#this piece will languish in obscurity but that's fine

[goat-boy-sounds]

does anyone remember the shakepseare's globe production of doctor faustus from 2012 hahahaha

[ogradyfilm]

Recently Viewed: Tomorrow There Will Be Fine Weather

[The following review contains MINOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

Hiroshi Shimizu’s Tomorrow There Will Be Fine Weather is a fascinating companion piece to the director’s own Mr. Thank You. The earlier film (released in 1936, an… eventful year in Japanese history) is set entirely on a crowded bus navigating the winding mountain paths to Tokyo, a narrative gimmick that lends the otherwise minimalistic slice-of-life story a sense of urgency and relentless forward momentum. While this spiritual successor (made in the aftermath of World War II, which obviously gives it a markedly different cultural context) begins with a similar premise, it quickly subverts the expected structure by having the vehicle break down in short order, stranding the frustrated commuters on the side of a barren, dusty road miles from the nearest town.

Despite the comparative physical inertia of the plot, Shimizu keeps the action emotionally dynamic by emphasizing the myriad interpersonal conflicts that gradually develop between the wonderfully nuanced characters. In the movie’s most dramatic scene, for example, a one-legged veteran confronts a remorseful army officer on a pilgrimage to visit the graves of the many soldiers that perished under his command—a mutually traumatic encounter that inevitably erupts into violence. In a more comedic episode, a blind masseur—who has up until this point consistently impressed his fellow travelers with his insightful observations and keen attention to detail—struggles to communicate with a deaf-mute octogenarian. And then, of course, there’s the surprising relationship between the beleaguered driver and his most conspicuously out-of-place passenger: a glamorous celebrity with a scandalous reputation back in the big city.

Running a lean, breezy sixty-five minutes, Tomorrow There Will Be Fine Weather is nevertheless packed with so much deliciously compelling material that it feels… not longer, necessarily, but certainly more substantial than its relatively brief duration would suggest. Richly textured and thematically dense, its intimacy and economy make it more genuinely cinematic than any of the superficially spectacular blockbusters currently screening at multiplexes. I’m glad that it was recently rediscovered after languishing in obscurity for almost three quarters of a century (to the extent that it was actually considered lost media before being salvaged from the vault of a studio that neither produced nor distributed it—I’m not particularly religious, but that must have been an act of divine intervention); now let’s hurry and get it on home video, where it can be properly appreciated by a wider audience.

[opera-ghosts]

OTD in Music History: Composer and pedagogue Vincent d'Indy (1851 – 1931) died in France. As a young man, D'Indy studied under composer Cesar Franck (1822 - 1890) at the Paris Conservatoire in the 1870's; for the rest of his life, he idolized Franck as his musical ideal, and ultimately wrote a celebrated biography of his cherished mentor in 1912. But in some ways, the entire decade of the 1870's was a veritable whirlwind of artistic inspiration for D'Indy -- during the summer of 1873 he visited Germany and met with met both Franz Liszt (1811 - 1886) and Johannes Brahms (1833 - 1897), and in 1875 he played a minor role – "The Prompter" – in the world premiere of Georges Bizet's (1838 - 1875) opera "Carmen." Finally, in 1876, he attended the very first production of Richard Wagner's (1813 - 1883) "Ring cycle" at Bayreuth; this made a great impression on him, and he quickly became a fervent Wagnerian. D'Indy's influence as a teacher was considerable: In 1894, he co-founded the "Schola Cantorum de Paris" (an important private music school), and he also taught at the Paris Conservatoire. His students included Erik Satie (1866 - 1925), Albert Roussel (1869 - 1937), (1866 - 1925), Arthur Honegger (1892 - 1955), Darius Milhaud (1892 - 1974), and -- of all people -- American Broadway composer Cole Porter (1891 - 1964). As a composer, unfortunately, d'Indy has languished. Few of d'Indy's works are performed regularly in concert halls today, and the Grove Dictionary of Music observes that his famed veneration for Ludwig van Beethoven (1770 - 1827) and Franck "has unfortunately obscured the individual character of his own compositions, particularly his fine orchestral pieces descriptive of southern France." Among his best-known pieces are the "Symphony on a French Mountain Air" for piano and orchestra (1886) and "Istar" (1896), a symphonic poem in the form of a set of variations in which the theme appears only at the end... PICTURED: A 1910 autograph letter written out and signed by d'Indy on his Scholar Cantorum letterhead, addressed to an unnamed friend and regarding various musical matters.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Steel Eye Files, “Gods of War.”

WARNING: EXTREME VIOLENCE with graphic descriptions. GORE

Turns out you can’t really get across how shitty steel eye is without being enormously graphic, so yeah, don’t read it if you may be bothered by that sort of thing in any way what so ever.

https://www.patreon.com/empyreaniris?fan_landing=true

https://starr-fall-knight-rise.tumblr.com/post/182501791735/master-post

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jzEIdDAB4omdO2JcQVMObfrhLJ5kX4ONmSsLypM1ks0/edit?usp=sharing.\

The sky was dark with ash, and despite Chal, Astar, shining down from above, the land below languished under cover of darkness more profound than night as even the two moons and stars were hidden by ash. The ground was coated in a fine layer of grey, and the colorful, almost whimsical landscape became an apocalyptic hellscape.

Just a few miles distant from the human Forward operating base, a unit of Drev soldiers hid in the cover of ash, separated from the base by half a mile of open ground and a small rocky gully where they made their camp. They had no tents or lights like the humans did but crouched next to the leeward side of stones their knees tucked to their chests, their arms clasping their legs, and their, once colorful, cloaks wrapped around them now stained with ash.

In this way they were camouflaged from outside notice by way of ash, and the breathing holes at the bases of their necks were kept clear. Spears were gripped tightly in hands, metal dulled and muted under a coating of cinders, and like that they were practically invisible in the dark landscape,

Not that they were worried of course.

Ever since the dark season had come, they had been the ones to initiate conflict, not the other way around.

This was their world, and they were in charge.

They understood how to navigate her in al weather.

But now was not the time for movement, or navigation. In the dark and the swirling of the storm, it was time to rest.

The wind died down slightly, and the ashfall reduced.

Some light filtered down from high above, and the visibility improved to that of a middling blizzard back on earth. It was still dark, and the landscape was difficult to make out, ash flurries  kicked up with some regularity as they sat.

Their sentinel crouched at the head of the group tucked next to a rock.

It was him that heard it first.

It was difficult to make out over the sound of the wind, a sort of distant hissing.

He lifted his head peering through the amber goggles that had been supplied to him. Drev didn’t normally practice combat during the dark season, but they knew a tactical advantage when they saw one, and this seemed to be the only time of year they were going to have a leg up against the humans. It was a controversial decision, but eventually they had collectively decided that goggles did not constitute technology enough for it to be heretical.

Ans so he peered out into the ash his eyes narrowed.

Drev do not have the greatest night vision. They are primarily a daytime creature that relies heavily on color differentiation which is not commonly present at night.

He saw nothing.

Still, something was off, and he shifted forward on his knees to peer out from behind the rock.

Ash gusted into his face, but still he saw nothing.

Something still felt wrong.

Was that an echo he heard over the sound of the wind? Rocks clattering down a hillside?

It was hard to tell, the sounds were so muffled.

A few of his clan members stood to peer out at the ash with him, his anxiety bleeding over into his soldiers.

What was that.

The ash kicked up again, and his vision was mostly obscured.

He stood now, cape billowing behind him in the ashfall. He stepped out into open ground head titled to one side as he tried to make out the sound through the darkness. It was not a sound that he recognized, and indeed he was sure he was hearing SOMETHING.

Soemthing that was.

Getting closer.

And getting closer fast!

The clan had no time to react.

One moment their sentinel was standing before them in the ashfall, and the next moment, an alien hand sprouted from his chest.

The sentinel felt like he had been plowed over by a rockslide. At first it was hard to tell what had happened, but the stunned screams of his clan, let to the slow realization of his brain. He looked down with wide eyes just in time to see the hand flex.

The hand drew back with a sharp crunch, and the sentinel fell to the ground dead.

And standing over his body was a shadow.

With two legs,  two arms,

Gore dripping from its arm.

And then chaos.

***

The room gasped.

Men and women visibly jerked in their seats. Someone cursed.

Another called out involuntarily to their god.

Even Admiral Ablemen sat momentarily shocked.

He didn’t tell it to do that

Unit 15 withdrew his hand from the Drev’s chest with a wet crunching noise loud enough to be heard over the build in microphones. The beast of a Drev, at least nine feet tall if not more, hit the ground dead on impact.

In the following silence the Colonel overseeing the project grabbed his shoulder and whispered, “I can turn it off now, cut the signal so no one sees the rest.” But he shook his head

“Let him see what it’s capable of.”

The colonel nodded.

The pause didn’t last long, and the massacre followed.

***

It was, difficult to tell weather he was awake or dreaming. The land around him was an unfamiliar was of grey tinged red as struggling sunlight tried to filter down through ash. The landscape was in itself alien, and something about that made sense though he could not have said why.

In his confusion there was one thing he knew.

And those were his orders.

Orders that were being wired directly into his brain on a background loop so he wouldn’t forget. The HUD display  on his visor took the landscape before him and analyzed it  drawing glowing green contours around notable features of the landscape.

It was like walking through the base code layer of a videogame.

The suit interfaced with his brain using his own processing capacity to run probability calculations on where the enemy would be hiding. All bets were on the gullies to the south east of the FOB, and so he headed in that direction. As he walked he hissed and whirred as his robotic skeleton lent power to his feet.

