#whether these will be two different separate ships in different universes with the same S/I

[silverselfshippingchaos]

I know I've posted about my crush on Tenma plenty and I continue to do so, but... the other guy... Idk... He's kinda... 👉🏽👈🏽

ANOTHER CRUSH?!

[dontbebittah]

The History of Swingo, Part 0: The Basics

(images of Grace Mouat from @redladydeath)

“Swingo” is a term coined by the Six fandom to indicate when an alternate or swing has played all 6 roles in the show— it’s a combination of the words ‘swing’ and ‘bingo’. Whether or not a performer in Six hits Swingo depends on a variety of factors: most importantly the structure of the production they are in, but also their role within the production, the performer's personal preferences, how long they stay with the show, and luck. 

First, some more terminology that will be used frequently in this series:

A ‘principal’ performer is cast to play a specific role and is expected to perform that role in every show unless they are ill/injured/on vacation etc. For particularly demanding roles, or productions that do more than 8 shows a week (like the Six West End production), the principal’s contract might stipulate that they get one show off per week.

‘Cover’ refers to a performer who learns a role so that they can perform it when the principal performer is unavailable. It can also be used to refer to the role that is learned or as a verb, so one could say ‘I’m a cover for Howard’, ‘I cover Howard’, or ‘Howard is one of my covers’. A ‘first cover’ is someone who’s the first priority to go on in a role when the principal is out, followed by the second cover, then the third, etc.

‘Alternate’ is a term used in theatre to refer to a performer that covers a particular role or roles and does not appear onstage unless they are performing in that role. It’s similar to the more common term ‘understudy’, but understudies usually perform in the ensemble or a smaller role when they are not needed to perform the principal role(s) they cover. Six doesn’t have an ensemble, so its backup performers are not understudies.

‘Swing’ is a term used in theatre to refer to a performer that covers a wide range of roles and does not appear in the production unless they are covering for a performer that is out (unless otherwise indicated, ex. ‘onstage swing’). Six uses the term ‘swing’ in a variety of ways, most often to refer to a performer that covers all six roles but is a lower cover priority than the alternate. There are also ‘universal swings’ that cover a range of roles in multiple productions.

‘Alternate costumes’ or swing costumes are worn by non-principal performers and are not identical to the principal costumes. They are used primarily as a cost-saving measure so performers that cover many roles do not need a separate costume for each role. Some have variations, where part of the costume can be swapped out with a different piece to make the costume more versatile; for example, the base silver swing costume has a split skirt, but there is also a pants variation that can be worn with the same top.

Next, an overview on the cover systems in different productions:

West End and UK Tour: Starting with West End 2.0 (the 2019-20 production) and the UK Tour 3.0 (2021-22), the UK Six productions employ 3 alternates with two first covers each and 1-2 swings that are the 2nd priority cover(s) for all six roles. The majority of alternates have been assigned second and third covers, although they may or may not perform or learn all six roles. There have also been universal swings that perform with both the tour and West End productions, typically covering all roles but some covering as few as three. Starting with West End 3.0 (21-22) and UK Tour 4.0 (22-23), alternates have been given principal costumes for their two first covers and one alternate costume for any of the other 4 roles they might go on for. Swings are given alternate costumes only, usually with multiple variations to make them more versatile.

Cruise productions (Bliss and Breakaway): Each cruise production had two onboard swings that each covered 3 roles, plus at least two rehearsal swings that learned 1-3 roles each but did not actually join the rest of the cast aboard the ship unless necessary due to performers leaving the show. Early productions had the swings in alternate costumes, while productions from 2021 on had them in principal costumes for all three roles.

Australia tours: All AUS tours have had three swings that cover all six roles. While there is no formal cover priority, it seems that some swings perform certain roles much more frequently than others. The second and third AUS tours have also had an ‘alternate swing’ who acts as a fourth cover for all roles. AUS swings wear an alternate costume for all roles.

Broadway and US Tours: Likely due to differences in union rules between the US and the UK, no US performers have been contracted to cover all six roles. Aside from the original pre-Broadway tour, US productions each have four alternates that cover three roles each, arranged so each role has two covers. There have also been several universal swings that have covered both the Broadway and touring productions; they typically learn 4 roles to provide additional coverage. Also due to union rules, alternate costumes are not used in the US.

Other productions: Since no performers in other productions of Six have hit Swingo, the Canadian, South Korean, Japanese, and non-replica productions will not be discussed in this series.

Part 1 will be posted tomorrow!

