#too bad this shit was poorly archived/recorded

[baeddel-txt]

"... [genderqueer] doesn't have the same neutral-monogender associations that 'nonbinary' has built up."

Not exactly related, but this bit is so funny to me.

Like, one of the reasons the switch from “genderqueer” to “non-binary” in the early 2010s even happened in the first place is precisely because “genderqueer” had “neutral-monogender associations”.

I mean, of course there was more to it than that. There was nonsense about “‘genderqueer’ was coined by a TW so it belongs to TW so only TW can use it so if non-TW use it they’re transmisogynists”. Also nonsense about “‘genderqueer’ is only used by FAABs so you’re transmisogynistic if you use it”. Also nonsense about “‘genderqueer’ is primarily associated with white people so you're racist if you use it”. And of course the nonsense du jour: “‘queer’ is a slur”.

also making it its own post. rate some nonbinary words for me

[rosy-cheekx]

I Want To Be A Real Fake

@kaiserkorresponds said: Black and White + "I want to be a real fake" + formal clothing <3

Prompted fic that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since I received it! Hope you like it, Kaiser!

-

Jon would not consider himself fashionable. He has a distinct sense of style, yes, but that style lately has been Tired-Academic-Works-in-a-Cold-Office,-Steals-Sweaters-When-Necessary-core. Not exactly suitable for the business casual dress code The Magnus Institute “requires” (no one seemed to pay attention to the Archive staff’s choices of attire), but certainly not suitable for the small rectangle of cardstock Elias Bouchard hands him, on a quiet spring morning in the Archive.

“What’s…what’s this?” Jon asked, staring at the neat, printed text as if it was Greek. (If it were Greek, at least, he could decipher parts of it. He was an English Lit student, after all, and he had really enjoyed etymology.) The card was a stiff black and white, with the black owl logo, the symbol of the Magnus Institute, printed in the top middle. Glancing down at it, he saw a date, and the words: “black-tie.” Shit.

“My apologies, I forgot how tired your position tends to leave you.” Elias’s voice was prim and polite, but Jon still winced inwardly. “As a head of a department, you are now strongly encouraged to attend the fundraiser I host in April each year. Our donors are fascinated by our departments, and especially the Archives. Gertrude’s disappearance has raised questions as to her successor, and I trust you can assuage the concerns of our donors at your accomplishments in the position.” Jon chose to believe that Elias’s keen eye didn’t sweep the mountains of paperwork that surrounded his desk as he surveyed the small, poorly lit office. “I’m certain you’ll be able to find appropriate attire for the occasion.”

He turned on a heel, halfway to the door before seemingly considering something. “Ah, and Jon, one more thing. Gertrude always requested she bring an assistant. Would you like to do the same? I am happy to accommodate one more for the catering count.”

Jon snapped his mouth shut, utterly dumbfounded by the responsibility just thrust upon him, and nodded mutely, before clearing his throat. “Ah-um, yes, I would appreciate that. Does it matter which one?”

“Someone who can make a pleasant impression, please.” Elias raised an eyebrow, nodded almost imperceptibly, like he had made a decision, and rapped his knuckles on the doorframe on the way out. “I trust your judgement.”

Jon counted to thirty, to be certain Elias wasn’t coming back, and slouched into his office chair, scanning the save-the-date again, without the immense pressure of Elias’s eyes on him.

“The Magnus Institute Fundraiser Gala,” it read below the embossed owl, within a thin black border. “23 April, 7-10 pm. Black tie. Catered.” Jon traced the owl with the pad of his finger, flipping the card over to see, in Elias’s thin cursive: Make a good impression, Jon.

God, this is going to suck.

-

“Sasha, come on.” Jon wasn’t one to beg, but desperate times and all that. He had cornered her in the breakroom, while Martin was on a research trip and Tim was getting takeaway from the chippie down the street. “It’s only three weeks away, and you’re the one I trust the most. Please.”

“Jon,” Sasha sighed, smoothing her skirt patiently. “I would if I could, I swear to you. But my sister’s wedding has been planned for months, I’ve already requested time off, and I can’t undo all that for a work party.”

“Fundraiser,” Jon corrected instinctively, even as he signed in resignation. “Fine. I just really didn’t want to go alone.”

Sasha scoffed, shaking her head to herself as she opened the fridge and pulled out her bagged lunch. “You have two other assistants you know. What about Tim? Or Martin?”

Jon wrinkled his nose at the thought of bringing nervous, rambling, doe-eyed Martin to the gala. “God no. Martin would be too much; I need someone who can handle themselves and hold a decent conversation. I need someone who can attend a black-tie gala and look more at-home than me.” A withering look from Sasha.

“So why not Tim, then? He can do all those things.”

“Do all what things?” Jon jumped and spun around to see Tim, carrying a grease-spotted bag in one hand and a paper soda cup in the other. He surveyed Tim in a moment: the button-up shirt, red and printed with tiny black balloons, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, dark black hair artfully mussed. High cheekbones dotted with freckles, and what Jon swore could be the faintest bit of eyeliner.

“Tim, would you like to go to a fashionable, catered work party with me?”

“Boss,” Tim lowered himself to a knee and held out his soda solemnly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Tim, that’s backwards. The kneeler isn’t the one who accepts,” Sasha chuckles helpfully.

“You’re just jealous of our love, Sash!”

Good Lord.

-

Jon was really hoping the food would be good. He was in Tim’s flat, in the toilet, checking himself in the mirror one final time. His hair was carefully braided, courtesy of Tim’s deft hands and coiled into a thick bun at the base of his skull, gold and emerald hairpin snugly in place. His suit was nice: a respectable white shirt, dotted with tiny lime-colored flowers he had to strain his eyes to see, under a dark green suit jacket and matching trousers. The suit itself was cut in a rather androgynous style, pulling tight at Jon’s waist in a way he rather liked, and contrasted beautifully, he thought, with the smooth brown of his skin. He flicked an invisible piece of lint from his thigh and, satisfied, stepped into the hall to tell Tim he was ready to go.

“Tim, I’m all-woah,” the exhale was accidental. Tim’s suit was certainly not subtle. He was wearing a deep blue turtleneck, hair perfectly coiffed. Over the turtleneck, the suit jacket was white, a spray of water-color flowers in all shades of blue and purple shifting with every movement. The navy blue heeled suede boots on his feet accentuated his already-tall frame “Tim, you look good,” Jon breathed.

“Ouch. No need to sound all surprised. I know I clean up well; I dirty pretty damn good too.” Tim chuckled and adjusted his sleeves. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Mr. ‘I don’t want anything too crazy.’”

Jon grinned shyly, rocking on his heels of his own, less intimidating dress shoes. “I like it, I think. It feels nice.” The excitement over how good he felt in the clothes had, all too briefly, suppressed the impending doom he was feeling about the evening’s events. “Are you ready for tonight?” he asked for what must have been the fiftieth time, spinning the solid black ring he wore around his finger.

“Yes, Jon. Talk about the reorganization process as a structural renovation, converting files to audio formatting for future accessibility, don’t talk about artefact storage even a little, don’t get caught up with anyone too pretty, I get it.” His voice was flat, bored by the repetition. “This is going to be fine.”

“What-what if it isn’t, though, Tim? What if they ask about Gertrude or how their money is being used, o-or how the restructuring is going? I can’t bloody well tell them I’m using a tape recorder that’s probably older than I am.”

“Jon,” Tim’s well-manicured hand was on his shoulder, nails the same blue of his turtleneck. “Take a deep breath. For Gertrude: be honest. It was a tragedy, and you hope she’s found, but until then you’re doing your best to act on her wishes as her replacement. And for the rest, be vague. Restructuring is going ‘as well as can be expected’ or ‘is running quite smoothly with the help of your three wonderful assistants.’” He winked. “And tell them you’re using a multimedia system, that’ll confuse those old boomers enough to move topics. And it is technically true. Laptops and a tape recorder are multiple medias. Anything else we can riff, you know? I can talk with the best of them.” He eyed Jon meaningfully. “This will be fine. It’s one night. And we’ll get chips after. Promise.”

Jon nodded and closed his eyes, breathing steadying. He was grateful Tim had been available. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

-

“So, how did you know what black tie meant?” Jon asked, eyeing Tim across the seat of the cab. They’re on their way now and Jon’s hands are steepled tightly, pressing his fingertips against each other until it hurts to do so. “I had to Google it last week when I went shopping, in case we had to wear literal black ties.” He needed to talk about anything, anything but this stupid fundraiser they drove steadily towards.

Tim grew silent for a moment, considering his words. “My brother was an extra in a movie once and started dating a stylist for one of the leads. He fibbed his way into getting us tickets for premieres, so I’ve made my way through a few high-fashion events.” He shrugged, fiddling with a thin silver bracelet along his wrist, were Jon knew the letter D was carved in delicate cursive. “I like it, too, you know? Dressing up for events. It makes me feel debonaire, like a spy.”

Jon shook his head in disagreement. “Makes me feel fake,” he mumbled, eyeing the lorry floor beneath them. “Like everyone knows I don’t belong. I hate having their eyes on me and knowing they’re better than me.”

Tim prodded Jon with his elbow gently, raising his eyebrows in a comforting manner. “That’s it though, isn’t it? We aren’t fake. We worked our way here. Hell, you’re the boss of an entire department, Jon. We’ve gotten to where we are in the Institute because we deserve to be here. And anyways, everyone at that party next week is gonna be fake. They’re pretending to care about our jobs, and we pretend to care about their money, and they pretend they’re even the ones who write the checks and not some snooty financial advisor in Wales.”

Jon shrugged, trying to keep himself from biting back that he wasn’t enough, didn’t earn this spot, that Sasha deserved it more than he did and was doing nothing to prove to Elias he was up to the monumental task of being the Head Archivist. He didn’t, though, and instead took a steadying breath, nodding to Tim’s comforting words.

“And anyways,” Tim continued, shrugging. “Even if we have to be fake for a night, it’ll be fun. We get to be a part of ‘the queen’s high society,’” he added in a high-pitched, overly fake RP accent, eliciting a chuckle from Jon. “And Rosie said the catering Elias orders is divine. Apparently we should keep an eye out for tiny samosas?”

As if on cue, the cab shuddered to a stop. Jon thanked the driver, paid, and followed Tim out.

-

The Institute looked different under the pretense of wealth and success. It was still the same building of course, but the floor was clear of the rain mats and the smooth marble floor paved the way to the library, the main sitting room of which had been cleared as a rather respectable grand hall to host a party. Tables lined the cordoned off books, hot plates and silver trays steaming slightly. Bottles of wine lined a bar, behind which a vested individual with slicked-back hair was pouring small glasses and taking orders. A quiet orchestra completed the scene, cello and piano in a delicate duet. Before tonight, Jon couldn’t have imagined this many people in the Institute alone, least of all the library. Not that it’s packed. There’s maybe thirty or so well-dressed individuals milling about, the din of conversation white noise in comparison to the floating of the music.