His robotic pieces whined in anticipation for what was to come.

He did not take cover, or try to hide, but walked over the landscape, the dark god of war coming to seek vengeance on the enemy. As he walked the probability meter in his HUD began to rise, ash whirled around him disrupting the connection between him and the FOB.

But he knew his orders.

Inside his heart pounded.

A feral animal rose up in the back of his head ravening and hungry for blood.

He spotted them easily, outlined in green as they hid against the rocks.

There was one at the front, a big bastard too.

He broke into a run, the steel eye skeleton howling for blood.

The Drev had no time to think.

He could have used his gun, or he could have deployed the blade in his right forearm plate, but that was all beside the point. He wanted…. Violence.

And so he drew back a fist and with all the weight of the iron eye suit he  punch the drev in the back.

Carapace crumbled to dust under his knuckles, flesh split, bone cracked, tissue tore, and then resistance was gone and he was wearing the Drev like a bracelet.

He ripped his hand back bringing fragments of bone with him as he retrieved his fist.

The Alien staggered to the ground.

His HUD sensors found no heartbeat.

Dead.

And then he turned his eyes on the rest of the alien’s waiting clan.

The blade snicked into place against his forearm.

He WANTED to hurt them. That was the one thing he understood in the haze of his brain, in the haze of a dream. Information and constant input from the suit flooded his brain threatening to confuse him and snuff him out.

But the confusion just made him angry.

And that is what he was going to do.

***

Red lights like the fire of Anin’s lava fields.

The creature didn’t care it could be seen through the ash.

It WANTED to be seen.

If they had known anything about human warfare, maybe they would have had a chance to retreat, knowing something was wrong , but as their sentinel fell to the ground they were confronted with an unholy demon drenched in his blood, glowing with red lights of fire, his body sheathed in precious metal.

It was an abomination.

The first drev to initiate attack was scythed down with a single blow, head rolling across the stones.

But the rest didn’t stop.

They raced forward over stone their spears raised.

The creature caught one by the throat and snapped their neck before throwing the body towards its companions.

Another tired to flank from the right but was hit with a devastating kicked that crushed its sternum and stopped its heart on impact.

The other Drev pulled back in uncharacteristic fear as this creature decimated their numbers like it was a joke.

It stood there, waiting, blood still dripping from its hands.

But when no one moved, it turned its head slowly to look at them,

And the remaining Drev ran,.

***

He had to get away, he had to get away, if he could just run far enough, or find somewhere to hide maybe it would be ok. All around him he could hear the sound of screams, the ash had kicked up again and he was running blind, tripping over stones and moss, hoping beyond hope that he didn’t fall into a boiling pit.

Someone ran to his right, but in the next moment they were gone with a scream.

Something snapped.

He turned on a dime and bolted in another direction hearing the screams from behind him . After a few moments of running he nearly brained himself as he ran straight into he trunk of  a tree. Luckily for him the coil tree was young and springy throwing him back onto his back though his head still throbbed.

He rolled onto his hands and knees seeing the silhouette of many trees before him, and crawled into their cover pressing his back up against a nearby trunk.

Behind him cries continued in earnest.

He could see the glow of red through the ash, flickering in and out of existence as the demon hunted them, moving with a power and speed never granted naturally by spirits.

It was an unholy abomination.

He scrambled back into the ash trying to cover himself. He lowered his head, listening.

And he heard it coming for him.

The slow and methodic whirr thud as the creature walked.

He hoped that maybe it wouldn’t see him.

His hopes were dashed a moment later as he was grabbed roughly by the shoulders and hauled into the air. He screamed and kicked, but the creature adjusted his hands forcing him to his knees with a strength that was almost godlike. He was forced to his knees as the creature placed its hands to either side of his head, and began to squeeze.

***

“What the FUCK! “

“STOP!”

“WHAT IS IT DOING!”

One of the officers jerked from their seat and raced out of view of the Holo projection, wrenching loudly off camera.

The sound that followed next.

Still haunts the dreams of the men and women who were in that room.

***

Kill them. KILL THEM ALL.

His insides burned with such rage, such energy, and the cracking of the Drev’s skull between his hands had never been more satisfying than it was in that moment, or at least in the ten seconds before the drugs burned off.

Lieutenant Vir regained lucidity with a crushed skull held in his hands.

Lt Vir was not a violent person.

In his youth he had taken dance classes instead of martial arts for a similar reason.

And now the sightless Drev head looked up at him, and the sight is beyond description.

Certain things happen when you apply too much pressure to a skull.

He gasped and staggered back dropping the thing like it was on fire. His mind whirled, and he remembered the bloodlust that not moments before had coursed through him, turned him into a… a demon.

He staggered back into his hands scrambling away from the body.

He….

What had he done.

What had he done?

He clutched his head gasping for air. He felt like he was going to throw up and desperately scrambled to open his helmet. The dead eyes stared at him from the dirt and ash, accusatory. He was trapped! He couldn’t get them helmet off!

He was drowning!

This had to be a nightmare.

An unending nightmare.

Why couldn’t he wake up!

He screamed, and screamed and screamed still clutching at his head.

Why couldn’t he wake up!

Maybe if he could pinch himself, he could determine weather he was sleeping, but the metal was in the way.

He clawed at his helmet, at his arms, then curled his hand into a fist and tried to break the metal.

***

The room was scrambling.

Admiral Ableman was on his feet, “MAKE HIM STOP.”

Over the line the unit continued to scream.

It was like nothing that he had ever experienced before, a man burning in hell.

The scream of the damned.

And then it was clawing at itself, trying to rip the metal armor open.

“DO SOMETHING!” He snarled  at one of his lackeys.

“I’m trying.”

But before he could do anything, it was all over, and the camera watched as the unit fell to the ground and began to sob.

The room was silent but for that sound echoing over the speakers.

And somehow, it was worse than everything that had come before.

Powerful enough to haunt even Admiral Abelman until the day he would die an ignominious death.

*** So, that demonstration didn’t go as planned, but you saw the results didn’t you, one man against an entire Drev squad and he won like it was nothing, with impunity. Like a god, we have created gods of war, and don’t give me some bullshit about ethics, you all sat through the whole thing and are now culpable for what happens here. If you tell ANYONE what you have seen, I will personally take each and every last one of you down with me and let the board of ethics know that you were PERSONALLY involved and funded the program.

What’s done is done, but at leas you can help us win the war.

[nitewrighter]

Now i cant wait to see Genji confense to Zenyatta about overwatch and Angela !

Gooooddd this has been languishing in my drafts since... god I don’t want to think about it. Forever. But tonight I get it out!!

-----

Steam puffed up over the food stand, the warmth in the air intermingling with the crackling sound of fryers. Genji watched as the Omnic vendor skillfully scooped several chicken momos up from the fryers and set them in a paper-lined cardboard tray, holding it out to him. Even well into the night, Kolkata was thrumming, vibrant, noisy and alive--Delivery drones buzzed overhead, hover-mopeds weaved between packed buses, hovercars honked their horns, and omnics in Shambali garb were attempting to start up conversations with irritated Vishkar representatives on the sidewalks. Zenyatta watched all the bustle with his usual patience-with-underlying-shrewdness. They had been traveling together for nearly a month now, but Zenyatta had been called back to the Shambali monastery in Nepal earlier than he would have liked and, as he explained it, Kolkata was the easiest place for them to drag their feet without Zenyatta’s brother sending more reminders their way. Zenyatta didn’t seem particularly resentful of Mondatta, but there was a definite hesitance in his return to Nepal that spoke to some complexities in his and Mondatta’s relationship.

They were able to find an isolated enough alley for Genji to keep his hood up and head down as he quickly stuffed down his dinner before clicking his faceplate back on and heading back out to the main street. Genji watched as a bright blue hovertram streamed by, so packed there were a handful of humans and omnics virtually hanging off it as they rejoined the crowd on the street. The press of human and omnic bodies here was different than Numbani--with Numbani there seemed to be a careful cultivation of the ‘City of Harmony’ image, with clean-scrubbed streets and gleaming buildings, and carefully outlined street and foot traffic for optimum efficiency, but here felt closer to reality--the clamor of voices and the natural messiness of shared spaces, the streaming of bodies moving in different directions, pooling and spiraling around each other like water. He didn’t feel like he stood out here--the crowd was so mixed between humans and omnics that the eye glazed right past him. He and Zenyatta fell behind a group of pilgrims, a mix of about two thirds omnic and one third humans. Genji studied the organics. He recognized the look of some of them--those searching for truth and identity, like he had been, like he still was. They were dressed in bright colors and their conversations were peppered with aphorisms from all the Shambali’s best-selling books and Mondatta’s holovid speeches. At least one of them had dabbed on a bit too much patchouli oil. Genji gave a glance back at Zenyatta.

“So what is your hesitance in returning, Master?” asked Genji, looking back at the group ahead of them. He had only been calling Zenyatta ‘Master’ for a little over two weeks now, but it felt easy. Felt natural.

“The journey is just as important as the destination, my student,” said Zenyatta as they walked.

Genji gave him a slight, ‘Come on’ head tilt, and Zenyatta tented his fingers, composing his thoughts.

“As machines, the Shambali have been able to adapt our--their message, to human agendas. And this is well and good--there is no reason why the Shambali’s message of peace should be incompatible with already present human social constructs.”