[taibobo]

brain damaged postal dude mental illness lore hcs no one asked for and also self ship stuff

he has some kind of dissociative identity disorder, whether it’s DID or OSDD or how many alters he may have is entirely unclear and his levels of amnesia vary wildly depending on his mental state/what his alters were doing/why they fronted

the only alter he’s had contact with/actually recognizes the existence of is alter dude/the other dude (he calls him the other dude, but the alter self identifies as alter dude)

alter dude is pretty self aware of the reason why he exists and holds some significant level of childhood trauma related to postal dude’s father (who in this universe/my hc is the postal 1 postal dude or someone similar. an extremely mentally unstable paranoid man who may have involuntarily taken his delusions out on his kid. american health care is not good) this is why alter dude has the voice of rick hunter

postal dude is fairly pacifist and doesn’t kill people often, while alter dude kills people with only some modicum of discretion, usually when they’re keeping him from or antagonizing him while getting things done. postal dude is somewhat aware of this but has stopped letting it affect him because it doesn’t seem to matter

my s/i (i’m just gonna use first person from here on out lol) was informed at the beginning of the relationship that postal dude has at least one recognizable alter and was just like “oh. okay cool (is also mentally ill)” cause idgaf clearly

i am dating postal dude formally and dating alter dude informally. neither of them care because they consider themselves two parts of a whole and not really separate people. even if they did consider themselves separate identities they are not really the monogamous exclusive type so

alter dude is the less touchy/affectionate of the two, but makes up with it in a lot of false bravado and corny embarrassing dom flirting (he doesn’t know what he’s doing. he doesn’t exactly front during sex or dates and his memories of those aren’t shared mostly so he’s basically a hapless virgin)

postal dude is more physical in terms of his love language, but speaks much more casually and frankly as if i am like his best friend who he makes out with and says he loves. very good chill vibes

sometimes they get mad at each other because they basically operate like roommates who never see each other in terms of living. postal dude complaining about alter dude not washing the dishes or eating his food when he knows he’s been out, alter dude annoyed that postal dude doesn’t do his specific strange neurodivergent rituals, etc. they don’t actually hate each other though they just like to squabble

though dude’s head trauma didn’t give him his dissociative disorder or exacerbate it or anything it probably gave him some sort of physical symptom like chronic migraines or nerve damage. as someone who also has both of these i love projecting ❤️ and also it would make me a good nurse for him ❤️

i call alter dude A.D but he doesn’t like when anyone else calls him that. he just prefers being called dude by everyone else as if he’s the same guy as postal dude because he finds drawing attention to himself causes him more problems (which makes him want to kill which triggers his stuff about his dad which makes him more violent etc etc. negative feedback loop. he’s gotten a little better at grounding himself though)

champ can tell the difference between the two and treats them differently. he’s basically their service dog but without any real formal training. he’s just a smart boy

[handsmotif]

The Queercoding of Pinky and the Brain

This originally was just me infodumping to my friends on discord, but I decided it might be interesting to some people on here, so I polished it up and made it an actual essay lmao

To start, we’re going to break this into 2 sections -- the relationship between the mice, and Pinky’s relationship with gender, because queercoding doesn’t just mean gay!

For a 90′s show, Pinky and the Brain (and its mother show, Animaniacs) was very progressive for its time! But there were still lots of things that they couldn’t slip by censors, and thus, that’s where we have to read between the lines. And that is something I wanted to clarify here before we dive in, the actual meaning of queercoding. It’s NOT the same as queerbaiting. Queerbaiting is when the people producing certain media purposefully dangle the possibility of queer representation to lure in audiences (most prominent examples are BBC Sherlock, Riverdale, and Supernatural I GUESS? who knows abt that last one anymore), but never follow through, purely for profit. Queercoding is when media producers WANT to write in queer representation, but can’t, usually because the censors won’t let them. So, they must resort to subtext. (example: the policemen from Gravity Falls) It could also be unintentional, simply assigning certain characteristics associated with the LGBT community to characters. (example: Bugs Bunny, many Disney villains) Either way, it heavily relies on the audience picking up subtext, but whether it’s malicious or not varies, depending on the media. Bugs Bunny is an example of positive accidental queercoding, while a lot of Disney villains are negative examples.

Now, to actually discuss the gay little mice! Pinky and the Brain, whether it be intentional or not (based off comments from Maurice LaMarche, Rob Paulsen, and Tom Ruegger, signs strongly point to intentional, but it’s never been explicitly confirmed), is an example of positive queercoding.

There are many moments that I could pick out to discuss here, but we’ll start with some VERY on the nose gay metaphors. 

Remember Romy? If you don’t, that’s their actual biological son! Romy came about due to a cloning accident, where their DNA got combined and spat him out. 

There’s SO many things I could say about Romy. Every appearance he makes has an overarching gay metaphor as the plot. His first appearance in the episode Brinky (yeah it’s literally titled their ship name), it deals with his dads (WHICH I ALSO WANT TO POINT OUT, he DOES call them both dad, and they do both call him their son) disapproving of the fact that he wants to leave home and not follow in their footsteps of taking over the world. Brain even goes as far as disowning him whenever he tells him, which is certainly something a lot of queer people can unfortunately relate to. Also seen a lot in this episode is Pinky and Brain arguing even more than a married couple than usual, which pushes Romy away even further. Later, when Romy eventually does leave, and Brain starts to regret chasing him away, he tries desperately to reach out to him, but Romy doesn’t want anything to do with him. They end up tracking him down to an apartment building, where Romy is now living with his human girlfriend. When questioned about their relationship, the girlfriend, named Bunny, goes off on a tangent about how people shouldn’t judge others based on labels or relationships (hello?), and that Brain needs to be more tolerant. Brain apologizes and Romy forgives him. Happy ending.