Tim’s hand is on his back, pressing kindly into his spine. Oh yes, he remembers dimly, and nods, allowing Tim to guide him into the library and hand him a glass of wine. They stand out a little, two beacons of color around what is a pretty drab spectrum of black and grey, save for a few spectacular dresses in the crowd. Jon finds he doesn’t mind it, except that it may lead to unwanted conversation. It’s not his looks he fears being judged on, but that he be found wanting when it came to his capabilities. He was always selectively self-conscious like that, some things utterly meaningless, others inexplicably important.

Jon isn’t a huge fan of wine, but he finds himself clinging to the glass as a lifeline as he and Tim meander through the crowds, largely ignored. The music is intoxicatingly simple; he finds himself caught up in the deep reverberations of the cello as they walk, feeling it deep in his chest. There were, in fact, samosas, as well as small cannoli, and he and Tim piled plates as high as they could without garnering stares.

There weren’t many people Jon recognized; he didn’t even see Elias as he scanned the crowd for faces. Wine in one hand, a plate in the other, he thought maybe the night wouldn’t be too bad.

Jon shivered, the sensation of being stared at prickling the back of his neck. He spun around, trying to appear casual, and spotted Elias at last. He was standing with a large man, broad and wearing a deep blue suit, scruffy beard a mix of tawny and white. Elias crooked his finger, smiling primly. As Jon made his way over to the pair-who he could’ve sworn he hadn’t seen previously, he was intercepted by a short bald man in a plum velour suit, leaning heavily on a cane.

“Ah, Archivist,” he smiled warmly, extending a hand to shake before seeing Jon’s hands were full, and nodding his head instead. “Congratulations on your promotion. Elias has told me he expects great things from you.”

Jon smiled politely, glancing over to see Elias and the other man gone again. Regretfully, he turned his attention back to the man. “It’s a shame about Gertrude, yes, but I’m hoping I can do her proud,” he said in a practiced tone. He glanced over his shoulder. Where was Tim? He was just with him.

“Of course, of course. I was hoping I could have a word?”

“W-with me?”

“Yes, you see, I was rather concerned when I heard Gertrude’s position had been left open. When Elias said you yourself where at the junction to take over, I wanted to meet you for myself. I worry about the Archivists in your institute, so many of you do such monumental work for so little recognition. Do you worry your work to be meaningless?  Your name insignificant when it is all said and done?”

(It is this conversation he remembers, months later, when he demands to record Prentiss’ attack. He refuses to be another mystery, a name on a placard to be wondered about.)

“I-ah, yes? No?” What was the right answer here? Jon stammered out a half-assed reply about doing his best, midway through when he felt a hand firmly on his shoulder, where his neck and collarbone met. Glancing to his peripheral, he saw a golden ring, an eye, and was frustratingly grateful to hear the cool tones of Elias Bouchard over his shoulder.

“Now Simon,” he said, voice even, “you aren’t trying to scare my dear Archivist, are you?” He gave the shoulder a squeeze but remained put. “Jon, I believe you’ve heard of Simon Fairchild, a significant donor to our establishment.”

Jon nodded wordlessly, not really listening to the two bureaucrats delve off into some topic or other, craning his neck to look for Tim. The music had picked up, he registered dimly, a orchestral melody led by a violin, sharp and whimsical.

“Jon?” Another squeeze to his neck, and Jon tried not to wince. “Wouldn’t you agree,” Elias asked, voice patient at surface level. “That the best way to move forward is to restructure the Archive?”

Jon nodded, trying to recall the answer he had rehearsed. “Yes, ah—my team and I have worked quite hard at recording the statements a-and organizing them in a way that will last long-term.”

“Ah, what a delight,” Simon—Mr. Fairchild—said warmly. Jon was reminded of the voices adults would use when they spoke to him as a child, when his inane facts about space or etymology had moved from endearing to obnoxious.

The conversation lasted for what felt like days, Jon feeling rather like Mr. Fairchild’s cane: a statement piece, contributing nothing to the conversation but unable to find a smooth exit. Leading questions from Elias led to thankfully rehearsed answers before Simon found his own exit and walked away smoothly, eyes wide and taking the room in.

“I-I really should find Tim,” Jon muttered, glancing around the room anxiously.

“Nonsense. He’ll be back,” Elias said, releasing Jon’s shoulder and taking his elbow in turn, “I would like to introduce you to a few dear friends of mine. I believe Tim is keeping one occupied at present.” Jon sighed inwardly (and maybe outwardly as well) and allowed himself to be led around the room. His wine glass was empty, as was his plate and he found it snatched away by a member of catering. He had nothing to cling to, to keep his hands busy, and was struggling not to pull out his delicately-placed hair pin just so he could fiddle with something.

Jon was taken on a tour of old rich people of England. Names flew past him, conversation buzzed around him, and still Jon felt like nothing more than a well-dressed trophy to be ogled at. Did Gertrude do this every year, he wondered dimly. No wonder she disappeared. He fiddled with the ring on his finger, nodding and smiling at the appropriate times, speaking when needed, and feeling the swirl of the orchestra build up in pressure behind his eyes. The music was beautiful but hard to listen to. Something about it was ugly, hiding a dark secret behind the innocent melodies.

Eventually, the evening was so much of a blur that he couldn’t even begin to fathom how much time had passed. It may have been weeks, may have been merely twenty minutes. Jon glanced down for his watch before realizing he had taken it off at Tim’s flat and never strapped it back on. Pity. It only added to the dreamscape reality he seemed to be participating in.

At last, Elias led him towards the large burly man that was suddenly in view (hadn’t he always been? Jon wasn’t quite sure. The wine must have affected him more than he thought with the nerves) and Jon saw Tim, similarly trapped in conversation as he had been. He smiled apologetically as Jon and Elias approached and the larger man smiled warmly at the newcomers.

“Ah, Archivist. I hope you don’t mind I stole your companion away briefly. I was curious about the nitty-gritty of your Archive. Timothy here was very informative.” Tim winced at the use of his full name and a part of Jon smirked, relating to the sentiment of being called Jonathan or worse, John.

“I’m glad he can answer your questions.” Elias spoke before Jon could open his mouth. “I’m quite proud of the Archive staff. Jon chose well and I am sure the four of them are going to do great things together. Jon, you remember the Lukas family?”

Jon nodded, confused for a second before the man in front of him extended his hand. “Peter Lukas, at your service.” The hand was cold, and a feeling of dismay washed over Jon as he shook it. He couldn’t help the feeling that the shake of that hand was a seal of his fate.

The orchestral music had picked up, a swirl of strings and piano, ascending in pitch until it grated at Jon’s ears. No one else seemed to react to it, however, as the manic notes pulling at something inside Jon’s brain, something he couldn’t explain. It was almost like a migraine, but sharper and deep in his spine and in his ears. Elias let go of Jon’s arm at some point during the conversation with Peter Lukas, a discussion about boats, maybe? Travel? This was the conversation Elias was so keen on Jon being a part of?

As Jon felt that grip relax, the glint of the ring on Elias’ finger seeming to wink at him, Jon took a staggered step backwards. “Mr. Lukas, ah-Peter, it’s been a pleasure. Elias, ex-excuse me.”

Jon turned and dashed out of the library, feet carrying him on instinct through the winding halls and down the stairs of the institute, deep into the Archives. He stopped when he felt his feet echo against the cold, solid lino of the archival storage and bent over, hand on the wall, gasping in shallow, rapid bursts. It was too much, it was too much, he thought he could do this but it was too much and he wasn’t enough for them-

“Woah-boss.” Tim was there. When did Tim get here? Was he speaking out loud? Shit. “Jon, yeah-hey, Jon. I’m here. You’re okay. Take some deep breaths, okay? You’re going to black out if you’re not careful.”

Jon felt his suit jacket being shrugged off of him and the newly allowed freedom of his shoulder helped. He took a deep, sputtering breath, the sweet oxygen flooding his system and sharpening his thoughts.

“The-the music and the talking,” he said under his breath, Tim craning to listen without infringing on his personal space. “Too-too much.”

“The music? Jon, hey, hey, just focus on calming down, okay? That was a dick move of Elias to separate us immediately. I was talking to that Lukas guy for way too long. Not even sure what we talked about. I think he’s just one of those guys.” Jon smirked to himself as he focused on the floor beneath his feet, breathing slowly until his heart rate had resumed a normal rhythm.

“Says you,” he mumbled, eyes closing as he pressed his warm cheek to the cold wall.

“You bastard!” Jon felt a light swat on his shoulder. “I listen to people! I have meaningful conversation; just ask Martin and Sasha and Alexa from Library and Calvin from Artefact Storage. I am practically a professional listener.”

Jon smirked, satisfied with his jab and turned around, now pressing his back to the wall. “God, Tim, I do not want to go back in there.” It was hard to admit out loud, even if the evidence was written all over his face.

“Okay. So, we won’t.”

“What?” the answer was so mind-bogglingly simple, Jon reeled.

“We don’t want to be here. We’ve talked, we’ve eaten. Let’s just leave. I can tell Elias I had an emergency and you had to escort me home, like a true gentleman.”

“Lie to Elias? I feel like that cant end well.” The offer was tempting, Jon hadf to admit.

“I mean, Sasha has keys to my flat. I could ask her to start a fire, if you think that’s sufficient?”

Jon barked out a laugh at that. “Ah, no, lets save a fire for something big. Yes. Let’s-let’s go, Tim. And-er, I suppose I should thank you. For coming tonight. I know its not an ideal way to spend an evening.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim did a twirl, Jon’s own jacket slung over his shoulder. “I look hot. You think I’d pass up an opportunity to dress up like this? You’re dreaming.” He smirked and took Jon’s arm, leading him back up the stairwell. It felt different than Elias’s touch. That had been a cold tug, directional and leashed. This felt…snug, more like a link in a chain than anything else. Comforting, reassuring.

(Luckily, they weren’t laughed out of the Nando’s they popped into late at night. Lemon and herb and spices covered their hands, but they were careful to keep their jackets clean. Jon, when looking back on the evening; remembers this moment, talking and laughing and letting the fresh night air was over them. Elias, Lukas, and Fairchild be damned. He’d deal with that tomorrow.)

[jafreitag]

Grateful Dead Monthly: Gaelic Park – New York, NY 8/26/71

Fifty years ago today, on Thursday, August 26, 1971, the Grateful Dead played a concert at Gaelic Park in New York City.

Gaelic Park is located at West 240th Street and Broadway, five miles north and east of Yankee Stadium, in the Bronx. In 1926, the Gaelic Athletic Association purchased it to host the Gaelic Games. What are Gaelic Games? I’m a sliver Irish (just learned that a few years ago from a cousin who did some DNA stuff), but I didn’t know about such games until I asked the Google machine. Here you go, from the Wiki:

“Gaelic games (Irish: Cluichí Gaelacha) are sports played in Ireland under the auspices of the Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA). They include Gaelic football, hurling, Gaelic handball and rounders. Women’s versions of hurling and football are also played: camogie, organised by the Camogie Association of Ireland, and ladies’ Gaelic football, organised by the Ladies’ Gaelic Football Association. While women’s versions are not organised by the GAA (with the exception of handball, where men’s and women’s handball competitions are both organised by the GAA Handball organisation), they are closely associated with it.”