“I see...” said Genji, a little wary that Zenyatta was going to launch into another pondering monologue where the words ‘Pedagogy’ and ‘commercialization’ swam in and out and Zenyatta would ultimately end with a hand wave and ‘But I suppose it depends on the individual,’ or something like that.

“Omnics do not need to sleep, so the Shambali can travel as much as they need--But I do have concerns about treating our ideals as a machinated export when ultimately we strive for unity between the organic and the--” Zenyatta cut himself off and perked up at the odd ripple that seemed to be going through the crowd.

“Master?” said Genji. He looked around the crowd, trying to see what Zenyatta was seeing. People were stopping mid-step and pulling out their phones, some bumping into each other but barely glancing up. Couples and groups that were walking together stopped and exchanged concerned murmurs in Bengali and Hindu and english. Genji suddenly felt a seed of anxiety growing and spreading from the pit of his stomach, phantom limb pain prickling throughout all of his prosthetics. Something was wrong. Something felt wrong. The group of pilgrims had all but dropped to a standstill, several of them crowding around a human’s phone. She had her hand over her mouth. Two or three of the pilgrims were speaking English.

“The Headquarters?”

“It couldn’t be an aerial attack could it?”

“Do they know who did it?”

“God I hope it wasn’t Null Sector... If Omnics get blamed for this--”

“What about Talon?”

“They beat Talon--”

“They beat Doomfist. Doomfist isn’t all of Talon.”

That prickling anxiety that manifested as phantom limb pain now was rushing hot along the skin of his neck and cybernetic jaw as he looked around. His armor felt claustrophobic around him but his head was jerking around this way and that, looking desperately now. Headquarters? Talon? Newsfeed. He had to find a newsfeed.

“Genji...” Zenyatta said his name as if trying to pull him back to the present, but this fear was the present, it was pressing in on him like the crowd. His head swiveled to see people accumulating around a pawn shop window where multiple holoscreen projectors of various ages were displayed. He rushed through, ninja training guiding his feet and the angle of his shoulders, sliding through the crowd like a knife until he reached the front of it. The holoscreens of the shop window were displaying the news in numerous channels and Genji’s eyes fixed on the familiar face of the news reporter Olympia Shaw. The television was muted, of course, but there was captioning. Before his brain could make out the words, his eyes fell on a helicopter or drone shot hovering over a massive building semi-obscured by multiple columns of smoke.  The complex cluster of plaftorms at the building’s western side were blackened. There was a recognizable patch of green at the building’s heart--a courtyard, that soon was obscured by smoke as the wind shifted.

Zurich. Zurich Headquarters.

The explosions took place only minutes apart. Both Strike Commander Morrison and Reyes were in the building when the explosions occurred--- Olympia Shaw’s mouth moved along soundlessly to the captioning on the screen. Something chilled in Genji’s stomach. Zurich headquarters itself had been many things over the years with Overwatch, during his long stints in physical therapy and during Blackwatch’s suspension, it had felt like a prison-like box, but there were a few nights...

Eyewitnesses have told Atlas News that Doctor Angela Ziegler, formerly known as the Overwatch agent ‘Mercy,’ who was reportedly resigning from Overwatch, is apparently inside the headquarters attempting to rescue personnel. There has been no--

Genji suddenly had the physical sensation of dropping rapidly through a dark, cold space. 

He wasn’t there. She was in trouble and he wasn’t there.

Genji...

The tone of her voice was distant. His entire body tensed as the memory of late nights in the lab arose. He remembered her snorting laugh in the small hours of the morning, her shoes kicked off and her legs tucked close to herself in her swivel chair. 

Genji--!

He remembered their elbows interlocked in Havana, the burn of rum flushing across her nose and cheekbones and shining in her eyes. 

Genji?!

He remembered her stooping over him, wet lab coat hanging off of her, her glasses fogged with the steam of the therapy pool. 

“GENJI!” Zenyatta was gripping both his shoulders and he found himself standing in that crowded street in Kolkata, the televisions still glowing behind him. 

“I’m okay,” Genji said, “This is fine--it’s not fine--I’m going to fix it--I just need to go--”

“Go--?” Zenyatta started.

“I need to go,” Genji was breaking away from Zenyatta, already walking. He would have broken into a sprint if it weren’t so crowded. “I need to go--She can’t--I left her but I can---” Breath didn’t seem to be coming to form the words. Maybe if he just kept walking...

“Genji, you’re having a panic attack,” said Zenyatta.

“I don’t get panic attacks!” Genji snapped.

But he did get panic attacks--he just thought he left them behind in Zurich. Burning Zurich. Burning Zurich where Angela was and she was in trouble and he wasn’t there and he hadn’t even said goodbye when he left like the fucking heartless self-absorbed piece of shit he always knew he was. He was still talking. He wasn’t sure if he was talking because it kept the shortness of breath away as he moved but Zenyatta was floating after him as closely as he could in the crowd.

Zenyatta suddenly seized Genji’s shoulders again. “Genji!” he spoke clearly and a small orb of harmony suddenly alighted next to him.

“You have to let me--” Genji felt his own hands gripping Zenyatta’s wrists. He had fought Null sector Omnics before. He wondered how much physical force he needed to get Zenyatta off of him but Zenyatta’s fingers tightened into his shoulders with a furious grip.

“YOU. CAN’T. CONTROL THIS.” Zenyatta’s voice was deeper than usual, startlingly commanding. Enough to shock Genji into a space of neutral confusion.

“Wh--but...” Genji’s breath was still short.

“...you can’t control this,” Zenyatta’s grip on his shoulders loosened, “It is not your fault you can’t control this. It does not make you a bad person that you can’t control this. It is an event happening 7,430 kilometers away, and you can’t control it. It doesn’t mean that it is irrational that it is affecting you deeply. It doesn’t mean that it is nonsensical that it is hurting you deeply. But the only thing you can control, right now, is your own reaction. Can you even breathe right now, Genji?” 

“I--I--”

“Start with that. Start with breathing.”

The respirators of Genji’s cybernetics were audible as he drew in a breath.

“Again,” said Zenyatta.

Genji drew in another breath, held it for the same amount of time as it took to draw it in, exhaled with that same slowness. Drew in another, held it, exhaled. 

“You are here. You are in Kolkata. There is cement beneath your feet. There are green and growing things springing up from the cracks in the cement--” Zenyatta’s voice was short, but not unkind.

“But Zurich--” Genji started.

“You are not there. You are here. And you are breathing.”

Genji consciously drew in another breath. “But I have to--”

“We are still learning what is happening over there,” said Zenyatta, “How long do you think it will take you to get there?”

“I--I don’t know...”

Zenyatta paused, calculations running through that Omnic mind. “The fastest flying vehicle available would get you there in four hours, but you do not have the resources for that. Commercially... it would take at least 8 hours. What do you think the situation will look like in 8 hours? 6, even?”

Genji wasn’t really sure what to say to that. The consciousness of his own breath seemed to slow things down though.

“You don’t know that either,” said Zenyatta, answering the question for him, “...we’re going to get away from the crowds and find somewhere to sit down.”

“I can’t do nothing...” Genji said quietly, as Zenyatta was already leading him away.

“I know. It is a very admirable trait,” said Zenyatta, “But you are doing this.”

“Which is nothing!”

“It’s not nothing. Right now, there are only two people you can help--”

“Two--?”

“You can help yourself, or you can help me,” said Zenyatta.

“Help you??”

“Help me help you.”

Genji was quiet for a few seconds but it was more of an incredulous processing of Zenyatta’s words than anything.

“I think we should walk,” said Zenyatta, “Will you walk with me?”

Genji just dumbly nodded and let Zenyatta lead him away. They walked several city blocks in relative slience, Genji trying to return to his breath. 

“This world... it can be full of... unbearable cruelties. All we know can be wrenched out from underneath us in only a few moments,” Zenyatta spoke as they walked, “I cannot pretend to know how to fix it. I suppose... that is why I left the Shambali. I cannot stand to be around those who will happily claim they can fix your problems when they don’t actually know that it will. I... am utterly petrified of disappointing people... all the time. So I disappointed the people who meant more to me than anything, and now I am here with you. Hope is one of the most painful and terrifying things you can let into your life. It is all I can do to try and instill hope in other people as a resilient and living thing. You call me master when I am constantly questioning whether I am worthy of such an address.”

“Are... are you all right?” Genji’s voice was quiet.

“No,” said Zenyatta, plainly, “And neither are you.”

A long silence passed between them as they kept walking. The world seemed too upended to call the motion comforting, yet at the same time, staying still would have made things feel like they were curling and collapsing all around them. Movement as grounding seemed like an oxymoron, and yet that was the space Genji and Zenyatta found themselves in. They were in a more residential area now, cigarette, weed, and hashish smoke sinking down on them from the balconies above.

“When you were watching that newscast, you kept saying things like, ‘I left her.’ Back when we were in the Banu Tufayl tribe’s encampment, you said there was someone who made you believe in your work... someone who you clung to like a ship’s mast in a storm,” Zenyatta said after a while, “Is she in Zurich?”

“Yes,” the word came out of Genji more choked than he intended, his words felt tight, “I can’t leave her--she saved me, so I have to--I have to...” Genji pressed his fingers to his forehead plate.

Zenyatta tented his fingers thoughtfully. “It has been said, one of our greatest means of dealing with grief, is confronting the reality that we may lose the ones we love. Confronting the eventuality of that loss.”