Romy’s only other appearance is in the comics. Essentially, the plot of this one is that Brain wants to become the president of the local high school’s PTA, but he needs Romy’s help to make it look like he has a normal home life. He also enlists the help of Billie, the obligatory Woman introduced to make sure Brain doesn’t look as gay as he actually is, that he has a crush on. She pretends to be his girlfriend, and Pinky pretends to be Romy’s uncle, while they make up the story that Romy’s actual mother was lost at sea. Because if the organization found out that Brain has a son with a MAN??? THINK of the controversy! Anyway, the plan works, and Brain actually manages to get elected as president. Throughout this though, Pinky gets WEIRDLY jealous that Brain keeps brushing him aside for Billie. To the point where during Brain’s inauguration, Pinky actually dresses up as the wife/mother lost at sea and storms into the room.

[ID: Comic panels of Pinky, Brain, and Romy on stage at the inauguration ceremony. Pinky busts into room wearing drag, saying, “Yoo hoo! I’m back from years lost at sea to be with my son and ungrateful husband! Narf!” He then hugs Romy, while glaring at Brain. He goes on to say, “I’ll stand by your side, even though you left me behind!” The people in the audience begin to question this, saying, “Oh great fuzzy bangs!”, “What’d she say?!”, “He deserted her to be with that other woman!”, “What kind of monster is he?!”. Brain then rips off Pinky’s wig and says, “This isn’t my wife! This isn’t even a woman! It’s my roommate, Pinky.” Pinky replies, “Well, yes... But Romy really is my son! Poit!” And Brain responds, “N-Nonsense! He’s my son!” More people in the audience angrily speak up, saying, “What’s that?”, “He lives with a guy who likes to dress up in women’s clothing and the both claim to be that kid’s father!”, “Grumble! Mutter!” /END ID]

Needless to say, this doesn’t end well for them. What we can conclude from this is that homophobia exists in the Pinky and the Brain universe, and our characters are directly affected by it.

Moving on, And-There-Was-Only-One-Bed is a pretty common occurrence with these two. Their cage is big, they have plenty of room for two beds, but? They choose to sleep together? Even in some times where this has been inconsistent and they DO have separate beds, they’re always RIGHT next to each other. (what if we put our minecraft beds together ❤😳)

I would like to mention the episode, You’ll Never Eat Food Pellets In This Town Again! This episode is interesting to say the least. Deals with a lot of the meta of the show. Anyway. In this episode, Brain has a nightmare that he’s in a loveless marriage with Billie. You know, the woman he’s supposed to have a crush on. In the end, he wakes up from the nightmare in the same bed as Pinky.

Speaking of female love interests, Pinky is seen having multiple relationships with characters of different species. Any time this is brought up by Brain, Pinky counters with Brain being too intolerant. An honorable mention with this is in Wakko’s Wish, when Pinky is with Pharfignewton, and Brain’s constant pestering about their relationship could be read as jealousy. Pinky needs a mousy date, after all!

Something else I would like to mention is in one episode (I forget what it’s called, I’ll try to look it up later and edit this), Brain is applying for a job. The employer asks Brain if he’s married, and Brain hesitates before saying he “has a roommate,” but that he’s occupied with his own things, which then cuts to a shot of Pinky applying lipstick.

Leading into part two of this essay, Pinky’s relationship with gender! Pinky has always been very gender nonconforming, and loves to wear dresses, do his makeup, and make himself look pretty. For the most part, this is played pretty straight, and not as a gag, like a lot of shows tend to do! It’s just a casual fact about him that he likes to present femininely sometimes.

This does play into their taking over the world plans pretty often, where Pinky wears drag, usually either to sneak into somewhere. Like in one of their earliest appearances on Animaniacs, Noah’s Lark, where they pose as a couple to board Noah’s, and I quote, “love boat.” After boarding, Noah says to himself, “Who am I to judge?” Okay. Yeah. Alright. Anyway.

I actually had less to say on this than I thought I did, but I wanted to make sure to emphasize that Pinky at the very least is coded as being Not Quite Cis, and that he’s played a key part in helping a lot of people watching the show figure out that they’re also Not Quite Cis. 

Wrapping this up because I’m hungry, but I want to throw in some more honorable mentions that I really do not see any type of cishet explanations for:

They literally go on a romantic date at a very fancy restaurant in Brain’s Night Off. This is played extremely casually, and the only remark from anyone that they receive is that they are “much smaller than the usual clients.”

Pinky, on at least one occasion, daydreams about him and Brain being a married couple, and wanting to be a housewife (the original malewife ❤)

There’s an issue in the comics where Pinky has a crush on another male mouse, and when Brain gets annoyed, Pinky reassures him that he thinks Brain is cute and quite the catch too

Brain attempting to kiss Pinky in the reboot??????