Some to unpack there. What’s Gaelic football? It’s basically rugby. (The rules are probably way different, but this is a music blog, so don’t judge.) And hurling? Rugby with a small ball and sticks that look like sporty pizza paddles. (Again, don’t judge.) Gaelic handball? Racquetball, except you use your hands and you’re outside, not in some bougie health club from the ’80s. Finally, rounders? It’s actually alot like baseball. Pretty cool.

Why were the Dead there? A 9/2/71 piece in the Village Voice by Carman Moore, now archived on the Grateful Dead Sources blog, said that Gotham promoter Howard Stein, a Bill Graham competitor who booked the Dead to play at the Cap Theater in Port Chester, NY and the Academy of Music in NYC, had turned “the drab little Riverdale soccer field … into a summer rock mini-festival.” (Check out the poster above.) Moore’s writing has an early-70s sizzle, and he refers to his colleague, now-legendary rock scribe Robert Christgau. Here’s an excerpt:

“Last week’s Grateful Dead concert up at Gaelic Park was a usual Dead session, meaning that the band-to-fan-to-band electro-chemical process for which rock music is famed was on like high mass at Easter. Although I think I know most of the time what they are doing musically (Christgau will like this notion); I don’t quite understand them electro-chemically. Like the New York Knicks of two seasons ago, they can do excellent things together though they are not a group of deathless superstars. Garcia gets his songs across, but he can’t sing, and Bob Weir’s voice rises to about average…maybe better when he gets to screaming and the music sweeps him along. I still find it difficult to recognize the Dead songs that aren’t “Truckin'” or “St. Stephen” one from the other. I am not one of their fans, but seem to be one of their admirers. Their music speaks in a special language to their live listeners, and that language has the vocabulary of everybody else, but a convoluted syntax all its own. The note sequences are not completely dependent upon musical factors but are also dictated by how involved the band feels and also upon what kind of heat the audience is giving off. I’m trying to get to some essences of this thing.

The drama of a Dead concert revolves around the fact that wherever the band plays they know that a certain number (several tons) of their partisans will be there and that their crowd knows the Dead potential to excite them, but they also know that the Dead may not get into gear until the crowd begins to apply some heat, and so forth. Both parties also know that the concert will be long enough and informal enough for anything to happen on either side of the footlights, and so audiences improvise (smoke, go to the hot dog stand, kiss and snuggle, cheer, dance, listen like star-struck fools) just like their musician friends on stage (who play light and funny for awhile, retire backstage awhile, stand around, or get lost in a piece and turn on the heavy jets). Like good lovers, the Grateful Dead know the secrets of good foreplay, taking your time, surprising the partner for awhile, and then just reacting for a spell.”

The timing of the show seems odd. The band was on the East Coast in July, but began August back in Cali – LA, SD, Berkeley – before a three-night run at Chicago’s historic Auditorium Theater. Then they trekked back to NYC. Our resident Deaditor ECM explains that aspect: “This show was supposed to be played the day before the Yale Bowl concert on July 30, but some issues with the equipment trucks and/or weather prevented it from happening from the scheduled date. There are a few stories on the web about people who didn’t get the message (no twitter back then!) and dropped some acid only to show up to an empty stadium. Haha!”

Moore said that the show reminded him of “a high school stadium I used to know – low stands, unfulfilled infield grass, mud holes here and there, beer sold at one end in some quantity.” He continued:

“The formal shape of the concert was a general crescendo, light at the beginning and heavy-groovy at the end – not a shooting-star, call-the-law finale, just a heightened physical-emotional climate…the goods delivered as promised…sort of like good preaching in a church known to be a happy place. I did not enjoy their country-westernish opening tunes; maybe they didn’t either, because the pieces were awfully short. But by the three-quarter mark they had involved themselves, the crowd, and me too.

First they got the rhythm engaged and finally, courtesy of Jerry Garcia’s lead and interplays with Lesh and Weir, they went into the soloing and jamming which are the real magic music territory of this band. Much is made of the Dead soloists, but it became clear to me by last Thursday that bassist Phil Lesh plus those two drummers create the atmosphere that makes the Dead thing possible. The drummers were exceptionally understated, but Lesh kept bopping and thrumming away, heavily at all times, until his patterns were consistently getting the other players off. In the middle of “St. Stephen” there was a special coming together: Lesh had found a nice ambiguous but compelling set of licks; Garcia eased into a solo; Weir strummed a cross-time lick over all of it; it built; it quieted; Garcia started to play strange classical kind of lines; the drums dropped out; the audience got quiet; nothing at all could be predicted for a minute or so; then Lesh began to grope his way out with two chords and rhythms which began to regularize; audience began to jump and then to clap; guitars began to straighten out; the band came home to the cheers of the fans. Good music-making. The listener goes home without a little tune to whistle, but he hears music. As if they were finishing off some personal solos based over the last riffs heard, the fans went out of Gaelic Park without a thousand encores and without a lot of fuss on the streets outside.

It’s all very interesting, surprising, and I guess mystifying as before. All I know is that the Dead, or their fans, or the combination of both lure you into planning to return when they’re all assembled and back in town again.”

Apparently, there was some grief about bootlegs at this show. The GD Sources blog has a post that archives a 10/6/71 piece by the excellently-handled Basho Katzenjammer (Basho, the 17th Century Japanese haiku master; Katzenjammer, the German word for hangover) that gripes about an army of 200# “muscle freaks” at the direction of tour manager Sam Cutler liberating a handful of tapes from 100# weakling Johnny Lee. It’s a truly fun read. An excerpt:

“The biggest piece of shit spewing from Cutler’s mouth is about the reasons the Dead have for being so pissed off: they don’t like the quality (remember Garcia’s line in “I Got No Chance of Losin”? He says, “I’m only in it for the gold.” Yeah, music has a way of being more honest than the artist intends it to be at times…) The “quality”? Anyone who has bought a bootleg recently will know and agree that the bootleg stereo album called “Grateful Dead” is one of the best underground products yet. The tape was taken from a concert the group did at Winterland, on the coast a few months back. Yeah, Garcia fucks up a bit on “Casey Jones,” and Pigpen’s ego may have been deflated a bit by his voice coming over poorly on “Good Loving” but that was a concert. You do a concert and you stand by your performance, good or bad. That’s show business.

This effete artistic bullshit doesn’t matter anyway … When you’re out to get all the money you can out of your gigs, like the Dead seem to be (like all the groups seem to be) you might be accused of being a bit piggish; when you use strong-arm shit to insure that you get every last penny that you deserve — by making Amerikan standards — you are a Pig. Jerry Garcia, is that you?

Nobody buys that anti-bootleg shit about the artistic integrity of the artist in saying what goes out. One, you stand by your performance; two, even if you don’t want to, Jerry, somewhat, and say “all your private property is fair game for your brothers (especially when they sell records of concerts that don’t compete with coming releases) and your brother (who’s gonna continue to dig you as we live off your comets we’re gonna keep ripping you off because it is possible. As simple as that.” If you and Cutler and Stein continue your shit, though, we’ll just have to sing the song the same old way, you guys being put in the position of being the same old reactionary establishment that we’re all ripping off. It’s all around. You break your back playing gigs for ten years and suddenly success is staring you in the face. Bread: lots and lots of bread. You turn your back on your poor, ripping ’em off roots and start to tighten up. You’re in the biggest rip-off industry around, but no one cares as long as they’re having fun.

Money. That’s the whole story, isn’t it? If these were other times, in another land under a different set of rules maybe you could justifiably complain about the people who want to give your recorded performances out free because you didn’t screen them and pick out the sections you didn’t like and do them over for the cat, ’cause no one charges for their music, and because the means of production belong to the people, and they can turn out all the good sounds they can, and you have a natural right to screen all releases. But we’re here. Now. You guys are making millions — or soon will be. Money is power, especially as the concept of money is crumbling nation-wide and power freaks like Stein are cornering the market on it. The channels that the green-power the Dead bring in travel aren’t the healthiest for the generations of revolution to come. Stein is one of these hopeful images of a freak with a chance to change things positively gone sour, who uses all his power to consolidate his power; who’ll go to any extremes to insure the natural expansion of that power. Fuck him. Fuck you.”

Speak, Basho! Quaint that the beef about bootlegs back then was sound quality, rather than copyright. Stuff got figured out at some point, I think. Like when Bobby shut down the LMA, lmao.

Ed featured part of this show in the 2016 edition of his epcot 31 Days of Dead project. Here are his listening notes, which are typically spot-on (and better than than the not-quite-on-the-bus commentary from Mr. Moore): 

“Less than three weeks after Pigpen’s definitive performance of Hard To Handle at the Hollywood Palladium (8/6/71), the Grateful Dead play the final date of their summer tour in 1971 at Gaelic Park in the Bronx. It will be Pig’s last show until December and the last time the band will ever perform in their original quintet configuration of Jerry, Phil, Pig, Billy and Bobby. By September, Keith will be rehearsing with the band to assume a full-time role on the keys. Perhaps anticipating his absence, Pigpen leads the band through 6 of his songs including the rarely-played Empty Pages and the last Hard To Handle. It is also one of the last performances of Saint Stephen, until the band revived it in 1976 with a major facelift, never to be played the same way again. When you consider these historical milestones along with the departure of Mickey Hart and the closings of the legendary Fillmore East and West earlier in the year it makes you realize that this concert carried a little more weight than anyone could have ever foreseen at the time. It truly was the end of a chapter in the life of the Grateful Dead. As you listen to each song you can’t help but feel a certain degree of nostalgia.

For me, the hidden gem of the show is the outstanding version of Uncle Johns Band. Jerry’s first guitar solo is an absolute joy to hear. His notes sing with irresistible melody and happy sunshine which perfectly capture the nostalgia of those carefree early years. If you listen closely you can hear Pigpen playing the wood claves.”

Speaking of Pig, this show features the second and final performance of Empty Pages. The NYS Music blog, which has a nice write-up of this show, describes it as a McKernan original that “pairs his traditional crooning style with a slow blues jam that’s nicely peppered with fiery guitar licks from Garcia. It’s a true rarity and a shame that the band wouldn’t be able to further develop this one.”

I feel like this was a try-hard post. It might be tl;dr, idk. Here’s the true goodness…

Transport to the Charlie Miller remaster of the soundboard recording HERE.

More soon.

JF

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[huilian]

Steph wakes up with her hands strung up above her, every single cell in her body shouting in pain, the taste of blood on her tongue, and thinks, not again. Once was more than enough, thank you very much. She doesn’t want to do this again. 