“I can’t do it now--” Genji said , his voice tight, “I can’t-- I didn’t even say goodbye to her... I wasn’t sure if I could say goodbye---”

“...still reeling from the Zurich attacks---” a crackly voice sounded overhead and Genji stopped in his tracks, his head jutting upward. 

“Genji?” said Zenyatta.

“You there! With the radio!” Genji shouted at one of the apartment balconies overhead. A portly middle-aged man with a receding hairline leaned out over the balcony.

“Can you turn it up?” Genji called.

The man shrugged and disappeared back behind the balcony.

“Genji,” Zenyatta spoke gently, “I’m not sure if harassing random people can really--”

The crackle of the radio audibly got louder.

“--Angela Ziegler is unconscious but stable at Zurich hospital--” the radio sounded. 

A shuddering breath of relief fell out of Genji. “She’s... she’s alive,” he said, looking at Zenyatta. 

Zenyatta gave a nod and a noise that was midway between laugh and sob fell out of Genji.

“As I said,” said Zenyatta, “There is much we can’t control but--” 

Zenyatta was cut off as Genji suddenly caught him in a tight hug, his cybernetically armored shoulders shuddering with those not-laugh, not-sob sounds. “She’s alive... she’s alive,” he kept saying.

Zenyatta patted his shoulder with some unsureness, “And so are you.”

[sturmley]

What Lies Behind the  Mask

It was in the dim of the evening that young Renzo prepared himself; the sun's last light casting the room in an orange glow. With a smile he fitted the mask in place, at long last finally finishing the illusion that had taken almost an hour to complete.

For weeks he had bragged to his friends and peers. He espoused that his costume would be made by the finest hands in Florence, and how none at the party would compare. He had seen their doubts, the disbelief poorly masked behind their condescending stares.

How he would revel in their shock when he arrived. No longer did Renzo Monte gaze back through the glass of the mirror. Now stood only the Harlequin Risata, who's wide grin could set the room alight with laughter.

Renzo could still hardly believe when he touched his hand to the delicately crafted porcelain; the way the features stretched to such outlandish proportions to crate such an expression of pure bliss.  

He would never understand how his sister had reacted when she had seen it. “So grotesque” she remarked disdainfully, nearly casting it out the window before Renzo could snatch it back from her. That girl had no appreciation for such things, but he knew well that the other noble sons and daughters would know the value of such fine craftsmanship. Just as they had at the celebration the year before last with the matching masks of the brothers Valentino.

The two had arrived in exquisite fashion aboard two coaches of blue and gold respectively. From the first stepped the eldest, his face adorned with a likeness of the smiling golden sun as he stepped from the blue painted coach. From the second strode the younger, garbed with the moon's weeping gaze. Together the strode arm-in-arm to the door, and from then on any who arrived were ushered in by the eldest. When at last the night had come to an end, and it was time to leave, it was the younger who saw the guests to the door.    

Such was the impression that the brothers made that for no less than three months they were all the city could speak of. Renzo knew however, gazing at his reflection in the mirror; his garb of multicolored motley an intricate treat for the eyes; that his peers would speak of him for no less than a year at the least!

Gathering his things he made for the door, checking one last time that the mask was properly in place with the cloth cap worn over top of his head to hide his visage completely. He hurried down the stairs, making sure not to alert his parents nor any of the servants. He could hardly hide his elation as he climbed in to the carriage waiting outside as instructed.

When at last he arrived at the home of the young lady Marina to whom would play the evening's host, he nearly jumped from the coach to bound up the path in a winding gate. All the way he would sing, and dance, and make merry the very stones beneath his feet just as he had practiced. So stunned were the servants at the door that they nearly refused to allow him inside, if not for the invitation he procured from within his sleeve.

Once through the threshold the Harlequin took to the crowd, laughing and entertaining. The players on their strings set the room alive to the sound of some strange score, all while the delicate bouquet of carefully arranged lilacs and perfumes tickled the senses of those who had gathered. So many of the masked figures seemed eager to meet and speak, laughing and languishing in the festivities with the ever charming Risata.  

It was among the height of the merriment that the Harlequin came to the center of the room, to treat with the host of the party. Lady Marina sat in her chair, entertaining her suitors with conversation as the crowd clamored for attention. A smile graced the lips seated below the porcelain gaze of her mask as the fool stood before her, bowing deeply before introducing himself.

“Such a showman” She teased with a playful tone. “From your voice I would think that I was speaking to Renzo Monte, but that cannot be. For the Renzo I know could never be so bold.”

The Harlequin laughed an uproarious laugh, his hands held to his stomach in mocking exaggeration. “But it is so!” He spoke, his grin stretched wide as the face he had adorned. “For only one could arrive in such magnificent dress. Just as I had promised.”

A laugh of amusement graced the good lady's face, though a look of confusion was soon to follow. “Only one?” She asked curiously.

“One, and only one.” The Harlequin replied, bowing low once more as he claimed the honor for himself.

“But, I have seen another...” The lady Marina remarked. “Another dressed just as you have.”

Renzo felt his heart sink. It couldn't be true. It was impossible. He had seen to it that each piece of his costume was made by the hands of the finest tailors and craftsmen. Each piece was unique! Wholly his own!

This must have been some trick, he thought. Some envious lout had seen fit to make a mockery of him. He imagined how they must have followed him, requesting that they be made precisely the same as he had requested. No... perhaps it was even the lady Marina herself. Some sick game that she chose to play on him. It would not be the first heart with which she played. He could see it now behind her eyes, the sickening thrill obscured with false confusion. He would not be so easily made to play the fool!

“Surely, my lady...” He began, “Your eyes must deceive you. For I assure you this was made by only the finest hands of Florence. Surely someone else would have seen if such another had arrived, no?”

It was then that a woman spoke up through the bustle of the party. “But I have seen them.” She spoke, barely able to finish before another young man spoke over her “I too have seen them! Out on the balcony. It would seem dear Renzo would try to play us for fools.”

At this all who had been listening began to laugh, and despite the burning in his cheeks Renzo too offered his laughter, hiding the fury which sat in his stomach and caused his arms to shake. The Harlequin's smile would never falter.

Quietly he fell back into the crowd, the spring taken from his step and the song choked from his voice. He knew that he must find this impostor at once, and put an end to this madness. He would bring them before the others. He would make them confess to what they had done, and then everyone would see that he was no liar. That Renzo Monte was not a liar.

He burst forth through the balcony door, nearly threatening to send it crashing into the marble of the balcony railing. His eyes scanned the view, desperate to find someone, anyone waiting there for him. He spied across the way a dark figure, clad in a simple cloak. Charging across the walk he almost crashed into the figure, forcing them to turn around to get a better look.

He felt his stomach tighten. Every muscle in his body tensed. There was no way. It couldn't be true. Renzo could feel the anguish in his face as he gazed at a mask which mirrored his own. The blissful smile of Risata now a mocking grin, twisted by the evening's malevolence. “Who are you!” Renzo demanded, shaking the figure as he did so. Even the way he was dressed... Could such an elaborate garb truly be made again so perfectly?

When the figure failed to answer Renzo felt his indignation turn to a vengeful fury. “Tell me who you are!” He cried, his forceful grip tightening as he threatened to nearly send the two over the balcony to the stone below.

When the mask fell from the figure's face, Renzo could only fall silent. His eyes wide in horror as all motion slowed to a halt. His very body froze as the terror overwhelmed him.

Staring back at Renzo from behind the mask was not the face of a man. It was nothing at all. There, in the space where the mask had once been, now lie only a black tenebrous void. He felt a chill run down his body, a shaking overtaking him as the carefully sewn satins fell limp in his hands and collapsed into a heap on the ground. Looking down, he was greeted only by grinning face of Risata; now cracked by the balcony floor.

His mind buzzing, all began to become clear. He hadn't even noticed as he stepped onto the railing; his thoughts preoccupied by the truth of what lay behind the mask.

[mmmakesitcount]

Ravel and the Orient

A fascination for the exotic and the orient has often pervaded music in France, as exemplified by works such as Saint-Saën’s Samson et Dalila, Bizet’s Carmen, and Debussy’s Javanese gamelan inspired works. Maurice Ravel was no exception to that fascination. 

In 1903, Ravel composed a cycle of three songs for mezzo-soprano and orchestra, entitled Shéhérazade, based on the exotic texts of French poet Tristal Klingsor. (In 1898, Ravel had already composed the Ouverture de Shéhérazade.) In literature, Sheherazade is the heroine and narrator of The Arabian Nights (or One Thousand and One Nights)--a collection of Middle Eastern folk tales, which include tales on history, love stories, various forms of erotica, comedies, poems, and so on. 

Shéhérazade is composed of three songs:

Asie (Asia) - The first and longest. “A panorama of oriental fantasy evoking Arabia, India, and, at a dramatic climax, China.” (Rae, 2015) The poet repeats the words “je voudrais voir...” (I should like to see...), as he dreams of escaping his European life to encounter Asian exoticism. 

La flûte enchantée (The Enchanted Flute) - A play on sadness and joy, as a young slave girl hears her lover playing the flute outside, while she is tending to her master. To the girl, the music she hears seems like a kiss on the cheek. 

L’indifférent (The Heedless One) - A poem filled with incredible longing, about the attraction to the unattainable. Ravel’s setting of this is often regarded as the most beautiful of all of Ravel’s songs; a movement shrouded in sexual obscurity.

Christiane Karge sings Ravel’s Shéhérazade, under the baton of Stanislaw Skrowaczewski. 