Brain actually did conquer the world once in the Halloween special, because Pinky made a deal with the devil for it, and thus Pinky got sent to hell! Brain actually went to hell and gave up the world to bring him back

Brain was extremely close to conquering the world once more in the Christmas special, but after reading what Pinky’s feelings for him were (nothing romantic, just Pinky basically just praising Brain for being so hardworking and an amazing mouse, and lamenting that he never gets anything for it), he gets so emotional that he sabotages himself and wishes everyone a Merry Christmas instead

TLDR; these mice are very queer and need therapy, and are probably the most heavily queercoded characters that I can think of in children’s media.

[maxwell-grant]

One last one for the moment; top five superheroes who definitely AREN'T Pulp Heroes, but could be with a little tweaking?

Oof, that's a hard one. It's a hard one because, again, there ultimately isn't that much separation between the two to the point there's enough of a hard line in there to work with, but I guess the cat's out of the bag now that I've staked claims on there being differences between them.

Okay so, not counting superheroes who are deliberately modeled after actual pulp heroes, so no Tom Strong or Night Raven here. I'm sticking mainly with comic book superheroes (barring one oddball exception) since the medium separation is important), who I think could become pulp heroes with some tweaking.

5: Captain America

Sort of cheating because I already covered it here, but I definitely have to include Captain America in here, especially in the stories they actively go for a "pulp" vibe as well as the earliest ones.

Fun fact about Marvel: As Timely, they actually began life as pulp publishers. Not just pulp publishers, but specializing in some of the sleaziest, ghastliest magazines of the era, and you can bet this carried over to their superheroes. Where as DC's superheroes took inspiration from the big pulp heroes such as The Shadow and Doc Savage, Timely's superheroes seemed instead much more inspired by Weird Tales stories and Poverty Row horror films, and even in the 60s, Marvel never really abandoned their horror roots, the trick was just using them as a baseline to create superheroes. In DC, the world's first contact with superheroes begins with the world looking in wonder at a friendly strongman. In Marvel, it began with the world looking in panicked horror at a flaming monster rampaging through the streets desperately trying to not burn everything it touches. It should come to little surprise then that the majority of characters I'm including in this list are Marvel characters.

People think Captain America's first comics largely consisted of him fighting Nazis left and right, but they were actually much more often based around him encountering monsters and creatures of horror, like the above panel where it looks like Cap's staring down the beginning of Berserk's Eclipse (RIP Miura).

The early Captain America comics pretty much consisted of Kirby dipping his toe into the monster comics he'd make in the 50s which would later bleed into the 60s Marvel entourage. They even tried repackaging Captain America into a horror anthology in the 50s titled "Captain America's Weird Tales", just imagine how different the character would be today if that somehow stuck.

Imagine a world where Steve Rogers never became leader of The Avengers, never got to become the shining beacon of heroism of an entire universe, and instead, when he was unfrosted, he woke up to find a world running rampant with crawling nightmares and Nazi tyranny, and he has no idea what's become of his former sidekick. That definitely sounds like the start of a promising pulp adventure.

4: Namor

Another Timely creation. In Namor's case, he didn't so much encounter horrors from beyond imagination, as much as HE was the terrifying thing beyond us ready to rampage upon mankind, whose first on-screen act consists of the calculated slaughter of a ship full of innocents. The first true villain protagonist of comic books. Not just an anti-hero, a villain intent on wiping out the human race.

And not just a cardboard supervillain, but the beautiful prince of a race of ugly fish monsters, a momma's boy who's doing what he thinks is right by warring with surface dwellers. While Namor's become largely defined by his gargantuan arrogance, here, he's almost childlike, despite being much more brutal and villainous here, spurred on by the whims of his mother, who even acknowledges that Namor had no real reason to kill the divers but did so anyway, and now encourages him to genocide. His mom even tells him "Go now, to the land of white people!", and the very last panel of the story even states he's on a "crusade against white men".

The massacre of explorers at the hands of something beyond their understanding. A monster born of an interracial coupling. A race of fish monsters with bulging eyes, antagonistic towards humanity but are shown to have positive traits just the same. A dash of racism. There is no mistaking The Sub-Mariner's pulp horror influence.

A non-white superhuman warrior born from a Lovecraftian horror story, who gradually moves away from his villainous crusade into becoming more of an anti-hero, never truly putting aside his hatred for humanity, remaining a temperamental, unpredictable outcast, with a strong, palpable undercurrent of anger in his stories. I could very easily buy Namor as having crawled out of a Weird Tales story and I can't think of other superheroes whose origins are as steeped deeply in pulp horror.

3: Doctor Fate

Technically we already have a pulp hero version of Doctor Fate in Doc Fate, and I'll get to him separately, but even besides him, the earliest Doctor Fate stories in particular feel very much like he's a character steeped in the worlds of pulp and pulp horror who decided to put on a superhero costume and show up in comic.