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Bruce’s tells her to catalogue her injuries, review what happened that leads to her being here, and analyze where she is, who took her, and how bad the situation is. She is tempted to ignore that voice out of spite, but another voice that sounds suspiciously like Babs’ tells her not to be stupid and just do it. 

She does it. She is not foolish enough to ignore Babs, even when it is just the fragment of her mind so used to getting Babs’ advice that it starts sprouting one of her own. 

Okay. Bruised, maybe cracked ribs. A ringing in her ears that is the tell-tale sign of a concussion. Cuts and bruises all over her body. A gaping slash on her thigh, but nothing life-threatening. And of course, the afore-mentioned taste of blood in her mouth and just general aching. 

Okay, check-list number one, done. 

Now on to check-list number two. What had happened to lead to her being strung up here? She was having a normal patrol with Tim and Damian earlier tonight. It’s even one of the better nights, because Tim and Damian’s bickering is just enough to drive her crazy but not quite enough for her to consider murder. Or ratting them out to Cass, which might be the worse fate, actually. 

Hmm, okay, she did ruin that deal for one of the Maroni mob last week, and then she helped Babs a couple of days ago with one of the Bird’s cases, so it could be either one, really. But then if it’s one of them, then Tim and Damian would also be strung up here with her. 

Wait. Tim and Damian. 

Shit. 

She remembers now. Fucking ninjas. And fucking Ra’s. 

Well, that takes care of checklist number three, too. She’s probably in one of the League’s hideouts, it’s Ra’s who took her, and the situation is Bad with a capital B. 

Not to mention she doesn’t know where Tim and Damian are. From what she knows of Ra’s, and she knows quite a bit from all of Tim’s complaining, he’s going to be ‘persuading’ Tim to join him again. And probably also Damian. 

And she is here, strung up like a pig to slaughter, forgotten just like that. That fucking misogynistic asshole thinks that Steph is not worth the effort? He thinks that he has Steph, just like that? Well, she’s going to make sure that by the time she finishes with him, he not going to make that same mistake ever again. 

Steph doesn’t bother checking her belt and gauntlets. It’s not going to be there. She’s not too worried, though. She has back-up back-up back-up lockpicking kits hidden all over her costume.

(She knows that it wasn’t really because she didn’t pick the lock fast enough. She knows that it’s the combination of him being a sadistic bastard and not having the opportunity to actually pick her cuffs. But still, Steph knows the feeling of being helpless, unable to move and defend herself. She’s not going to be caught unprepared, not ever again.)

Steph moves the fabric of her gloves around, pushing out her first, and easiest to reach, back-up lock-picking kit. Ra’s shouldn’t know about it. It’s not part of a standard Bat gear; she specifically asked for Babs to build it in to her costume. 

(And if she can’t reach it, or if it’s not there? Steph isn’t too worried. She carries a minimum of three lock-picking kits on her person at all times, all hidden in different locations, and even more than that when she’s in costume. Babs had looked at her with a mixture of pity and understanding and not a small amount of regret when she asked for more compartments to hold the lock-picking kits, but she didn’t say anything. After all, Babs knows the feeling too.) 

Success! Steph hides a grin-- never know if someone’s watching, after all-- as she palms the pick and starts working away on her cuffs. Ra’s thinks that she’s an easy mark? Think again, asshole. She’s not an easy target. 

Not anymore. 

She worked too hard to ensure that. 

(Steph ignores another voice in her head that chants, thank you for sending such lovely, poorly trained children; thank you for sending such lovely, poorly trained children; thank you for sending such lovely, poorly trained children. She hasn’t been a child since she took one look at what the asshole she doesn’t want to call her father was doing and decides that she was going to ruin him. She hasn’t been a child since she painstakingly stitched her own costume and dons the purple cape out to the rooftops of Gotham. She hasn’t been a child since she died in the same costume, striving for approval from another man who used her for his own gains. 

She hasn’t been poorly trained in as long either.)

Steph turns the pick one more time, and the cuff falls apart in her hand. Good. One down, one more to go. 

She shakes her wrist, because working a pick from that angle is awkward as hell, and starts working on the other cuffs.

She doesn’t hear any noise during the entire time she worked away on the cuffs. Where in the compound is Ra’s keeping her? And does she not merit keeping watch over? From the sounds of it, there’s no one, not even one lowly guard, that’s watching over her. She’s just strung up here and left alone. She is almost insulted, if the fact that no one is here works in her favour. 

Okay, she is still definitely insulted. Not even one guard? 

Steph makes quick work of the other cuff and starts working on the lock on the door. It’s a breeze, working that door. She has two functional hands and the angle is not all weird. She finishes in record time --and really? Just a simple lock? Not even any traps? She’s still Batgirl; she deserves more effort than this-- and pushes the door open. 

No guards. Like she suspected.

Steph rolls her head and shoulders, loosening it up after being strung up for probably hours. She allows herself a small smile. 

Ra’s won’t know what hit him. 

***

Tim presses the ropes on his wrists together, making it look like they’re still binding him. He has gotten out of them almost half an hour ago. 

Ra’s is losing his touch. Honestly, Tim expected more from him. He’s almost disappointed. 

He glances at Damian, and one look at the brat tells him that Damian is feeling the same way. He knows that he can just give the signal and Damian would leap out of his bounds, ready to fight their way out. 

The problem is, they don’t know where Steph is. 

The ninjas had grabbed them in the middle of patrol, because apparently Ra’s, in his infinite wisdom, decides that that day is the best time to persuade Tim to join him again. Well, persuade might not be the right word. Threaten, more like. Or blackmail. 

He really doesn’t want to listen to this again, but he can’t risk Steph. He knows Damian feels the same way. 

God, what a thought. Him and Damian feeling the same way. 

Tim manages to keep listening, simply by virtue of years and years of galas, both as a Drake and a Wayne. He is just going to tune it out, because Ra’s is repeating the same thing he’s been saying to Tim the last three times he did this, when he hears a distant scream. 

He glances at Damian again. Damian glances back. 

Huh. 

Tim looks up at the still talking Ra’s, and hides a smile. Steph has really gotten good in the time he’s gallivanting around the globe, huh? 

Tim turns back to Damian, waiting for the boy to look at him so that he can tell him when to start fighting, when the door opens. 

“Batgirl to the rescue, boys,” Steph says, hitting a ninja in the head with his own weapon. 

“Tt,” Damian says, ropes already down at his feet. “We hardly need any rescuing, Brown.” Then, he swipes a sword from one of the ninjas guarding them and starts fighting. 

Tim sighs. The brat is going to hold this against him, isn’t he? 

He lets his own ropes drop, giving Ra’s a small tilt of his head, and starts fighting back too. It’s quick work, between the three of them. So quick that he wonders if Ra’s was just bored and needed entertainment. 

Oh well. It’s a problem for later. 

[jamskateable]

totally relate to like...all of this. especially the hideous mass fight? I was fucking screaming at my computer, sobbing, breaking down. it looks so awesome but those shockwaves were devastating. and don't even get me started on the Sisyphean insurrectionist. that thing fills me with more rage than I can put into words.

the first go around with the Cerberus duo for me was really fun. I just went at them with my shotguns, never touched the ground, dodged their attacks and had a lot of fun with it. but during my p-rank run, I really struggled with my style points and the time because...I can't do that sprint-hop technique thingy to save my fucking life, let alone parkour across the chasm towards their arena to get a good time, so I kept falling into the lava and losing health, and then I'd go through all of that just to get a poor style ranking at the end and have to start over. suffice to say it was less fun the second time but I still enjoy fighting cerberi.

v2 is so fucking fun. I haven't p-ranked his second boss fight but his first one is still one of my favorites. I beat his second fight during my standard run in two restarts I think and considering how poorly I did the first time I faced him, I was really surprised. he's still one of my favorite bosses to fight.

and Gabriel. don't even get me started. that motherfucker has beat my ass far more than I've beat his. me being generally bad at fps games, he scared the shit out of me the first time I fought him. i think I had over 100 restarts in his apostate of hate fight, which is fucking ridiculous because I beat him in about 5 restarts after about a week to clear my head. p-ranking his first boss fight was a pain in my ass, not because of my time ranking, but because I couldn't get enough style points.

generally when I get into boss fights, I have a very strict routine. nail em with the screwdriver when they spawn, pin them with magnets and the nail gun, lots of coins, shotguns when I need blood, and repeat when the rail cannon recharges. a decent strategy when you want to survive, but not when you want to p-rank. on a standard level I was getting 10-20,000 style points. during the boss fights? I had to fight to get 2000. I would beat Gabriel in record time only to not get sufficient style points and have to go through the entire level all over again, which takes a hell of a lot of time. it was super tedious and nearly brought me to tears. but I p-ranked him, and goddamnit I'm so proud I could print out a screenshot and hang it in a frame on my wall.

anyway sorry for rambling, your post inspired me to think over my own boss fights. haven't p-ranked the second act to get to sisyphus yet, but I might, who knows. i recorded my first act p-rank run and archived it on YouTube. I watch it back often and quite fondly, too.

Random ramble post since I’m working on things you’ll see eventually but I feel like just rambling how the bosses went for me in ultrakill. (<- because friends had drastically different experiences apparently)

Swordsmachine - I can’t remember which encounter but it was in the demo and I did so horribly iirc; I think I thought I had more room than I did and got caught on walls where I was cornered and shredded. Swordsmachine in the main game however was a bit easier because I knew what I was getting into and honestly I think they helped me develop strategies for the Gabriel fights later on.

Cerberus Duo - I think I died at least 2 times to these guys for the same reasons as above: got cornered thinking I had more room. They were fun though but as normal enemies I hate them for their knockback dash attack.

(Demo ends here, read more for what picks up after, spoilers)

Hideous Mass - The start of almost rage quitting. It was the ground slam that’d destroy me every time for multiple restarts, I don’t remember how many. I still love this thing as a creature but as a boss… horrible in my first encounter, even worse later on… experimenting in sandbox though made me learn some cool things about how you can use its armor against it by strategically placing your shots, though I only used the revolver for this.

V2 (first encounter) - Sighs so loudly. I can’t remember how many restarts it was but it was a lot, less than Gabriel first encounter though. I almost quit for this fight I think because I was getting too stressed. I didn’t know what I was doing and tried to stick with my favorite, the revolver, but eventually out of anger I tried to stay as close as possible with the shotgun mainly for heals and less about damage. Defeating them actually excited me so that was fun !! Side note: currently I’ve beaten this encounter in less than a minute BUT I had no style so no P rank for me

The Corpse of King Minos - I DIED SO MUCH. At this point it feels unfair to compare all the fights because they all have something that tests you. Part of the reason I died so much at this point is parrying is so hard for me… I feel if I at least tried to learn it then I wouldn’t have been put in the blender like I was here. Both before you meet him and after, I died a lot for similar reasons mentioned above. During the 2nd phase of the fight Id die due to being chipped away just enough to get crushed like a bug. I almost rage quit for this one too, not knowing how to heal and hating having learned you have to get as close as possible to his hands to do so.