In general, all the movements are tranquil and reflective, as heard in the opening and closing segments which are all in piano. Ravel uses the orchestra and experiments with harmonies and textures to evoke an image of exoticism. The cycle is so arranged, such that it opens with “rich, voluptuous tones and harmonies, which evolve to gentle lyricism, and conclude in languid sensuousness.” (Rae, 2015)

Let’s take a closer look at the third song, L’indifférent (15:59), and examine how Ravel paints longing and unattainable desire. 

Text and English translation of L’indifférent

L’indifférent opens with a slow, oscillating strings motif in 6/8, on which a flute gently perches atop in 2/4, in the key of E major, starting of with a ninth.

The vocal line follows suit, and enters unassumingly. Ravel demands a fine, French legato on the singer, who sings mostly stepwise atop the oscillating strings motif. 

Everything seems still and quiet, until the end of the line “De ton beau visage de duvet ombragé” (Of your fine features, with shadowed down...”), where Ravel surprises the listener with a C# Major 7 chord with a 9th on the vocal line, as a harp strikes, alongside a tenuto on the strings. After this, Ravel somehow “surrenders” musically to the seduction of the beautiful face in the shadows, by returning to his oscillating strings motif. 

C#M9 chord on the downbeat of the first measure shown. As if a sigh emanates from the being of one who is so taken by another’s seductive beauty. 

As the poet muses further, Ravel leaves behind his oscillating strings motif in place of forward-driving octaves on the strings, and winds providing a counter-melody to the vocal line. Somehow, this reflects the poet’s mind as he continues to fantasize about the beautiful stranger he encountered. 

Strings take on the octaves in the left hand part of the piano reduction, while upper winds take on the right hand line. Notice how Ravel repeats his harmonic motif over two measures. This somehow puts the listener and the singer in the realm of fantasy. 

Also note how Ravel juxtaposes the D-A on the base with the stepwise motion in the upper lines. Such a compositional technique is known as pandiatonicism, wherein the diatonic scale (as opposed to the chromatic scale) is used without the limitations of functional tonality. (i.e. Without the dissonances having to resolve.)

When the poet bids the beautiful stranger, “Entre! Et que mon vin te réconforte...” (Enter! And let my wine comfort you...), the orchestra comes to a quiet stillness, as if mimicking the poet’s anguish, anticipation, and desperation for the stranger to come and be with him. Again, Ravel uses a 9th to evoke such a mood, and then proceeds to write a descending chromatic line leading up to whatever comes next.

But alas, the poet is rejected. The stranger simply passes by and goes on her own way. Ravel paints this with a quasi-recitative portion, as the orchestra comes to a halt and leaves the voice (the poet) to languish on his own.

Ravel returns to his extended C#M chord as the poet watches in defeat as the stranger walks away. He is left with only the sight of the stranger’s hips gently swaying--frustratingly erotic in every sense.

And to conclude the piece, Ravel returns to his oscillating strings motif, ending with pandiatonically extended triad with a major ninth. 

Ravel’s Shéhérazade is, indeed, a masterful painting of the exotic. Ravel achieves this with the use of pandiatonicism, and the use of false modalities throughout the piece (in L’indiffêrent, we only clearly hear the E major tonality in the start and end of the piece). Shéhérazade is, indeed, a prime example of how Ravel influenced the tides in terms of compositional language, orchestral texture, and harmonic colors. 

[pokemaniacal]

Crabrawler and Crabominable

Today I would like to talk to you about crabs: specifically, Crabrawler and the delightfully named Crabominable (seriously, can we just take a minute to appreciate the wonderful tumbling rhythm of that name?).  In the process of writing this piece, I have learned (because learning obscure and not particularly useful zoological trivia is just part of what I do here) that evolution just really likes crabs for some reason, and consequently keeps trying to turn other random animals into crabs with mixed results, a process known as carcinisation.  Crabs have apparently evolved at least five separate times, from a variety of starting points (giving rise, surprisingly, to only two Pokémon before now: Kingler and Crustle, Crawdaunt being a lobster).  On the basis of this vague half-substantiated piece of pseudo-knowledge, I have decided that crabs are the ultimate form of life, to which all other species aspire.  Of course, Crabrawler and Crabominable have the advantage of already being there – so let’s see what the apex of all biological life has to offer the Alola region.

There’s a character in Sun and Moon, I think near the geothermal plant on Ula’ula Island, who utters the mildly perplexing line “I want to do business with Pokémon.  For example, I could use the pincers of Crabrawler, which grow back constantly.”  Use them for what, exactly, he doesn’t specify at the time, and I was briefly horrified that this ostensibly sane individual might be planning to torture Pokémon in order to produce an endless supply of crab meat (BAN CRABS).  Even in the real world, crab claws do regenerate, and crabs can chop off their own claws to distract predators like lizards shedding their tails, which is the basis of a real technique for sustainable crab fishing – catch a crab, snap off its claws, and then release it, still alive.  It’s not clear whether this amounts to torture because there’s some debate over whether crustaceans can even experience pain, but some experimental results kind of suggest that maybe they can, so… we can probably call this slightly awkward.  The Pokédex, though, gives us a… slightly more pleasant view?  Crabrawler, it turns out, are known for punching things so hard that they literally tear their own fists off.  These claw-fists contain “little meat,” but it is “rich and delicious,” so for anyone counting, that is another Pokémon that we definitely eat, but at least we only go for the parts that it’s finished using.  Crabominable advances the same theme and also jettisons his claws from time to time, but graduates to a ROCKET PUNCH.  We currently have no information on whether this destroys the meat in his ballistic pincers, or cooks it to perfection.  More research is clearly needed.

Crabrawler seems to be inspired by at least one real type of crab found in the Pacific, and is possibly a mash-up of two.  In the games, these Pokémon are found lurking amongst the piles of assorted berries that can be found at the bottom of Alola’s ubiquitous magical, cornucopious coconut palms.  This gives away that part of Crabrawler’s identity is the coconut crab: a crab of what could fairly be called monstrous size, which lives primarily on fruit and nuts and is found on islands throughout the South Pacific and Indian oceans.  They are the largest land-dwelling invertebrates in the world, and are much more committed to life on land than any other crab – adult coconut crabs can even drown in water.  Thus, although Crabrawler learns a few Water attacks, he isn’t actually a Water-type, and spends little time in the water.  Although coconut crabs are as huge and terrifying as Crabrawler is surly and cross-eyed, they are also equally delicious, and are consequently hunted extensively.  Unfortunately for our enterprising Alolan businessman, all attempts to breed them in captivity have ended in failure.  Crabrawler’s second element is the boxing-inspired combat style that gives him his Fighting type, and… well, be honest, would it really surprise you to be told that there exists a real animal known as the “Hawaiian boxing crab”?  This crab doesn’t have as much of an influence on Crabrawler’s design as the coconut crab, but in some ways it’s actually kind of weirder, and in a very Pokémon-esque way: it gets its name from its habit of carrying around a pair of live sea anemones, which it waves threateningly at enemies’ faces in order, presumably, to make them seek out less flamboyantly insane prey.  I’m not sure Game Freak actually had this particular species in mind, because if they did, I’m honestly kind of disappointed by how much more silly they could have made it.  Pokémon already has elemental punches, but a sea anemone punch?  Now that would be worth seeing.

Crabrawler likes climbing things, because as well as wanting to be metaphorically “on top” of its competition, it wants to be physically on top of as many things as possible – after all, as Star Wars taught us, the battle is over once you have the high ground.  Rocks, trees, hills, Alolan Exeggutor, road signs, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, whatever: Crabrawler just wants to get high as fμ¢&.  Eventually, Crabrawler can find themselves drawn to climb so high that they sort of… accidentally get stuck on top of mountains and have to evolve into yetis so they don’t freeze to death.  No, that is what the Pokédex actually says.  Crabrawler evolve into Crabominable when they climb snowy mountains and adapt to their new environment, Eevee-style.  In the games, this means that Crabrawler, who is available almost from the start of the game, will only evolve when you take him up Mount Lanakila, which – and this is true – is at the very end.  Ultra Sun and Ultra Moon let you poke around the base of the mountain before you can actually climb it, which is enough to satisfy Crabrawler, but if you’re wanting to use this Pokémon on a playthrough of the original Sun and Moon, as with Charjabug you should be prepared to languish in mediocrity for a long time.  Crabominable’s yeti theme is owed to yet another type of crab, this time the so-called yeti crab of the Southern Ocean, a bristly beast that clusters around hydrothermal vents for warmth and food.  The designers don’t seem to have taken much from the crab itself, other than as an excuse to splice yeti-like features onto a crab – which I’m sort of fine with, because as weird as the Pokédex’s explanation for Crabrawler’s evolution is, it does sort of fit with the way Pokémon generally does adaptation, as well as with Crabrawler’s combative, competitive temperament and the coconut crab’s climbing skills.  The overall result… well, okay, even if you like Crabominable you have to admit it’s incredibly derpy, but this design is weirdly growing on me.  His oddly-shaped body with its tuft of yellow hair seems like it’s meant to be coconut-shaped, which is a nice call-back to the coconut crab.  The huge “fists” with their odd foot-shaped markings would allow Crabominable to leave “Bigfoot” footprints in the snow to confuse human mountaineers.  And honestly, if Pokémon was going to do a yeti, I’d kind of prefer it be a buck-toothed giant coconut crab that accidentally climbed a mountain and got stuck than just a big shaggy humanoid Ice-type.