He's got a similar set-up to The Shadow, from the pulp Shadow in the sense that he's a mysterious, eerie crimefighter who dwells as a presence more often than an active character and who kills criminals without remorse, always watching and waiting for the right time to strike as a a wrathful old-testament force of vengeance, and from the radio Shadow due to him using superpowers to fight crime while being accompanied by a smart, fierce love interest.

Originally, Fate was not a sorcerer, but instead a scientist who discovered a way to manipulate atomic structure, of his and other things, thus making it appear that he can do magic (although we never see his face, and he's implied to be thousands of years old, before they settled on the Nabu origin). And going back to Lovecraft, a lot of it appears in the earliest Fate stories. Fate was given powers not by a sorcerer, but an alien worshipped as a god. He barely encounters traditional monsters, but instead contends with hidden races, zombie slaves, abandoned alien monoliths, and half man and half fish creatures. Fate may have actually been the very first pastiche of Lovecraft in pop culture.

And of course we can't forget the gloriousness of Doc Fate pulling an Indiana Jones on us.

2: Wolverine

I don't even think you'd have to tweak Wolverine at all. You'd just have to get him out of the costume and Avengers/X-Men associations (although the X-Men have a substantial background in pulp sci-fi stories like Slan and Odd John, so they aren't really at odds here), maybe tone down his powers a bit and, that's it. Logan's already the kind of character who has such a varied sandbox history, whose powers can lead to so many different scenarios, that it's not a stretch at all to picture Wolverine in the usual pulp hero scenarios.

You can have half-naked Wolverine running around in the jungle with animals Tarzan-style, take him to Savage Land if you wanna throw dinosaurs in there. He's already Marvel's foremost "wandering samurai/cowboy" character which was one of the stock and trade types of the pulps. Western? Done. Samurai? Done. Wuxia? Just put him in China and add a couple extra fantasy elements. Wanna make a sword and sorcery story with him? He already comes with a bunch of knives and savagery and ability to survive grisly injuries. Horror? The MCU is crawling with them, or alternatively, tell a story from the perspective of someone who's being hunted down by Wolverine. Wanna tell a detective/noir/post-apocalypse story? Logan's right there.

Wanna have him crossover with pulp heroes? He's lived through the 1800s and 1900s and traveled all over the world, you could feasibly have him meet up with just about any of them. Logan may actually be the purest example of your question, because he's very much not a Pulp Hero, and yet, he definitely feels like a character who could have been one, at just about any point in the history of pulp magazines. He's perfect for it.

1: Wario

WAAA-okay, look, bear with me for a second here, I'm not just picking Wario because I love oddball choices and he's one of my favorite characters, I got some logic to this.

Okay so, the first question here: is Mario a superhero? While I'm usually adverse to calling characters prominent outside of comic books superheroes (hence why I'm definitely not interested in debating whether Harry Potter or Goku or Link or Frodo are superheroes), I do think it's a pretty shut case that, yes, Mario is a superhero. Superheroes don't just come in the form of skintight crimefighters, right from the start comic books have had varied types of superheroes appearing in comics and comic strips. For example, the "funny animal" superheroes are a type older than superhero comics, and they were arguably not only the most successful type of superhero of the 40s-50s era, but arguably defined trends dominating nonfunny animal superheroes, traits that predated or influenced Captain Marvel as well as Otto Binder's reshaping of Superman that defined much of superhero convention as we know it. It's part of why the question of "Is Sonic a superhero" has a very clear Yes as an answer.

So upon establishing that, yes, funny cartoon characters can be and are superheroes too, is Mario one? Well, I'd say yes. He's got an iconic uniform, he's got superpowers, he goes on fantastical adventures, he is both a nebulously general do-gooder as well as having a clear mission as protector of the Mushroom Kingdom. His adventures span multiple storytelling formats, he's got catchphrases, he even dresses up in Superman's colors and has a Super prefix iconically associated with him. Not a superhero the way we usually think of, but a superhero nonetheless.

And Wario? Well, putting aside Wario-Man who's more of a running gag than anything, Wario does just about everything Mario does. He's got all the traits that define Mario as a superhero short of a Super prefix and the selfless mission (which isn't exactly a rule). He goes around and gets into crazy adventures, he picks up items, beats bad guys, conquers the odds, and gets some kind of prize for it. He's got Mario's physical traits, and Mario's costume, and just about the same name short of a single letter. The caveat being, of course, that he's Wario, and so everything Mario is or does has to be exaggerated to gross extreme.

Mario is paunchy and strong, Wario's round and built like a powerlifter. Mario's got a friendly face and a fluffy mustache, Wario's got a massive horrible grin and jagged razors for a stache. Mario is a bit of an overeater, Wario can and will eat anything in front of him. Mario gets around with acrobatics and magic power-ups, Wario brute forces his way through everything and just rolls with whatever injuries he picks up along the way.