Gabriel (first encounter) - Where the fun begins!! I restarted 37 times. I was really looking forward to this fight due to my friend telling me about him before I even got into the game. It was so nightmarish but I was too insane to just give up like that. So many times I flew off the arena, slid onto the middle and got caught in the air, too slow switching weapons, so many reasons I got severely punished for. I don’t remember how the final fight of 37 restarts played out but god I was so full of adrenaline after that. Little did I know that it’d get much worse in the second encounter. Side note: currently I’ve beaten this encounter in 2 mins 13 seconds but I didn’t have enough style so no P rank..

Sisyphean Insurrectionist - At this point, understandably, I got very angry with how badly I was beaten up. The shockwave attacks I hate so much and that’s what got me so many times. I don’t have much to say because this fight bored me as much as I’d rather not say that.

V2 (second encounter) - If I remember correctly… I think I had less restarts for when I had the first encounter. Still, I had my ass handed to me. I stuck with the same strategy as before, we kinda just danced together with shotguns in our faces. I really liked the scene when they try to escape and we pursue them. I will say that at the end when we land and they crash, I was in denial about them being gone for good and kinda just.. stood there for a moment. It felt wrong almost to continue without them.

Ferryman - Another fight with plenty of restarts up there somewhere. As cool as I think they are, this thing kicked my ass so hard I almost rage quit, again. Even when I had plenty of room, my flaw was my slow reaction timing. I could handle myself for the most part in phase 1 but phase 2 is where it got even worse. The small arena, the knockback the idol gives you, the range of it’s attacks… absolutely horrid. It was always the idol that got me stuck and cornered and turned to scrap in an instant. I relied so heavily on my railcannon here for healing and it was difficult to be patient when I had to be responsive and aware of such a small area. Overall, I enjoyed it somewhat, I like the Ferryman’s character and seeing it’s ship was quite a moment. (And the hologram room… I just had to sit there and watch)

Leviathan - They were actually pretty easy and I think I restarted less than 5 times. If it isn’t obvious, the attack that got me was it’s lunge for a short bit, otherwise then it was the tail. I really like Leviathan’s design but I feel as if the encounter was sort of just thrown in there.

Gabriel (second encounter) - I am totally normal about this guy. My first time encountering him in the story I defeated him with only 2 restarts in 6 minutes. Jesus christ. This fight was really, really fun and easy to me which still shocks me my friends thought the opposite. I was also really looking forward to this fight both because of what my friend told me and I wanted to go down the youtube rabbithole but didn't want to spoil myself. I was totally normal through this fight (and after). That was a lie because I had so, so much energy from it I had to draw the scene of him playing the organ and I had to make it pretty. Side note: currently I've beaten this encounter in 2 mins 12 seconds, a second apart from the 1st encounter, again no style because I suck ass and getting these P ranks will be the worst thing of my life

[bluerosesonata]

The Legacy of Aika Village

[This will be the first of a few mini-articles I plan to post here, just about different things I’m passionate about. Please indulge me.]

This article originally was written back in early April- since then, Nintendo announced that the “Dream Suites” would be coming to the latest update of ACNH, as “Dream Islands.” As such, I thought it would be timely to finally post this.

Update: On July 2nd, the original creator of Aika Village made a tweet announcing their plans to remake Aika for Dream Islands in New Horizons! The legend lives on!

Image Credit: thumbnail from chuggaconroy’s playthrough of Aika Village on Youtube.

Animal Crossing And Horror: The Legacy of Aika Village

With a lot of the world in lockdown, Animal Crossing New Horizons has become a creative and social outlet for many, leading to a lot of people who never played Animal Crossing to engage with it for the first time. I’m sure most of you have encountered the various types of people present in the Animal Crossing community by now, but there’s a type of Animal Crossing players that a lot of people didn’t realize exist, and have existed, for a while now: The Horror Town Creators.

These players were the subject of a brief write up on Polygon by Patricia Hernandez [Hernandez, Patricia. “Animal Crossing: New Horizons is now a horror game, thanks to fans.” Polygon, 24 Mar. 2020. https://www.polygon.com/2020/3/24/21190826/animal-crossing-new-horizons-horror-game-decorations-scary-nintendo-switch-blood-spatter-pattern.], who posted an article featuring quotes and pictures of people creating horror themed towns and rooms in New Horizons, but only made a brief mention of the legacy of horror that many of these players are striving to recreate: The Nightmare Suites of Animal Crossing: New Leaf.

(These next few paragraphs are a bit of a self-indulgent aside, so feel feel to skip ahead.)

Horror gets a bad rap. Horror artists get comments like “lmao what SCP is this,”  “that’s fucked up,” or get flippant remarks about it all “looking the same.” Horror writers get made fun of for only writing “three types of stories.” Even the term “creepypasta,” which has evolved into shorthand for “horror stories independently published online,” still carries the stink of derision from the typo-filled, often poorly-written shock stories the term originated from. Despite this derision, horror, as a genre, is MASSIVELY popular (and profitable as well!). There’s an undeniable appeal to it.

More importantly, horror always finds a way to adapt itself to different mediums. As one can easily see by the success of horror podcasts like the NoSleep Podcast and The Magnus Archives, it isn’t even limited to a visual format! Like fear and dread itself, the horror genre crawls on, inexhaustible, undying, and ever-present, always returning to us in ways both novel and familiar.

Horror lovers are a tight knit, but welcoming, community, and that’s one of its biggest strengths and weaknesses.The biggest drawback is that a lot of really cool stuff produced will never be experienced, let alone documented, by people outside the community. And that’s what prompted this post. I was trying to explain the Dream Suite horror movement to my cousin, and despite my best efforts, didn’t find a lot of coverage about them, beyond the fact they existed. Worse, most of those were articles written five years ago. Even so, I’ll link to a few of them at the end of this post, as they’re definitely worth reading.

For me, I wanted to share my experience of the horror town phenomena with people outside the community. The Nightmare Suites movement was really something magical, and I know that I, personally, am still trying to recreate that magic in New Horizons. And hey, maybe once you’re finished reading this, you will too.

The Dream Suite

Before we can talk about Aika Village, we need to explain the feature that made this whole movement possible. In the 2012/2013 3DS game, Animal Crossing: New Leaf, there were two areas in every town: The village, and Main Street, which laid beyond the train tracks that ran across to the north of every town. Main Street was home several important structures, including the town shop, the Happy Home Academy, and the Post Office. Later on, more structures could be unlocked and built as public works projects, one of which was the Dream Suite.[“Dream Suite.” Nookipedia, 25 Apr. 2013, nookipedia.com/wiki/Dream_Suite.] 

As for how it worked, Nookipedia explains it best:

To begin a dream, the player must lie down on the bed and pay Luna 500 Bells. They may then choose to visit a random town, input the Dream Address of a specific town to visit, or search for a town. They may then choose to visit a previously visited town or a random town, or to input the dream address of a new town to visit. While dreaming, the player may walk around the town and perform actions just as they would in the real world, but their actions will have no effect on the town.

While dreaming, the bed will be on the dream town's plaza. Luna and Lloid stand near it until the player decides to wake up. Players can borrow tools like a shovel and axe from Lloid to use within the dream. If the player lies on the bed a second time, they will leave the dream and anything they have in their pockets will be lost.

The player cannot go to Main Street or enter any buildings with doors besides homes. Additionally, messages left on the bulletin board cannot be read; instead, the board displays the town's name and Dream Address…custom designs on display in the town, such as on the ground and in houses, will be visible. The player who uploaded the town can also be found walking about. When spoken to, they will say their recorded greeting.

In essence, the Dream Suite takes a snapshot of your town at the moment you ask Luna, the NPC running the Dream Suite, to share a dream- this includes your outfit, the way  you decorated your home, the items laying around town, etc.

The most important aspect of this feature, and the one that I feel had the most impact on the Nightmare Suite creation movement, was the method of discovery. If you didn’t know someone’s code, you would be sent to a random dream of a random town, from anywhere in the world- and this is where I feel my personal experience of being in the community departs from the articles that have already been written about the Nightmare Suites.

The Urban Legend of Aika

In the years leading to 2013, I was going through some rough shit. I won’t go into details here, but video games had become my entire life. Coming into the summer of 2013, I didn’t have any friends I kept in touch with, and I was “starting over” in a city where I knew nobody- things were looking up, but outside of tumblr, I didn’t have anything even resembling a social life. Animal Crossing: New Leaf was a stabilizing force of my life during this time, and really helped me. I had the Shampoodle haircut guide saved to the camera roll on my phone, for pete’s sake.

It was in the beginnings of my friendship with a group of girls (whom I sadly no longer even have contact with), where a lot of our initial bonding happened because of anime and RPGmaker horror games. We were sitting together in the campus dining area, me playing on my 3DS, when I first learned about the Nightmare Suites.

“Have you heard about Aika Village?”

I hadn’t.

“It’s this really creepy town in dream suites, I heard about it from a friend online.” Later that day, she linked me to a tumblr post compiling a series of codes leading to different “creepy dream towns,” the first one being simply labeled as “Aika Village.”

That dream village became a phenomenon: people would write up their interpretations and theories about it, and even lead to a few articles and videos on gaming sites like IGN and Killscreen, which is why I’m not gonna even bother going into the content of the village itself.

And So, The Dream Begins…

This, in my opinion, was the draw of the Nightmare Suites. Without a way to directly share codes from your 3DS to your social media, the discovery and sharing of Dream Towns was like that of urban legends- like virtually passing notes in class, or sharing scary stories that “totally happened to a friend of my cousin’s sister” at a campfire. It felt like a cool discovery- something exclusive and scary and weirdly intimate. They had a mystique to them, a mystery of who their creators were and what they “really meant.” But above all that? They were cool as hell.

The Nightmare Suites used the limitations of the game to try and create an unnerving atmosphere in ways that were reminiscent to me of the RPGmaker horror game subgenre, and for me, created a lot of memories of excitedly typing in my once a day dream suite visit late at night in my dorm. I never lacked variety- there were so many people either influenced or inspired by Aika to make a horror town that there are entire lists and tumblrs dedicated to collecting those codes. (I even played around with the idea of making my own horror town, but never found the right inspiration, instead dedicating my time to making themed homes and custom outfits based on different anime characters.)

The sad fact that so many of these towns have been altered or overwritten, if they’re available or accessible at all, is in itself, a part of their urban legend-like appeal. While many of us may never get to experience these towns, the stories about them endure, in lists on long-abandoned blogs and youtube videos from people’s playthroughs.

And that mystique is the real legacy of Aika; While the Nightmare Suites may be gone, the wonder and dreamlike memories many of us hold from our chance encounter with it will never fade. You could even say we’re a bit…haunted by it.