Crabominable is another one of those seventh-generation Pokémon with a fairly straightforward “sledgehammer” combat style – he’s built like the proverbial brick $#!thouse, but also moves like one.  Good HP and passable physical defence are overshadowed to some extent by mediocre special defence and a type combination (Fighting/Ice) which, while unique, carries only three resistances and a host of weaknesses.  Offensively it’s pretty solid, since Ice and Fighting attacks between them hit nine different types super-effectively, the best you can do with just two attacks.  The first of those attacks is likely to be Crabominable’s signature move, Ice Hammer, which is close to the strongest Ice-type physical attack in the game.  It also benefits from Crabominable’s ability, Iron Fist, which gives a passive +20% damage bonus to punching attacks.  Like Hammer Arm, it drops your speed when you use it, but again, Crabominable is a major proponent of brick $#!thouse tactics, so this is either irrelevant anyway, or can actually be turned to your advantage on a Trick Room team.  Since Crabominable is tied with Mega Abomasnow for the second-highest attack stat of all Ice-types (after the absurd Black Kyurem), this hits very hard.  Unfortunately, Crabominable’s best Fighting attacks don’t work with Iron Fist, but they’re still very powerful; you can choose from Close Combat (weakens both your defences), Superpower (weakens both your physical stats), or Dynamic Punch (as strong as the other two after Iron Fist, confuses the target, but only 50% accurate).  His strongest attack is technically Focus Punch, which will flatten damn near anything, but fails if the user takes any damage in the same turn – I don’t recommend it, but Crabrawler is scary enough to force switches that will give him an opportunity to use Focus Punch unhindered, and you could always try protecting him with Substitute.  Outside of Ice and Fighting, Crabominable’s best move is probably Earthquake, which adds another four types to his list of super-effective targets.  If you want a fourth attack, Stone Edge and (on Ultra Sun and Moon) Thunderpunch are both on offer; Stone Edge is slightly stronger, has a high critical hit rate, and hits more additional types, but has that nagging 80% accuracy.  Crabhammer (which you have to pick up as Crabrawler before evolving) has Stone Edge’s power and critical rate with higher accuracy, but Water has almost completely redundant type coverage with Crabominable’s other attacks.

If Crabominable can actually hit something, his huge attack stat and great type coverage ensure he can dish out the damage.  The problem is that very low speed, a type combination with many defensive flaws, and dubious special defence make it fairly difficult for Crabominable to do that without taking heavy damage in return, and he doesn’t even have any priority attacks to compensate.  He’s a very all-or-nothing Pokémon: if you can manoeuvre him to force a switch, or otherwise catch your opponent off guard, something’s gonna die, but in a fair fight, he can be overpowered quickly.  Of course, that all assumes you’re building Crabominable in an all-offence manner and slapping on an item like a Choice Band or Life Orb.  Despite his lacklustre defensive type, his physical defence stat isn’t too bad, and his massive attack stat can probably survive not being maxed, so some sort of physical tank is a plausible option, probably fuelled by Bulk Up (or maybe even Amnesia).  Ultra Sun and Moon also bestow Crabominable with Drain Punch, which is a perfectly respectable Fighting attack after the Iron Fist bonus and can provide a tanky Crabominable with some healing.  After putting a few points into defence and/or special defence, you could either stick with a Life Orb or switch to a more defensive or balanced item like Leftovers or an Expert Belt.  To take another route entirely, four attacks plus an Assault Vest to shore up his iffy special defence might be interesting to catch out opponents who overextend to take advantage of Crabominable’s poor speed and many weaknesses.  These approaches sacrifice power, which is Crabominable’s major selling point, but retain his high-powered attacks and excellent type coverage while making him a little less vulnerable to retributive strikes.  Crabominable doesn’t really get any support moves worth speaking of, aside from maybe Wide Guard for doubles, should you want to predict and counter an Earthquake or something, but in any case, spending much time on support would sort of be a waste of that beautiful attack stat.

That just leaves Crabominable’s other ability choices to cover – and, well, Iron Fist seems like pretty clearly the best one to me, but we may as well talk about the other two.  Hyper Cutter makes you immune to attack reductions, which basically means you ignore Intimidate – just about everything else that lowers the attack stat is very rare, either because it’s terrible or because it’s exclusive to a small number of Pokémon (ignoring the attack reduction from King’s Shield might be worth it to you to slightly improve your matchup against Aegislash, but frankly Crabominable usually loses to Aegislash anyway).  Anger Point, his hidden ability, maxes out your attack stat (raises it to quadruple its normal value) when you survive a critical hit, which is nice when it happens, but so hard to control that you can’t really build around it, especially since Crabominable’s defences are only decent.  In a double battle – and I can hardly believe I’m even suggesting this – you could build a partner Pokémon to do the minimum possible damage to Crabominable with an out-of-the-gate guaranteed critical hit (probably Night Slash from an Unfezant with Super Luck and a Scope Lens) in order to trigger Anger Point yourself.  Even if you’re mad enough to do this, though, Crabominable is emphatically not a sweeper unless you somehow get a Trick Room set up at the same time as all this, and you’d be better off trying it with Primeape or Tauros.

Crabominable is sort of emblematic of generation VII in a couple of ways.  He and Crabrawler are both steeped in the weird biological lore of the Pacific islands and their unique fauna.  He’s very derpy and weirdly designed, but most of what’s weird about him does make a kind of thematic sense when you look closely enough.  His somewhat one-dimensional fighting style comes with a lot of power but limited flexibility and extreme vulnerability to aggressive Pokémon with more speed (a statement that could apply to about half the Pokémon in Alola), but he has a unique type combination, a neat signature move, and powerful type coverage to help him stand out.  And he is delicious (matching both Sun and Moon’s interest in Alolan cuisine and the franker tone that their Pokédex is often willing to take about Pokémon being hunted for food).  I suppose my feelings on him therefore mirror my feelings about generation VII’s Pokémon designs as a whole: it’s… fine.  Some of the decisions are very weird, but I at least feel I can understand them, which I often couldn’t in V, and there is a certain zaniness to it all that I appreciate, even if the resulting Pokémon are sometimes on the “meh” side in battle.

[tipsoctopus]

£135m arrival, 17-goal star: MUFC's stunning 20/21 XI if big transfer claims prove true -opinion

With the Premier League amid an impromptu hiatus, perhaps it’s unsurprising that the transfer rumours have started early this year, with Manchester United in the thick of it.

Of course, any rumours always need to be taken with a pinch of salt, especially at a time when the football media is desperate for stories to cover, but if recent claims prove true Manchester United’s starting XI could be nothing short of genuinely incredible by the time 2020/21 rolls around.

Here’s a quick rundown of how the Red Devils could look based on current speculation…

Hilariously obscure Premier League players – Can you name them all?

World Class score: 95% | Expert score: 80% | Veteran score: 65% | Intermediate score: 45% | Amateur score: 30% | Try Again: 5%

Goalkeeper – David De Gea: No changes here. Dean Henderson has been impressing on loan at Sheffield United with the second-most clean sheets of any Premier League goalkeeper, but it would surely take a massive offer for the Red Devils to part with De Gea while there’s still three years left on his contract.

Right-Back – Aaron Wan-Bissaka: A strong first season from the former Crystal Palace man in which he’s averaged 3.8 tackles per game in the Premier League suggests he’ll be first-choice next term as well. United have been linked with PSG’s Thomas Meunier, but the 28-year-old could be more of a squad option considering Wan-Bissaka’s done so little wrong.

Right Centre-Back – Matthijs De Ligt: The Daily Star have claimed Manchester United are considering a stunning swoop for De Ligt that would see Paul Pogba go in the other direction to Juventus. The Red Devils were keen on the Dutch defender last summer until he joined Juve in a £67.5m deal, but he’s struggled to impress with an average Whoscored rating of 6.72 in Serie A.

Aged 20, the former Ajax man would still be a wise long-term investment for any top club and certainly provide Harry Maguire with a top-quality partner, something The Star claim Ole Gunnar Solskjaer is determined to find this summer. It’s worth noting, however, that De Ligt’s father-in-law has been quick to quash the rumours.

Left Centre-Back – Harry Maguire: Much like Wan-Bissaka, Maguire has adapted to life at Old Trafford with impressive ease, even taking up the captain’s armband. The England international scored a heroic header in the most recent Manchester Derby and looks like he’ll be a cornerstone of the first team for some time.

Left-Back – Luke Shaw: The Sun claim Solskjaer has been so impressed by Brandon Williams’ development this season that United won’t be on the lookout for another left-back this summer. It’s still early days for the 19-year-old though, so we’re expecting Luke Shaw to remain first choice – at least at the start of the campaign.

Holding Midfield – Saul Niguez: The Star have sensationally reported that United are confident of landing Atletico Madrid’s Niguez this summer in an incredible club-record £135m deal. That might seem like a lot of money to pay for someone who we’ve put in holding midfield but in many ways, that’s the beauty of the Spain international – this season alone he’s played in five different positions, and he seems uniquely adaptable to the demands of whatever team he’s in.

It’s alleged Solskjaer sees the 25-year-old as a potential replacement for Pogba who can operate alongside Bruno Fernandes in midfield, but we’ve dropped him back a little bit to make room for another alleged United incoming.

Central Midfield – Bruno Fernandes: Having already bagged three goals and four assists in his first nine outings for United, it’s safe to assume January signing Fernandes won’t be going anywhere next season. He’s already proving to be a vital cog in Solskjaer’s side and it would be a complete shock to see him bumped down the pecking order next season.

