#this is just a few months after the conclusion of wwii too

[gogandmagog]

A 1945 invitation, sent out by J. R. R. Tolkien and his wife Edith, to family and friends, asking them to attend the 21st birthday of their son, Christopher Tolkien.

[stillness-in-green]

Ahistorical, Absurd, and Unsustainable (Introduction and Part One)

An Examination of the Mass Arrest of the Paranormal Liberation Front

INTRODUCTION

The title states my premise here: the breezy way My Hero Academia presents and resolves the mass arrest of the Paranormal Liberation Front is ludicrous. If taken as presented and allowed to stand without being further addressed, it serves as a breaking point from which the series will be incredibly hard-pressed to recover. Why, you ask?

From a logistical standpoint, it strains credulity. From an ethical standpoint, it suggests deeply troubling problems with the state of Hero Society. From a thematic standpoint, it unravels whole portions of the narrative’s spine. I’ll be looking at each of these facets in turn to discuss the questions they raise which My Hero Academia has not yet seen fit to answer. Many in fandom don’t seem to be thinking about it too hard, so I’d like to lay out—in exhaustive detail—all the reasons I find this plot element so wildly out of touch with causal reality.

Please note that while they are discussed when relevant, this essay is not principally about the named characters in the League of Villains or the erstwhile high command of the Metahuman Liberation Army. The sorts of consequences Shigaraki Tomura or Re-Destro would and should be facing in a courtroom are orders of magnitude beyond what Random Liberation Warrior X would be, but it’s the mass numbers of Random Liberation Warrior Xs that this essay is most concerned with, as they are the ones most in danger of being swept under a rug and forgotten by the series in its current state.

Further, be advised that this essay in its full form is both very long (about 21K words excluding Sources and Further Reading) and will contain extensive discussion of real-life Japan—comparisons to historical events, minutiae of its legal and carceral systems, and general cultural views on criminality. This will include references to imprisonment, government oppression, and incidents of terrorism both real and in the context of My Hero Academia.

Being as it is about quite a recent event in the series, it will also contain heavy spoilers all the way up through the most recent chapter as of this writing, Chapter 310. It likewise contains spoilers for the spin-off series My Hero Academia: Vigilantes up through Chapter 95.

The essay will be posted in parts on tumblr and in full on AO3. For the tumblr posting, I will provide links to other tumblr posts as I reference them; however, as I would like this to actually show up in the tags, outside links containing my sources and further reading will be provided in a separate post following the conclusion of the essay.

Lastly, I spent an entire month writing this as a fan who is sympathetic to the villains in general and the MLA in particular. If your response to the very concept of this essay is anything to the tune of, “Who cares what happens to a bunch of disgusting quirk eugenicists?” know that you and I have radically different views on the MLA, and the role of the justice system in general. You are, of course, welcome to read the essay anyway, but, having said my piece about the MLA and their relationship with quirk supremacy elsewhere, I will not be engaging with arguments or gotchas on that subject here.

PART ONE: The Facts at Hand

Before we get too deep into things, let’s lay out the basic facts: how many people are actually involved in the arrest, as well as some comparisons to real-life events to contextualize that number and provide some referents for the issues the arrest raises.

Re-Destro gives the numbers of the Metahuman Liberation Army as 116,516. A lot of people go on to die in Deika, though we’re never given a solid count. The biggest batch we see killed in a single go are the press of sixty or so people Shigaraki decays, then the sixteen-ish Toga drops, though some of those might possibly have had quirks that allowed them to survive. Any number of people certainly died as well simply in the moments we didn’t see, and who even knows how many were caught in the radius of Shigaraki’s last attack.

Further, there may well have been a measure of organization bleed when the MLA became the PLF (though I imagine trying to leave was a very dangerous proposition, giving an additional reason to stick it out on top of the general cult-like mindset the MLA displays); likewise, I find it hard to believe that there wouldn’t have been some deaths at the Gunga Villa, be it from Gigantomachia’s departure, Geten cutting loose, or combatants—be they hero or comrade—overcompensating somewhat in the middle of a chaotic melee.

I suspect it’s overestimating the depletion, but for the purposes of simplicity, let us call it 115,000 remaining members at the time of the raid.[1]

We are told that, in all, 16,929 people were captured at the villa—just about 17,000. 132 escaped in the confusion; this is a fairly negligible number, save for the fact that it includes high-ranking advisors, but not Machia and those of the Front that were with him.

We are further told, and I quote, “Their bases scattered around the country were hit too, and the sympathizers rounded up.” Horikoshi did not provide any solid numbers for this,[2] but if we’re to assume that it is just the rest of the group (more on the logistics of that bit of spycraft later), “the sympathizers” would be 98,000 additional people.

However, 98,000 may be a significant underestimation. It’s based, after all, on a number Re-Destro cites to describe “warriors lying in wait, ready to rise to action.” This begs the question: is Re-Destro quoting the entire membership of the group, or only those who actually are ready to take action? In other words, does his number account for non-combatants? Is he counting young children? I tend to assume the MLA doesn't have a retirement age as such,[3] but if they do, does his number account for the elderly?

How many more people might be “sympathizers” to the PLF insomuch as they are e.g. the six-month-old infant daughter of an MLA couple? What about the ninety-year-old man in the retirement home whose only real act of war these days is tying up the phone line at City Hall to complain about repressive quirk use laws? How about the fired-up fifteen-year-old that was going to get their official code name next month, just in time to join the first wave of attacks? If he’s being literal in his usage of “warrior,” the actual count of the MLA could easily be twice as high as the number he actually gives.

But okay, maybe Re-Destro’s number does include absolutely everyone. Maybe he’s just being rhetorical—maybe, in his mind, even the six-month-old is waiting to rise to action; she’s just going to have to wait a bit longer than the rest, is all. For simplicity’s sake, let’s stick with the numbers we have: a low-end of 17,000, a high-end of 115,000, captured not merely in a single day, but allegedly in the span of a few hours.

I’m sure I don’t need to stress that that is a lot of people. But how many people is it, practically speaking? Is there a precedent? Anything we can look to for guidance on how this kind of thing would go in real life?

Comparative Analogues

The PLF is tricky to categorize for the purposes of real-life comparison, especially compared to how they’re treated in-universe. In some lights, they resemble a protest movement; in others, a terrorist group. Just looking at the way the government reacts to them—and certainly in terms of their combat capabilities—they might as well be an all-out insurrectionist uprising! Below, I’ll examine a handful of historical incidents that cover that spectrum; they will continue to provide useful reference points throughout the rest of this essay.

The March 15 Incident

In the first half of the 20th century, Japan saw a huge uptick in socialist and communist activity, much to the general dismay of the ruling powers. In response, they passed a series of laws commonly referred to as the Peace Preservation Laws, designed to better enable authorities to suppress political dissent and freedom of speech, particularly that of leftists and labor movements.

The Japanese Communist Party was founded in 1922, but outlawed in 1925. This merely drove members underground, however, from which position they pointed supporters towards the numerous other parties with more legally tolerated leftist policies that had cropped up in the wake of the JCP’s dissolution. Following the February 1928 General Election (the first in Japan held with universal male suffrage), those parties supported by the JCP saw enormous gains in representation in Japan’s National Diet. Alarmed, the Prime Minister declared the mass arrest of known communists and suspected communist sympathizers. Accordingly, on March 15, 1,600 people were arrested throughout Japan.

Over the course of twenty years, some 70,000 people would be arrested under the auspices of the Peace Preservation Laws, the majority of them in 1925 through 1936. The laws would eventually be repealed by American occupation forces after WWII, and the JCP allowed to operate openly once again.

The Rice Riots

In 1918, an inflation spiral had driven the price of rice out of control, exacerbating economic insecurity and hardship. Farmers were being paid a pittance of the market value of their crop by rice buyers and government agents, while urban consumers were being charged an exorbitant price for the staple food, as well as a great many other consumer goods, and their own rents. In response, a series of riots ripped across Japan in late July through September. Beginning with peaceful protesting in a small fishing town in Toyama Prefecture, the unrest escalated to involve riots, strikes, looting, even bombing in demonstrations that reached major cities like Tokyo and Osaka. The scope was and remains unprecedented in modern Japanese history, seeing some 25,000 people arrested.

The Sarin Gas Attacks

If you’ve heard of any of them, it’s probably this one. On March 20, 1995, members of the cult Aum Shinrikyo released sarin gas on five different Tokyo Metro trains in the middle of morning rush hour. Thirteen people were killed and over 5500 injured, about a fifth of them moderately to severely so. If not for small errors in the production of the gas and the rudimentary distribution method thereof, loss of life might easily have been catastrophically higher.

Aum Shinrikyo was a doomsday cult, but the motives for that particular attack were much baser than bringing about the Apocalypse: at the time, the organization was under police investigation for its involvement in the kidnapping of a public official. Its leader, Asahara Shoukou, hoped that the attack would divert police’s attention from a planned raid.

It did not do so; police executed raids on numerous of the cult’s compounds, arresting many of its senior members both immediately and over the course of the following months as the investigation unfolded. In all, over 200 members were arrested of an organization that counted its membership prior to the attack as numbering 11,000 people in Japan.[4]

The February 26 Incident

There have been a significant number of uprisings and violent protests in Japan’s modern history; when looking for a representative example, I focused my attention on the military coups of the 1930s and 40s, largely because they took place in what was closest to the modern Japanese legal context.[5] Of that subset, I chose the February 26 Incident for the severity of the government response. The others disintegrated before they could be properly carried out or were met with sympathy for the dissidents despite the obvious illegality of their actions. The February 26 Incident, however, was when they finally became too troublesome to dismiss, and the Emperor himself ran out of patience.

In this period, the Japanese military had become drastically factionalized into two main groups—an ultra-nationalist group, largely powered by a group of young officers, which supported the Emperor and wanted to purge Japan of Western influences, and a more moderate group mainly defined by their opposition to the above faction.[6] Occurring in 1936, the February 26 Incident involved the young officers, believing that they had tacit approval from higher-ranked officers of their own faction, launching assassination attempts against the nationalists’ most prominent enemies in the government (six assorted Ministers and former Ministers in the Emperor’s Privy Council and the Diet) and a bid to seize control of the administrative center of the capital and the Imperial Palace, after which they planned to demand the dismissal of more officers and the selection of a new Cabinet.

The seven ringleaders had convinced eighteen other officers to lend their forces to the attempted coup, a total of around 1,500 men, calling themselves the Righteous Army. Several of their assassination attempts failed, however, and while they succeeded at taking the Prime Minister’s residence and the Ministry of War, they did not manage to secure the Palace. The outraged Cabinet demanded the Emperor take a hard line with the rebels, and by the 29th, the Righteous Army was surrounded by 20,000 government troops and 22 tanks. In this hopeless situation, the officers dismissed their troops; two committed suicide (a third attempted it unsuccessfully) and the remainder were arrested by military police.

International Examples

For obvious reasons, I prefer to limit my examples to events that happened in Japan. However, I will also be briefly referring to a few international incidents of mass arrest, taking place in India, the U.S., and Egypt, respectively.

In the following parts, I'll use these facts and comparative analogues to take a closer look at what readers were told became of the Paranormal Liberation Front.

Part Two

-----------------------------------------------------

Footnotes (Part One)—

[1] Over three months’ time, they likely gained some new blood also, simply in the course of their usual recruitment tactics. You don’t get an underground organization that size by sitting back and waiting for people to come to you, after all. I don’t know a practical way to calculate that, though, so just bear it in mind for when I talk about new members later.

[2] Possibly because he was aware that 17,000 people captured in one fell swoop was difficult enough to swallow without adding on more than five times that number.

[3] We do, after all, see some very aged people fighting in the streets of Deika.

[4] They were considerably more international than you may have heard. They had 50,000 members at the time, some 30,000 of them based in Russia.

[5] The Meiji Constitution was ratified in 1889; universal suffrage (for men) was granted in 1925. The modern constitution was enacted in 1947.

[6] More moderate, mind, in the context of the Imperial Japanese military. Neither of these factions had any time whatsoever for leftist movements, hence all those suppressive crackdowns.

[ladyherenya]

This was more-books-than-sometimes month, because rather than take the time to write about the books I'd finished, I just read more books! Also, I read a lot over the Easter break, including some shorter books and a very binge-able series.

Also read: Two-Step and Someone Like Me by Stephanie Fournet, Hooked by Cathy Yardley, “Cloudy with a Chance of Dropbears” and “All the Different Shades of Blue” by W.R. Gingell, and “Home: Habitat, Range, Niche, Territory” by Martha Wells.

Reread: A Curse So Dark and Lonely by Brigid Kemmerer.

Total: nineteen novels (including two audiobooks and one reread), one novella collection, two novellas, two novelettes and one short story.

Cover thoughts: Bellewether’s blue cover is (unsurprisingly) my favourite. I also really like The Ghosts of Sherwood. 

Still reading: A Portrait of Loyalty by Roseanna M. White and Playing Hearts by W.R. Gingell.

Next up: Torch by R.J. Anderson.

My full reviews are on Dreamwidth and LibraryThing.

*

The Rose Code by Kate Quinn (narrated by Saskia Maarleveld): Historical mystery about three young women who worked at Bletchley Park during WWII.

My favourite out of the books I’ve read so far this year. Most of the narrative is set during the war, but interspersed with sections set in 1947 -- when Beth, in a sanitarium after a breakdown, has sent her two estranged friends a coded message begging for help. I loved this, but at times found it stressful and heartbreaking! The writing is so lively and effective and emotional. 4½ ★

 *

Castle Charming by Tansy Raynor Roberts: Fairytale retellings, collection of novellas.

A very entertaining and a somewhat different take on fairytales, focusing on the reporters, Royal Hounds and royalty at Castle Charming. Some of the character dynamics felt similar to those in Roberts’ Unreal Alchemy although I didn’t feel quite as attached to these characters. I’ll read the sequel. 3 ★ 

*

Bellewether by Susanna Kearsley: Historical and contemporary fiction, set in Long Island during the so-called Seven Years War in 1759 and the present day.

Alternates between a curator overseeing turning a house in a museum and some of the house’s previous occupants, including a French-Canadian Lieutenant awaiting hostage exchange. Despite the various tensions the characters face, there’s something slow and ultimately gentle about this story. Which is lovely --  I enjoyed the picturesque sense of place and astute observations of people -- but it is less dramatic than I was expecting. 3½ ★

*

Happy Trail by Daisy Prescott: Contemporary romance, set on the Appalachian Trail.

A park ranger and a hiker shelter together during a storm. I was fascinated by the insight into hiking the Appalachian Trail and enjoyed some of the characters’ interactions, although I thought the way the romance unfolded was somewhat anticlimactic. Not always what I wanted, but I don't regret reading it.

*

Legacy by Stephanie Fournet: Contemporary enemies-to-roommates-to-lovers.

Wes offers to move in with his late-best friend’s girlfriend to help her out financially. This sort of hurt/comfort appeals to me. I liked how seriously this story takes Corinne’s messy, consuming grief. I don’t really want to spend any more time with the characters, but I was very invested in seeing them reach a better place in their lives.

Two-Step by Stephanie Fournet: Contemporary romance between an actress and a dance instructor. I enjoyed reading this. I particularly enjoyed how Beau helps Iris with her anxiety about dancing and with her controlling mother/manager. He’s very supportive and understanding! But I finished this with a niggling feeling of dissatisfaction -- Iris needed more opportunity to support Beau in turn.

Someone Like Me by Stephanie Fournet: Contemporary romance between a yoga instructor and her new neighbour, who has just got out of prison.

This one didn’t particularly appeal to me. Although interesting to see the experiences of someone recently released from prison, the romance developed too quickly.

(No, I didn’t read all three of these back-to-back!)

*

Hooked by Cathy Yardley: Contemporary fandom-y romance novella, set near Seattle. Takes place during Level Up and is about two of Tessa’s colleagues.

I enjoyed the characters' interactions and would have liked this more if it hadn't felt rushed. 

*

The Ghosts of Sherwood by Carrie Vaughn: Historical Robin Hood retelling, novella.

Exactly what I wanted! It alternates between Robin and Marian’s eldest daughter, Mary, and Marian herself. I liked seeing Robin and Marian as a long-married couple, who still love each other and still have disagreements. And the dynamic between their children gave me a zing of recognition, reminding me of my siblings. 3½ ★

*

The City Between by W.R. Gingell: Australian YA urban fantasy (murder) mysteries. Set in Hobart.

I ended up enjoying this series so much more than I’d expected to!

Between Jobs: After a neighbour is murdered, our seventeen-year-old orphaned narrator acquires some unexpected housemates -- two fae, one vampire. Once I got past the opening, with its tales of murder, the worldbuilding intrigued me. I still wasn’t sure what I thought about her housemates or the fact that they call her “Pet”, but was willing to reserve judgement until I’d read more. 3 ★

Between Shifts: About supermarket shifts and shapeshifters. Pet and JinYeong go undercover at the local grocery store. This is a reasonable murder mystery. I was initially disappointed with how something played out (but in retrospect can see how that was actually a positive development for Pet). It ended on a cliffhanger, so I was extra motivated to start the next book. 2½ ★

Between Floors: This is where the series took off, because things suddenly get personal! One of her fae housemates has been captured and the closest any of them get to finding Athelas is Pet contacting him in her dreams.This raises a lot of interesting questions, not just about Pet’s abilities, but about her relationship with her housemates. How much does she trust them and how much do they value Pet’s personhood? 3½ ★

Between Frames: Pet’s housemates are hired to investigate a series of fae deaths around Hobart, which involves scrutinising some baffling security footage.  Another solid murder mystery.  The final pages felt like one step forward, two steps back, but yet again, in retrospect, this was a positive development. I’m glad I could dive immediately into the next book. 3 ★

Between Homes: Pet has moved in with some friends. Hurray for Pet having friends! I think this was the point where I started to feel comfortable with Pet calling herself Pet -- when it's the name used by people she likes and trusts and who don’t view her as a pet at all. 3½ ★

“Cloudy with a Chance of Dropbears” (novelette): An awesome title and an entertaining opportunity to see Pet from someone else’s perspective -- moreover, someone who doesn’t know her or what she’s capable of. 3 ★

Between Walls: Pet’s friend Morgana is worried about an online friends and asks Pet and co to investigate his disappearance. Along the way, they discover that there are human groups who actually know a lot about Behindkind. I am also becoming increasingly entertained by the Korean vampire. 3 ★

“All the Different Shades of Blue” (novelette): A great cover and it explains who that guy at the cafe is, but otherwise didn’t really do anything Cloudy with a Chance of Dropbears hadn’t already done -- ie., show us Pet from someone else’s perspective. Most of the time, I have enjoyed this series all the more for binging it, but I suspect this particular story would have worked better if I had read it after a period of absence. 2½ ★

Between Cases:  My favourite of these have been the ones where things get personal, and this involves a lot of revelations about who Pet is -- from a fae perspective -- and why her parents were murdered. I enjoyed this one a lot. 3½ ★

*

The Duke of Olympia Meets His Match by Juliana Gray: Historical espionage romance novella, set in 1893 onboard an ocean liner travelling to England. Apparently not the Duke’s first appearance in Gray’s fiction.

I liked the idea here much better than the execution. I liked Penelope, a fifty-year-old widow dependent upon her position as a governess, and I enjoyed her interactions with the older Duke of Olympia. But parts of the spy plot were rushed or confusing, and the resolution was almost-but-not-entirely satisfying. 2½ ★

*

A Vow So Bold and Deadly by Brigid Kemmerer: Fantasy. Follows on from the fairytale-retelling A Curse So Dark and Lonely and its sequel, A Heart So Fierce and Broken.

If this is meant as a conclusion to a trilogy, then the ending was a bit too anticlimactic, with a few too many loose ends, to be really satisfying. But I reached the end feeling positive about the story, because I really enjoyed the characters’ interactions. All of the protagonists have to deal with conflict in relationships. I loved the times when they each navigate these conflicts by acting fairly and communicating honestly, when doing so is often difficult and complicated. That’s realistic and satisfying. 3½ ★

*

“Home: Habitat, Range, Niche, Territory” by Martha Wells:  Science-fiction short story. Part of The Murderbot Diaries series, set after Exit Strategy.

Very, very short but I really liked seeing things from Dr Ayda Mensah’s (third person) perspective. 3½ ★

*

Emily of Deep Valley by Maud Hart Lovelace: Historical coming-of-age fiction, set in Minnesota in 1912-3.