[thepartyresponsible]

fourth drabble! i’m still working on drabbles from this list. this one’s for @izumikouhei​, who asked for tony stark/bruce wayne with 66. “if i die, i’m never speaking to you again.”

for the record, there’s bonus roy harper/jason todd. no real warnings for this one, except that it’s ridiculous and kinda fluffy.

also, i failed spectacularly to keep this one under 1000 words. damn, did i fail.

It could have been anyone and anything, but it’s a kid on a rooftop, out of his mind on fear toxin, and it’s a four-story drop crashing through a poorly-enforced fire escape. Batman ends his nightly patrol with a broken arm and three broken ribs and a concussion so mean he can barely stand up without puking.  

The kid is fine, though. Of course he’s fine. Bruce sacrificed his grappling line to save him.

“Yeah,” Jason says, when he shoulders his way into the Manor, drops his duffel bag at the door, and lets Alfred wrap him in a hug. “Yeah, whatever. Beacons are lit. Gotham calls for aid. Here I am.”

“Oh good,” Tony Stark says, peering inquisitively over Alfred’s shoulder, drinking what is either a glass of orange juice or a casual mid-morning screwdriver. “I was hoping someone sturdy would show up.”

  It should be Dick’s problem, but Dick’s doing something complicated with the Titans that involves a lot of fraught interpersonal dynamics and new uniforms and maybe the apocalypse. It could also be Tim’s problem, except he’s at summer camp with the Teen Titans or whatever the hell they do when they all collectively disappear for a while, and Damian, of course, is around, in the sense that he’s always around, but Jason doesn’t trust Gotham to his tender mercies.

Damian’s a promising enough kid, but he’s also potentially the Antichrist. And if the kid gets killed, Jason’s going to have to deal with Bruce in mourning, and he doesn’t have the stomach for that kind of showy, resolute self-martyrdom anymore.

So it’s Jason’s problem. He packs his bags, lets Roy kiss him goodbye, and then he heads to Gotham. He even has the decency to leave his guns behind. He feels a little stupid about that once he discovers he’s patrolling with Iron Man, but it turns out Stark’s swapped all his ammunition for non-lethal rounds.

“Of course I did,” Stark says, three nights in. Dawn’s slowly bruising the skyline, and they’re drinking ice water on the rooftop of Wayne Manor, trying to cool off after another bullshit night of sweating through their body armor. Stark clears his throat and then drops his voice, approximating Bruce’s Batman-growl with impressive accuracy. “If you kill a killer, the number of killers in the world remains the same.”

Jason groans and presses the cold glass to his forehead. It doesn’t help as much as he wants it to. “He’s such an asshole.”

“Yeah,” Stark says, with a wide, affectionate grin. “And surprisingly bad at math.”

Jason doesn’t mind working with Stark. He’s like a funhouse mirror version of Bruce: too rich, too smart, too good at what he does, but stretched-out and wrongly-proportioned, all that grim resolve replaced with good-natured purpose, that laser point attention swapped with a cat’s capricious focus.

The Iron Man suit is fun, and Jason wants one of his own, but he’s content to keep dropping his tech on the breakfast table and watching as Stark’s concentration is slowly but inevitably drawn away from his coffee.

“You owe me, like. Hm.” Stark pauses, tips his head. They’re down in the Batcave, and Stark’s upgrading Jason’s rebreather. “Shit, how many things have I fixed for you? What is this? The…seventh? Do you know what my time’s worth?”

“Put it on Bruce’s tab,” Jason suggests. He’s texting Roy, who’s frothing at the mouth trying to get himself an invite. He’s got some kind of bizarre inventor’s crush on Tony Stark.

Stark goes still for a second and then laughs. He stifles it quickly, which is out of character.

When Jason looks up, Stark has his head ducked, mouth flat, and his cover is so egregiously shitty that he might as well be whistling innocuously with his hands in his pockets.

“Huh,” Jason says, just so they’re clear. Just so Stark knows that Jason knows that some weird shit is afoot.

“You know what you need?” Tony says, damn near doing jazz hands in his completely transparent attempt to redirect the conversation. “Repulsors.”

There’s one bad night where Jason lets Scarecrow dose him because getting drugged is better than letting the creep touch Damian, and then Jason’s out of his head, fucked up, clinging to the Iron Man suit while they skim through Gotham.

“Graveyard,” he says, because his mouth is full of imaginary blood and his fingernails feel broken to the nailbed and he’s been screaming for days, for years, for lifetimes. “Don’t take me to the graveyard.”

“Hey, scout,” Tony says, which is offensive. Which is bullshit. Jason is twenty-two years old. “I’m taking you home, okay?”

He takes him to Bruce’s house, and Alfred fusses, and someone asks, “Can I get anyone for you, kid?” and so Jason says, “Roy, I need Roy,” even though he doesn’t, not really, but he knows he’ll feel better if Roy’s there.

And then Roy is there, sitting suited up at Jason’s bedside, bow in hand, and it’s ridiculous, it’s all made-up, it’s fine. But. It’s nice, having someone on watch.

In the morning, Roy steps out to grab breakfast and comes back wide-eyed and red-cheeked. “Holy shit,” he says, under his breath. “Holy shit, Jay, it’s like walking in on your parents.”

And Jason’s got no fucking clue what he means by that, but he’s too wrung out to ask for clarification. He rolls onto his side, lets Roy scramble up into bed beside him, and then he makes soft pathetic noises until Roy pours just the right amount of sugar into his coffee.

Eventually, Bruce gets well enough to become a Goddamn nuisance. As soon as he’s cleared to sit in front of the screens in the Batcave for a couple hours a day, he decides, naturally, to play backseat driver while Jason and Tony run patrol.

He is fucking insufferable.

“Red Hood, on your right—on your right.”

“Iron Man, this is a street brawl, not a dance competition.”

“Hood, you could have shattered his scapula with that. Be careful.”

“Iron Man, the disarming sequence is—no, stop that, I have it right here. Stop it.”

Jason daydreams a lot about punching Bruce in the mouth. Tony Stark, for his part, just laughs and fires back.

“Oh no,” he says, when he’s disarming the bomb that’s supposed to level a city block. “Oh, how clumsy of me.”

“Iron Man,” Bruce says, voice tight.

“Whoops,” Tony says, while Jason coughs into his comm unit to hide his laughter.

“Iron Man,” he says, voice so low and tense that Bruce’s vocal chords might as well be glaciers grinding together.

“Gotham is just so dangerous,” Tony says. “If I die, I’m never speaking to you again.”

“Tony,” Bruce says, and there’s something weird in it, something held back.

The bomb goes dead and harmless at Tony’s feet. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he says. “But I’m still better with explosives than you are. Don’t play tech support with me.”

The thing is, Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne don’t usually spend time together. They could. They both have that playboy billionaire thing to lean into, and there’s a whole series of archived news articles about their exploits in their early twenties. And Jason remembers, dimly, that Tony came by the house once or twice before that regrettable incident in the desert with the Joker and the crowbar.

Something happened between them after Jason died. Or maybe after Tony had his own regrettable incident in the desert.

“Why’re you here?” Jason asks, finally. Because it’s been three weeks, and Bruce is starting to train like he thinks he’ll be suiting up soon. Which means this vacation is almost over, and Jason’s going back to the Outlaws, and Tony’s going back to the Avengers, and Bruce is going back to brooding on rooftops. “I mean, I’m glad you are. Thanks for the upgrades. But Bruce is kind of an asshole, you know?”

Tony laughs into his coffee. There’s a vaguely evasive look on his face, and he’s smiling for no damn reason at all. “Bruce,” he says, with a shrug. “We grew up together. Even went to the same boarding schools a couple times.”

Jason cannot imagine Bruce as a child. “Before his parents died?” he asks, because that’s the part that seems impossible. Bruce Wayne, as a kid with parents, as someone with a future instead of a mission.

“Sure.” Tony shrugs; his smile disappears. “And after. We went to each other’s parents’ funerals. He brought a flask to mine, even though he never approved of—well. That’s how you know about people, isn’t it? At least with someone like Bruce. When they’ll give in, just a little. Because it’s something you need.”

Jason wouldn’t know about that. After all, the Joker’s still walking.

Although maybe, if he thinks about it, there’s a hundred different ways Bruce has compromised for him. And if he hasn’t done the one thing that would mean the most, maybe that’s because there are parts of yourself you can’t ever give away. Maybe Jason’s old enough to understand that now. Because, in the end, Jason hasn’t killed the Joker either.

“Sure,” he says. But he’s thinking about Roy. He’s thinking about Roy dopesick and shaking and terrified. He’s thinking about Roy, clean and steady and brave.

Tony finally looks over at him. His smile is crooked and fond. “You’re a good kid,” Tony tells him. “You’re all good kids. Don’t know how the hell Bruce managed it. But good for him.”

They were good kids before Bruce Wayne. They would’ve been good kids without Bruce Wayne.

But Jason’s ready to acknowledge, in the privacy of his own head, that maybe they’d also all be dead kids without Bruce Wayne.

Tony Stark stays for a month and a half. He and Bruce spend the last week fighting, loudly and dramatically, over every single improvement Tony’s made to the Batcave while Bruce was too busy trying not to throw up on his shoes to stop him. Jason and Roy sneak down to watch, but Roy keeps getting antsy and dragging Jason out before things can get too heated.

“You’re just not ready,” Roy tells him, earnestly. “Your virgin eyes, Jason. I mean it.”

“My virgin what?” Jason asks, incredulous.

“Your slutty eyes,” Roy amends, conciliatory.

“That’s—wow.” Jason stares at him. “That’s even worse.”

“Aw, c’mon, baby,” Roy says, mock-apologetic. “You know I love how slutty you are.”

“Great,” Jason says. “Awesome. So, we’re breaking up. You can move out tonight. Never speak to me again. It’s been terrible, and I won’t miss you at all.”

“Oh no,” Roy says, eyes wide, sounding so legitimately devastated that Jason has to kiss him, immediately.

Roy snickers into his mouth, which really underscores to Jason how out of his depth he is, how much of him Roy owns completely.

“I hate you,” Jason tells him, because it’s been years but I love you still feels like a jinx, like an invitation to the universe to break his fucking heart.

Roy grins at him, immensely pleased with himself. “Hell yes,” he says, “I love hate sex. Let’s go.”

Jason’s not an idiot. He has an idea of what’s going on. He knows two adult men don’t spend that much time together passionately discussing differences of opinion on technical innovation unless they plan to get naked at some point. He knows what it means when Tony’s eyes go warm and distant like they do sometimes when he talks about Bruce. He knows what it means that Tony’s here at all.

It’s just that he figures Bruce Wayne is fucking everything up, the way he always does. He figures Bruce is crashing headlong through the world in grim, determined pursuit of the best, fastest, most justice-glorifying path from Point A to Point B without realizing that Point C has more merits than he deserves.

He figures it’s one-sided. He figures Bruce is going to break Tony’s heart. He figures Tony’s going to let him, has been letting him.

And then he turns a corner on Tony’s last morning in town and walks right into the kind of goodbye kiss that needs an age restriction warning.