Mario gets fire powers by consuming magic flowers. Wario sets himself on fire and barrels around destroying everything in his path. Mario harnesses the elements or abilities of beings around him to clear obstacles and solve puzzles, Wario gets turned into a zombie, a vampire or a drunk to get the same things done. Mario befriends and rides dinosaurs who raised him from infancy, Wario piledrives dinosaurs and then uses their bodies to beat up more dinosaurs. Mario pals around with fellow heroes, princesses and friendly fantasy creatures, Wario pals around with aliens, witches, mad scientists, cab drivers, and lanky weirdos. Mario always ends his adventures joyfully leaping to the next one, Wario usually ends up either cackling in a pile of treasure or completely broke.

Mario races through plains to rescue princesses, Wario invades pyramids to hunt for treasure. Mario jumps through planets with baby stars guiding his path, Wario crashes into the Amazon jungle and fistfights the devil. You can see where I'm going with this.

If you were to take one of Nintendo's heroes to make them into pulp heroes, Wario, specifically the Wario Land Wario, may be the only one who really could do it, because in essence, he's the videogame equivalent of Professor Challenger. He's Bluto moonlighting as Indiana Jones, the weird brute adventurer for weird brute adventures where everything's off limits and you can trust our intrepid hero, who really shouldn't be a hero on all accounts, to deliver us a good time, give or take a couple deaths, scams, shams and oh-damns to complete said mad treasure hunts.

[soulmatesabroad]

Soulmate Prompts:

Since this is a fic fest about soulmates, we are in need of prompt suggestions! Please send in some prompts that have to do with soulmates! You do NOT have to be writing for this fest to send in prompts!

More info can be found at @soulmatesabroad​!

A: The One au. The One is a tv series that's sort of dystopian in that it explores a reality in which you could suddenly apply to this program that will match you to your soulmate and it follows how specific people deal with that.

B: Where you wake up with a tattoo after meeting your soulmate. Larry are vacationing at the same hotel, they meet and then every day for 4 days after they both gain a new tattoo. When they meet again, they realize their tattoos match perfectly. Rope & anchor, compass & ship, heart & arrow, rose & dagger. 

C: Ziall soulmates au where their first words to each other are tattooed somewhere on their body. Both of them have the phrase “fuck you” on their arms. Of course the first time they meet they both say...

D: in uni, prof is giving a lecture, his student is his soulmate, figuring it out over the semester

E: reverse Wellington: Larry meet, drunk Louis shouts "soulmate" at Harry, then they get to know each other and fall in love

F: Larry please- soulmates who meet in dreams and appear the way they see themselves so that irl one doesn’t recognize the other because he sees himself as plain/boring

G: Larry please - One of them either doesn’t want to meet his soulmate and has been doing everything to avoid meeting them. He gets stuck in a time loop (like Groundhog Day) until he meets and acknowledges his soulmate. 

H: One of them is a surfer, the other is a photographer and they meet somewhere warm. They're 26 and kinda gave up on finding their soulmate but then it happens.

i: any pairing: universe in which soulmates recognise each other by having the same song stuck in their head. cue person a hearing person b humming the song under their breath in location x

J: Larry please - fic where each year you get opportunities to meet your soulmate and live life with them but as soon as the clock hits 00:00 on Dec 31st your memory resets in regards to who your soulmate is. There’s no way to go around this...or is there?

K:  A is a hopeless romantic who has always dreamed of meeting their soulmate. Unfortunately their remote location means they see the same few people every day, none of whom is their match. When Character B arrives and A falls in love with them, the question arises: are they soulmates? Or does A just want them to be?

L: Food is love, and supposedly your soulmate's cooking will taste better than anything you've ever eaten before. Too bad Character A is hopeless in the kitchen. Character B is the chef who promises they can teach anyone how to cook-- is that the only reason A finds their food so delicious? Or is there something more at play?

M: Characters A and B are working together on a yacht. They share a room, and as crew they also happen to share most of their working hours and duties as well. Is that the reason they're so drawn to one another? Regardless of their connection, they're both determined to keep it professional. 

N: It's not only humans who have soulmates, apparently. At least if the pet psychic Character A has consulted about their dog's depression is to be believed. The psychic claims the pup met his soulmate at doggie daycare. Now A is trying to see if she's right by seeking out every possible dog from the playgroup. Will helping a dog find it's soulmate lead Character A to the same thing?

O: Hybrids aren't accepted many places, but in a few countries they have full rights and equality, even if prejudice still exists. Character A was raised in an anti-hybrid country and is now studying/working in a hybrid friendly place. Character B is the hybrid neighbor who they feel drawn to in ways they've heard are typical of soulmates. The possibility is as frightening as it is enticing.

P: Nontraditonal ABO: it's generally accepted doctrine that alphas and omegas are made to go together. Character A has always been attracted to people of their own secondary gender, and has therefore run away from the concept of finding a soulmate. When they meet character B, who shares their secondary gender, and find that the two of them share a soulmark-- the sign of a true mate --their world is turned upside down.

Q: (larry) They have been penpals for years now, sharing their little creative thoughts with each other. Will they ever meet? A new job, a different city, some crossed paths and fate might help.