I am very glad to finally have read this! It’s delightful, a fascinating insight into community life in a Minnesotan town, and it effectively captures the emotional experience of navigating a period of transition. After high school, Emily’s friends  leave for college, but Emily has to find her own path to purposefully fill her time, build connections and further her education. 4 ★

*

On Wings of Devotion by Roseanna M. White (narrated by Susan Lyons): Romantic historical mystery, set in London during 1918. Christian fiction. Features characters from The Number of Love.

Arabelle Denler is a nurse working in a London hospital; Phillip Camden is an airman now working for British Intelligence. I enjoyed their interactions, especially once they start to get to know each other. I didn’t like the antagonist’s contribution to this narrative -- between the dangers of wartime and the protagonists’ respective issues, there’s enough tension without her. But what I enjoyed about this story outweighed what I didn’t. 3½ ★

*

Our Darkest Night by Jennifer Robson: Historical fiction set during the Nazi occupation of Italy in WWII.

Nina, a young Jewish woman from Venice, goes into hiding by pretending she’s married to Nico, a Catholic farmer. Robson’s strength lies in pairing details of daily life with likeable characters, realistic dialogue and a sweet romance. I read this quickly and eagerly. But if the characters had been more nuanced, more complex, or if their emotions had been conveyed more vividly, I likely would have found reading this a more emotional experience. 3½ ★

[enmy-writes]

Baby Avenger

Summary: (Y/N) is one of the youngest avenger members and some government officials repeatedly let her know of “her position.” So, she lets them know exactly what her position is.

Word Count: 2100

Fandom: MCU Avengers

Pairing: Avengers x Reader

Genre: Fluff, soft, slight angst and sadness, & family love.

Rated: 18+

Content Warnings: profanity, death, abandonment, bullying, this is my first ever post of any fanfiction ever so it’s probably bad

**** This is my first ever imagine that I have ever finished and published. Please give me feedback and let me know what else I should write! I’m very excited and nervous so please let me know if you enjoyed this :) I’m thinking of making this Y/N character into a little “Baby Avenger” one-shot series, so let me know your thoughts ****

 _____________________________________________________________

Baby Avenger.

Baby Avenger.

Baby. Avenger.

 In her head, her stomping can be heard throughout the whole Compound and all of its residents and guests can hear her anger. They know she’s going right to the meeting room; not the team meeting room, but the meeting room they use when they have special guests in for a meeting.

The new government officials who are now “in charge” of the Avengers since The Snap Part 2 were in for the day to go over the general plans that the Avengers have been coming up with. They’re nicer than those in charge of the group from the Accords, but in no way were they nice to majority of the group as a whole.

(Y/N) (L/N) happens to be the second to youngest member on the team coming in at an age of 18, second only to her best friend Peter Parker

(Y/N) is an orphan, the typical origin story of any superhero. Her parents spent their last minutes pushing her out of their burning house in rural Pennsylvania. Actually, it was her father who got her out of the flames and by their fishpond 100 meters from the house. Her mother was inside, trapped under a steal beam in the basement.

(Y/N)’s mother was a scientist who worked in secret in a little band of scientists who tried to accomplish their own small victories in testing the alterations and limits of humans. The goal of these scientists is to stay out of sight of the CIA, FBI, S.H.I.E.L.D., and other government agencies. Most of them are left alone and those who get found are either immediately sent to a high security prison or recruited to continue their experiments for a certain country/agency.

(Y/N)’s mother decided to give herself her treatment she was working on instead of potentially kidnapping someone in the everyone-knows-everything kind of town that they had been living in. Her experiment and life studies were all in trying to find a way to unlock the rest of the human brain so that more than that small percentage is being used at a time. It has been hypothesized that humans could do a lot if their brains just used itself more.

The only problem is when she gave the treatment to herself, she was unknowingly pregnant, and the treatment attached onto that small lifeform instead of her own. She created a super baby.

No one knew the exact answer to what is on the other side of that tunnel of science. No one knew what opening the mind could do, there were only theories to support ideas. Plenty of scientific evidence, but it meant nothing with no legit proof.

Well, turns out that those on the team of “you will gain the ability to read minds and shit unlike any human” were the correct guessers.

(Y/N) can read others’ minds, move things with her mind, slow down time in her mind to be able to successfully breakdown a situation and perform the best possible reaction to anything that comes her way. Oh, and the color spectrum is broader for her, allowing her to see a significantly more amount of colors than a normal human (including seeing the aura’s and heat that people give off. Very useful in the few missions she goes on.).

But her parents are dead.

After setting small (Y/N) down, her father ran back in to save the love of his life. Or, well, that’s what the towns’ people say to romanticize the situation. A brave man trying to save his family.

In the end, her father had shaken his head, laughing at the moment like a mad man with tears running down his face. He pulled (Y/N) in for the tightest hug that he had ever given the girl—which is tight considering how close the two really were. They were just like two peas in a pod, the light of each other’s lives, basically soulmates.

But love makes you do crazy things.

“You listen to me, (Y/N).” He gripped her face in a painful grip, cheeks sure to be bruised later. “I will always love you. Don’t doubt that, baby girl, okay? I love you so so so so much” By this time, tears are pouring off his face, the neon flames coming from the house reflecting off his wet face. “Mommy… mommy just needs me now, baby. I need mommy, too. We love you so much.”

It had confused her, his words. Nothing could prepare her to watch her father run back into the house, leaving her by the pond with nothing but a small bag of little family things like pictures, little stupid gifts, and a notebook she had stolen from her mom’s bookshelf one day.

Her mother’s grandfather had been friends with Howard Stark, both science men having been in the same circle of famous inventors since before WWII. While neither her mother nor father personally knew his son, Tony, he was still listed as the godfather to the child. With no close friends allowed in their secret circle, old bonds and pacts that her grandfather had with the older Stark led to a blind trust in the man.

Tony Stark had agreed to be the godfather during a one-week bender in his 30s, and when he was yelled at about it, he chose to just keep it there because “the chances of this happening is very slim.”

But here we are, Baby Avenger.

The officials who are here now actually were the same people that used to do check-ins and such with them pre-Accords, so they knew the team better than any government official save for the rare union that the team members may have with government officials. (Y/N) randomly has one with the Queen of England (she did a favor for Her Majesty once, and now they have tea every third Thursday of every month).

They knew that Tony suffered from panic attacks, and they knew Steve was going through a never ending loop of an existential crisis, and that Bucky will most likely always be having an identity crisis, and that Sam cries to sleep a lot around a certain time of year that renders him almost useless in his sleep deprived state he puts himself into. They know EVERYTHING vulnerable about the team.

So, that means they know how when she first got to the team and to Tony that she wouldn’t speak to anyone unless absolutely necessary. It took her almost a year to be able to speak more than a sentence to every person she was around. No one was too upset, though, Tony was trying to figure out how to save himself and rebrand his whole legacy and the Avengers weren’t really a family family yet like they are now. (Y/N)’s shyness made it much easier on the adults to figure out their stressful situations.

The officials, though, never got why she wouldn’t speak to them. They actually pushed her progress back more and more with taunts and comments such as “Oh, the baby can’t speak?” or a “Get your phone out! She’s about to say her first words!” every time she did go to say something.

Tony soon got fed up with it and filed a lawsuit against them which threatened their agency enough to pull them out and let a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent be a liaison for them. After their presence was rid of, (Y/N) grew exponentially with her new family. She was still home schooled, but now she had Peter Parker as a friend and world geniuses as her teachers. She was an only child, but now she’s a big sister to Morgan and has plenty of people on the team that are dubbed her siblings (since they don’t act their age majority of the time to be considered aunts and uncles).

While she’s trained to fight, (Y/N) doesn’t go out on the field much unless they need her brain or her extended vision. She likes to remain behind the computer screen and help that way. She’s invented a way to make prosthetics like Bucky’s become more available to the general public and has started a school/home that’s three miles from the Compound for orphaned kids, mutants, super kids, and those who aren’t accepted where they come from.

In conclusion, (Y/N) is 18 and not useless in any way, shape, or form.

So why, why, do these absolute short dick idiots decide that they can come into here, her home, and push her around like she hasn’t contributed more to the Earth and society in the short 18 years than their middle-aged asses?

Eyes narrowed and seeing red, she stomps her way down the last hall, shoving herself into the door of the meeting room and throwing it open.

The team stays unfazed, knowing she’d show up pissed at some point. The officials, though, jump in their seat and turn to look at her.

It wasn’t the biggest meeting, the original Avengers plus Bucky, Sam, and Wanda sit around the table. Though, Rocket and Groot are here sitting along the back wall, looking bored as hell. Thor must have drug them along.

Fists clenched, (Y/N) narrows her eyes more. She’s been here since the first attack. Sure, she didn’t fight since she was like, 8 or so, but she was in charge of her man-behind-the-computer work. She’s been a part of the team since the beginning, and these assholes are too big of pricks to acknowledge that.

That’s what’s pissing the girl off. This could have been a meeting for every one of the fighters of the team, which she wouldn’t go to because that’s not her role. This meeting, though, was scheduled as “Originals plus the newly appointed leaders only.” She’s an original.

SHE IS AN ORIGINAL.

SHE. IS. AN. OG.

AND YET, they remained in telling her she wasn’t invited because “The Baby Avenger doesn’t need to join big kid conversation.”

She locked eyes with her adopted father and her best friend, aka Peter Parker, aka the only reason she knew this meeting was still being held.

Poor, lovely Peter. He grew confused when his best friend wasn’t sitting in between Mr. Stark and him for the meeting, especially when the officials referred to the meeting as they did. He was just there to take notes for Mr. Stark, not that the man wouldn’t remember it all. Pepper thought it’d be a good idea if Tony had written evidence to anything said in these meetings so that he wouldn’t be pouring statements out of his ass without proof, and poor, lovely Peter got elected to take such notes.

When he noticed you weren’t there, he had sent you a text asking where you were and that your drink that he brought you was right next to him.

“(Y/N)! It is so great to see you, my wonderful flower.” Thick arms wrapped around her as a golden man squeezed her tight to him. Thor and (Y/N) had a special relationship. They’re always close and do the most innocent of tasks together like flower crowns, step-by-step painting classes, and making those Tik Tok crocheted blankets made with that big yarn. He even had taken her to Asgard (back when it was a planet) for a royal ball where she was the guest of honor. They’re just soft together.

Though, rage blocked that softness that normally occurs between the two. Pushing off of him, she points her finger at the men in the front. The officials look like they’ve seen the devil and all of Hell and (Y/N) can see the fear pouring off of them.

“Let’s get this clear,” she says as she slowly stalks her way up to them. “I am an Avenger. I am an original Avenger. I know about 3,000 ways to kill you in this room at this very moment with anything. I drink tea with the fucking Queen on Thursdays, and I’ve created a better orphanage/school system in 2 years than this country has in the 250 years it’s been around. Don’t you EVER call me a fucking baby again, you fucking hear me?”

By this point, she’s right up in their faces, her glare unwavering and them sweating. The silence in the room was great and seemed to go on forever. The team held their breaths, some trying not to laugh and some scared of backlash that might be trust upon the girl.

With one last eye narrow (you could blindfold her with toothpicks at this point), she whips around and walks back to Thor, placing herself sideways on his lap and relaxing into his hold. Peter passes her (Drink Order) down the table, and (Y/N) takes it.

Clint, Bucky, and Sam try and hide their laughter when the meeting starts again as they look at their long-time teammate cradled and curled up in Thor’s arms, head on his shoulder and under his chin as she sips her drink with an angry look in her eyes and a pout on her face.

All wrapped up like a baby.

[chibimyumi]

Hello Chibimyumi, I apologise in advance for the uncomfortable question I have about the musicals. I hope I'm mistaken, but for those musicals where Soma and Agni are included, is it truly the case that they are portrayed by actors in brownface? Is this a common occurrence, and what is public perception of this in Japan today?

Dear Anon,

You ask an incredibly good but complicated question. It is great to hear that you are aware of how cultural contexts can play into such matters. Now, since you asked, I’d ask you all to strap in; this is going to be quite a ride.

Short answer

If you mean whether the actors used darker make-up to portray a race with a darker skin tone, then yes. The actors are all ethnically Japanese without any Indian heritage to the best of everyone’s knowledge.

However, before we can discuss this “whether this is an issue”, the following is what I need all readers here to keep in mind at all times (i.e. don’t continue reading with White SJ in mind). Namely: In Japan and Japanese live theatre medium especially, ‘[colour] face’ has entirely different connotations than in the White West. To anyone mid-pounce of their attack in light of social justice, halt. Please hear me out. I am talking ONLY about Japan.

Brown Face in Japan?

Demographics

So, before we begin, I wish to instill in you all that Japan is very, very homogeneous in comparison to most other countries. Japan has LESS THAN 2% of ethnically non-Japanese people, and half of this >2% is ethnically Chinese or Korean. So yes, in Japan, ONLY 1% is racially and phenotypically different than the native Japanese.  Japanese people are the natives in Japan, so they consider their skin ‘neutral’; it is NOT coloured. Then there are the ‘white coloured’ people who are semi-neutral, and you have everyone else who have a ‘darker colour’.

Now with this framework in mind, let us jump to how this demographic makeup affects the theatre world. For clarity’s sake I shall discuss this in sections.

Section 1 - Poor, poor industry

Japanese theatre and especially 2.5D industries are really poor. As discussed in full detail in this post about the extreme harm of pirating JP theatre, the vast majority of theatre actors need to juggle 2 or 3 jobs to make a living because most theatre companies ONLY pay the performers for their stage time (no rehearsal pay, no food, no accommodation). One run of a show is usually no more than 5 or 6 weeks. If one show gets a run of 3 months, that is considered ridiculously long. So far, only the top three Japanese theatre companies can manage such long runs, being: Takarazuka, TOHO and Shiki.

Section 2 - ‘Broad utility value’ and chances

The super short runs means that on average, an actor only has an income for 5 or 6 weeks for one job, even though their work for one production takes much more time than that (formal rehearsal is usually one month, but there’s a lot of ‘homework’ and ‘overwork’ too). This again means that in order to make a living in the theatre industry, a performer needs to have ‘broad utility value’, that is to say: they need to be ‘castable’ into as many roles as possible, and therefore ‘neutral’.

The selling stories in Japan usually have an all-Japanese or all-white character list, as you all must have noticed. When there are non-white foreigners in such stories, they’re usually countable on the fingers of one hand. And sadly, when they are present they‘re often comic relief, antagonists, or ‘exotic accessories’.

The wider sentiment in Japan is that if you are ‘neutral coloured’ you can be painted into a different colour. But if you are ‘darker than neutral’, you can’t be painted lighter. “You cannot take the colour away”, so to say. That is the reason why in Japan, darker skinned minorities would have very little incentive to sign up for the theatre industry. Why bother get a job that pays so terrible and ONLY be allowed minor/bad roles if there happen to be darker skinned characters once in a blue moon? Why bother competing with ‘neutral’ skinned people who can replace you easily?

In a nutshell, the terribly racist reality is that darker skinned actors are not considered to have broad utility value because the entertainment industry and common populace decided so. With so few dark skinned characters and the wide acceptance that ‘neutral’ skinned people can be painted into any other colour, darker skinned people’s chances of getting by on theatre work is just very slim. The entertainment industry makes itself very unappealing to these people, and indeed resulted in a shortage of darker skinned performers.

This current shortage means that if a production wants to feature differently skinned characters without ‘brown facing’, they’d have trouble finding enough people who: 1. are ‘the correct colour’, 2. are willing to work for virtually no pay, and 3. also have the skills to perform in Japanese language (many of these people also really lack the practice to build up theatre skills because - as explained - they have very little outlook in this field). So again, “why bother going through the trouble if you can just paint these actors white and those actors brown? Same difference right? Here have some brown foundation and you’re good to go!”

Section 3 - The race is the costume

Well, is painting Japanese actors white or brown ‘same difference’? In practice... to Japan, ‘yes’. Japan does not have an issue with pretending to be a different race through make-up. This means that there is no concept of ‘brown face’ or ‘any other-colour-face’. Seeing Japanese actors painted white in modern theatre and cosplay is the standard. Countless modern theatre shows feature almost exclusively white characters, after all.

As a representative example, Kuromyu mostly has white characters. But so far it has had 4 mixed-race actors in 10 years! However, all of them are partially white, meaning they’re “““light neutral””” or even “““extra pretty”””.  

There is no such thing as ‘white face’ in Japan, and outside Japan, nobody (in their right mind) should compare ‘white face’ to ‘black face’. When the Europeans arrived in Japan, the Japanese were actively challenged to prove themselves as white as possible. Japan was spared from colonisation because they proved themselves “white civilised enough” for the Europeans. That is the Japanese-Western legacy: “pretending to be a colour is part of ‘modernisation’ and ‘globalisation’”. If painting a ‘neutral’ person white is okay, why wouldn’t painting someone ‘brown’ be? It sounds quite hypocritical to Japanese people because Japan has a different racial relationship than the White West has.

Unlike white-colonising countries, Japan does not have such a long and problematic history regarding brown/black races, hence there is also no collective guilt about having systematically oppressed and excluded dark skinned people. In the White West if you paint someone darker it’s because they don’t want to employ dark skinned people. In Japan however, it’s because there are hardly any darker skinned people to actually take the job. It’d be an altogether different problem for the theatre industry to just go: “we shall only stage all-Japanese-characters productions now!” ... that’s what they did in Imperial Japan during WWII, and that was NOT pretty.

Besides, Japan in being so homogeneous, we can imagine why awareness of ‘brown/black face’ was never deemed immediately ‘necessary’ in Japan. In combination with the legacy of ‘pretending to be a colour is fine’, the current status quo had taken shape.

Unlike American media or South Korean media, Japan predominantly creates solely for the purpose of domestic consumption. Hence the DVDs are often sold in Japan only without subtitles. Hence that many websites are Japan restricted. Japanese theatre no exception, it’s made by Japanese, for the Japanese, in Japan. As explained above, because there is no concept of problematic x-colour-face, then why bother avoiding it?

Section 4 - Orientalism though....

So, are Soma and Agni ‘brown face’ in Kuromyu? Not in the same way it would be in a Euro-American way, but that does not mean it’s ‘no problem at all’.

The main problem in Japan is not the ‘brown face’, but Orientalism. The common Japanese people would not bat a single eye at two Indian characters going on and on about curry, elephants and Hindu Gods. But unlike ‘colour-face’ not really being a problem in Japan because of different cultural heritage, the perpetuation of stereotypes cannot be excused.

When there are so few dark skinned characters in an otherwise all-white/ “neutral” cast, it surely is quite aggravating that the musical chose to reduce Indian people to... well, curry, elephants and Hindu Gods. Had the writers not reduced Indian culture to a stereotype however, then as long as the portrayal of dark-skinned people is respectful, ‘brown face’ really is not a problem in Japan, just like ‘white face’ is not.

Conclusion

In this post I have discussed the demographic makeup of Japan, the terrible circumstances of the theatre industry, and how this lead to a real lack of dark-skinned performers. The lack of dark-skinned actors, in turn, means that if a theatre/film industry doesn’t want to go ‘pure Japanese race pride!!!’, they’d have to ‘paint actors into a race’.

Japan narrowly having escaped white colonialism also means that the Japanese have a very different awareness about race and sensitivity. In being challenged to ‘perform the white race’ in the 19th century, Japan gained a legacy wherein ‘race is just performative’.

That Japan has a different cultural heritage and racial history can explain why x-‘colour-face’ is non-problematic in Japan. Applying white-social-justice to Japanese standards would cause entirely different problems simply because the Japanese demographic makeup and film/theatre industry simply cannot adopt this western standard without doing more harm than good. This Japanese heritage however, does NOT excuse offensive stereotyping of people however.

So in a nutshell: Soma and Agni are not ‘brown face’ in Japanese context because there is no such concept. However, there is a problem, and it lies in the Orientalist stereotyping of Indian culture.

[labyrinthof-fan-fiction]

(When Your Heart’s on Fire) Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

Geraskier 50s AU

Summary: Geralt just wanted a calm night at the club, a drink in one hand, a cigar in the other. Then that crooner, Jaskier, took the stage. Post WWII, Geralt is still adjusting to life as a civilian.

Companion One Shot of Jaskier seeing Geralt for the first time here.