“Oh, Christ,” Jason says and slams his eyes shut. A second later, Roy’s hand slaps down hard across his face, palm wrapping protectively across his eyes. It stings a little, honestly, but Jason forgives him for it. He just wishes he’d been faster.

“Oh God,” Roy says, “I warned you! I told you it’s like walking in on your parents!”

“Stop it.” Jason hisses through his teeth, clinging to Roy’s arm. “Get me out of here, fuck’s sake.”

“Your kids are so cute, Bruce,” Tony says. Jason feels endlessly betrayed by the smug amusement in his voice. He’s been fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with this man for a month and a half, and he had no idea he was such a shameless philanderer.

Jesus, just tongue-deep in each other’s mouths right in the hallway, where God and Alfred and Damian could walk by at any moment.

“Only one of those is mine,” Bruce says. He sounds – terrifyingly – like he is out of breath.

Jason wretches, audibly. Roy hauls him against his chest and starts dragging him to safety, back the way they came.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tony says. His voice is deliberately pitched loud enough to follow them. “Looks like you’ve practically got yourself a son-in-law.”

“Roy,” Jason says, “just kill me. I’m done with this earth.”

“Aw, Jay,” Roy says, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Jason’s head, “don’t give up. We’ll go find the Scarecrow, see if he can bleach it outta your head with more of that fear toxin.”

“God willing,” Jason says, low and fervent. 

Jason and Roy go out a window on the second floor, just to be sure they don’t run into Tony and Bruce defiling any other hallways with their goodbyes. Jason’s not proud of it. But he’s finally learned the merits of a well-executed retreat.

It turns out to be unnecessary though, because Tony’s already down in the driveway, climbing into an offensively beautiful red sports car. Jason braces a hand against Roy’s chest to keep him from throwing himself at the hood to get to the engine.

“Hey, kids,” Tony calls, waving jovially. His mouth is very red. Jason is prepared, at this moment, to offer his soul to the multiverse.

“Hey,” Roy says, voice reverent, eyes running all over the car with a licentiousness that would make Jason blind with jealousy if he were looking at a human being.

“Last time Bruce fooled around with someone,” Jason says, “he spawned the Antichrist. So you just think about that the next time you mix your bodily fluids.”

“Oh no, my girlish figure.” Tony does not seem to be taking this as seriously as Jason means it.

“Bodily fluids,” Roy says, under his breath. He doesn’t seem to be taking it seriously, either.

Jason curls his hands around the car door, pins Tony with a look of grave concern. “Listen,” he says. “You deserve so much better than that shithead in there. He’s a disaster. He is the definition of emotional constipation. He knows everyone’s blood type and nobody’s birthday, and he gives up kidney stones easier than personal information, and he absolutely has a plan for how to neutralize you if necessary, and he honestly, legitimately, no-shit thinks that’s what teamwork means.”

“Kiddo, pal, Red Hoodlum,” Tony says, giving Jason’s hand an encouraging pat. “That’s my emotionally constipated shithead disaster in there, and I’d thank you to remember it.”

Sometimes, there’s nothing you can do to save people from themselves.

Jason steps away from the car and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry you’ve chosen to do this to yourself,” he says. “You seem like a perfectly decent human being.”

“It’s been a real treasure working with you, too, scout,” Tony says. He glances over Jason’s shoulder toward Roy and smiles wider. “And, hey, Wayne-In-Law, if you ever want to talk shop some more, swing by SI. You’d love the labs.”

“Oh my God,” Roy says, very quietly. And then, louder, “Oh, okay, sure! Maybe! Next time I’m in town.”

Tony nods, smiles again, and then turns toward the manor and blows a giant, ridiculous kiss over his shoulder.

And Jason thinks he’s an idiot, thinks he’s just asking to get his heart broken, but there, on the third floor, is the subtle but unmissable shift of curtains falling back. Bruce Wayne was up there, lurking through a final goodbye, and Jason honestly needs to get out of this town immediately.

He climbs on his bike, waits for Roy to do the same. And then, just to see how far this lunacy has spread, he texts Grayson: Did you know Stark and Bruce are fucking?

Dick texts back a string of fruit-themed emojis that Jason instantaneously blanks from his brain. A second later, Dick sends: You didn’t see the pics from Stark Expo???

“Roy,” Jason says, “I love you. Let’s go somewhere with no wifi signal.”

[huilian]

for @lulaypp

Jason wakes up to a cacophony of noises coming from all around him. He doesn’t open his eyes, all the training for not letting them know he’s up kicking in, and lets the voices wash over him, trying to figure out what is going on.

“What do you mean-,” someone says, only to be interrupted by another person.

“-violate the conservation of energy-”

“-instantaneously? Without-”

Jason resists the urge to frown. What are they talking about? The chatter is a very different one than the usual criminal-trying-to-kidnap-Red-Hood chatter. They never talk about membrane potential, or conservation of energy, or chemical reactions.

Well, okay. Some of them, particularly Scarecrow’s or Ivy’s people, might talk about chemical reactions, but never like this.

Before he can piece out what is going one, a voice calls out. “Ah, Mister Todd. Good. You’re awake,” someone above him says. “We can proceed with all the halted experiments.”

The voices stop for a while, before erupting in a thousand different ways.

“Can I-”

“-the effects on-”

“-no! My array requires him-”

What? Experiments?

Jason opens his eyes. No use in pretending to be asleep, now that they (he decides to call the person announcing his wakefulness person-number-one) have announced that he’s awake. He is greeted with the sight of googled eyes, masked faces, gloved hands, and, more importantly, white lab coats.

Shit.

What are they doing to him?

He tries lifting his arms, only to find that it’s strapped to the bed. A cursory look downwards tells him that there are straps around his chest, abdomen, and around his legs too. He looks up, and finds himself making eye contact with one of the researchers? Lab tech? Mad scientist? She holds the eye contact, unfearing of him.

And why should she? He’s stripped and strapped to the bed, unable to move, all his weapons gone. He doesn’t even know why he’s here.

“A change in eye color, Doctor,” she says, still looking into his eyes. “I believe the procedure causes his stroma to change, making the reflection appear green.”

“Yes, Mitchell,” person-number-one says. It seems that Jason is right. He is the leader of this group? Pack? Companion? What does one call a collection of scientists? “That has been recorded from the preliminary tests. Step your game up.”

The woman, Mitchell, although that’s probably her last name, considering the group holding him right now, grumbles, but doesn’t say anything outright. She grabs a syringe next to her, and jabs them precisely, but not gently, on Jason’s bare arms.

What are they doing? What do they want from him?

“What the fuck is going on?” Jason growls, frustrated. He sees a few of the scientists? Lab tech?-He still doesn’t know precisely who they are- flinch, but for the most part, they ignored him.

Weird. He is sure he went out as the Red Hood tonight, and the Red Hood doesn’t really have a reputation for being harmless. Even they should know that, if they’re operating in Gotham.

Shit. Is he still in Gotham?

Wait. They called him Mister Todd. He’s unmasked, though that alone shouldn’t tell them anything. Jason Todd doesn’t really have photos, or any presence, legal or otherwise, whatsoever.

Who is he dealing with? How do they know about him?

“Tell me what the fuck is going on,” Jason growls again, “or I swear-”

“Now, Mister Todd, no need for threats,” person-number-one says. “I assure you I went through the proper channels to acquire you. All is above board.” He gives Jason a small smile, the kind you give to misbehaving children that you find amusing but cannot afford to let continue.

“Proper channels?” Jason asks, stalling for time. When person-number-one is talking, the rest of the scientists?-what are they?- stops what they are doing, so Jason is trying to get him to talk as long as he can. The straps are, unfortunately, made of good quality. He’s been spoiled with Gotham’s cesspit of underpaid and poorly supplied criminals.

“Oh yes, proper channels. I am a researcher, after all, and we do things the right way in my lab. Unfortunately for you, being legally dead means that you do not have the power to sign a consent form,” he smiles again, less like humoring misbehaving children and more like a shark that has smelled blood, “and thus we do not need to obtain your consent.”

A second pass. And then two, while Jason is mulling over what he said. But before the full implication of it can hit him, person-number-one claps his hands and says, “Alright, enough dithering! I want that data on my desk by lunch, Bilakopic, and Kim! Don’t forget to run the gel analysis!”

“Yes, Professor,” a woman, Bilakopic, going by her features, mutters. Another man, whom Jason guesses is Kim, nods tersely.

“Do not worry, Mister Todd,” person-number-one, whom Jason still hasn’t caught the name of, says. “Your contributions will be highly valued by the scientific community. Of course, you won’t be named,” a tilt of his head, “but I will know.”

Jason opens his mouth to tell him to fuck off, but before he can say anything, a man puts a swab of cotton inside his mouth and scrapes what feels like the inside of his throat. He watches as person-number-one saunters off the room, and looks around to the collection of dead-faced scientists around him.

His hands are still not free. The straps hold throughout his attempts at escape.

Shit.

***

The… experiments, if Jason can call it that, goes on and on for hours. One of them would come with one type of test tube or another in their hands and draw various things from his body. Ranging from blood to skin to hair to urine, all the way to cerebrospinal fluid from his spine. It hurts, but not excessively so. Person-number-one, whom Jason still hasn’t caught the name of, was right.

They are professionals.

Normally, that would make Jason be a bit calmer. There is nothing worse than getting kidnapped by an amateur, especially a desperate amateur. Amateurs are more likely to either mess up or hurt him accidentally. A professional hit, even though that might sound terrifying to people not used to their line of work, is really one of the better things that can happen to them.

But this time? This time it terrifies Jason.

Because professional means that they won’t think of you as a person. Professional means that there is no way for Jason to persuade one of them, or to make them lower their guard so that he can escape.

Professional means that there is nothing for him to exploit.

So he lies there, watching as they run their experiments on him. Not literally, of course. They come to gather their samples and then leave immediately, presumably to run it somewhere else. Jason watches as they pull blood from him with meticulous, efficient moves;  as they open his mouth without any fanfare to swab his throat; as they measure his heartbeat, his breathing, his oxygen levels, and everything and anything you can monitor in a body.

It went on for hours. Jason is just lying there, unable to move and unwilling to talk, because he knows that nothing that is coming out of his mouth will convince them.

They are professionals.

Slowly, the number of people coming back for more samples dwindles. Do mad-scientists work normal hours? What time is it?

Hell, what day is it? From the expression on person-number-one’s face when he woke up, Jason can tell that they have been doing this for a while now.

How long have they had him?

“Asif, no!” Jason hears someone shouts from somewhere outside his room. What now?

“He’s not going to let us go before that data hits his table and you know it, Kris!”

“You can’t be serious! I’m not going in there with just the two of us!”

Are they… talking about him? Huh. Okay. Jason can work with this.

But before he can think about what he is going to say to them, they come in, face as expressionless as everyone's been throughout the day (Jason decides to call the time he’s been awake until now a day. He doesn’t have any other method of determining time, not with this closed up room and his fucked internal clock.). They go directly to the table full of equipment and wastes no time nor movement in getting what they want.