Central Midfield – Jack Grealish: The Aston Villa signing arrives to complete a midfield a la Pep Guardiola, with two roaming playmakers in front of a trusted and tenacious anchorman. Despite once again landing himself in hot water after bizarrely ignoring his own advice about self-isolation, The Daily Mail claim United are still expected to land the Englishman in a deal worth up to £80m.

A fine season for Grealish has seen him reach the League Cup final for Villa and contribute to 13 Premier League goals, despite his side languishing in the relegation zone. He’s certainly got the ability to make the step up to a top club, although there are some question marks over his attitude.

Right Wing – Jadon Sancho: According to Mirror Football, with Liverpool excluding themselves from the race, Manchester United and Chelsea will go head-to-head for the services of Jadon Sancho this summer. The 20-year-old is a frightening prospect, with 17 goals and 19 assists this season alone, and offers a solution to the right wing conundrum that has plagued United this season.

Like De Ligt, he represents another wise long-term investment for a top club. However, Mirror Football also claim United aren’t prepared to match Dortmund’s £100m asking price, so it seems some haggling may have to take place before this deal gets over the line.

Left Wing – Marcus Rashford: We often think of Rashford as the centre-piece in United’s attack but he’s actually made more appearances as a wide forward this season according to Transfermarkt, producing a prolific 15 goals and 4 assists in 19 outings from the left. It’s perhaps not Rashford’s ideal position long-term, but placing him there again next season will allow for another key addition up front.

Striker – Harry Kane: Manchester Evening News have suggested a United swoop for Kane remains unlikely but following on from his admission that he may eventually leave Spurs if there are no clear signs of progress, Rio Ferdinand has defiantly claimed that the Red Devils will be in for the Tottenham star, insisting he’s “perfect” for them.

Daniel Levy is notorious for refusing to do business with Premier League rivals, but Kane would no doubt be a fantastic addition to the Old Trafford ranks as arguably the best striker in the world. Even this season, which has been plagued by injuries and Spurs’ wayward form, the England captain has netted 17 times in 25 games.

The final XI

Meanwhile, Paul Pogba’s transfer priority has been revealed. 

from FootballFanCast.com https://ift.tt/3aKkV3p via IFTTT from Blogger https://ift.tt/2V48wAy via IFTTT

[raendown]

Chapter 61

The latest request for the Soulmate Collection actually gave me both the pairing and the au and I realized that even in a modern universe my favorite way to write the Akatsuki is as a gang of criminals. xD

Under the cut or on AO3!

Pairing: SasoriDeidara Soulmate au: The one where each person has a piece of clay that changes shape and color to reflect their soulmate's emotions

Sasori hated that stupid piece of clay. He’d been born with it clenched in his fist the same as everybody else had and he hadn’t hated it then. No, he had learned to hate it in the orphanage. He learned to hate it when his life was darkness and misery and that stupid lump of clay would mold itself into a boy caught mid-run, a child leaping for joy, always colored with happy shades of fun, excitement, amusement. Whoever his soulmate was they were having the time of their life and here he was, stuck in some dark hole with a Matron who hated him and fellow children who mocked him for sleeping with a doll.

So yes, Sasori hated that stupid lump of clay. He never understood why he couldn’t simply leave it behind. He should have shoved it in a closet somewhere, hidden it under the floorboards like so many other angry orphans. Instead it sat at his bedside. When he turned eighteen and aged out, Sasori found himself a crappy job and a dirt-cheap apartment and set his lump of clay at his bedside. Lately it had begun to take on the shapes of small bags or little clocks. What those two things had in common he had no clue but they still appeared in shades of amusement and excitement. He still hated it.

There were days he would come home to find his clay shaped like a reaching hand, colored for longing and wistfulness. On his own worst days the clay would shape itself in to a smiling face and assume the colors of comfort. He supposed that, somewhere, his soulmate must be seeing his own emotions and trying to comfort him in what small ways they could. He would only ever scowl. What did they know of sadness, this happy person who had never gone a full day without producing the colors of joy?

He was twenty-one years old when Sasori found himself someone mixed up with the wrong side of the law.

His shitty job earned him shitty pay and he could afford very little other than groceries. But for the last three weeks he had been working overtime, picking up shifts for a coworker who had gone on vacation. Today he had just a little bit extra money and he knew just what he wanted to do with it: put it in the bank! There was nothing better than knowing he had money in the bank, in that savings account that sometimes almost closed by default because it had been empty for too long. He was excited to finally have something to put in it and hoped he would have enough money to not need to touch it for at least a few months.

Sasori had deposited his precious extra money and was making his way through the atrium when an explosion went off, rocking the ground beneath his feet and sending him tumbling to the floor.

The next thing he knew he was being used as a hostage, long blonde hair obscuring his vision as someone wrapped their arm around his neck and leaned over him to shout at the tellers. Hysterically, his mind noted that this person had a rather pleasant voice. He was terrified when they decided to take him along to use as a human shield, insurance so the cops won’t follow them. Sasori is a human being and the police won’t shoot if he’s in the line of fire. But he is also a good-for-nothing nobody and they weren’t going to put much effort in to finding him. Sasori wondered if his captors knew just how lucky they were to choose the perfect hostage.

They released him inside their van, allowed him to scuttle back in to one corner and huddle there to watch them with terrified eyes. He was flabbergasted to see that the blonde one who had captured him was no older than himself. He was grinning widely, tossing a plastic wrapped package back and forth. One of the other ones waved their hands in the air frantically.

“Deidara! Stop playing with that!” the girl snapped. The blonde young man laughed derisively.

“It’s fine, right? I’m the expert on making things go boom and, believe me, I have no interest in going boom myself.” He tossed the package up in the air, catching it with the same hand. “This isn’t even armed anyway.”

Sasori brought his knees up closer to the rest of his body, just hoping that they would continue to ignore him and wondering if this ragtag bunch of idiots even had a plan for what they were going to do with him. That Deidara guy seemed like the loose cannon type, the one who would make things up as he going along. They probably hadn’t even planned on taking a hostage.

His supposition is proved correct when they arrive at an abandoned building turned hideout to be greeted by a giant man with gills tattooed on the sides of his neck and more piercings than should really be necessary. He was also wearing a dark scowl as they all piled out of the van.

“What the fuck? Deidara can you not control yourself? You took a fucking hostage! And you brought him back here with you!?” The man’s voice was a harsh growl and he seemed like he really wanted to take a huge bite out of the blonde guy with those over-sharp teeth that flashed inside his mouth. The only thing that appeared to be holding him back was the hand on his leg, another man languishing on a nearby couch, calmly watching television while his arm reached out to absentmindedly stroke down Sharp Tooth’s calf.

“Screw you, un!” Deidara glared but wasted no energy defending himself, only looked away to finally pay attention to the person whose life he had just turned upside down. “Hm. What to do with you now.”

Sasori was honestly starting to worry about his own brain because the only thing that flashed across his mind right then was that he hoped he would get home in time for his next shift. Missing shifts meant losing money and he did not work that hard just to use up his precious savings the very next month because these idiots kept him from making enough to cover his bills.

More people wandered their way in to the room and soon Sasori found himself on the edge of what looked like a large family debate, his fate being the subject in discussion. There was only one woman in the whole group and she looked more harried than any of the rest of them. Sasori couldn’t tell if it was the one with the orange hair who was in change or if it was the one wearing a weird orange mask but orange was definitely the color of leadership here. Eventually those two seemed to come to the decision that Deidara brought them the problem (he really didn’t appreciate being referred to as a problem) so Deidara should be the one to take care of him (like he was some sort of pet).

He managed to hold his tongue as he was led away by a grumbling blond. The building they were in appeared to be an old warehouse of some kind, repurposed in to a base for nefarious purposes. The hallways were short and complicated and he lost track of how many turns they took before he found himself closed in to a messy bedroom, standing awkwardly by the door while Deidara flopped on the bed.

“Make yourself at home, un,” Deidara offered magnanimously. Sasori blinked and looked around.

There were posters on the wall and strange tools on a desk in the corner. Bits of wire and tubing and things he didn’t know how to properly identify sat in organized containers, at direct odds with the state of chaos the rest of the room was in. Clothes hung out of a short dresser shoved against the far wall and gathered in piles on the floor. The top of the dresser was completely cleared off but for a familiar lump of clay, currently shaped like a cat sniffing its surroundings and shaded with the colors of curiosity and caution.

Sasori stopped dead, staring at the clay which seemed to call for him, beckoning to him on a frequency only he could hear. As he watched the cat disappeared, replaced instead with a wooden doll standing stiffly upright and fading in to the color of shock. Impossible. Deidara hadn’t been paying very much attention to him but his head shot up when Sasori moved forward, hand reaching out to touch the clay.

“Hey!” the blond shouted. “Don’t touch that!”

“But it’s mine!”

“Are you stupid? That’s mine!”

“No, I mean–” Sasori fumbled for words, Deidara’s hand pressed to his chest to keep him at a respectable distance. “I mean that it’s for me. It represents me. I mean that I think I’m your–”

“Soulmate,” Deidara finished for him.

The two of them stood there staring at each other, Deidara blinking owlishly before squinting at him like he thought he might be lying. Sasori only stared back in wonder.

“You think you’re my soulmate.” For a moment Sasori feared the other might not believe him, then suddenly Deidara’s face lit up with a brilliant smile. “That’s so cool, un! What’s your name? Where are you from? Do you wanna stay?”