Warnings: PTSD mentions, Alcohol Consumption

A/N: I warned you all that this was going to happen, we’re going to be thriving off this Vera Lynn playlist for a long time. Also I’ve made Roach into a cat for this, why not? Inspiration: Vic Damone’s (When Your Heart’s on Fire) Smoke Gets in Your Eyes. His version was recorded in 1956, but the song has existed since 1933. Look his voice is to die for and exactly how I’d imagine crooner Jaskier would sound. Because I love Joey, but crooner Jaskier would be a hell of a baritone with a beautiful falsetto.

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Witcher. I don’t own ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’

Word Count: 2,340

Geralt had a long day, hell a long week. Adjusting to civilian life after the war had taken its toll on him. Going back to his job in the factory had not been as easy as he had planned. Shell shock was what they had called it when they found him curled in a ball in the bathroom after a machine had let out a violent blast. His shaking hands wrapped around his head, eyes searching for the shrapnel that never came.

After that incident he had been taken off the floor and placed in an office. He despised the office. They even had the audacity to require him to come to work in a shirt and tie everyday. “It’s what an office man wears.” They had said. “You can always go somewhere else.”

He wasn’t about to tell them he had never wanted to be an office man, that their absurd notion of moving him to a desk job was an act of service to him for his own act of service, was an insult. Because in the end, he needed a job. He didn’t have a wife or child to care for, but he had a cat, and the cat had to eat. Roach, his mangy tom cat, provided him with companionship, in turn Geralt provided him with a meal.

He was constantly badgered by his coworkers about his bachelor status. “How haven’t you found a little lady to settle down with?” One would say.

“A man like you would have no trouble getting some little thing to fall in love with you.” Another would chime in.

“You’ll grow tired of the bachelor status soon enough.” His boss would say, “Nothing like comin’ home to a house with a woman to take care of you.”

“You better tie down that dark haired beauty you always bring to functions.” Another would chime in.

He would nod his head and mumble something about just not having found the right girl yet. But he knew, he would never find the right girl, because he wasn’t looking for a girl. And that was a fact that he would not share around the water cooler. That alone would send him out the door, and he was not going to test his luck. Being home with his cat was depressing, he knew this because his best friend, Yennefer, constantly reminded him of this fact.

He was thankful for her, whenever he needed a date for a company function, she would be there. A beautiful woman to hang off his arm, then go their separate ways when the night came to an end. She was determined to forge her own way into the world, without a husband. A revolutionary idea, if you asked Geralt. And he was always ready to step in if she required a man to stand beside her. Most men would feel used and sour if they were a face to help a woman further herself, but Geralt felt honored she trusted him. Occasionally he felt guilty that she needed him at all. She was the person who turned him on to the club and since that he spent each night there.

The club was comfortable, tucked away in a back area of the city. Far away from the traditional areas, a small nook in the middle of chaos. To most people, it would have seemed a normal club with a bar and tables scattered about the walls, a small dance floor in the middle, a stage front and center. But Geralt knew that the women at the bar, chatting and smiling were not just good friends, and when they left, they weren’t going to go separate ways. The men at the table in a dark corner were not conducting an under the table business deal. But Geralt had one reason for being in the club every night, and he was on stage.

Jaskier, was his name, it took Geralt three weeks to get the courage to approach him. A slight blush crept up his neck when he remembered the night he finally introduced himself to the singer. After far too much alcohol, of course.

Geralt was frustrated from work, one of the younger men announced his engagement. Now this should not have bothered him, it usually didn’t. Engagements and weddings were so common that there was a constant supply of cigars passed in the office. No the boy’s engagement didn’t put him off. His boss did.

The men all sat down, with glasses of scotch and cigars toasting to the happy couple. This was fine, a normal occurrence. His boss started poking at him. “All these young men settling down, what about you Geralt?”

“Maybe sometime.” Geralt answered emptily. There wasn’t going to be a sometime, not for him.

And this is the sulky attitude he took to the club that night. Jaskier was on stage, singing his set of tunes. His baritone voice floating above the smoke, piercing through Geralt’s clouded mind. His voice grounded Geralt, brought him out of his attitude, and redirected his attention to the man on stage. He was in a deep blue suit, cream shirt, and a pink bowtie. Not Geralt’s style, but it was Jaskier’s. “Hmmmmm.” Geralt mumbled as he listened to Jaskier’s voice float around the room for an hour as he nursed a drink, then another, and then he couldn’t remember how many. The crowd began to clap and cheer as Jaskier wrapped up his set for the day. Geralt joined them, letting out a wolf whistle.

The man onstage bowed and leapt lightly off the edge of the stage and headed to the bar. He easily made his way through the patrons and placed his forearms on the bar. “Sidecar, Andy.” He said to the bartender who nodded and began to mix the drink.

Jaskier’s hazel eyes turned to Geralt, a few stools away. His eyes slowly scanned the larger man up and down until they made their way back up to Geralt’s eyes. A flicker of something burned in the singer’s eyes, but Geralt could not place it before the man turned away to accept his drink from the bartender.

Geralt sighed. They had been doing this same dance for a while now. But tonight, Geralt was putting an end to it. He slammed the last of the glass of whiskey in his hand and stood. His head spinning slightly. He closed his eyes and counted to ten before moving into the bar stool next to the other man.

“Nice set.” He said gruffly, panic setting in. He had never approached a man before. Sure he had wanted to, but he hadn’t.

Jaskier took a sip of his drink. Silence wrapping around the two men as Jaskier sized Geralt up. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“You always put on a great show.” Geralt managed to spit out. In his mind he was being suave, in reality. He was a goddamn mess.

“I try.” Jaskier said, taking another sip. Geralt trying to come up with something to keep the conversation from dying. “Have a bite with me?”

Geralt’s eyes widened and he nodded. The singer chuckled and nodded to the bartender. Jaskier stood and put a hand on the larger man’s forearm. “Let’s go to a table.”

Geralt followed the other man blindly to the table where they fell into a conversation. Well, Jaskier spoke and Geralt listened. Geralt wouldn’t be able to tell you what they said, what they shared, the mix of alcohol and excitement erased everything but the fact that he spent time with the singer.

After that night, the two fell into a pattern. Geralt would sit at the bar through Jaskier’s sets for the night. When he was finished they would get food and sit at a table, talking until closing. Some days they would talk about nonsense, others they would talk about their families, their pasts. They had both served in the War, Jaskier and been further from the front than Geralt. They both no longer had ties to their families. Geralt would tell him of Roach’s most recent adventures and catches. He would talk about his job.

Jaskier would listen to every word Geralt would say, and Geralt loved him for it. Geralt shook his head slightly. He loved him. He loved Jaskier. He’s in love with Jaskier. This had not been an easy conclusion for him to come to. It took him almost a month to process. Yennefer had laughed at him when he bore his soul to her.

“Took you long enough.” She said, taking a sip of the milkshake in front of her. She always insisted they meet in. For ‘appearences sake’ she said. Geralt had a feeling that she didn’t come there for just the burgers, but he wasn’t one to pull information from her.

And so he found himself leaving work to head to the club. The club Jaskier was singing in. The club that he was going to tell the singer that he loved him in. His heart beat in his chest as he made his way downtown. He pulled at the tie around his neck until it was loose enough for him to breathe.

He entered the club, giving a quick greeting to the doorman, who gave a slight tilt to his head as Geralt rushed past him. Geralt glanced around the room. His normal spot at the bar was filled by a woman he recognized, Yennefer. She looked up at him, her eyes twinkling as she raised her glass to him. He glanced around, the only seat he could see was at the table by the stage. He sighed and made his way there, the bartender brought his usual drink to him. The band was warming up onstage, Jaskier was no where to be seen. Odd, Geralt thought, Jaskier regularly would be front and center for sound checks.

The lights in the room dimmed. And Jaskier made his way onto the stage. Geralt felt his heartbeat speed up. Jaskier made his way to the mic, wearing the same suit he had when they first met. Even with that damn pink bowtie.

“Good evening everyone.” Jaskier said into the mic. “Tonight, we are going to start out with a song for a special someone.” A few whistles broke out from the crowd. Jaskier winked in Geralt’s direction and nodded to the piano player who began a flourish of notes, fast paced arpeggios rang out from the baby grand. Jaskier put one hand on the mic and took a deep breath.

“They asked me how I knew

My true love was true

I of course replied

Something here inside, cannot be denied”

Jaskier placed a hand over his heart. Geralt’s eyes did not leave Jaskier’s. Did this mean what he thought it did? He nervously pulled at the collar of his shirt, suddenly it felt too tight. They must have fixed the heating in the club this week.

“They said "someday you'll find all who love are blind"

When your heart's on fire,

You must realize, smoke gets in your eyes”

He winked into the crowd, causing one of the cigar smokers to blow a large puff of smoke towards the stage.

“So I chaffed them and I gaily laughed

To think they could doubt my love”

He raised an eyebrow at Geralt.

“Yet today my love has flown away,

I am without my love,”

He glanced into the crowd, a forlorn gaze, before his trademark smile broke out across his face.

“Now laughing friends deride”

Jakier gave a slight tilt to his head, causing Geralt to look back to the bar where Yennefer sat.  A Cheshire grin splitting her face. She raised her glass and took a sip.

“Tears I cannot hide

So I smile and say

When a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes

Smoke gets in your eyes"

Jaskier smiled he finished holding out the final note, Stephen, the pianist, brought the tune to a close with a tremolo on the final chord. The crowd erupted into cheers, several people standing, but Geralt remained in his seat. Jaskier’s eyes stayed locked with his, Jaskier finally broke their contact by turning to the crowd.

“Now, let’s get this started.” The band erupted into a fast tune, carrying couples to the dance floor. Geralt stayed in his seat, nursing his drink. He knew, without a doubt that he loved that man up on stage. The set came to a close and Jaskier leapt from the stage to stand in front of Geralt.

“I love you.” Geralt said, not giving the other man the chance to say anything.

“Oh thank God. I was hoping I didn’t just sing you a love song and you didn’t have feelings for me.” Jaskier said, Geralt paused for a moment. “I love you too.”

Jaskier held his hand out to Geralt, who looked at it, confused. “Hmmm?”

“Dance with me.” Jaskier said, and Geralt would not deny him. He would never be able to deny Jaskier anything.

They made their way to the middle of the dance floor, Stephen played a lilting slow introduction on the piano, the band following him. Jaskier placed one hand on the back of Geralt’s neck, the other guiding Geralt’s hands to his waist. Once he had Geralt situated he brought the other hand up to wrap his arms around the taller man’s neck, causing Geralt to look down at the man in his arms. Geralt’s mind blanked and he found himself leaning down to the other man, Jaskier closed the distance between them, locking his lips onto Geralt’s.

Geralt tightened his hold on Jaskier, deepening the kiss. Jaskier pulled away for air, pressing his forehead to Geralt’s. They remained silent, wrapped in each other’s arms as the band played on. For the moment all that mattered was the man in their arms and the love they felt. The reality of the world was a problem for another time, for all who love are blind.

[liathgray]

Can you tell us more about this CoS fic? C:

Yes of course!! This might get a bit long sorry in advanced.

So Capra is a WIP of mine where 03 Ed is going to shenanigans his way into the Brotherhood verse.

Not that I don’t like CoS but for the purposes of this fic it... didn’t happen. Not exactly. Here, 03 Ed was in the non-alch world for about three years right as WWII was kicking into gear. I won’t give away what exactly happens while he’s there but a lot does go down. I’m including Noah because I like her and wanted to give Ed a friend/ something grounding him to that world. They’re roommates! Best friends and nothing more.

His life in the non-alch is serving as the mystery for most of the fic alongside what I’ll call a very strategic chase sequence told over a few months, so I really can’t say too much!

But he gets chucked into post-canon Brotherhood around two years after the Promised Day. He realizes something isn’t right pretty quick so he skips town and plans to lay low until he can figure out why god hates him so much.

What a shame the Mustang gang are paranoid assholes with some prior experiences with doubles running around! They jump to some conclusions and start a covert manhunt.

I’m very excited because I’ve always been interested in how different both versions of Ed turned out. So let’s just put em together and see how much shit happens!

I am also very mean and 03 Ed gets put the the wringer a bit... I’m giving him a bit of a redesign to accommodate the “backstory” and distinguish the two Ed’s. Like a physical redesign. I am VERY tempted to dump the concept art I have for him but I digress.

Sorry I’m really tip-toeing around this I really wish I could talk and talk about it but OH WOW SPOILERS!!

It should be ready for me to start posting (maybe weekly??) once I wrap up with Giants!

[cryxmercy]

Does HIPPA Still Apply If I Tell You I’m Immortal? || Mercy & Queenie

When: Current, early afternoon Where: White Crest Memorial Hospital Clinic Who: Mercy and Dr. King @drqueenieking

TW: hospitals, death mention, drowning mention, assault mention, injury mention, medical blood, non-con (r/t supernatural powers), mental health, PTSD

A Fury walks into a doctor’s office…  

This was stupid. 

She shouldn’t be here. She didn’t need this. She didn’t need a doctor. It was… ridiculous. 

The slight tremor of her hands - though it happened intermittently - said otherwise. As did the new onset sleepwalking. It had happened again last night. This time she’d ended up in the street, waking up to the blare of a car horn as it swerved to miss her. She would’ve been fine if it hadn’t. Wouldn’t she? It was just a small four-door sedan, after all, and not a semi. She’d had worse. The thought of waking up inside a morgue freezer turned her stomach, and her ire at Dr. Kavanagh, who still had her blocked online (the coward), made her frown.

But it wasn’t the near-miss VVP that had pushed Mercy to call the clinic - asking specifically for the seemingly competent doctor that had treated her in the ER back during the mime-madness - but the idea of not being in control of her body. She hadn’t lied when she’d told Blanche it had never been in issue before. Not in all her 1200 years. And she hadn’t been lying when she’d said she would tell Arthur if it happened again. She would. Later. Once she ruled out any lingering issues of the all too human variety. Still, Mercy didn’t like it here. With it’s antiseptic smell that didn’t hide the lingering miasma of sickness 

that saturated everything. From the stark white walls hung with cheap artwork, to the out of date magazines that begged to be put out of their misery in the nearest trash bin. 

So by the time she was called back, Mercy was damn near ready to scrap the whole thing. But if she ran now, she was no better than a coward. And Mercy was many things, but a coward wasn’t one of them. So she gave the young nurse a forced smile and followed her down the hallway where she was weighed, her vital signs taken, and asked a series of standard questions. Allergies? None. Meds? Nope. Drink? Daily. Smoke? Sometimes. Drugs? Medicinal. 

The nurse gave her a small side-eye, but made a few notes in the chart and left Mercy alone - with instructions to change into the little paper gown on the table - to wait on the doctor. Mercy waited anxiously, finding only mild satisfaction in tossing the ‘gown’ where it belonged: in the trash. She had once again decided this was a bad fucking idea after a solid twenty minutes passed and no doctor. She’d just made up her mind to leave - Fuck this… - when the door finally opened.

The day had been surprisingly slow. Without any near fatal car accidents or wild animal attacks which continued to be one of the most prominent emergency room visits that they received, Queenie had been keeping herself busy by making her rounds around the rooms, popping in with other doctors and requesting that they let her take on some of their work. After all, chances were high that the end result would be better off in Queenie’s hands anyways. Most of the doctor’s in the hospital knew this even if they weren’t willing to admit it. 

However, it turned out that someone had specifically asked for her. Since Queenie did not typically take appointments, this surprised her. The closest thing that she had to a monthly appointment was checking Blanche for a concussion or setting a bone that had come out of socket. And those instances were never scheduled officially, Queenie had just become used to them being a monthly occurrence. If not sooner. So when the nurse had told her, Queenie agreed to it and added it to her calendar, wondering who was coming in and why they specifically wanted to see her.

Queenie often lost track of time at the hospital, and today was no exception. She had been distracted when the nurse told her about the woman’s arrival and had instead been entirely too focused on reminding a fellow doctor that his diagnosis of a patient had been entirely off base and borderline negligent. It wasn’t until the doctor had angrily stormed off that Queenie remembered that she had a patient waiting for her. She jogged across the hospital floor until she found the room on the clipboard that the nurse had given to her and knocked on the door, pushing it open seconds later. “Good afternoon” Queenie began, only glancing at the woman while reading the clipboard. Finally, she looked back up, “You’re a familiar face.” She had been in a few months ago maybe, Queenie couldn’t be sure. “What brings you in today?”

Mercy froze when the door opened and the doctor she remembered from the ER walked in. Well, at least she was seeing the person she’d asked for. Not that this was any easier for Mercy. She hadn’t been to a doctor in… so long that she couldn’t remember. Probably during the Cold War. But this was hardly post-WWII Russia. It was a tiny room at White Crest Memorial. And Mercy wasn’t a spy. She was… tired. She was just… tired. 

It seemed the doctor recognized her too. A double gunshot wound - one of those to the neck - that hadn’t been DOA would probably have been memorable. Or maybe the woman was just being nice. Who knew. Either way, she got right down to business. Mercy appreciated that. 

She sat back on the table, and got right to the point. “I had an accident recently. I drowned. I almost died. I lost my vision for a month afterwards. Vitreous hemorrhage. Since my vision came back… a few weeks now… I’ve started having tremors. In my hands mostly. And I’ve been sleepwalking. I’ve never experienced either of those things before. Insomnia, yes. Nightmares, yes. But never anything quite so severe. So I guess I just wanted to make sure there was nothing… wrong.” She didn’t know what to ask for as far as tests or anything else. So she left it there for now. 

Emergency rooms never exactly gave the best first impression of a person. It was never easy to tell if someone was a friendly person or not when their life was at stake. This woman, Mercy, for instance had been in the emergency room before. She looked lethargic, annoyed even. But she couldn’t tell if these were simply faucets of her personality considering the last time she had seen the woman it had involved a gunshot wound. Most people weren’t exactly sociable after getting shot. 

“You almost drowned? How long ago was this?” Queenie moved toward the table, grabbing at the woman’s wrist and beginning to check her pulse. All seemed normal. “You lost your vision because of it?” That was interesting, and not at all a common side effect of drowning, even the ones with extended periods of exposure to water. “Tremors and sleepwalking… interesting. Have you experienced any shortness of breath? Extreme tiredness?” She glanced down at the patient’s hand she had been using to check the pulse and noticed her finger nails. No discoloration there, that was a good sign. “Where did you almost drown? A lake? The ocean? Your bathtub?” 

Mercy had never been accused of having the warmest personality. And when she was hurt or worried - she’d been both at the time - it only got worse. Usually, she was full of energy. Other than not being a morning person. But who was? And her annoyance came from having enough weird shit going on with her body and in her head that she felt like coming here was one of her last options. So she was thankful when the doctor didn’t dally. 

“A month? Six weeks maybe? Time sorta starts to run together after awhile.” Mercy let herself be examined, watching as the woman checked her pulse. “Yes.” It was either the drowning, or having spent too much time in the place she could only call limbo. A place of darkness and cold, between dying and coming back. “Tell me about it,” Mercy huffed. “Shortness of breath, no. Fatigue…” She frowned. How to explain the eternal weariness that came with being as old as she was? Without revealing how old she was. “Maybe a bit more tired than usual. But I don’t sleep well anyway. Never have.”

Then came the next question: where did she drown. “Dark Score Lake. I was…” Mercy hesitated, but eventually said fuck it. In for a penny and all that shit. “I was assaulted. And that person wrapped their hands around my throat, and held me under until-” The doctor could hopefully draw her own conclusion: until the bubbles stopped. “I was pronounced dead on scene by EMS. So… they took me to the morgue. Where even the medical examiner concluded that I was dead.” Mercy gave the doctor a wan smile. “I woke up in the observation room about four hours later when my friend came to ID my body.”  

So. There it was. 

A month and a half was a long time to continue exhibiting symptoms related to almost drowning. “Fatigue and shortness of breath are both common symptoms of Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome. Drowning victims that survive often experience this.” She nodded at Mercy’s words, making a note when she mentioned that has never slept well. “Have you ever considered that you may have sleep apnea or some form of insomnia?” Queenie was not entirely concerned about lack of sleep. Not as long as the person was still functioning. However, she knew how long periods of time without sleep could prove to be dangerous. She had too many examples of people falling asleep at the wheel in New York and ending up killing people or getting pretty damned close. “There are doctors that offer sleep studies here. I’m not one of those doctors. However you may consider looking into it.” 