R: Louis is 30 and the CEO of his family business in Toronto and he has hired a new assistant, Harry, 27. A lot of sexual tension, business trips, coincidences and ‘if he my soulmate or I just have a stalker and also a big crush?’

S: Strangers to friends with benefits to lovers larry; Louis and Harry has finished college and they both are doing a tour across Europe visiting different countries. They start from different cities in and meet in the second/third country they’re visiting. They get along quickly and have a one night stand because they think they won’t meet again. But they meet again in the next city or in the trip to the next city. Is their connection due to their sexual attraction or because they’re soulmates?

T: Louis and Harry are both Niall’s friend but they don’t know each other, however they meet in Niall’s wedding (with his soulmate) in Ireland (or another country if the author prefer another place for the wedding)

U: Larry: Soulmates have a special connection, they have visions of their more important events of their life - both sad and happy but they can’t see their faces, bodies or their friends/families faces. Louis and Harry know everything important that happen to them but they haven’t met yet, they live in different countries and they know that but they don’t know the country they live in. How will they meet? What will happen?

V: Larry: Exes to lovers - People have their soulmates mark in their 18 birthday. Harry and Louis were together during high school and break up before Louis 18 birthday because person A was afraid of not being their soulmates. Louis goes to travel aboard so they don’t know about their mark. They meet again some years later when they’re in their 20...

W: Larry enemies to lovers: Both of them work for the same company and has the same job position but they hate each other because the first time they met it wasn’t “meet cute”. All their coworkers think they are similar and would make an amazing couple so they try to get them together. Most people don’t believe in soulmates anymore, they think it was a legend or maybe it’s not a legend and they’re soulmates?

X: Untraditional soulmates !! For example, a pairing (or poly) comprised of people who aren’t soulmates but are in love anyway. Maybe their “true” soulmates died or just didn’t work out for some reason. Maybe their “true” soulmates are platonic and separate from the romantic relationship. But ultimately the theme being something like “i am choosing to love this person” rather than the world telling them who to love :) 

Y: Character A is a writer who pours their heart and soul into everything they write, though their focus on the soulmate trope is underappreciated. They go away on a writer's retreat to give it one last try and meet Character B, a person who seems to have stepped right out of one of their novels. Is this their soulmate or a figment of their imagination, or have they truly had one of their characters come to life?

Z: In a world where you see in color after hearing the sound of your soulmate's voice, Character A doesn't remember seeing in black and white. When they realize they're different, nobody can explain the reason. It isn't until they meet Character B, a stranger with the same affliction, that they begin to put things together. Or: A and B hear one another's cries as babies, changing their vision from black and white to color before they could possibly have realized it.

AA: Characters A & B somehow keep running into each other inexplicably all over the world. Maybe they happen to study abroad together then have a work conference in the same city then vacation in the same city, etc. Eventually they realize they've been seeing each other all over and maybe the universe is trying to tell them something.

BB: Louis gets a call from an unknown number from across the world. When he answers it, he's asked if he is a Mr. Harry Styles' previous employer and to give a recommendation on his performance. Amused, he pretends he is Harry's old boss and gives a glowing recommendation without knowing who he is. The job that this Harry is going for must be quite intense, because a few days later Louis is asked to fly out to interview in person to attest to Harry's character, where he ends up meeting Harry and falling for him.

CC: OT4/5 platonic soulmates with all the main characters being aro, ace, demisexual, etc. A soulmark appears when you meet a soulmate-- whether they're a platonic, romantic, or sexual soulmate(or sooner combo of the 3) is something each person has to discover for themselves. OT4/5 are grateful to find soulmates who are excited to experience beautiful and deep platonic relationships.

DD: Soulmarks are a trait that most humans have lost. Character A is a vampire who was born in a time when they were far more common. Imagine their surprise when they meet Character B, a human, whose soulmark complements their own.

EE: Larry: An AU where magic exists, Louis has always thought he’s a dark wizard and Harry doesn’t know if he’s a wizard or a normal human. Spoiler: he’s a wizard! They meet when they are 18/20 in a trip and they find more than themselves.

FF: Larry: Louis and Harry are friends of Zayn and Liam but they haven’t met yet. Ziam is having a wedding and their bachelor parties in Hawaii, they meet them.

GG: Louis and Harry haven’t met yet but they meet in a reality show that consists of traveling around the world. The rules of the reality show: Choose a person in the first program to travel with them (Louis and Harry travel together) and spend as little money as possible.

HH: Louis and Harry have been working in the same building for years but they haven’t met officially although they’ve seen each other around. They officially meet when their boss decided to do a work trip to Sydney

ii: Louis and Harry go to Orlando to visit the amusement park. They meet when they’re waiting in the queue for one of the rides and they spend a lot of time together because their other friends are tired of visiting different amusement park and they want to chill.

JJ: Famous/Non-famous larry: “Every time that you and your soulmate are in the same city, you’ll have a mark in your wrist. If one of you leave, the mark disappears” Person A is an actor who loves love but is tiring of two things: fake pr-relationships that make the general public believes that he’s not interest in having a soulmate and traveling. Person B wants to find his soulmate but he knows it’s not in his city so he’s traveling around. They have been in the same place several times but they haven’t met. How many countries will they visit until they meet?