Efficient. Meticulous. Exact.

Professionals.

All traces of humanity, glimpsed from that snippet of conversation outside the room, is gone. In its place is the cool, detached mask of a scientist observing their object of study.

Jason closes his open mouth, swallowing down all the words he wanted to say, and then he closes his eyes. What’s the point in resisting? They don’t even see him as human.

It’s not that bad anyway. Just a couple of pricks from the needle, and the uncomfortable feeling of a cotton swab being put into his throat. It’s nothing worse than being in the Cave, getting patched up by Alfred, or even the check-ups with Leslie back when Bruce still cared enough for him to get him to do check-ups.

Does Bruce still care enough for him to search for him? Or are they going to just brush off his disappearance, relieved that this particular burden is gone?

Jason breathes out as the cotton swab is being pulled out of his mouth. It’s not that bad. It’s not that bad.

***

He was wrong. It is that bad.

He spent a few more sessions being poked and prodded and taken samples of, nothing worse than the things they did to him in the first session. But then, one day, person-number-one, whom Jason hadn’t seen in his room from that first session, comes in, with several of his scientists in tow.

“Doctor, you can’t be serious,” the one walking in right behind person-number-one says. “We can still make do with what we have.”

“Make do?” person-number-one says. “We don’t make do in the Greber Lab, Segal. We excel.” Person-number-one, whose name is probably Greber, considering everything, takes a scalpel from the table full of equipment and hands it over to Segal. “Now do it, or I am going to reject all of your proposals. It’s clear that you do not have what it takes to succeed in this field.”

A hush comes and engulfs the room. The rest of the scientists, everyone except for Greber and Segal, are standing close to the door, posture all ready to bolt. Jason tenses. This is not good.

He sees Segal gulps, looking down to the scalpel in Greber’s hands. She doesn’t raise her hand to take it.

Greber scoffs. “I see. You are always welcome to leave my team, Segal,” he says, before walking towards Jason with the scalpel in tow.

Oh, this is not good. This is not good at all.

Greber presses down on Jason’s chest, the scalpel still in his hands. Jason has never felt the lack of clothing on his chest as acutely as he does now, looking at the scalpel glinting under the fluorescent light.

But before Greber can do anything, Segal shouts, “I’ll do it!”

The scalpel stops in its descent. Jason lets out a small breath of relief, only to stop again when he realizes what she was saying.

She’ll do it. What is she going to do to him?

Another blood-smelling shark smile blooms on Greber’s face. “Good,” he says. “I always know you could do it, Segal.” He flips the scalpel in his hands and offers it to Segal, handle first. “After you.”

“At least give him anesthetics, Doctor,” someone calls out from the crowd near the door.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. What are they going to do to him that requires anesthetics?

Or, perhaps even more worryingly, what are they going to do to him that should require anesthetics, but they won’t give it to him?

“No,” Greber answers promptly. “All of our anesthetics are going to interact with his receptor proteins, distorting the result we are looking for. No anesthetics.”

Shit. This is going to hurt, isn’t it?

Jason breathes out, trying to get to the meditation mindset both Bruce and Talia tried to teach him. In, and out, calm your heart rate, get your mind somewhere else.

Jason sees Segal take the scalpel. He sees Greber move back, out of reach. He sees the hesitation, the pity on Segal’s face, before it is quickly removed underneath the detached mask all of them always wear around him.

Jason closes his eyes, trying to will his mind to bring him to other places. Happier places. Training with Bruce. Cooking with Alfred. The small, pleased smile on Talia’s face when he completed a hard training.

Flying on the rooftops of Gotham. Feeling the fluter of his cape behind him. Feeling the weight of Bruce’s cape all around him.

It doesn’t work.

He still screams as the scalpel makes its way around him, on top of him, and finally, inside of him. He screams until the group of scientists near the door put their hands on their ears; he screams until Segal, who is still holding the scalpel, asks for someone to help her restrain him; he screams until his throat constricts and his lungs collapse.

But still, the scalpel moves on, cutting pieces of him with surgeon-like precision, uncaring of the amount of pain it gives him.

***

Jason doesn’t even twitch as he hears someone thundering into the room. What’s the point? It’s going to happen either way.

“I don’t care why you haven’t done it,” he hears Greber’s voice, the first time since a few days ago, when the man told his subordinates to cut him open and then watched. They have done worse things than just cutting him open since then, but never with Greber present.

They have cut out a piece of bone from his leg, stuck a needle in to take a sample of the marrow, and then breaks the leg, and Jason is more nervous now with Greber in front of him than he was on that day.

His leg is splinted now, probably in another experiment to see how long it would take him to heal a broken bone. These people do not do anything to him without a hypothesis and a list of ingredients and methods.

“I want it done. Now,” Greber finishes, looming in front of Jason, a power saw in his hand.

What else are they going to do to him? They have cut him open, taken pieces of skin and muscle, taken samples of various liquids from his abdomen, and broken his bone and took the marrow underneath. What else can they do to him?

“Doctor,” a woman Jason distantly recognizes says, “this procedure is too risky. Especially if you insist on not using anesthesia.”

“Oh, do shut up, Bilakopic.” Ah. That’s her name. But then, what difference would knowing her name give for Jason? It’s not like they see him as human.

It’s not like he can see them as human, after all they had done to him.

“We haven’t had any progress with any of his other cells, so obviously what causes him to spontaneously resurrect is not that. That leaves his central nervous system, the only place we haven’t taken a sample of yet,” Greber says.

“Doctor,” Bilakopic says, “have you considered that it’s going to give permanent damage to the subject?”

“Who do you think I am?” Greber snaps, for once showing something other than amusement or irritation. He’s desperate, and Jason can feel it.

It scares Jason even more. Desperate is not good. Desperate means they’re going to be careless, and careless, in a situation like this, can very well spell death for him.

Jason doesn’t want to die yet. Again. He has stared death in the face many, many times before, has even died, but never like this. Never strapped down, feeling his body getting weaker and weaker as they took more and more pieces from him, and unable to do anything.

Where is Bruce? He’s going to come, right? But it’s been, at the very least, weeks since they have him, and still, no one has come to rescue him.

Are they searching for him? They are, right? They keep saying about how family don’t leave anyone behind.

But is Jason still part of the family?

Maybe not. Maybe they see that he is gone and is congratulating each other, a thorn in their side finally removed.

No. They’re going to come get him. They will. Bruce promised, didn’t he?

“Get the headrest,” Greber barks out. A clanging noise from somewhere behind Jason tells him that one of the scientists always following in Greber’s wake is doing just that.

Wait. Headrest. Power saw. Central nervous system.

Jason feels all of his breath come out of his lungs in one fell swoop. Are they going to operate on his brain?

No. No. Nonononono. They can’t do that to him. They can’t do that.

Jason starts to pull on his restraints, doing so for the first time in days. He has to get out. Whatever he does, he has to get out.

He can feel the atmosphere in the room tensing. Greber, however, is not concerned. “Get more restraints, while you’re at it,” he says, clicking his tongue.

No. No. They can’t do that. They can’t do that.

They can, however. Hands hold him down, manhandling him to a sitting position. The first time in weeks that Jason is sitting up, and he can’t even savour it.

He can’t get out of their grip. They’re careful, always tying a new strap to hold him in place before removing another one. Besides, he hasn’t eaten in days--they had him on an IV drip-- and he can feel that he’s not even at half strength.

Soon enough, Jason is sitting up, head tied in place on top of an aluminium headrest, the rest of his body tied down either to the bed or the bars just above his bed.

This is happening.

This can’t be happening.

This is happening.

“Gloved, masked, and gowned, everyone?” Jason hears someone ask, and then he hears the chorus of agreements afterwards. He hears the thrum of a power tool being turned on, and it hits him, right then and there.

This is happening. This is really happening. He can’t get out.

He closes his eyes, swearing to himself that he is not going to scream this time.

The resolve lasts only until the saw makes contact with his head.

***

Jason swears he can feel the piece of skull moving. It shouldn’t. It was sutured close, and he felt every single one of those sutures coming in and out of his skull. It shouldn’t move.

But he feels it moving.

His head is elevated now, and wrapped with sterilized gauze. Say what you want about these people, and Jason can say a lot after weeks of being here, but they know how to properly do brain surgery.

Even though they did it to him without anesthesia.

Jason hadn’t bothered being cognizant since then. It’s better this way. They can do what they want to him, and he doesn’t have to be aware about them doing it.

It’s better this way.

Days, if he can even call it that, blur together. They keep coming back for more samples, though thankfully never reopening the hole in his skull.

He has a hole in his skull. The thought makes him want to laugh, because the other alternative is to cry.

And he refuses to cry here. They have taken his blood, they have taken his organs, they have even taken brain matter from him, but they would not have his tears. He refuses to give them his tears.

People keep coming and going and coming again, faces morphing together into a single, amorphous and emotionless face. He doesn’t bother trying to keep track of who is who.

White coats. Blue gloves. Green mask.

Black cowl.

Wait.

Black cowl?

No. It’s just a fragment of his imagination. It’s his abused brain, dreaming up of scenarios in which he gets to get out of here.

But he hears voices. Panicked voices. Voices that don't sound like a tape recorder, saying everything in a monotone.

“Jay?” the voice says. “Jaylad, can you open your eyes?”

No, dad. He doesn’t want to.

“Jay, I know it’s painful, but I need you to open your eyes for me,” the voice says again, deeper and warmer than anything he has heard here. It’s most likely a hallucination. Bruce has given up on him, that he knows. But still, he wants to bury himself in the voice that reminds him so much of home.

Home. He just wants to go home, dad. Please.

“Can you do that?” the voice asks, rumbling all around Jason’s ears. It reminds him of late-night patrols, of being bundled up in the cape, of being safe.

Jason opens his eyes, and is greeted by a sight as familiar to him as his own name. Bruce’s face in a cowl.

“Good job, Jay,” Bruce murmurs, still maintaining that soft voice. “Now, I need you to stay awake for me, yeah? We’re going to get you out of here,”- Bruce raises his hand, moving towards Jason’s exposed face, but then drops them back down again. Jason strangely misses the touch. - “but I need you to stay awake, okay?”

Jason wants to say something, wants to nod his acquiesce, but the only thing that came out of him is a whine.

Bruce understands anyway.

“Good lad,” he says, brushing his hand to Jason’s own. Jason leans to the touch, feeling sad that the one from before, the one headed to his face, didn’t make contact.

It is a blur, then. He’s pretty sure the rest of the family was there. There was a flash of blue, a hint of green, and flickers of red, yellow, and purple. But throughout it all, he keeps his eyes on the black in front of him, the black that never left his side.

It stayed with him, up until they were out, until they hooked up various machines to him, and until the voice says again, “You can go to sleep, now.”

And with that voice, and that warmth right beside him, and that hand softly drawing patterns on his hand, Jason… sleeps.