“Stay?”

“Yeah, stay here with us. The Akatsuki’s great. They picked me up off the streets when I was really little and they let me blow stuff up all the time. It’s awesome!”

He was being offered a home, he realized, a place to come home to and people to belong with. Sasori thought about his shitty apartment and his shitty job, alone in some shitty corner of their broken city. He looked around the room, seeing Deidara’s poorly kept but high quality things. Then he looked at the lump of clay, hesitant but hopeful. When he smiled he watched it light up with the colors of peace and happiness, taking on the shape of a tiny little house. A home.

“That sounds nice,” he said.

Deidara threw one arm around his shoulders and started talking a mile a minute about how they can find out what he’s good at and what he likes to do so that he can contribute to the Akatsuki in whatever way makes him happy.

Sasori let him talk, the smile on his face feeling new and foreign, and made a mental note that he would need to stop by the apartment and pick up his stupid lump of clay. He can’t imagine being without it, just as he suddenly can’t imagine being without Deidara.

[biofunmy]

Facades on 1,400 Buildings in New York Are a Threat to Pedestrians

The warning from the New York City building inspector was blunt. The facade of the apartment building in the Bronx was crumbling and a corner was separating. The playground outside a day care center in the building had to close immediately.

That was in 2001. Nineteen years later there is still a three-foot gap in the brick facade and the playground, for the center’s 50 children between 2 and 4 years old, is still off limits.

The building’s owner has ignored at least 19 violations, failed to pay $49,000 in fines and has not shown up for seven hearings on the dangerous conditions.

Yet the city has been unable to force the owner to make any repairs.

Instead, a 150-foot stretch of scaffolding that envelops the front of the building was put up in 2011 to protect pedestrians — and remains there today.

Across the city, about 1,400 buildings are wrapped in wood-and-steel sidewalk sheds not for construction, but because their facades are a serious safety threat. The sites have major structural problems, including corroded masonry and fractured terra cotta, which could come loose and hurt or kill people on the ground.

[The addresses of the 1,400 buildings are at the end of this article.]

Many line the city’s most heavily trafficked sidewalks, from luxury condo towers near Central Park to office buildings in Midtown Manhattan.

Others are miles from Manhattan, tucked on impoverished and overlooked streets.

“Nobody pays attention. Nobody does anything about it,” said Alexander Perez, who lives next to the Bronx day care and whose two daughters attended the center, a half-mile from Yankee Stadium.

Scaffolding in New York often stays up for years without any repairs being done.

Despite rigorous city building laws and a string of high-profile accidents, including the death of a woman killed by falling terra cotta in December, an examination by The New York Times found that building owners routinely flout rules and enforcement actions with no repercussions.

Over the past decade, landlords have ignored more than $31 million in fines over unsafe facades, according to an analysis by The Times. Repairs at buildings have been slow-walked or not started at all. During that period, more than 6,000 buildings higher than six floors did not inspect their facades or failed to file their findings, as required by law.

One building, the Esplanade Manhattan, reported to the city in 2011 that its facade was safe, even though the site was never inspected. Four years later a 2-year-old girl was killed by falling terra cotta from the building.

Critics call the fines too small and say the city does not aggressively deploy the tools it has to impose financial consequences, such as threatening a landlord’s credit.

The city’s building inspectors charged with enforcing the rules can impose fines of $1,000 a year for missing facade inspections and $1,000 for each month that an unsafe building goes unrepaired.

The most powerful tools in their arsenal, such as emergency orders to vacate, are applied only in extreme cases.

City officials acknowledged the shortcomings but said they were moving rapidly to beef up the fines, punish negligent landlords, including charging them criminally in court and adding more facade inspectors.

“We’re taking aggressive action,” Melanie E. La Rocca, the buildings commissioner, said, “so that these owners make the needed repairs to their buildings, so that these sheds can be taken down.”

Some building owners have not even taken the basic step of putting up sidewalk sheds or netting, leading to deadly consequences.

In April, city inspectors told the owner of 729 Seventh Avenue, a 17-story building just north of Times Square, that terra cotta pieces were missing from its facade and ordered the owner, Himmel + Meringoff Properties, to pay a $1,250 fine and put up a sidewalk shed.

It didn’t and eight months later, Erica L. Tishman, 60, an architect, was killed when she was hit by a falling piece.

A sidewalk shed was installed hours after Ms. Tishman died, and the company plans to remove all of the decorative terra cotta. A spokesman for Himmel + Meringoff said repairs were not made earlier because the severity of the April violation had been downgraded by a judge who determined that the facade was not unsafe.

The vast number of faulty facades reflects, in part, the city’s successful effort to systematically assess the condition of building facades prompted by the death of a Barnard student in the early 1980s from falling concrete. Eleven other cities, including Chicago and San Francisco, have adopted similar facade rules.

But the proliferation of sidewalk sheds illustrates the weakness in enforcement.

[You can find more information about violations in New York City by searching this Department of Buildings website.]

In New York, sheds around unsafe buildings stretch for a total of 81 miles — eyesores that obscure first-floor businesses, collect trash and, according to Mayor Bill de Blasio, are “great for criminals as a place to hide.”

Even one of the most notorious buildings, a 12-story apartment tower at 601 West 115th Street owned by Columbia University, still has had problems.

In 1979, Grace Gold, a freshman at Barnard, was killed by a falling 1-by-2-foot piece of concrete from that building. Nearly four decades later, an inspection in 2017 found that there were still cracking and crumbling bricks. A sidewalk shed was installed and the university paid $4,150 in fines.

“There is no sense of urgency, and the fines are a joke,” said Ms. Gold’s sister, Lori Gold, who has advocated for safer buildings since her sister’s death.

A spokeswoman for Columbia University said the facade was fixed in November and that the university would ask the city to sign off on the repairs so the sidewalk shed could be taken down.

In addition to lax enforcement, inspectors have been accused of not acting swiftly enough to inspect facades when there are clear warnings. A city investigation after the death of Greta Greene, the 2-year-old killed outside the Esplanade Manhattan, faulted the Buildings Department for not acting on a tip eight months earlier that the facade had a “scary” crack that warranted getting “someone over pretty quick on this.”

In recent months, however, the Buildings Department has stepped up its targeting of negligent building owners.

In October, the department filed misdemeanor charges of noncompliance in Criminal Court in Manhattan against the owners of the seven buildings with sidewalk sheds older than a decade, which includes those used for construction and to shield against unsafe facades. A guilty verdict could bring a one-year jail sentence and fines up to $25,000.

“Sidewalk sheds are a critical tool for protecting the public against the dangers of falling debris,” said Ms. La Rocca, who was appointed commissioner last May. “They can also be a nuisance when building owners let repair work languish, keeping their sheds up far longer than necessary.”

The department has also brought charges against individual tenants, including the board president at 409 Edgecombe in Upper Manhattan, a 13-story apartment building, whose shed has been up for 14 years, longer than any other in the city.

Days later, building officials told the city that the facade would be fixed.

Now the department plans to press criminal charges against owners of all buildings with sheds older than three years, a list that includes about 570 properties, according to two people familiar with the agency’s actions. The agency is doubling the size of its facade inspection team to 22 members and will soon enact significantly higher fines for facade conditions.

In the days after Ms. Tishman was killed, the department also conducted surprise inspections of roughly 1,330 buildings previously deemed unsafe and found that 220 of them had no pedestrian protections.

“The building commissioner is not messing around,” said Ben Kallos, a Councilman who has urged the department to do far more to take on negligent building owners. “Regardless of who owns the building, they have to keep it safe — and the city should be helping out.”

Yet sidewalk sheds remain a common sight across the city.

In the Bronx, parents of children at the Mid-Bronx CCRP Early Childhood Center, the first-floor day care in the building where scaffolding has been up for over eight years, said they had not been told the facade was unsafe and believed that the shed was there for construction.

In fact, more than 18 years after a building inspector first noted the walls separating at the corner of the building’s exterior, another inspector, in Nov. 2019, cited the same problem during a review. “SUBSTANTIAL VERTICAL CRACKS,” the inspector wrote in a citation carrying a $6,250 fine, which has not yet been paid. A partial vacate order, prohibiting access to the playground, was taped to the day care door.

Olga Toledo, who had worked at the day care for 17 years, including as the director, said she quit in 2014 in part because of the landlord’s refusal to fix the property.

“You could see the stuff coming off and falling on the ground,” Ms. Toledo said.

Walter Puryear, an administrator at Mid-Bronx Senior Citizens Council, a nonprofit that owns and operates the building, blamed the city for the faulty facade.

The building, he said, was “not in a very good condition” when the city gave the property to Mid-Bronx in 1993 as part of former Mayor Edward I. Koch’s affordable-housing plan to convert city property into residential units.

The nonprofit has wanted to fix the facade, Mr. Puryear said, but could not afford it without financial aid from the city.

“They are taking us to court like we are landlords who don’t want to do repairs,” Mr. Puryear said. “The city is aware of that but instead of taking a more proactive initiative of how we can work together, the city instead fines us continually.”

An official at the city’s Housing and Preservation Department said it had no records showing that Mid-Bronx had sought help.

Two days after The Times started inquiring about the building’s facade, Mid-Bronx hired a contractor to start repairs, at an estimated cost of $659,000.

The nonprofit, Mr. Puryear said, was taking out a loan to help pay for it.

Susan C. Beachy contributed research.

Sahred From Source link Real Estate

from WordPress http://bit.ly/313QD7J via IFTTT