Queenie’s arms dropped to her side as Mercy began explaining the full situation. Her clipboard hit against the railing of the hospital bed as it waved at her side. “You what?” Queenie pressed a finger to her forehead, considering this near impossibility that Mercy had just offered her. “Someone’s heart stopping for that long would risk severe brain damage.” She grabbed at Mercy’s hand again, checking her fingers. No sign that blood circulation had been cut off for an extended period of time. “There is no way you could have actually been dead that long. If I was even going to entertain the idea, I’d recommend a CT scan to make sure you haven’t experienced any brain damage. Honestly, even the thought just seems-” Queenie paused for a moment, noting another point Mercy had made. “You said someone assaulted you? Did they ever catch the person?”

“Insomnia and I are old friends.” Mercy tried to sound blaise, but it fell short. She just sounded... tired. “But no shortness of breath. Not after the first couple of days. And that was mostly because I was coughing so much.” She left out the part about the black oil, if only because she hadn’t seen it for herself. Mercy glanced up to the doctor’s face as she suggested a sleep study. That would probably be a terrible idea. No, it would be a terrible idea. “I’ll think about it,” Mercy nodded, even if she had no intentions whatsoever of letting a complete stranger - likely a human stranger - watch her sleep. 

When she explained the rest, the doctor’s reaction was… well, it wasn’t as bad as Mercy had anticipated. Honestly, she’d expected to be told - again - that it wasn’t possible. That there had been some mistake. Or some other excuse to make Mercy sound insane. “I’m aware,” she said with a note of long-suffering patience. She let the doctor examine her hands again. They looked like normal hands. Small and fine-boned, with neatly manicured nails. There was a tattoo on the underside of her right forearm, and what looked like an old burn scar shaped vaguely like a ‘P’ on the underside of her left wrist. Though she kept it covered with a watch or wrist-band of some sort. 

Mercy huffed when the doctor hit the proverbial nail right on the head. “Yeah.” But that was all she said about the medical examiner. She had her opinions, but she wasn’t here to talk about that. Instead, Mercy nodded in agreement that if she had actually been dead - truly dead - then she would likely not be sitting here now. But then again, Mercy wasn’t human.     

“Insane?” she said, finishing the doctor’s sentence for her. “Yeah. It does. But… there are conditions that mimic death to the point where even a doctor might be fooled. Catalepsy. The Lazarus Phenomenon. Fugu toxin. Even severe hypothermia.” Or being immortal. But it wasn’t as if Mercy could just come out and say that, could she? No matter how much the incident had affected her. 

Mercy hummed quietly, acknowledging the question about the assault. “Yeah. I was out by the lake. I walk at night when I can’t sleep,” she gave as an explanation, since ‘I was helping an exorcist and a supernatural bounty hunter kill and banish a squid-demon back to it’s own dimension’ would most certainly get her a psych workup. “This guy - I think he was drunk or on something - figured he could mug me. Didn’t expect me to fight back. He got the upper hand.” Mercy shrugged, as if it was no big deal. “Yeah, he’s... taken care of.” Not a lie, technically. But she wasn’t about to out Nic when it wasn’t his fault. 

“Why?”

“That sounds awful for you and your friend. I can’t imagine what that must have been like to wake up to.” Though Queenie was not entirely interested in the woman’s individual experience, she had to admit that it was fascinating to consider. How could someone have come back after that long without any permanent damage being done? 

The woman named off explanations for her sudden brush with dead and Queenie crossed her arms, “So you know a bit about medicine then? That’s quite impressive” Queenie didn’t use the term lightly, but liked to give credit where credit was due. Most of those were uncommon phenomena that rarely occurred and were even less frequently diagnosed as such. It was easy to pass things off as miracles or unexplainable. Lesser doctors were easily willing to except those explanations at times, whether it was because they were too incompetent to seek out the truth for themselves or because they enjoyed the idea of a miracle being associated with their name.

“I can’t imagine. Well, I am glad that he is taken care of. I do not drive, so I typically walk home from the hospital at all different hours of the day. I don’t like the idea of someone dangerous like that being on the loose.” Queenie explained. For what it was worth, all that time spent in New York and she had never so much as seen a mugger. From the stories she had heard in the ER, she supposed she could consider herself lucky. On the flipside, she had been in White Crest for only a couple of weeks before she had been attacked and her leg injured. Not that Queenie was willing to admit that Regan may have some backing to her baseless claim that animals were more violent here in White Crest. That must have just been an unlucky coincidence. 

“Well considering all the information that I’ve heard, I’m thinking your issue may not be physical at all.” Queenie crossed her arms, studying the clipboard again. “I am no psychologist, but you seem to be in good physical health. From what I’ve heard about your experience both with the mugger and then in the morgue it seems like you may be more aligned with some sort of PTSD. Though keep in mind that I am in no way qualified to diagnose that officially.” It was more of a hypothesis if anything, one that Queenie did not like to give formally unless necessary. However, from what Queenie had seen so far there didn’t seem to be any evidence that Mercy was suffering any visible defects following the attempted drowning. “I would be interested in running a CT scan, just to be sure. I’d be willing to do it myself, and can set up a time with you if interested.” Queenie tore a sticky note free and scribbled her information down on the pad and handed it off to her. 

Mercy had only tried to talk to Regan to explain that what the medical examiner had witnessed hadn’t been a medical oversight, but more an oversight of Mercy not being human. And only because Mercy knew Regan was fae. As the medical examiner, Regan needed to know - for her own safety as well as the safety of others - what she was dealing with when it came to the non-human residents of White Crest. But she hadn’t wanted to hear it. And Mercy wasn’t the type to beg someone to listen which is why she hadn’t gone over to the morgue and confronted Regan herself. It was only a matter of time before her denial would catch up with her. And that probably made Mercy more angry than anything. Because she’d seen the results of people turning a blind eye to one another. It never ended well.  

“It was… not the best,” Mercy said truthfully. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But… we’re alright.” At least, she thought they were. Arthur tended to keep things close to the vest sometimes, not wanting to upset her. She couldn’t manage to be upset with him for that. 

Mercy smiled again at the compliment. “I try to stay informed.” Plus she’d had a long, long time to research certain things. One didn’t live for 1200 years without several periods of wondering how it all worked. Mercy had come to the conclusion that some things were simply unexplainable. At least in human terms. Miracles existed, but they were rare. Even more rare than Mercy herself.

Mercy nodded as the subject of her assailant passed, glad she wasn’t getting too many questions. It was dealt with. They moved on, and after Dr. King was done examining Mercy, she seemed to come to a tentative conclusion. One that didn’t surprise Mercy. Who didn’t like shrinks. At all. “Post-Traumatic Stress,” Mercy nodded as she took the information in. “I suppose that makes sense. I… I used to be a cop. Before I came here. Seattle. New York before that. We got…” She waved a hand towards her head. “- psych screens all the time. I always passed,” she assured the doctor. “But yeah. Okay. I’ll… look into it.” Mercy wouldn’t look into it. She knew what PTSD was. Had probably suffered from it for centuries. Only they didn’t have a name for it then. She was just glad to have checked out alright physically.

Dr. King mentioned a CT scan and handed Mercy a sticky note. “Thanks,” Mercy told Dr. King, tucking the note away in a pocket after she’d read over it. “I’ll think about it and let you know She’d talk to Arthur first, before she made any decisions. Who knew what the brain of a 1200 year old immortal would look like on a scan like that? It might invite more trouble than it was worth. 

“I would be interested in hearing about any further symptoms or experiences that you may have regarding this. Being legally dead that long is practically unheard of, even with the medical examples that Mercy had given. It could be valuable information to study. Not nearly as much of a medical marvel as someone with wings, but still fascinating stuff. If Queenie were a skeptic, she may even consider that Maine or White Crest truly did have something that caused it to be more susceptible to anomalies. If Queenie were willing to make an hypothesis based purely on a string of unrelated coincidences.

Based on the new information, PTSD seemed even more lucky. So Queenie nodded, “Between that and then your recent attack, I would say it’s not unlikely. It may be worth looking into at the very least.” Though Queenie herself had always considered psychology to be more medically adjacent than a study of medicine in itself, she at least acknowledged that sometimes symptoms were outside of her own physical control. Even if she thought that psychiatrists were glorified counselors that liked to play pharmacist. 

Though Queenie did not hold out much hope that Mercy would be returning for a CT scan anytime soon, she also had other things that she could be focusing on instead. She did not have much concern what Mercy did either way. “Well, you have my contact information. If any symptoms get worse please feel free to contact me. Apparently, I make house calls now.” Queenie stated sarcastically, adding in “At least the town seems to think so.” beneath her breath. “If there’s nothing else bothering you at the moment, then I’d guess that you’re good to go.”

The request to hear more about Mercy’s experience of being ‘legally dead’ for almost four hours wasn’t all that surprising. She could understand the curiosity from a medical standpoint - cheating death was what doctors did, wasn’t it? - and part of her even relished the idea that Dr. King was willing to discuss it. To learn. But Mercy wasn’t going to be a science experiment. She’d taken a risk revealing what she had. But Dr. King had been kind, and she’d listened seemingly without bias. So Mercy granted her one thing. “It’s very dark... and very cold,” she said of her experience with ‘death.’ “Wherever I was, I don’t ever wish to return.” She gave Dr. King a small, tight smile. 

As for the rest. “I’ll give it some thought.” And she would. Not a lot, because she wasn’t about to let some human head doctor try and psychoanalyze her. It wouldn’t end well. For either party. Would Mercy be coming back for a head scan too? Also not likely. She’d checked out physically, so that was good enough for her. It might even satisfy Arthur’s insistence that she get herself checked over. Well, now she had. And she was fine. So when Dr. King started to wrap up, Mercy was quite ready to be on her way. She gave Dr. King a small smirk. “Be careful with that around here,” she said of the house calls. “You never know who you’ll run into.” Or what. “People’ll start to take advantage.”

After thanking the doctor for her time, Mercy agreed that if anything new or concerning came up, she’d be sure to call. Though Mercy’s definition of ‘concerning’ was likely far, far different than Dr. King’s. 

~

[carriedatlasmoved]

okay so ..... i’ve been highkey Struggling for the past few months to write anything and it’s gotten to the point where i’m really sad about it because writing is not only a fun thing for me to do but it’s also a coping mechanism i’ve found that works for my anxiety and helps me forget the bullshit of a day.      so i’ve come to a conclusion that it’s because i have way too much on my plate that i don’t have any muse at all ?? besides not having the energy after work and school combined.      so,      with that in mind,      i’m unfortunately going to have to drop some threads.      this is a list of what i am keeping.      please know that if you want to start anything new i’m still completely down for it !!!   i just have to get rid of some things that have been sitting in my drafts since .... god knows how long ... so yeah.... here’s that list.      all recently posted starters are still ongoing.      if you’d like to continue a thread that wasn’t mentioned in the list,      please im me and let me know !!

@tetheredatlas   /   @intrwoven:

comfort sex. kisses all over / distraction sex. doing the galaxy thing. “curing” dean. endverse. the 100 things      (      this,      this,     this,    and this      ). our things w your multimuse: chris swan. previously mentioned t100 things ^

@cerynitiis: wwii au where bradly cures reem. apocalypse. discovering she’s pregnant. just got engaged sex.

@waywardxlegacy:

bradly and judith agency au. john and juliet agency au. runaway bride wedding dance. scar talk.

@staarryniights:

sean and elizabeth.

[qqueenofhades]

the tangled web of fate we weave: xiii

yes i finished it after getting Extremely Distracted last night, and tumblr even appears to have fixed its issues with wonky symbols in text posts. it’s a christmas miracle.

part xii/AO3.

Garcia Flynn has spent the last two years – well, he hasn’t had a single permanent address, a stopover longer than a few months, any phone that wasn’t a burner, a consistent identity or nationality, a less than fifty percent chance that someone will appear with a semi-automatic weapon to finish the job, or a fully legal exit from any of a dozen countries. So really, draw your own conclusions. On the run seems almost hilarious in its understatement; he vaguely recalls that the literary device is called litotes. Completely undersell something for sharper rhetorical effect, usually by presenting it as the negative or opposite of the truth, the kind of sassy and contrary thing that appeals to him. You call Chernobyl just a little industrial fire. Or Rittenhouse really not that bad. Or Garcia Flynn a sensible, well-adjusted man who has a full idea of what he’s doing and everything under control. There, you see? Irony.

Flynn has a full half-dozen fake identities under his belt by now, an assortment of dollars, loonies, euros, pounds, and pesos in reserve depending on where he’s going, and has lived in shitty hotel rooms for so long that he has forgotten there is any other kind of human domicile. It’s better not to ask how he’s getting the money. The NSA doesn’t exactly offer severance pay, and while he has a few accounts in Croatia, they are under his real name and if Rittenhouse knows the first damn thing about their business, they are just waiting for him to try to access them. They’re probably frozen anyway. And while Flynn is perfectly willing to mug someone in an alley if need be, this does not generate any substantial or sustainable income. So he owns one computer, firewalled and encrypted and IP-randomized up the wazoo, a computer that God Himself could not hack (Flynn has made sure of this by running monthly attempts on it himself). This computer is configured to access the Deep Web, otherwise known as the Dark Web, where at least seventy-five percent of the world’s high-level organized crime takes place, a murky cyber underworld and the lifeblood of the black market. Every few weeks, Flynn logs on, performs a few tasks for someone whose real name or employment he will never know, and one to three business days later (good to know that crime syndicates are reliable about their payroll processing) a large amount of money turns up in one of the corresponding fake identities’ offshore bank account. Never the same one twice in a row, or on too consistent a schedule. Flynn likes to think that he hasn’t taken jobs for anyone truly terrible, that it’s the usual petty exchange of knockoff prescription drugs, corporate sabotage, data ransomware, and insurance scams, but he doesn’t know for sure.

And yet. Morally questionable or not, black-hat hacking has enabled him to keep a roof (even a terrible motel one) over his head, eat regularly, change his identities as needed, and track Rittenhouse across multiple countries and continents, so he’s going to keep doing it. For obvious reasons, he cannot return to either Philadelphia or West Point. D.C., where there must be the highest concentration of them, is also out. He can’t go at them directly, so he has to come at them from angles and pincer movements, feints and probes, a subtle, surreptitious game. Try to pin down just how far their influence extends, and how deeply it’s entrenched. It would be impossible for an entire task force with all the money and time in the world. For one man, it’s beyond that. And yet. Garcia Flynn is doing it anyway.

His first port of call was Bavaria, in Germany, seeing if Rittenhouse shared any connections or resources with the Illuminati, founded in 1780 for similar aims but (supposedly) quickly repressed. If you ask your bog-standard conspiracy theorist, they’ll claim the Illuminati are still alive and kicking, and Flynn wanted to figure out if they just subsumed their operations into Rittenhouse. So Dr. Alexander Kovac went to some regional archives and libraries, looking for stuff on Adam Weishaupt and his disciples, any contacts they might have had with David Rittenhouse and his. He found a few things that seemed to suggest this was possible, but Germany has, for obvious reasons, cracked down hard on these kinds of groups post-WWII. It is no longer the ideal environment for Rittenhouse to flourish, even if they probably have a few tendrils planted near Angela Merkel and the EU. Europe might be the birthplace of this kind of thinking, but America has realized it to its fullest potential.

After that, Flynn went to the Caribbean, since he guessed that most of their money has to be moving through the same havens as his. The Caymans, he thinks. But he can’t get physically near it, if there was anything to get close to, without setting off alarm bells, and even his hacking attempts have to be careful. He did enjoy sleeping on the beach beneath the tropical stars, but the news that a hurricane was on the way, plus seeing the same man wander casually past him a few too many times, felt like his cue to leave. Where, he wasn’t quite sure. He wanted to go back to California, wanted like crazy, but he didn’t dare.

Thus, he went to Ottawa instead. It was an unpleasant shock to go from the sunny Caribbean to Canada in winter, but there are bigger problems at stake. Canada obviously has close ties to America, so Flynn could pick up on some things by inference, intercept bits of useful intelligence here and there, and it was close enough to the border that he could nip over a few times and prowl around upstate New York (very, very carefully). The black site in West Point still seems to be in operation, and Flynn made every possible effort to hear about it if Lucy ever returned there, if there is any whisper that Rittenhouse has gotten their hooks into her again. If he did hear anything – well, to hell with subterfuge or delicacy. He would in fact just crash in and pull her out, even if it meant blowing the whole operation, and he’s relieved for any number of reasons that he has not had to. It’s a good thing she did not come along. He could never have been this flexible and this relentless if he had to keep one eye on her and teach her how to live this way. This isn’t a job to learn on.

(A very good thing.)

(Very good.)

(Very.)

Ultimately, however, Flynn’s Canadian sojourn ended up concluding the same thing as Germany: that Canada was not the right place for Rittenhouse to think it worthwhile expanding their foothold. Too nice, probably, and they don’t have the same sense of American imperialism and exceptionalism, don’t fit into Rittenhouse’s patriotic-fascist grand design. So then it was the question of the time machine, which he has been putting off in the hope it was just some sort of trick (even if he has very good reason to know it’s not). Connor Mason has been generously bankrolled to build it, according to Emma, and while Flynn will kill the bitch if he ever sees her again, she’s not lying about that. How much more do they still need to get done to make it a viable operational threat? Where are they getting their engineers, their machinery, their tech? Is Mason himself in Rittenhouse? He has to be. No way they’d outsource that little job to just anyone. Does Mason owe his entire fortune, all his well-publicized accomplishments, to these people? How much else has he done for them?

Flynn still cannot return outright to the Bay Area without sending up too many smoke signals. He has to be strategic. Finally, he lucks into a tip that Connor Mason is taking his team to London for a week in February, bringing the whole circus. As London is obviously also where Emma said she wanted to go, where Rittenhouse was supposedly trying for a new foothold, the coincidence is perfect and self-explanatory. London calling? London calling.

Thus, Flynn picks up from where he has been living in a log cabin in Vermont for the last two months (it’s practically home, he feels an odd pang at leaving it), and takes a flight out of JFK on the Canadian passport that gives his name as Gabriel Ashe. It’s a Commonwealth country, he’ll get less scrutiny entering the UK that way, especially since the passport is only mostly legit. If he blows this, he could find himself out on his ass and in even more hot water, but his luck has held thus far. He has to trust that it will.

On the flight, Flynn supposes that he knows very well what sins he is being punished for by getting stuck in the middle seat, and thinks about Lorena Kovac. About seven months ago, on a lonely, late night, he gave into a moment of weakness and emailed her from his untrackable computer. He hasn’t really spoken to her in several years, and didn’t know what he was going to achieve by getting in touch again. He didn’t say anything about where he was or what he was doing, just that he hoped she was well. He knows it probably confused and hurt Lorena, since he gave her no explanation for dropping out of her life in the first place, and he’s sorry for it. But he wanted – he wanted something, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. Just to be sure he didn’t dream a real life, perhaps. The one where they met for coffee on sunny mornings in Dubrovnik, looked over the glittering Adriatic Sea, and did not talk about war.

Lorena’s reply, three days later, was polite and to the point. She also hoped that he was well. She was doing fine – better than fine,. She has recently had a baby girl, Iris. She and Iris’ father – a childhood friend of Flynn’s, an old schoolmate, Luka – are engaged, and they are very happy. A summer wedding is planned. She wishes Flynn the best in his life, and remains fond of him. She hopes he is at peace. She is.

Reading it felt, for Flynn, like being punched in the chest. Somehow it never occurred to him that Lorena would also move on with her life, that since her feelings for him never turned into the relationship she was hoping for, she would tidily shut the door and walk away. And Luka – he’s a doctor, he’s a great guy, he and Flynn have known each other forever, he and Lorena will have a wonderful life. A baby girl named Iris. The ghost of a smiling child floated into Flynn’s head and has never entirely left. It hurt in a way he can’t articulate. It still does. He loved Lorena, in some unformed, tentative, unrealized way, even if Lucy was already between them, somehow, from the start. He knows why Lorena has written the letter as she did, with the tone of wishing an old flame well, even if they were never officially together. She has made it clear that as far as she and her life are concerned, the wound is no longer open, the space has been filled. Perhaps this put them out of danger from Rittenhouse, but Flynn can’t risk writing back. Lorena will probably wonder why she even bothered, and go to her child and future husband, and live. He wants that, God, he wants that, he does. And yet.

