “dragons” – to become so good at the game that we can go naked and wear the calamity ring and forge any weapon to be viable. But if all the still and stone dragons sitting around are any indication: many have come before, reached this level of mastery, and given it up. Once the subject has been refined to perfection: only then can it be sacrificed.

Initiation

This concludes our tour of the tower of the wolf’s dream, which bridges the very lofty and the very coarse. It is quite remarkable that so much of Dark Souls’ central mythology and symbolism can be found in microcosm between the two areas of Farron Keep and Archdragon Peak. As ever, in between periods of theorizing and contemplating, the game begs to be played again. So climbing down the tower, the ritual of the swamp awaits completion: the snuffing of the three flames. The three flames represent three fears which corrupt our images of the void: Nito refers to suffering, illness, pain, and death; all the anxiety of the body when confronted with the idea of its abolishment. Four Kings represent the Abyss, the idea of emptiness put into relational terms, thus incomplete; a trap which ensnares the mind into a false conception of the absolute. The Witch of Izalith is the matron of chaos; the incomprehensibility of the void; the inconceivable scope of an unstructured and totally diffuse awareness.

But all these burdens of ignorance are really treasures when properly framed: the coarse physical embodiment lamented by Nito is what allows us to participate sensibly in time. The transfixion which has trapped the Four Kings is the same function that allows us to hook into an experience and be affected by it. And we know that it is the chaotic matrix of life, that poisonous, homogenous soup, that incubates new forms. All of these potentially positive phenomena are prohibited, blocked by the clinging to an identity, which feels threatened by dissolution. The pilgrim on the bridge at the closed gate. A stone in the artery. The stubbornness of Havel, retaining his form even in heaven. The “dreamchaser” lodged in the window of the wolf’s tower. The passages of life cannot flow freely! So the illusion of the self must be discarded if the door is to open. One must allow oneself favorable contaminations.

“The self is only a threshold, a door, a becoming between two multiplicities.” (D+G p249)

This essay is the second of two parts. The first part can be found here. Thanks for reading!

Blavatsky, H.P. The Secret Doctrine. Theosophical University Press, 1888. Deleuze, Gilles and Felix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. University of Minnesota Press, 1987. Eliade, Mircea. Myths, Dreams, and Mysteries: The Encounter Between Contemporary Faiths and Archaic Realities. Harper & Row, 1960. Tsongkhapa Lobzang Drakpa. Three Principles of the Path. Lotsawa House, 2012. Valborg, Helen. The Dragon. Theosophy Trust, 2013. Wade, David. Crystal & Dragon: The Cosmic Dance of Symmetry & Chaos in Nature, Art & Consciousness. Destiny Books, 1991.

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