That was the night he finally broke a little, under the strain, the effort, the loneliness. He feels corroded, rusted and deformed and darkened, and he was no saint to start with. He is fighting for something, not just against, but he’s not sure he can see it anymore. It was a strange and highly colored dream, and he’s losing the impossible kernel of faith, or fate, that has driven him thus far. It’s too much. It’s too much.

Someone found his hideout the next day, and Flynn killed him. It’s not clear whether he needed to. It was probably just a lost backpacker stumbling on a place that looked inhabited in the woods. Probably. But Flynn shot him anyway and buried him five miles away from the nearest cell phone signal. It’s not the first man he’s killed on this journey, and by far not the first he’s killed in his life. But it was the first one he killed while the man was defenseless, on his knees, and begging that he just wanted to see his mother again.

(It’s a good thing Lorena is with a man, not a monster.)

(A very good thing.)

(Very good.)

(Very.)

The flight finally lands in London, Flynn just makes it through customs with the bogus Gabriel Ashe passport (the customs officer is a little dubious, but the queue is very long and he smiles as unthreateningly as possible) and heads into the City. He has guessed the approximate location of the hotel that Mason Industries is staying at – it’ll be somewhere fancy – but he can’t be completely sure. There are a lot of upmarket hotels in London, after all, and he needs to be careful about which member of the squad he snipes off. He needs someone well-placed on the project, who can answer his questions, and someone who is conveniently clueless about the fact that Mason is in it deep with Rittenhouse, who is so blessedly fortunate as to never have heard the name “Rittenhouse” in their life. Flynn has a few ideas, but he is willing to be flexible. See what comes up, as it were.

The law is almost a ridiculous concept to Flynn now, has had no bearing on his actions whatsoever for months and months. And so he does not care that he has flagrantly illegal methods of tapping into the vast network of data, of closed-circuit television and cell phone signals and open wifi hotspots and all the other stuff that you can access with just a little effort. He narrows it down to Covent Garden, wanders around until he has visual. Yes, it’s him. One of Mason’s engineers. Due to Flynn’s extensive scrutiny of the employee lists, he can identify him as Rufus Carlin. He looks to be on a date. That’s unfortunate.

Flynn takes a better grip on his gun inside his jacket pocket, and strolls forward for a chat.

“I’m sorry?” Rufus repeats, when Mysterious European Gunman makes another brusque motion. Is he a Bond villain? Is this the start of a heist film where Rufus and Jiya race through London, Paris, Madrid, Budapest, and Rome, trying to stop him before he can launch a nuke from his secret Swiss Alps base? (Rufus should wonder what it says that he has this fantasy all ready to go, but better for all concerned that it remain a fantasy – he is not an action hero). “How do you know my name? What is – do you think you can just – ”

“Let’s just agree I know more than you do, Rufus.” A flash of a shark-like white smile, which (amazingly) does nothing to make him feel more confident. “Sorry to interrupt your date.”

“It’s – ” Rufus starts into his well-worn spiel that it’s not a date, until he realizes that a) they are getting sidetracked, and b) this is not Douche von Douchebag’s business anyway. “Well then? How about you not interrupt it? And just let me go? Look, I’ve got some money. Is this a robbery? You want that? You can have it, man. Seriously”

He makes a motion as if to go for his wallet, thinking that at least he wasn’t dumb enough to bring his passport out – as long as he doesn’t need to spend his time here tied up in the consulate getting a new one, Jerkface McGee here can have the rest. Cancel his credit cards and whatever else, it’s not worth his life. But the man shakes his head. “I don’t want your money. Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

Rufus hesitates. The dude does have a gun and it’s clear just to look at him that he’s not afraid to use it, and who knows what he has in the other jacket pocket – a detonator for a bomb? Damn, and one of the things he was looking forward to on this trip was a lessened risk of being shot for walking down the street while black. “Can I just – can I just tell Jiya that – ”

“Sorry,” the man says pleasantly. “Can’t have her calling anyone. Come on.”

With that, he takes Rufus by the jacket sleeve and walks him briskly out, into the plaza and up toward Leicester Square. Rufus keeps twisting vainly over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of Jiya – great, there goes that entire successful day, she’s gonna think he ditched her on purpose like an asshole, or he’s just the world’s most inattentive doofus who couldn’t bother to wait for her before running back for a nap. Yes, he has more problems on his hands, but that one stings. “Hey,” he says. “Can I call you back? You know, meet for coffee tomorrow, if this is really what you – ”

“Do you think I’m an idiot, Rufus?”

“No… sir?”

“Good.” Sir Shithead keeps walking. Rufus wants to ask him to let go of his sleeve, but he has a feeling that wouldn’t go anywhere good. They make their way up into the maze of side streets and closes that branch off the major thoroughfares in London, toward a tea shop – wait, really, the guy is going to abduct him in broad daylight and then buy him an Earl Grey? Is this the most British kidnapping in existence? His accent isn’t British, though. Rufus is confused enough not to struggle (besides, he also can’t see that going anywhere good) as they reach the shop, Herr Horrible orders a small black coffee, and does not offer to get Rufus anything (he just had his latte, but still). Rufus asks for a Coke just as the man is about to pay, though, which means that he is obliged to buy it. As they sit down at a corner table barely large enough to fit him, the Red Baron raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

“Well what?” Rufus snaps. “Like I’m the one who needs to explain myself here?”

“I just want answers.” The man – Rufus is enjoying coming up with new disparaging nicknames for him, since it’s the only satisfaction he is getting out of this, but he would like an actual one – sounds impatient. “Do that, you can be back on your way in ten, fifteen minutes, tell the girl that you just got lost. You want to cooperate or not?”

Rufus holds out as long as he dares. Then he says, “How do you know my name?”

“You work for Mason Industries. Yes?”

Oh brother, Rufus thinks. Not another throw-his-weight-around military white boy coming to ask probing questions. This one is almost making him miss Wyatt. “Yeah, so?”

“Does Emma Whitmore still work there?”

“She transferred? About a year and a half ago? She still works there, yeah, but I think she took a job at one of the other offices. Here, maybe?”

“Where?” the man demands. “Where?”

Rufus stalls. It’s pretty clear from the look on the Teutonic Terror’s face that it’s bad news for Emma if he catches up to her. He and Emma have never been buddy-buddy, but they’ve worked together for a while, he’s done the calculations responsible for sending her through time, and he doesn’t want that on his head. He is relieved that it is the truth as he says, “I don’t know. We haven’t exactly been keeping up with Christmas cards.”

The man stares at him narrowly. “Do you know if she’s planning to rejoin the main office?”

“I don’t know,” Rufus repeats. “Maybe you should have kidnapped the HR manager.”

For half a moment, a sardonic but genuinely amused smile flickers across the hard lines of the other man’s face. Then it’s all back to business. “Fine,” he says. “How close is the time machine to being done?”

“I – ?” Rufus stares at him. “I – what are you talking about?”

“You’re a smart man, Rufus. Don’t act like an idiot.”

There is a silence long enough to turn very uncomfortable. They stare at each other over the rickety table. Rufus feels as if his odds of flipping it and launching the hot coffee into the man’s face are very slim, but he has to fight down an urge to do just that. Instead of answering, he says, “I’m guessing you and Wyatt Logan know each other?”

Something brief and inscrutable appears, then disappears, in the man’s guarded gaze. “We were acquainted in the past,” he says noncommittally. “Answer the question, please.”

“This is going to get me into trouble.”

“I honestly don’t care if it does or not.”

“Yeah, well. I do.”

“You’d care about something more if you knew why I was asking. And if you have to make me do it a third time – ”

“Jeez.” Rufus raises his hands. “Scorched-earth everything with you, isn’t it? Look. We’ve progressed to running more extensive tests, but it’s still very buggy. One of the lead engineers just got out of an eight-month coma. It’s not out of any sort of beta.”

“When do you think it will be?”

“What are you, some kind of corporate spy? Government whistleblower?” Mason has, for obvious reasons, wanted to keep this project strictly under wraps, and Rufus has definitely already breached several paragraphs of his organizational NDA by talking this much. “Shoot me if you want, but you’re not going to make me turn on – ”

That mirthless smile pays a visit to the corner of In Soviet Russia’s mouth. “I don’t have to shoot you,” he points out. “The girl you were with. I got a nice look at her face. From my examination of the employee directory, I think that is… Jiya, yes? Jiya Marri?”

That rocks Rufus onto his heels and all further smart remarks out of his mouth. “You son of a bitch,” he says, low and hard. “Stay away from her.”

“Do your part, Rufus, and neither of you ever have to see me again.” The man shrugs. “A little answer. Very easy.”

Rufus chews his tongue. Whatever he says, he has a feeling that it isn’t just an academic interest, that he could be directly responsible for setting off a barrel of nitroglycerin in the middle of Connor’s life – in everyone’s. Finally he says, “Again, like I said. It’s in beta. There is no expected timescale of completion when we’re talking about something this. The Mothership runs better, but we – ”

“The Mothership?” The man leans forward with an intent, wolfish expression. “What’s that?”

Shit. Rufus wants to bite his tongue off. He says reluctantly, “The main machine is called the Mothership. There’s a backup called the Lifeboat, but it’s designed just for short-term use, in the event of something going wrong with the Mothership’s crew and a rescue squad being sent to pull them out. That one’s really in beta.”

“Two time machines.” The man taps his fingers on the table, thinking hard. “And either of these, how do they run? Can you visit moments in your own lifetime?”

That is a weirdly specific question. Rufus almost wonders if he’s a crazy UFO fan, or something like that. Or maybe he’s clung onto a time machine as a solution for the big steaming heap of cow poop that his life appears to be – go back and change all your bad choices, that kind of thing. “No,” he says. “That’s not possible. You can’t travel on your own timeline. The ones that’ve tried, you – you don’t want to know what happened to them. The universe doesn’t like it, it’s not like Harry Potter with two versions of you running around.”

For some reason, that answer disturbs his interlocutor (yeah, he’s disturbed now, finally some equality). Rufus wants to demand how the hell he knows this, where he’s got his information and what he is planning to do. There is a final pause until the man makes up his mind. “Give me your access card to Mason Industries,” he says. “Your ID, your key card, whatever I need to get in. You can say you lost them.”

“I just happened to lose my ID?”

“Or I can rob you,” the man points out. “Yes, I think it might be better if we do that. I will take your money after all. London is an expensive city, why not?”

“I can’t let you into Mason Industries. I can’t – ”

“You’re here in London for the whole week. The entire team is. That is much neater, I don’t need to kill anyone to get in. You can tell Jiya that you were robbed, she will feel very sorry for you. A happy ending. You don’t report it to anyone and you don’t say anything about losing the card until you get back.”

“To what, a giant bomb crater where Mason Industries used to be?”

“Oh, no.” The man shakes his head. “I don’t want to destroy it. I just need information. Now. You give me your ID card, the cash in your wallet, and anything else a robber might take. I will let you keep your phone. Hurry up, Rufus. Jiya must be looking for you.”

Rufus has never wanted to kill anyone with a stare more than he has wanted to kill this idiot, but he can’t think what else to do. Slowly, he fumbles out his Mason Industries ID and key card on its lanyard, jerks the cash envelope out, and shoves it over the table. It’s not even his money, but still. He feels the betrayal on a soul-deep level, the one thing he hates most. What a way to repay Connor, after everything he has done for him. Rufus feels tainted and unhappy and used. “There,” he snaps. “Take it. Are we done?”

“You tell me.” The man shrugs, pocketing the card and cash. “Actually, I have changed my mind. A robber would take your phone. Give it to me, I will mail it back in a few weeks.”

“I – ” Rufus clutches his phone like his firstborn child. Like any proper millennial, he cannot function more than a few hours without it. “Like I’m going to believe that?”

“Phone. Now.”

Rufus grits his teeth, thinks that he can hopefully report it as stolen and freeze it before the bastard has time to mine all its data, and drops it into his hand. King Kraptacular, of course, makes sure to ask him for the passcode, makes Rufus do it to demonstrate that it is in fact the right one, and then finally stands up with a mocking grin. “It’s been good to do business with you,” he says, touching two fingers to his hat. “Enjoy your trip to London, Rufus.”

And with that, leaving Rufus sitting there completely gobsmacked, he goes.

Wyatt Logan has no idea how to find a man whose entire professional value lies in his ability to completely fucking disappear at will, but by God, that is not going to stop him trying.

He can’t exactly drive up to NSA headquarters and demand to consult their personnel files, especially for ex-personnel that, as far as Wyatt knows, still have a standing arrest warrant. He did try the old phone number for Flynn, but he was not surprised at all when the cool female robot voice told him that this number was not in service. He’s tried to think if anyone in the intelligence branch of things owes him a favor, or might feel bad for him because his wife is probably dead and would be willing to kick some rocks. The possibility of the quest has galvanized Wyatt like a direct intravenous hit of caffeine; he hasn’t slept more than three hours at one time since this started. It’s been four days, and he has barely focused on the fact that for all intents and purposes, the cops are looking for a body. That’s not it, that’s not what happened. Jess is alive somehow, somewhere. She’s alive.

In the course of this, Wyatt has also been managing to convince himself that Flynn is not as bad as he remembers. Sure, he was an abrasive jackass with zero interpersonal skills and an amazing ability to make everything ten times more difficult than it needs to be, but to be fair, when they actually met face-to-face, Flynn had just been shot twice and was freshly out of emergency surgery. That might put a damper on anyone’s sunny disposition, and Wyatt is painfully aware that his own behavior has been no basket of roses. Maybe it’s just because he’s so lonely, he’s so desperately lonely and so terrified that this in fact the one mistake he cannot take back or get around, but he’s already half-made Flynn into a friend in his head. Grumpy, but essentially good-hearted. Definitely willing to lend an old pal (even in a very loose sense of the word) a hand. It’ll work out. It has to.

No one ever said that this was the most realistic appraisal of the situation, but at least it’s kept Wyatt from eating bark off trees, and after his feverish hours of work, he’s decided that the best angle he has into the whole thing is Mason Industries. However, that is going to piss off Rittenhouse something wild; the whole scene in the car was very clear at instructing him that he had better never come near that place again. If Wyatt is trying to be clandestine, this is not the way to do it. The only other person he can still contact (hopefully) is not guaranteed special access either, and it could once more put her in danger. But she’s also the only human being on the planet who might know where Flynn is, or at least want to see him again too. And really. Wyatt has nothing left to lose.

He takes out his phone, and dials.

It rings once, then twice, then again. Just as he thinks it’s not going to be answered, it is. “Hello?” She sounds confused and tenuous. “Is this – Wyatt?”

“Hi.” Wyatt blows out an unsteady breath. He was the one who told her to call him if she was ever scared, if she needed anything, and now here he is, practically ready to beg. “Lucy. I – I know it’s been a while since we talked. I’m sorry to just call you out of the blue.”

“No, of course,” Lucy says. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Are you okay?”

Wyatt was fondly supposing that he didn’t sound like that much of a wreck, but he appears to have been disabused of that along with everything else. “Actually,” he says, swallowing hard as his voice catches. “Actually. . . since you ask, I’m. . . I’ve been better. A lot better. I’m sorry again, I know this may not be something you want to talk about, but have you – have you seen Flynn recently? Garcia Flynn?” As if there can be another.

There’s a marked silence. Then Lucy says, “No. I haven’t seen him for almost two years.”

Wyatt can feel his fragile, giddy optimism heading for a crash as fast as it went up, but he still refuses to let this be the end of the road. “So you – you don’t know where he is these days, or what he’s doing, or – ?”

“No,” Lucy says. “I have no idea. Wyatt, what’s – what’s going on?”

Wyatt stares at the ceiling, trying to formulate the words. The idea of speaking it aloud is still unbearable, and it’s bad enough for Lucy that he called her like this, he doesn’t need to start unloading his flaming trainwreck of emotional baggage onto her. He tries to keep his voice as calm as it would be at a briefing for his superiors. Tells her, as succinctly as he can, what’s happened, and why he’s looking for Flynn.

Lucy makes shocked and sympathetic noises, which Wyatt appreciates, but he knows he still does not deserve her pity. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “Is there anything else I can do? Do you have – have family in town, or anything?”

“Family?” Wyatt laughs, bone-dry. “My family? Nah. Grandpa Sherwin died a few years ago. Jess’s family has – they’re in town, they’ve been with the cops. I get the feeling that they think I should be at the station more, that I wasn’t there for her when she was alive and now I’m not there for her when she’s – ”

He stops. He can’t bear the fact that he almost said it, that it seemed so terribly possible. It feels like there’s a boulder wedged in his throat, and he rubs his hand over his eyes, trying to collect himself. “Anyway,” he manages. “I told them that I was – that I was working on something, and – this is my fault, I know it is. But if it’s not just some local scumbag, if it’s more – if it’s them – ”

Lucy doesn’t answer immediately. He can hear what she must be thinking – that he’s got a lot of nerve strolling into her life again, dumping a sob story about his wife on her, and assuming she will return to something that must hurt her as well, that she will unearth what must be some not-very-well-buried bodies and contend once more with the ghosts. She would be justified in any or all of it, and he tries to steady himself for her telling him to take a hike. There might still be some other way to track down Flynn, though it gets much narrower and more impossible if so. But when there’s nothing else but this –

“Okay,” Lucy says, quiet and level and cool as stone. “What do you need?”

This is not the wisest idea Lucy has ever had, not by a long shot. She should be unnerved, perhaps (but again, that is the whole point) at how greatly not-wise it is. And yet. She’s not.

It feels like something has changed in her, turned as sharply as a key, and she’s not even sure what. Just in that moment of finally accepting that Flynn was gone (the way that Wyatt is desperate not to do with Jessica, but it is not for Lucy to decide that before its time) it was like she woke up, somehow. There was never any chance that she was going to sit around and languish on a couch and weep. She got right on with her life, professionally and personally, and she’s done fine with it. And yet, after her visit to her mother’s the other day, when she’s gotten even fewer answers than she has questions, when she realized that she’s lived like she’s sleepwalking, determined that things are normal, not to rock the boat, to make everyone else’s lives easier and safer, pushing herself further and further away –

She doesn’t know what, but she’s sick of it, she’s angry, she’s tired, and she’s not willing to do it anymore. So suddenly, when Wyatt Logan calls out of the clear blue sky, says his wife is missing, and hints that he thinks Rittenhouse has something to do with it, Lucy’s game.

She drives to her mom’s house when she knows that Carol will be out for a doctor’s appointment, goes upstairs, and gets the gun out of the box. Takes the ammunition as well, hurries down to her car feeling properly scandalous – she has never done something like this, it doesn’t even feel like her. She’s licensed the gun in the state of California, she’s allowed to carry it, but she still puts it in the glovebox and locks it. Her hands are shaking, but she clenches them, and they stop. Then she drives back to Stanford, finishes her day, and waits.

It’s around five o’clock when there’s a knock on her office door, and she stands up to open it. Has guessed who it is, but it’s still a small shock to see him in person. He doesn’t look that great, with a missing wife and a long drive under his belt, but he manages a wan smile and offers his hand. “Hey, Lucy.”

Lucy pauses, then reaches out and hugs him. She doesn’t know why, other than that he looks like he could use it, and Wyatt goes briefly stiff, then awkwardly hugs her back. They step apart after a moment, and he clears his throat. “I – so. . . how. . . how are you?”

“Fine.” The word almost lives on her lips these days. “It’s not going to cause you any problems with the cops or Jessica’s family if you came up here, is it?”

“Them?” Wyatt laughs bitterly. “They’ve never exactly been my biggest fans, and honestly, I’m not sure I blame them anymore. Her stepdad almost didn’t attend the wedding – he’s a son of a bitch anyway, but. . . yeah. I told them I was working on something to get her back, and that’s not a lie. Told them to call if the cops – ” He stops. “Well, if anything came up.”

Lucy supposes this is his business, and what they are proposing is going to take enough attention and concentration that they don’t need any more distractions. Wyatt waits as she finishes up a few things, turns off the lights, and grabs her purse. They have a few hours to kill, so they get a quick dinner and try to catch up. The conversation isn’t exactly bountiful, and it’s hard to be sure what the dynamic here should be. Old friends? Not exactly friends, but they did trust each other in a tight spot, and they’re not strangers. Heist partners preparing for the night’s action? Some of that is true, but still. Should she be comforting him, offering to talk him through his problems? She is not a trained psychiatrist, and she gets the sense that Wyatt’s problems are a lot more than she’s reasonably prepared to take any kind of crack at, but there’s also value to be had in just talking to someone who cares. She doesn’t get the feeling there’s a whole lot of that in his life, really. Especially not now.

In any case, it’s getting later, and it’s time to put their plan (such as it is) into action. There is a solid chance that this night ends with both of them arrested, but (who is she and what has she done with Lucy Preston) the idea almost exhilarates her. They drop off her car at home, and Wyatt glances at the house. “All that space just for you?”

“I – no. We – live together. My boy – boyfriend and I.” Lucy feels like a high schooler about to blush at saying the word, given how awkward it feels on her tongue. “Noah.”

“That was – ” Wyatt gives her a funny look. “Wait, was that the doctor at the hospital when Flynn was shot?”

“Yeah. We dated a couple years before that, and I… we got back together about a year ago.” Lucy goes around the side of Wyatt’s truck and climbs in, hoping that none of the neighbors are peering out their windows and will feel like telling Noah about it later. Suburbanites are in fact horrible gossips, apparently. But this way, they streamline their operations, Noah will hopefully just think she’s out for a walk or whatever when he gets home, and it’s just easier to do this in one car. “He works in Oakland now.”

Wyatt glances at her, but doesn’t say anything, as if well aware that he has no stones to throw at anyone else’s relationship choices. He starts the truck and they pull out, heading down the street and back toward the freeway. Here goes nothing.

They are, of course, not going to do this like total savages and/or jailbirds if at all avoidable, and pull into the Mason Industries parking lot when, as planned, it has almost cleared out for the day. There are in fact almost no cars there, which might either make things easier or much more complicated, and Wyatt considers it with a furrowed brow. “Technically, we’re still going to have to break in,” he says. “Let me take the lead, all right? I’ve got a lot less to lose if I’m popped for B&E, but I’m guessing Stanford would be less impressed.”

“I don’t care,” Lucy says, startling herself. She leans forward and checks that the zipped gun case is still in her purse; she took it out of the glovebox before leaving her car. “We’re going to save your wife, all right? We’re going to save your wife and I don’t care if we have to step on Rittenhouse’s toes to do it. I’m tired of waiting and worrying if they’re coming after me again one day. Maybe it’s time we found out.”

And with that, as Wyatt is still blinking, Lucy pushes open the truck door and steps down into the blurry blue evening. She unzips the case and checks that the gun is loaded, but that the safety is on and there’s no risk of it discharging automatically. Her hands are almost practiced at this, though she has obviously never been in a real situation of possibly having to use it and doesn’t know that she ever wants there to be a first. Obviously, they are not going to blaze in and hold a lab full of terrified scientists (or even the lab’s night crew) hostage, but Wyatt wants to talk to Connor Mason, and Lucy intends to see that he does. If that involves a little hardball, even though ‘hardball’ is far from a five-foot-five history professor’s skill set, fine.

They cross the parking lot and head for the visitor’s entrance, which is still open. They push the glass doors open and stroll down to the reception area, where the poor receptionist is just switching off her computer and preparing to go home. At the sight of them, she looks up with a start. “I’m sorry, we’re just about to – there aren’t any more appointments scheduled, I’m sorry, I was just about to lock the building, sir, ma’am, so – ”

“Hi,” Lucy says, smiling sweetly. “We’d like to talk to Connor Mason.”

The receptionist goggles at her. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, this is past business hours. Besides, Mr. Mason is out of the country until next week. Obviously, he’s a very important and busy man, you can’t just expect to walk in off the street and expect to see him – ”

“Fine.” Wyatt steps up next to Lucy. “Who else is here?”

The receptionist’s eyes whiz back and forth between them. She is obviously getting the sense that they are neither a pair of IT professionals late for an appointment, or a couple of starstruck fans wandering off the street and trying to cadge a meeting with their idol for a viral video. She makes a move as if to reach for a security button under the desk, but Wyatt says, “I wouldn’t, ma’am.”

The receptionist glances at Lucy, clearly hoping for some female solidarity here. Normally, that is 100% Lucy’s bag otherwise, but tonight, alas, principles have to be sacrificed in more ways than one. “Tammy,” she says, glancing at the ID badge around the receptionist’s neck. “How about we just borrow that for a few minutes? You sit here and we’ll be right back.”

“I’m going to call security,” Tammy the receptionist warns them. “You need to – ”

“I wouldn’t,” Wyatt repeats. “What you’re going to do is switch off the security cameras, or at least scramble them for a few minutes. We don’t want to hurt you, ma’am, we don’t want to hurt you at all. But we need some answers, and we won’t leave until we have them.”

“I told you. Mr. Mason isn’t here.” Tammy’s face is white. “I couldn’t bring you to talk to him even if I wanted to. I don’t know what you want. Please, I have two children, I – ”

“Calm down,” Lucy says gently. “We’re not here to hurt you, like he said. But even if Mason isn’t here, there has to be someone else we can speak with.”

“No, they’re – it’s a team trip, all the project leads and main engineers went to London, it’s only a few part-timers here, and they’re gone for the night. I don’t want to lose my job, I – ”

“Yeah?” Wyatt says roughly. “Well, I really didn’t want to lose my wife. So I guess it’s going to be hard knocks for everybody, isn’t it? How about his office? Can you take us to his office? Probably won’t be able to get into his computer, but there have to be some paper files. Your boss know anything about Rittenhouse? Probably does, doesn’t he? Since he’s in it?”

Tammy flinches as if she’s been slapped. “Sir – ” She looks appealingly back at Lucy. “Please, it’s – you don’t know, you – ”

“I think you should take us to Connor Mason’s office,” Lucy says, gently but relentlessly. “I really think you should.”

Tammy hesitates.

Lucy reaches into her purse, and draws out what’s in her hand just enough to be seen.

Tammy blanches, and Wyatt blinks again, as if he had no idea she was carrying until now and is impressed (and slightly turned on) despite himself. Lucy shakes her head minutely at him when he opens his mouth as if to ask, and they wait until Tammy, fingers trembling, takes her key card, swipes it, and enters a few things clearly intended to put a five-minute freeze on the relevant cameras. Then she clicks around the desk, beckons them with a very tight nod, and starts to walk, as Lucy realizes she can’t let her get too far ahead of them, and jogs to catch up. She takes firm hold of Tammy’s wrist, and the other woman jerks as if it’s a handcuff. Lucy has never had anyone look at her with that much fear and revulsion before, and she isn’t sure she likes it. And yet, there is an unmistakable frisson of power that is, in a sick way, kind of appealing. Oh God, she isn’t a psycho, is she? She’s not. She’s not.

They walk down a glass corridor that overlooks a vast, dim steel warehouse, banked with computers and consoles on every side. It looks kind of like NASA launch headquarters, an impression reinforced by the sight of the large white plasteel eyeball sitting on struts in the middle of the expanse. It’s banded with blue blinking lights, increasing its resemblance to a UFO even more, and Lucy suddenly thinks that she might know exactly what that is. There has, obviously, still been a kernel of doubt in her mind – Emma was convinced that Mason Industries was building a time machine and she was test-piloting it, yes, but Emma was crazy. This, though. It could somehow be a film prop that Mason Industries is building for some bizarre reason rather than a set dresser in Hollywood, but Lucy doesn’t think so.

Wyatt, who has no clue (probably for the best) that time travel enters into this anywhere, is totally befuddled, but Lucy once more shakes her head at him. They complete the traverse to the doors of important-looking offices – Connor Mason, Anthony Bruhl, a couple others – and Tammy swipes her key card to open Connor’s. One of them is going to have to watch her while the other ransacks for useful intel. Otherwise she will run away and raise the alarm, and then they’re definitely getting arrested. Or worse.

With Tammy still firmly in hand, Lucy ventures over the threshold. She has no idea how they’re supposed to shake down Mason’s office in five minutes or less for some convenient Rittenhouse papers that he might just happen to have in some carelessly unsecured file cabinet. Wyatt, however, clearly doesn’t care if they’re secured or not. He takes a small crowbar out of his jacket and advances in after the women, looking around as if to decide where he needs to start smashing. Lucy appears to be on Tammy-minding duty, but she hopes Wyatt doesn’t leave too much of a mess. There’s no guarantee how long the cameras stay off. Or did they actually even go off in the first place? Maybe they should have worn balaclavas like proper robbers. Wyatt’s right, Stanford will not be enthused, and –

Just then, all the remaining blinking lights in the room, and along the hall, go dark. Wyatt, who was about to start bashing the bejesus out of Connor Mason’s file cabinets, stops with a startled curse, and Lucy thinks that this must be it, Tammy tricked them and the emergency protocol is kicking in. But if so, you’d expect klaxons and flashing lights, not just silent darkness. What the hell? Power just shut down at eight o’clock every night? But from what little Lucy can make out of Tammy’s face in the red emergency backups that are just flickering on, she is as startled as they are. Wasn’t expecting that.

Lucy looks down into the launch area, which she can see from Mason’s magisterial God’s eye view of his kingdom, and her heart skips a beat. She can just see a dark figure wending through the shadows, making its way purposefully toward the time machine (as it has to be). There’s someone else here, someone else broke in, shut down the lights and surveillance with a lot more skill than their clumsy receptionist kidnapping, and is making for its – for his? – target like a homing pigeon. No way to tell if it’s bad news or worse.

“Wyatt?” Lucy hisses. “Wyatt!”

Wyatt, who has clearly been about to decide if he should just smash some shit anyway for the stress relief, looks over with a start and follows her pointing finger down to the interloper on the operations floor. He stashes the crowbar hastily back in his jacket and pulls out his gun instead, then strides out of the office and toward the metal stairs that open into the warehouse. Lucy hurries after him, Tammy bumping in her wake like a kite on the end of a string, then pushes her down to hide behind a computer bank, which the receptionist does only too gladly. If she can somehow call 911 from there, well, that’s another problem. Lucy wants to have her hands free in case Wyatt needs any help.

She reaches in, pulls out the gun, and switches the safety off. Can in fact feel the difference, the way it comes alive, and advances at Wyatt’s side in recon stance. They’re just on the other side of the time machine from the intruder, and Lucy and Wyatt flatten themselves stealthily against it, guns in hand. They exchange a look, trying to decide if they need to actually fire. Not in a warehouse full of priceless technology, not when they’ve already illegally entered, not when they don’t know who the other person or what they want, but –

They can hear footsteps. They need to make a decision.

They throw themselves out from behind the time machine and come around, raising their guns at the intruder, who – even faster than them – has already done the same. Lucy has an indistinct impression of unusual height, and a merciless stare in the low, hellish light, and then, all the blood draining out of her head, her heart, her world. It can’t be, it can’t, and yet. All along, there was really no one else it could be.

She can’t get enough air into her lungs, and isn’t sure she will again. Her strangled whisper sounds as loud as a shout.

“Flynn?”

[newstfionline]

I just visited Iran. Here’s what I heard about the U.S.

Peter Van Buren, Reuters, May 21, 2018

Iran is a dangerous place these days, at least in a car. Traffic in the cities here moves like Tetris, with drivers pushing their cars into any open space that will fit. Trips begin in chaos and play out in confusion. How it ends is always up to God’s will, everyone says.

I went to Iran this month to attend a conference on the Palestinians, Jerusalem, and the greater Middle East sponsored by an Iran-based nongovernment organization. On the sidelines of the meeting, I met with students at Mashhad University, Ferdowsi University, and at a woman’s educational institute, as well as with visiting scholars from Tehran.

Just before my trip the United States withdrew from the nuclear accord, and while I was in the northeastern city of Mashhad, officially moved the embassy in Israel to Jerusalem. These events were tracked in Iran as closely as World Cup scores, though absent celebration.

It was not hard to learn students’ opinions. “What does America want from us? To force us to negotiate? We did, we agreed, already, in 2015,” said one student in a reference to the year to nuclear agreement was signed. “Regime change--do Americans even know we vote for our government here?” said another. In answer to my query about Iranians having indeed overthrown one government 40 years ago, a grad student responded, “The Shah we overthrew, yes, but he was not selected by the Iranians, you installed him. Trump and Bolton [the names of the president and his national security adviser are almost always mentioned in one slur of mispronunciation] want us to change our government? And why do they think we will, because you make it harder for us to purchase Western goods?”

Two American Studies students likely headed to government jobs collectively translated a local idiom into “Who can sail an ark on such waters?” when asked if perhaps smarter, more targeted sanctions might move Iran to negotiate a new accord. “Who would we send to talk? The hardliners? Trump just told them they were right in 2015 when they said not to trust America.”

Iranians have reasonable access to information. Web tools such as VPNs get around government blocks. Instagram and Facebook are popular. Reuters.com was available openly at my hotel. You can watch the latest superhero movies on smuggled Blu-Ray. The ban on the popular social media app Telegram is seen as just an inconvenience to make “old people,” perhaps a euphemism for the hardliners, feel better. But there is an absence of counter-balancing physical presence to the rhetoric, theirs from New York and ours from places like Mashhad.

So despite the facts, conclusions are often amiss. The opening of cinemas in Saudi Arabia is the West using culture to attack morals--”Hollywoodism.” Israeli soldiers are said to broadcast pornography into Muslim homes, and a well-known Western media magnate is believed to be secretly creating child sex movies in Farsi. Israel drives American foreign policy, the Iranian dissident group dedicated to regime change, MEK, is behind every bush (John Bolton again). America demands a unipolar world which excludes Iran. And it is no coincidence American decisions favoring Israel were pushed into Muslim faces at the start of the holy month of Ramadan!

There is little sense of the powerful role U.S. domestic politics played in moving the American embassy to Jerusalem, faint awareness of the influence of the evangelical voting bloc. Instead, Washington’s actions are evidence of… everything. Iran is a nation under attack. Iranian efforts to reach out to the United States are slapped down, the time between reach and slap a measure only of the degree of duplicity. The students expressed an ongoing concern the United States wants to destroy them. That America has since decades before they were born wanted to destroy them.

These students are terribly familiar with the United States, while terrified of it. Too many sat with me in a quiet room at a university named after a famous ancient poet and worried other Americans will someday come kill them.

Outside, in Mashhad city, there were no demonstrations, no flag burnings, and when I visited the central mosque here after Friday prayers more people were interested in a selfie with a foreigner than anything else. But this is a religious city, home to the sacred shrine of the Eighth Imam, and from reception chats, to a speech at the conference, to a stem-winding sermon at the central mosque, the clerics were harsh. One looked me up and down like I was an unappealing meal before politely explaining the goal of burning the American flag is to “end the state.” On the wall behind him was a photo of the Statue of Liberty holding a Menorah, another showing Israeli leader Benjamin Netanyahu in jail. In a stirring speech, an important cleric stated the European Union is breakable by an Iran-China-Russia bloc. Zionist banks control the media. There is a dictatorship of the United Nations, Hollywood, and the International Monetary Fund.

People from the Iranian foreign ministry spoke of a deep frustration over having no Americans to talk to, unsure why 40 years after the Revolution the United States still questions the legitimacy and stability of Iran’s complex democratic theocracy. The anger from Washington, one older diplomat said, was like a phantom itch that people who have lost limbs sometimes experience, left from some past, stuck in the present, an itch there is no way to make go away. “Do you want this to all fail?” he asked, sweeping the room with his arm. “The Americans everywhere seem to have quit trying.”

Iran is an odd silk road. The air to me was a mix of honeysuckle, saffron, and diesel exhaust. Aside from the ubiquitous American sodas, somehow immune from sanctions (ordered here by color--red for Coke, white for Sprite, orange for Fanta), there are few U.S. products to crowd out the Chinese names alongside LG, Peugeot, Samsung, and Sony. Things are modern and extraordinarily clean, but at the same time worn, and when you look closely, patched and often repaired. The past, both 5,000 years ancient and in more recent images of the Revolution, is omnipresent in posters and murals.

It would be naive to think a place as complex as Iran could reveal itself in a short visit, but the people I encountered took that as their mission. They left me anxious, trying to calm the fears of aspirational people now seemingly cut off from aspiration, while bad actors in Washington and locally fill their gaps in understanding. “Our future,” said one scholar, “is already forgotten.”

Outside Ferdowsi University several of the students piled into a taxi and drove into the mad, mad traffic. You see people off here in the hope everyone gets where they need to go, because driving is always slow and often dangerous. It’s God’s will, everyone says.

Peter Van Buren, a 24-year State Department veteran, is the author of We Meant Well: How I Helped Lose the Battle for the Hearts and Minds of the Iraqi People and Hooper’s War: A Novel of WWII Japan.

[theantisocialcritic]

Archive Project - September 11, 2014 - Upcoming Fall 2014 Films

Yay! Its fall movie season! Blockbuster season is over and its time for Oscar Bait to rise! There is a lot of stuff coming out in the next 4 months, a lot of which I won't get around to reviewing. Lets take a look at what we're in for! September A Walk Among the Tombstones: Everybody loves Liam Neeson! The fall's first interesting movie stars him in something of a film noir murder mystery. The latter part of September tends to be when a lot of really underrated movies come out like Dredd, Looper, Prisoners and Rush. I have a good feeling about this one! Maze Runner: Hollywood will, for the fiftieth time this year, attempt to make the Hunger Games lighting strike again with another book adaption… This looks terrible… Tusk: If your a fan of the works of Kevin Smith your probably already dying for this one! Human Centipede with a Walrus! If your not familiar with the works of Kevin Smith… Go out and watch Clerks right now!! The Equalizer: Despite some early low reviews, film geeks are all clamming to see this movie! Hopes are high that Denzel Washington can create his own action series. Will it…? Probably not but hope so! October Annabelle: Fans of The Conjuring have been ranting about this too me for months now and i;ll take their word for it! I'm not a horror fan but this should be interesting! Gone Girl: The director of Fight Club, Seven, The Social Network and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo brings us a Ben Affleck film! Theres a lot of hype around this! Should be a good movie! Alexander and the No Good, etc: This looks lame… Automata: Some critics in high places have been mentioning this a lot. I haven't seen much promotional material for it but its supposed to be a decent Sci-Fi movie! We'll see! The Judge: Robert Downey Jr. plays a Judge that must defend his estranged father in court. Sounds good to me! Crimson Peak: Guillermo Del Toro fans have been collectively flipping out about this new horror movie. Del Toro is one of the best directs of horror in Hollywood and has a strong grasp of subtlety and a morbid sense of creativity. Might be something brilliant here! Dracula Untold: This movie reminds me of I, Frankenstein… thats a baaaaaad sign…. Book of Life: Topping the list of my most anticipated movies right now is Book of Life! A Disney movie filtered through the cultural sensibilities of El Tigre with all the racism beaten out of it by Guillermo Del Toro! This movie is visually gorgeous and looks fiercely creative! I'm super excited! BoxTrolls: Have you seen Coraline and ParaNorman? YOU NEED TO SEE CORALINE AND PARANORMAN!! Also see this! A fun, creative stop motion movie by an incredibly talented team! ParaNorman flopped in theaters and BoxTrolls needs to succeed! KingsMan: The Secret Service: Matthew Vaughn's newest pick starts British SS agents in training that have to stop some sort of plot from happening! Vaughn brought us Kick-A** and X-Men: First Class! Both excellent action movies! KingsMan should be interesting! Rifftrax LIVE Anaconda: The last two live shows by Rifftrax have been amazing! The live roasts of Sharknado and Godzilla (98) were absolutely hilarious! Their next roast should be really great! November Big Hero 6: Disney is on a freakin roll!! Frozen, Wreck it Ralph and Tangled were all great animated films that managed to go beyond just being cynically made animated films. They were all genuinely great pieces of film and now they look to be about to make light night strike again! Adapting the barely known Marvel comic series the same way they approach classic fairy tales might be a stroke of genius and seeing it play out with the same energy and style of Wreck it Ralph and Guardians of the Galaxy. This is my most anticipated movie of the fall! Intersteller: Someone once said that if Nolan ever made a forth Batman movie it would have to goto space to be bigger than the Dark Knight Rises. At least part of that was true. In his first movie since the completion of the Dark Knight Trilogy, Nolan presents a high caliper Science Fiction movie about man's last attempt to stave off extinction, looking beyond into the stars for a new home. This movie might be great! Dumb and Dumber Too: sooo… This is a thing…. Theory of Everything: I haven't heard much on this but its an art house romance movie about Steven Hawking. Should be fascinating if nothing else. Fox catcher: Why am I imagining Channing Tatum as Cinderella Man here..? Fury: Brad Pit plays a WWII tank driver, fighting on the front lines with a rookie crew member after the loss of his best soldier. These men must survive the war. Should be fascinating. MockingJay Part 1: I'm not sure how to feel about Hunger Games now that Catching Fire has passed. The first movie was extremely boring but the followup was a vast improvement I rather enjoyed. From here though I don't know where the series is going to go and how well the characters work within the formula of the first two movies is beyond me.. well see.. The Penguins of Madagascar: I generally hate spinoff animated movies. They aren't always bad but they feel terribly cynical and i'd rather they don't exist. Penguins feels like a rather good idea though, simply because there is proof of concept that has me thinking this might be well thought through. The animated cartoon on Nick Penguins of Madagascar has been an intermitedly interesting exercise in cynicism but managed a few really great episodes that I enjoyed as a teenager. It helps of course that the Penguins were the best part of the Madagascar movies. This might be something great! December Paddington: A wacky British bear goes on wacky misadventures! I… don't know how to feel... Exodus: With the rampant success of movies like Son of God and Noah, Biblical epics are becoming popular again in Hollywood. Now Ridley Scott (Alien, Gladiator, Blade Runner) is throwing his hat into the ring with a retelling of the story of Moses. Despite the weird casting and crappy promotional materials, Exodus has a lot of potential and might be one of the year's cinematic highlights! Hobbit: The Battle of Five Armies: What is the Hobbit Trilogy? A cynical, forced production? A party to celebrate the Lord of the Rings?  Whatever it is, these movies have been fun if nothing else. Finally the newest run through Middle-Earth will come to a conclusion. Can John Wattson defeat the voice of Khan…? Well clearly, he survives because he is in Fellowship… It'll still be cool though! Annie: I hate Annie… No amount of gimmicks and stunt casting will make me like it… Night at the Museum 3: I actually liked the first movie. It came out when I was young enough to find some enjoyment in it. The second one sucked… Now we have a long awaited by nobody third one which is anybody's guess. At this point the most interesting thing about it is that it is Robin William's last post-mortem performance so that will be fascinating. Into the Woods: This might be quietly brilliant. With Disney currently in the works on producing a full line of live action adaptions like Maleficient and Cinderella, a big production of the famed musical Into the Woods seems.. interesting… I'm not a huge fan to the musical but this might be what it takes for me to really get into it, depending on how they pull it off. The stage production is in my opinion a very disjointed story that only really gets by on its more anachronistic and surprisingly dark comedic moments. Seeing Disney try to pull it off however might be what it takes to elevate the story if they take it somewhere interesting! In any case, the cast is interesting and interested to see it. Unbroken: Angelina Jolie's directorial debut tells the story of an Olympic runner that is drafted to WWII, captured and forced into a prison camp. I don't know how good this is going to be, but at the very least it will be a strange, different sort of movie. The Interview: And to finish off the year, whats likely the thing that will finally spark WW3 with the North Koreans! Seth Rogen and James Franco are spies that infiltrate N. Korea and attempt to kill Kim Jong Un. Given Rogen's incredible recent filmography of This is the End and Neighbors, I think we are in for something special!   This will be an interesting season! Thank you for reading! Live long and prosper!

[didanawisgi]

Prayers aren’t doing anything. We need gun control laws. We need our government to take action... Or do we?

Ok, so since this is a blog, that means I have to write original stuff from time to time, otherwise it can’t rightly be called a blog, can it? I have many kinds of friends, and I make it a point to be friends with different people, especially ones with different opinions. Here, a family friend of my fiancee posted on her facebook this statement:  “Prayers aren’t doing anything. We need gun control laws. We need our government to take action.” She is very pro gun control and insists that action be taken, however, we politely entered into a discussion about it and I tried to explain why I am against “gun control”.  

I said:  “ I think the most important thing is identifying violent and unstable people early, but the state of our mental healthcare workforce is lacking. The culture and resources dedicated to this needs to shift. I think the political left should focus their efforts there and come up with the most humane ideas. As for gun control in general I am against and will continue to carry concealed. Most of the gun control ideas are either already on the books or knee-jerk and not well thought out. Also the second amendment precludes most of it anyway. I like for things to be practical and effective, so it’s just my opinion that we need to shift focus on how to empower physicians and law enforcement and the judiciary with laws while at the same time allocating more funds to mental health safety nets and research. “

She replied:  It’s hard for me, because I think no matter what we do considering the mental health community (which could take decades) won’t stop mass shootings. When someone has a conceal carry on during a mass shooting, I feel like it just makes it more dangerous because they don’t always know where to shoot, can hurt more innocent people, and could be considered the shooter. What about the mass shooting in Australia? The 1996 Port Arthur massacre resulted in legislation that saw a dramatic decline in gun crimes. It made a huge difference. Was sandy hook (and everything since) not enough to change our legislation? This pattern will continue as long as the NRA has politicians in its pocket.

I then said:  I understand where you are coming from; my perspective is different. Some of the best data and research currently available has put the onus on gun control proponents (for instance check out the Harvard Law study I posted below, that is fairly comprehensive and has good/logical points backed by statistical evidence). Most concealed carry holders have decent training and must demonstrate proficiency and accuracy by law. Also, they are trained/lectured in precisely which instances your gun can be pulled, under protection of the law. The NRA is not really the issue, but the millions of citizens that will not give up any Constitutional right apropos 2nd Amd. that hold their feet to the fire. If the NRA were dismantled entirely today, another would arise in a few months and eventually become just as prominent. I also plan on becoming an NRA member in the future, or whatever gun rights lobby group that will protect my right of self defense, particularly with the rise of white nationalist groups. The first thing the KKK and Jim Crow/government law did was to take away guns from black citizens. If you listen to Malcom X or even MLK (who owned firearms in his home for self defense), the logic and reasons seem fairly sound and self-evident, at least to me. Also, the 2nd amendment and the Federalist papers particularly Madison, make a compelling argument for it as well. Let me know if you want the link, it is a very interesting read. I still contend that the mental health in this country is terrible, even with my first hand knowledge, I still can't believe some of what I've seen. But yes, I understand where you are coming from. There will be no path forward with no improvement if we can't find some common ground on where to take action, as it seems stalemate currently.

She said she would like to read my sources...

Here is the article I cited in its entirety from Harvard Law Review journal: http://www.law.harvard.edu/.../Vol30_No2...

These are some of the more interesting/salient parts in terms of debate: 

INTRODUCTION International evidence and comparisons have long been offered as proof of the mantra that more guns mean more deaths and that fewer guns, therefore, mean fewer deaths.1 Unfortunately, such discussions are all too often been afflicted by misconceptions and factual error and focus on comparisons that are unrepresentative. It may be useful to begin with a few examples. There is a com‐ pound assertion that (a) guns are uniquely available in the United States compared with other modern developed nations, which is why (b) the United States has by far the highest murder rate. Though these assertions have been endlessly repeated, statement (b) is, in fact, false and statement (a) is substantially so. Since at least 1965, the false assertion that the United States has the industrialized world’s highest murder rate has been an artifact of politically motivated Soviet minimization designed to hide the true homicide rates.2 Since well before that date, the Soviet Union possessed extremely stringent gun controls3 that were effectuated by a police state apparatus providing stringent enforcement.4 So successful was that regime that few Russian civilians now have firearms and very few murders involve them.5 Yet, manifest suc‐ cess in keeping its people disarmed did not prevent the Soviet Union from having far and away the highest murder rate in the developed world.6 In the 1960s and early 1970s, the gun‐less So‐ viet Union’s murder rates paralleled or generally exceeded those of gun‐ridden America. While American rates stabilized and then steeply declined, however, Russian murder increased so drasti‐ cally that by the early 1990s the Russian rate was three times higher than that of the United States. Between 1998‐2004 (the lat‐ est figure available for Russia), Russian murder rates were nearly four times higher than American rates. Similar murder rates also characterize the Ukraine, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, and various other now‐independent European nations of the former U.S.S.R.7 Thus, in the United States and the former Soviet Union transition‐ ing into current‐day Russia, “homicide results suggest that where guns are scarce other weapons are substituted in killings.”8 While American gun ownership is quite high, Table 1 shows many other developed nations (e.g., Norway, Finland, Germany, France, Denmark) with high rates of gun ownership. These countries, however, have murder rates as low or lower than many devel‐ oped nations in which gun ownership is much rarer. For example, Luxembourg, where handguns are totally banned and ownership of any kind of gun is minimal, had a murder rate nine times higher than Germany in 2002. The same pattern appears when comparisons of violence to gun ownership are made within nations. Indeed, “data on fire‐ arms ownership by constabulary area in England,” like data from the United States, show “a negative correlation,”10 that is, “where firearms are most dense violent crime rates are lowest, and where guns are least dense violent crime rates are high‐ est.”11 A second misconception about the relationship between fire‐ arms and violence attributes Europe’s generally low homicide rates to stringent gun control. That attribution cannot be accu‐ rate since murder in Europe was at an all‐time low before the gun controls were introduced.13 For instance, virtually the only English gun control during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries was the practice that police patrolled without guns. During this period gun control prevailed far less in England or Europe than in certain American states which nevertheless had—and continue to have—murder rates that were and are comparatively very high.14 In this connection, two recent studies are pertinent. In 2004, the U.S. National Academy of Sciences released its evaluation from a review of 253 journal articles, 99 books, 43 government publications, and some original empirical research. It failed to identify any gun control that had reduced violent crime, sui‐ cide, or gun accidents.15 The same conclusion was reached in 2003 by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control’s review of then‐ extant studies.16 Stringent gun controls were not adopted in England and Western Europe until after World War I. Consistent with the outcomes of the recent American studies just mentioned, these strict controls did not stem the general trend of ever‐growing violent crime throughout the post‐WWII industrialized world including the United States and Russia. Professor Malcolm’s study of English gun law and violent crime summarizes that nation’s nineteenth and twentieth century experience as fol‐ lows: The peacefulness England used to enjoy was not the result of strict gun laws. When it had no firearms restrictions [nine‐ teenth and early twentieth century] England had little violent crime, while the present extraordinarily stringent gun controls have not stopped the increase in violence or even the increase in armed violence.17 Armed crime, never a problem in England, has now become one. Handguns are banned but the Kingdom has millions of illegal firearms. Criminals have no trouble finding them and exhibit a new willingness to use them. In the decade after 1957, the use of guns in serious crime increased a hundredfold.18 In the late 1990s, England moved from stringent controls to a complete ban of all handguns and many types of long guns. Hundreds of thousands of guns were confiscated from those owners law‐abiding enough to turn them in to authorities. Without suggesting this caused violence, the ban’s ineffectiveness was such that by the year 2000 violent crime had so increased that England and Wales had Europe’s highest violent crime rate, far surpassing even the United States.19 Today, English news media headline violence in terms redolent of the doleful, melodramatic language that for so long characterized American news reports.20 One aspect of England’s recent experience deserves note, given how often and favorably advo‐ cates have compared English gun policy to its American coun‐ terpart over the past 35 years.21 A generally unstated issue in this notoriously emotional debate was the effect of the Warren Court and later restrictions on police powers on American gun policy. Critics of these decisions pointed to soaring American crime rates and argued simplistically that such decisions caused, or at least hampered, police in suppressing crime. But to some supporters of these judicial decisions, the example of England argued that the solution to crime was to restrict guns, not civil liberties. To gun control advocates, England, the cradle of our liberties, was a nation made so peaceful by strict gun control that its police did not even need to carry guns. The United States, it was argued, could attain such a desirable situation by radically reducing gun ownership, preferably by banning and confiscating handguns. The results discussed earlier contradict those expectations. On the one hand, despite constant and substantially increasing gun ownership, the United States saw progressive and dramatic reductions in criminal violence in the 1990s. On the other hand, the same time period in the United Kingdom saw a constant and dramatic increase in violent crime to which England’s response was ever‐more drastic gun control including, eventually, banning and confiscating all handguns and many types of long guns.22 Nevertheless, criminal violence rampantly increased so that by 2000 England surpassed the United States to become one of the developed world’s most violence‐ridden nations……

Here is part of their Conclusion: This Article has reviewed a significant amount of evidence from a wide variety of international sources. Each individual portion of evidence is subject to cavil—at the very least the general objection that the persuasiveness of social scientific evidence cannot remotely approach the persuasiveness of conclusions in the physical sciences. Nevertheless, the burden of proof rests on the proponents of the more guns equal more death and fewer guns equal less death mantra, especially since they argue public policy ought to be based on that mantra.149 To bear that burden would at the very least require showing that a large number of nations with more guns have more death and that nations that have imposed stringent gun controls have achieved substantial reductions in criminal violence (or suicide). But those correlations are not observed when a large number of nations are compared across the world. Source: Harvard Journal of Law and Public Policy http://www.law.harvard.edu/.../Vol30_No2...

I then said, Federalist 10 and 46 represent in my opinion, the chief parts/reasoning of why the second amendment is important.

Here is part of Madison's argument in Federalist 10: "From this view of the subject it may be concluded that a pure democracy… can admit of no cure for the mischiefs of faction. A common passion or interest will, in almost every case, be felt by a majority of the whole; a communication and concert result from the form of government itself; and there is nothing to check the inducements to sacrifice the weaker party or an obnoxious individual. Hence it is that such democracies have ever been spectacles of turbulence and contention; have ever been found incompatible with personal security or the rights of property; and have in general been as short in their lives as they have been violent in their deaths. Theoretic politicians, who have patronized this species of government, have erroneously supposed that by reducing mankind to a perfect equality in their political rights, they would, at the same time, be perfectly equalized and assimilated in their possessions, their opinions, and their passions. A republic, by which I mean a government in which the scheme of representation takes place, opens a different prospect, and promises the cure for which we are seeking. Let us examine the points in which it varies from pure democracy, and we shall comprehend both the nature of the cure and the efficacy which it must derive from the Union." James Madison, Federalist No. 10

So here he argues why a Republic is better then a Democracy, and the idea of the "mischiefs of faction" and how at any given time the majority will in one way or another coerce the minority. Democracy, counter-intuitively then, is the great civilization killer, and easily undermines individual freedom, hence the "tyranny of the majority".

In Federalist 46, he examines the differences and pros and cons of having a Standing army (Military controlled by government) vs armed citizenry: In Federalist No. 46, Madison calculates that the new government could support a standing army but "To these would be opposed a militia amounting to near half a million of citizens with arms in their hands, officered by men chosen from among themselves, fighting for their common liberties, and united and conducted by governments possessing their affections and confidence. It may well be doubted, whether a militia thus circumstanced could ever be conquered by such a proportion of regular troops… . Besides the advantage of being armed, which the Americans possess over the people of almost every other nation, the existence of subordinate governments, to which the people are attached, and by which the militia officers are appointed, forms a barrier against the enterprises of ambition, more insurmountable than any which a simple government of any form can admit of. Notwithstanding the military establishments in the several kingdoms of Europe, which are carried as far as the public resources will bear, the governments are afraid to trust the people with arms."

Here I think we find the seeds of the Second Amendment, and the relationship to standing army (Government controlled) vs an armed citizenry, which if need be (unlikely going to happen, but still) acts as a kind of fail safe to preserve the Republic (atall costs). Democracies do not need a first or second amendment, however a Republic does. (In my opinion). In a Democracy, the vast majority would be fine with gun control, likely not seeing any "modern" need for an armed citizenry, and would just vote on it and it would be so. But the problem is that this is precisely how nations die, and join the eternal cycle of failed states.

I could go on in a further attempt to explain my logic/reasoning as to why I think the second amendment is necessary to preserve the Union (forever), and to preserve the Republic (specifically). But I think I have said enough to at least get my reasoning in a way that does not make me seem like a radical. I think if you really consider it, you will see where I am coming from.

Also, here is an article from one of my favorite philosophers of today, Sam Harris, whom you may be familiar with. He writes with clarity and sound logic. Here is a piece he did on gun control (if you are interested): https://www.samharris.org/blog/item/the-riddle-of-the-gun

Here are some follow up questions in a pod cast: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I0DYpaLgWIo

Here is some more material on the "dilemmas of democracy" https://www.city-journal.org/.../james-madison-and...

Here's a brief discussion of Federalist 46 https://armsandthelaw.com/arc.../2005/04/federalist_no_4.php

Here is something I wrote that you may be interested in and partly explains why I am "republican" along with what I mentioned about Democracy and the "micheifs of faction": What follows is something I wrote for a facebook “civil politcal debate” as a favor to a fellow freemason in Canada, where I attempted to get at the essential reason why I think we have so much political upheaval, and how to get back to our Constitutional way of life by examining Hamilton’s Federalist No. 17 and the implications therein. “First, I would like to thank Bro. Charles for inviting me to comment in a civil discussion of politics, a subject I usually do not attempt to discuss on Facebook due to the inherent limitations of the medium itself. The format and back-and-forth nature of posts only seems to foster hurried and usually less well thought out arguments “in the heat of the post”. I have come to realize you do not persuade others by quipy remarks or tones that, in your own certitude, just come off as condescension regardless of how well thought out or how right you may be (or think you are). I shall attempt to render my opinion on the first part of your questions Charles, and that is, is the phenomenon like Trump and Brexit a ‘Great Rebellion’? The short answer is in the affirmative, and here is why. Two words: Power, and Sovereignty; but perhaps not in the way you may be thinking. What I mean by power is, where does the actual political power come from in this day and age? From the People presumably, but the fear, justified or not, is that both nations, a Constitutional Republic and a Parliamentary Democracy are no longer responsive to the Will of the People. The Spectre of Oppression rises as the perception of true freedom wanes. People feel more and more disconnected, disaffected, disenfranchised, and trod upon by undue regulation. In many instances, it affects them personally, financially, and has significant influence on their means. And yet, what recourse do they have? Voting ad nauseam with little to show for it? It feels as if no one represents you completely, largely due to entrenched political platform with little maneuverability, dominated by crony kow-towers suffering from Group Think. With each election cycle, we the Peoples of both Nations, feel like our Power, or Self-Evident Liberty to govern ourselves, is slipping away. Alexander Hamilton, in Federalist no. 17, has this to say about the advantage of maintaining matters related to Law and Justice at the Local level: “There is one transcendent advantage belonging to the province of the State governments, which alone suffices to place the matter in a clear and satisfactory light… I mean the ordinary administration of criminal and civil justice. This, of all others, is the most powerful, most universal, and most attractive source of popular obedience and attachment. It is this, which, being the immediate and visible guardian of life and property; having its benefits and its terrors in constant activity before the public eye; regulating all those personal interests, and familiar concerns, to which the sensibility of individuals is more immediately awake; contributes, more than any other circumstance, to impress upon the minds of the people affection, esteem, and reverence towards the government.” Hamilton is essentially saying that Liberty is best maintained locally, in terms of civil and criminal law, and that when done so, is more responsive to the People, and they in turn, are more cooperative and filial with the Government (imagine that! Lol). So, therefore, this is the crux of my point, and where my assumptions rest as to the nature of the problem. Trump and Brexit (and Bernie I would argue) are manifestations of the People’s hope to regain some of the “Power” they intuitively sense they have lost, but few will cite the raison d'être as I have. Naturally then, my solution rests in returning the ‘ordinary administration of criminal and civil justice’ or “Power to the People” in the form of greater reliance on Local and State Governance, and considerably less Federal encroachment in these arenas, which would serve to assuage the Fears, real and imagined, of the Populace, and bring back a more responsive government for the people, by the people. Now that I have clarified (hopefully) what I mean by “Power,” let us move onto Sovereignty, which is defined as ‘the authority of a State to govern itself’. This part is easy, for I see sovereignty as a natural extension of the principle of power, or rather, as an (Fractal-like) iteration of the self-evident Right of Liberty, or to govern ourselves. One of the chief complaints I heard/read from supporters of Brexit was that being in the EU degraded British Sovereignty. Well what does this mean really? It means that the very ‘power’ Trump supporters (and other supporters) want back, a greater ability to self-govern, are the very same thing the Brexit voters want; more freedom, particularly in regards to civil law and the regulations they feel like they have no say or voice in. Their say in the ‘ordinary administration of civil and criminal justice’ is eluding the voters of both nations. Taking back one’s sovereignty is just another way of saying I want more say in civil and criminal law from a governmental perspective. So, this is why I would have to answer the first part of your question in the affirmative; it is a ‘thing’ whose cause rests in the voters declining ability to have a voice in civil, tax, property, etc. law that is imposed on them by politicians orders of magnitude removed from them.”

Anyway, I wanted to share this with my followers, food for thought. I highly recommend reading and listening to Sam Harris philosophical approach to the Riddle of the Gun.  Take care followers and have a Blessed day.

REGIII32

p.s. feel free to debate and argue (followers), I enjoy hearing your thought processes and seeing your evidence.

[rhiannon-a-christy]

The Intern Wife: Hat-Trick Shieldshock Edition #1

Hat-Trick: ShieldShock #1

Song: Look At Us Now ~ Sarina Paris    

Genre: Romance

Spoiler Alert: Bit of Civil War    

Rating: T

     As start of relationship stories go, Darcy figured she had one of the strangest. Her “meet cute” did not include smashing into her future husband’s chest and spilling coffee on him, or getting trapped in an elevator. Sure, her story was not as wild as Jane’s, but it was truly unconventional.

   As Jane had moved on to marry her alien prince, Darcy had been left with her intern wondering what she was going to do with her life. Her friend and boss hadn’t dumped her, but being the new princess of an alien realm left little time for anything else.

   It hadn’t taken long for Darcy’s relationship with Ian to fail. The boy had very little experience with weird, something that Darcy had become quite knowledgeable in if she did say so. Also, maybe just a little bit addicted to. This addiction led her to seeking out powered people and offering her services as Intern Extraordinaire. It also meant that she was around a lot of crazy shit. Ian had taken it all in stride, for a time at least. The last straw had come when Darcy was the intern to a certain red garbed hero/anti-hero, whatever. There was only so much weirdness and blood that he could take.

   After the end of her relationship Darcy had gone on a few dates, but having a social life when one was in her line of work was difficult. Maybe that was why when she had been introduced to Rogers by one of her bosses she had jumped at the chance to work with him.

   At the time she had been working for The Black Widow; which was still a point of pride for her. Nat had explained to her that a friend of hers had need of her services. Of course Darcy had been interested. Though she had expected to be shipped off to take care of some master assassin; bring them coffee, make their lunch, clean their weapons and shit, clean the blood off their gear… the same type of things she did for Nat. What she hadn’t expected was to find freaking Captain America locked away in some cabin. Well, Steve Rogers, as he more than once insisted that he no longer carried the shield.

   Now, Rogers had been off the radar since he had freed the other ex-Avengers after that nasty little civil war thing they had. No one seemed to know what had happened to him. Some said he had gone off with Barnes to do whatever it was that two WWII soldiers did. Others that he had been working behind the scenes in the government, that the split of the Avengers had been a ploy to look weak when they were really working together. In reality he had been locked away in the middle of nowhere working behind the scenes, not with the government, but with his fellow ex-Avengers to slowly take down Hydra.

   When Darcy had shown up things had finally fallen into place for the next phase of their plan. Which so happened needed Steve to once again make an appearance. Only no one could suspect what he had really been working on all those years. Thus the reason why Nat had sent Darcy.

   Darcy was no stranger to the odd cheesy romance… alright, so she owned an entire personal library filled with them. Still, she had never expected that she would end up in one. Steve had outlined the plan perfectly, and in detail. It had to appear that he had left the public eye for reasons other than the truth. The plan that they had all settled on, the one that they thought was the best option entailed Darcy and Steve marrying.

   The cover story was a simple one. Steve had been injured after his battle with Iron Man, and he had slunk away to lick his wounds. Only he had met Darcy, the quirky young woman who had followed Thor around. She had taken him in and helped him recover while keeping his location secret. During that time the two fell in love and secretly married. Steve, still wanted, decided that he just wanted a normal life and so the two hid themselves away from the world. This was easy enough, as Darcy had done well to keep herself out of the limelight with her past interns. It was the reason she had become so popular to hire. She was discrete and could work behind the scenes without anyone ever suspecting who she was working for.

   Executing the plan had not been difficult, but it had been long. There had to be some sort of proof that a marriage had taken place…. so that meant one did. The entire thing had been staged, from the dress to the cake. Pictures taken, the license written up and set up as public record. Everything made official as though it had happened years ago. The cabin had been filled with pictures of them, taken over the course of two months to create the scene of a proper marriage.

   Darcy had laughed back then. Proper marriage had been a joke. They had taken to living together several months before going public, doing everything as a married couple. Well, almost everything. They still slept in separate rooms. That was one line that neither of them planned to cross. It was a job, Steve was her boss and Darcy was his intern… intern wife, or whatever.

   There wouldn’t have been a problem had they allowed things to remain professional, but they allowed their feelings to get in the way. It hadn’t been suppressed sexual desire, or unspoken love. It had been hatred and annoyance. They couldn’t stand each other. Everything Darcy did pissed him off. From the way she cooked to her love of cat videos. Likewise, Darcy could barely handle being in the same room as Steve. She thought him to be cold, hard, and way too depressing. Nat had told her stories about how much of a troll the man really was, how he loved to take the piss out of ya just to see the look on your face. Darcy just couldn’t see it. He never joked or cracked a smile, not once.

   Darcy despaired for the plan, how could they pass off for a loving couple who just wanted to be left alone in their love if all they ever did was fight? Maybe that had been one of the big problems for Darcy. When they had finally gone public she had seen a side to him that made her sick. At home he was just as cold, just as straight faced as always. Once in public he plastered a bright smile on his face, called her “Doll” and always had her wrapped up in his arms. He played the part of the loving husband perfectly. So much so that the world ate it up.

   The media was filled with stories of how they met. They dubbed her his Angel, and no one seemed to be able to get their fill. A picture taken while they had been out to lunch had gone viral. What the world didn’t realize was that the whole thing had been staged. Their location had been “leaked,” by one of their contacts. Nat had chosen their clothes, directed them on what they were supposed to do. The only thing was Steve sometimes had the habit of adlibbing it. They were supposed to have been having lunch, holding hands and looking lovingly, and revoltingly into each other’s eyes. At some point Steve started to feed her small bites of his meal, leaning over to wipe away a bit of sauce on the corner of her mouth. The Photo, and yes it should be capitalized, was taken when they were leaving. Steve had stood, helped her into her jacket, cupped her face and kissed her. Full on kiss, open mouths and tongue… Darcy wanted to bite him.

   Life changed after that. Darcy found herself having problems. Problems that involved her not hating her husband. In fact she down right fell in love with him. It was something that pissed her off, and apparently she wasn’t the only one. The whole thing turned out to be ridiculous and something straight out of one of the aforementioned cheesy romance novels.

   Unknown to each other they fell in love, and both came to the same conclusion that they should stay silent about it. Nothing was spoken of it until their marriage was no longer needed. The plan had worked, Steve was able to help his fellow ex-Avengers take down Hydra once and for all…. Hopefully. When all was said and done they were supposed to quietly drift apart and move on with their lives. That lasted all but two months. Two lonely months where Darcy had tried to go back to her old apartment; or new apartment as she had been gone three fucking years.

   The days were filled with Netflix, food, and ignoring messages on social media asking her why she broke the Cap’s heart. Life was good… not. Darcy had resigned herself to returning to her old life. She had planned on finding some new boss, perhaps Clint and his wife needed a babysitter. She had been about to pick up the phone to call the man when a loud knock had sounded through her apartment.

   She had not been expecting to ever see Steve again, so when she opened the door to find him standing there looking like a drowned rat she might have squealed. Though to this day she denies it. She had invited him in, and after several hours talking they ended up in bed. And the rest, is as they say, history……

   Literally history, it is actually in kids damned text books. Darcy and Steve “renewed” their vows on their five-year anniversary. Through the years they fought, but nothing ever made them walk away. Several kids, grandkids, and one great-grandkid later, the two remained in love. Even though Steve still didn’t understand the cat videos.

 Abab

 Author’s Note: Oh, it has been almost a year since I’ve done any Hat-trick. So here is the first for Shieldshock, and of course I had to do this troupe. Who doesn’t love fake marriage. Maybe one day I will actually do a full on chaptered story with this troupe.

 And for those wondering. Bucky was woken up, and of course he had to make fun of Steve for being a stupid idiot where Darcy was concerned and taking so long. He also was the godfather for all their children, and loved to scare them into being good by removing his fake arm when they were doing wrong.

 Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.                      

[wittypenguin]

What Have We Learned?

Things we now understand after watching 25 hours and 46 minutes of kaijû weirdness (not including re-watching most films to get details and then comparing my notes vs IMDb’s quotes, plus trivia entires, and then composing reviews to clarify in my own mind what’s going on in the ‘plot’ and various other things). Realistically, we’re looking at a devotion of 48–50 non-contiguous hours of viewing and mental attention to movies featuring guys wearing big rubber suits.

Throughout the entire experience, I’ve watched courtesy of the above entry in the Criterion Collection (Spine #1000) which I got on sale but would have gladly paid full price, had I known just how much pleasure I’ve got from seeing these. Watching the extras on Disc 8, I can see just how much work went into the cleaning-up of the images to make them nearly free of scratches and flaws. Honestly, it’s like night and day when you see the flat colour and hail-like scratches on the frames after watching them in pristine condition for all those hours.

I’ve only watched with the Japanese dialogue and English sub-titles, unless the only option I had was English; as was the case with King Kong vs Godzilla. After hearing the audio for so many Japanese films now — plus Yôjinbô, Tsubaki Sanjûrô, Rashômon, and Shichinin no samurai — it’s tempting to start learning some Japanese. There’s a whole bunch of sounds and groups of words which I’m starting to recognize but do not actually know what they mean per se. The subtleties of hai are something I am certainly starting to get already. I know nothing of actual Japanese characters, however, so while I might recognize the “Hepburn Roman Characterization” of Shichinin no Samurai, the notion of learning an entirely new alphabet so as to also recognize 七人の侍 seems a trifle more daunting. From a distance, the idea of learning Japanese from kaijū films seems cool and fun and an intriguing challenge; but once one gets in up to one’s waist, the notion undoubtedly has much more heavy lifting than being able to point at a hillside and scream “あなたが実行する必要がありますか、巨大なハゲタカがあなたを食べるでしょう！” (or “Anata ga jikkō suru hitsuyō ga arimasu ka, kyodaina hagetaka ga anata o taberudeshou!” if you prefer).

That said, I noticed a heck of a lot of ‘borrowed words’ from English in the films! The following list is not complete, but it’s most of them.

Borrowed words

helicopter

Engine (as in ‘I am having trouble with the engine of my plane’)

Typhoon (although we may have borrowed from them)

handlebag (handbag)

zero (the numeral)

drums (as in oil drums)

Geiger Counter

Remote Control

Oxygen Destroyer

Stop! (as an order to a vehicle)

Blue Mountain (some variety of coffee)

gas (as in a vapour)

Space Titanium

Radar

Maser (as in ‘Maser Cannon’)

Driver (as in ‘screwdriver’)

OK

Thank you (this may have been used in the same way we would use the French, however)

Titanosaurus Controller

Piano (granted, we would call a koto by its name, so not too surprising) 

Musical saw (ibid)

tower (as in Tokyo Tower)

action (as in ‘action films’)

microphone

orchestra

prescore (as in ‘music composed before the score is created’)

Screen (as in ‘movie screen’)

camera

happy ending (as in a story element)

Producers (the film role)

story (as a script element)

scenario (ibid)

Other things we can learn by watching these films

Less useful, but the following things can be approached as ‘rules’ to an extent. They should not be considered to be set in stone by any stretch of the imagination, however. There are a large number of times that the films contradict themselves when considering one film after another, and sometimes even within the same scene. After all, when people saw the Giant Octopus in King Kong vs Godzilla, a number of fans cried out for ‘more octopus,’ and so Honda-sensei obliged with an octopus the next kaijû film he did, which was set in the mountains, a location where octopuses are considered ‘rare.’

Anyway, with that veeeeeery flexible matter in mind, here are things I’ve noticed can/will invariably happen:

Japanese harbours are surrounded by refinery equipment prone to attract kaijû for the destruction of

Everything will burn, no matter what it may be made of (which may actually be true)

If it can’t burn, it may burn anyway

If it really can’t burn, then it’ll probably explode or fall on people or both

People will always be in the way of the monster

Railways attract monsters like honey does bees

Ships within 5 miles of any monster will be swept up by a storm and be driven towards them, then either zapped or smashed, with no reason other than the monster feels like it

Aliens will always attack, and so will subterranean peoples

Monsters can be made to defend humans from other monsters, but only if you’re willing to make it a sport for them

When all else fails and you still haven’t got the help of your chosen kaijû, sing at it

It is pointless to fire missiles at a monster, but it is important to do so as it is the expected thing

All aliens hide their ugly forms (and all aliens are ugly)

Co-operation to solve a common problem — and all problems worth solving are common — is the only way forward. Compassion and love will see you through. 

People are flexible and play many roles

At one point I was trying to keep track of actors who appeared multiple times in these films, so as to create some sort of bananas story about how one person had ancestors who appeared in Kurosawa-sensei’s films, and then their descendent appeared in theses daft films, but they only were one person in the Godzilla Universe… If I had actually kept track of everyone I would go insane. I have no doubt someone, somewhere, has a spreadsheet with this information in it. I do not want it, please do not send it to me.

However, here are two actors whose credits boggle the mind when looked at:

Takashi Shimura (chronological according to the setting of the stories)

Woodcutter - Rashômon set in… 15xx…? (1950)

Rōnin Kambei Shimada - Seven Samurai set in 1586 (1954)

Information Bureau Director Hiroshi Shimomura - Japan’s Longest Day about the very last day of WWII in Japan (1967) 

Chief Detective Sato - Stray Dog (1949)

Palaeontologist Dr. Kyohei Yamane - Gojira (1954)

Palaeontologist Dr. Kyohei Yamane - Godzilla Raids Again (1955)

Newspaper Editor - Mothra (1961)

Psychiatrist Dr. Tsukamoto - Ghidorah, the Three-Headed Monster (1964)

Akihiko Hirata (eye-patch wearing man)

Dr. Daisuke Serizawa, slayer of kaijû - Godzilla (1954)

Chief Detective Okita - Ghidorah, the Three-Headed Monster

Captain Yamoto - Ebirah, Horror of the Deep (1966)

Environmental researcher Fujisaki - Son of Godzilla (1967)

Professor Hideto Miyajima - Godzilla vs Mechagodzilla (1974)

Dr. Shinzô Mafune - Terror of Mechagodzilla (1975)

Don’t forget that the last two of Hirata-san’s appearances over-lap each other’s time line, are direct contradictions of character, and they were possibly done within a few months of each other. Imagine Harrison Ford showing up in The Rise of Skywalker as some ancient fry cook who dispenses poisoned blue milk to the followers of the Rebellion. 

Now the following one is my favourite character actor in Japanese film. I’m positive this list is incomplete, as he did little appearances is seemingly any film Toho produced from 1950 through to his death in the mid-’70s. Once you get to know his face and the way he moves, he sticks out a mile, no matter how much make-up or weird wardrobe you cover him with. He’s fabulous and had the kind of career I once would have killed for.

Ikio Sawamura 

Constable Hansuke - Yôjinbô (1961)

Elderly Slave - Godzilla vs. The Sea Monster 

Priest blessing egg - Mothra vs Godzilla (1964)

Honest Fisherman - Ghidorah, the Three-Headed Monster (1964)

Elderly Slave on Devil’s Island - Ebirah, Horror of the Deep (1966)

Fisherman #1 - Furankenshutain no kaijû: Sanda tai Gaira 

Witch Doctor - King Kong vs. Godzilla

There are a bunch more but his final appearance was in Terror of Mechagodzilla (1975) as Mafune's Silent Butler. He passed away a few months after filming was complete but before it was released.

In conclusion…

All in all, I have had more fun watching all of this lunacy than one probably should. I’ve really been impressed with the storytelling, acting, and the model work (especially in the 1960s). I am probably going to watch most of them again at least once more before I put this aside and begin watching some other series off films with which I’ll become obsessed.

[lord-r]

You know that eerie feeling when, out of the blue, an innocuous sensation encountered by pure chance instantly casts you back to your childhood days? Remember that irrepressible urge to re-experience that one lost childhood food, song or cartoon? For me, it's most notably happened with The Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck and Cardcaptor Sakura, both stories I had started, but never finished as a child. Well, this week, it feels like I've finally reached the end of one those great nostalgic quests. More under the cut!

Some months ago, I was listening to 40mP (the Vocaloid producer) play in one of his live piano sessions on Youtube. They're just piano live streams during which he plays various anime/movie themes, Vocaloid songs and J-Pop tunes. (You should totally watch them cos they're really cool and relaxing! He's pretty cute and talented!) Around 1hr22min45s, a certain theme came up, and. I. just. froze. It was beautiful, very nostalgic… and I knew this theme, I was certain of it. (In fact, you probably do too!) I clicked on repeat a certain number of times. I knew it, there could be no doubt, but I just couldn't pinpoint where I had heard it. The theme was so familiar, and the emotions it called to mind were so distinct, even without any details… and yet I failed to remember.

No luck in the description of the video either, 40mP never puts anything down there. Sometimes, in the comments, people asked where a certain theme at some time point of the video came from, and with a bit of kanji googling one could do miracles, but even a thorough search yielded nothing this time… All I could say with certitude was that the theme was incredibly reminiscent of Joe Hisaishi (more on this later), so much so that I was certain it came from a Ghibli movie. So I tried listening to a few Ghibli themes, and though the similarity was definitely there, that wasn't it. Shazam was of no help either, it understandably recommended only other piano pieces which sounded accidentally similar at best, but never the right one. I asked a bit around too, didn't get any conclusive answers.

And so I remained completely clueless for weeks. Wouldn't say I became truly obsessed about it, but still, the thought lingered. More than once I came back to the video, played the track, and tried to remember in vain.

It wasn't until this week that I found it. It was, again, on Youtube, in one of these hour-long mixtapes with anime looping pics. (Don't judge me!) (I'd give the link but this one was actually live-streaming the same songs 24/7 until the streamer decided to stop, which broke the link.) Anyway, I was working in another tab while listening distractingly, when the the theme came up again, in a remix, but the notes were just as distinctive. I popped up on the Youtube tab again, saw the name of the song displayed as currently playing. After a bit of googling, I found at last, the original source:

MERRY CHRISTMAS MR. LAWRENCE Piano version here

So, yeah, it was the title theme of Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence, a fantastic Anglo-Japanese movie from 1983 set in the Pacific during WWII, in a camp of prisoners detained by the Japanese Army. The theme was composed by Ryuichi Sakamoto, who also played one of the key protagonists of the movie, along with Bowie. Here is the point where I apologise to movie and music nerds (or just… people with general culture) who would have known all along, because turns out both the movie and the theme are quite well-known. The funny thing is that if you search a bit around on the Internet, you'll find lots and and lots of people who heard this theme, and couldn't help but think of Hisaishi, and by incidence of a Ghibli movie which would have featured it. And reasonably so, because Hisaishi was indeed influenced by Sakamoto and his Yellow Magic Orchestra. The resemblance is most visible in The Path of the Wind from Totoro. Turns out this was all a fabricated memory, just like that Berenstain/Bereinstein anomaly. The fact that the theme has become quite ubiquitous and covered many times (especially on Youtube in the broad anime sphere, I think) adds to the confusion. To this day, I'm not sure if I'd heard the theme first some time ago, without knowing its source, or if I merely believed to know it by proxy of Ghibli.

I'm almost done with this post! But I've yet to come my main point, the reason why I'm writing all this in the first place: for the love of all that's beautiful in the world, please watch Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence. I don't know if it will touch others as much as it has touched me, and maybe I'm just very sappy but… this movie has seriously moved me like very few had before? I'm often sceptical of historical movies, especially war movies, when they use their setting without saying much about it but this is really a film which captures a lot about the Pacific War, Japanese nationalism and Allied interventions, and mostly what it means for the soldiers who are to carry out the deeds. It's crude, violent and sometimes difficult to bear and yet truly beautiful. It's also, mainly, psychological and passionate. Light thematic spoilers: Without saying too much, sexual repression is a major theme, it's apparent early on and it's. just. I've got so many feelings about this and I can't tell moreso just watch it I tell you and be as wrecked as I am. If you like Bowie, you'll love it, though for me the high point is really Sakamoto's performance. Did I mention it's both pretty sad and heartbreaking? That the OST is stellar, and the most climactic scenes both tense and beautiful? ANYWAY, please give it a try, you won't regret it no matter what.

If you've made until here, thank you for indulging my weird, long & sappy story. \o Hope y'all have a good weekend!