KK: larry please: It is well known that the first time soulmates touch they leave a vivid mark on their partner's skin.  Well one morning Louis wakes up with a bright stripe across his cheekbone and no idea what happened.

LL: hl au: harry is a well-known anthropologist from england but he’s requested to join the discovery of an ancient palace in mexico city. louis is a historian that has lived in said city for several years now, so he’s almost a local. the discovery they both take part of includes a blue greeny jewel that holds a legend about soulmates.

MM: Zouiam ot3 matching soulmate tattoos

NN: A and B are childhood friends and have known they're soulmates since they got their marks in their early teen years but they never develop romantic feelings for each other but they Do want to spend the rest of their life together. Bit of conflict / comfort.

OO: Lirry Shrek au. Harry Fiona has always expected their perfect soulmate to break their curse. Liam Shrek is tired of playing the role of the ogre and being rejected by prejuices. They meet.

PP: Zayn is travelling with his van, he picks up some hitchhikers along the way. They stargaze and bond with each other. They find out they are soulmates when some dangerous situation arises.

QQ: ot5 1d era au. A slowly finds out they are soulmates with each of the others while in the bus or travelling/staying abroad together.

RR: Ziam: In a world where magic exists but soulmates are rare, Liam and Ziam met in the same Magical College and have an instant connection. In history of magic, they learn about soulmates and Character A know that they (Ziam) are soulmates but he’s  afraid and tries to avoid Character B all the time.

SS: Larry - Louis needs a break of his job and travels to a place where Harry lives and Harry needs a break of his past relationships. They meet in a pub and after too many drinks, they decide to do a road trip around the country. The author decides how people know who is their soulmates.

TT: Zouis: they discover they’re soulmates in Zayn’s wedding. Louis is the boyfriend of one of the best mates

UU: Larry - A reality show is trying to prove that soulmates still exist and Louis and Harry are participants in it

VV: HL Monday AU with Harry as Mickey and Louis as Chloe (but with a happy and not toxic ending please!)

WW: The voice you hear your thoughts in is your soulmate’s but you don’t know who they are until you hear them speak for the first time

XX: You’ve been sketching your soulmate’s face since you were old enough to pick up a pencil, the drawings become more realistic through the years as the day you meet comes near

YY: Red strings of fate au. Person A cuts their string. Person B is devastated to find their string has been cut but moves on with their life and finds love with, you guessed it, Person A who doesn’t believe in soulmates. When Person B finds out that Person A cut their string they’re so angry because they know how devastated they were to find their cut string. And Person A is confused at first because they thought Person B didn’t believe in soulmates either and didn’t realize that it was because they had no way of finding their soulmate. And then it hits Person A that there might be a slight chance that Person B IS their soulmate. So they nervously show up with their string and ask if Person A wants to see if the ends fuse together or not. Up to writer if the ends fuse or not.

ZZ: Person A reads tarot cards and while reading Person B’s cards, Person A can see that the cards are telling them that the two of them are soul mates

AAA: Soulmates can hear what their soulmate is singing.  Harry grows up with a soulmate who exclusively sings a weird blend of Oasis, Green Day, and the odd Light Killers song.  Louis grows up with a soulmate who mostly sings Fleetwood Mac and Peter Gabriel. They both hate their soulmates taste in music.

BBB: Every person is born with a golden string on their finger attached to their soulmate.  Everyone but them can see it but it is considered highly rude to tell people without prompting (like taking away a coming of age experience).  Or Harry and Louis fight a lot and everyone looks at them knowingly until one of them cracks and asks someone about it.

CCC: Character A runs a clothing boutique of some kind and one day uses a steamer too close to the smoke detector and sets off the fire alarm. Character B is one of the firemen to respond. Character A is very embarrassed that they did this in front of a super hot fireman, but the firemen are super nice about it. It just so happens they have to come back the following week for an annual inspection of the building and Character A jokes around/flirts with B. Soulmate aspect up to writer. (One idea could be matching soul marks?)

DDD: When soulmates touch for the first time, an electric shock goes through each person. They can’t touch each other without a shock...until they fall in love with each other. Too bad Character A & B hate each other and are not thrilled that when they touch by accident they finally feel the electricity they’ve always been waiting for. 

EEE: The color of your eyes act like a mood ring and changes according to your soulmates' mood. The first time you make eye contact with your soulmate, they turn the same color.

FFF: Reluctant soulmates where one or both of them keep their soulmarks covered at all times because they want to fall in love without the person soulmates

GGG: AU where your soulmate smells like HOME only they’re both too dirty and disgusting to smell like anything other than yuck

HHH: Older Larry AU where they’re both in their 40s or older and still haven’t met The One. Embracing this, they each go on a trip alone, but wind up meeting

iii: Fleetwood Mac/ Rumours AU - Larry as Stevie and Lindsey, Ziam as Christine and John. A breakup and a divorce while recording and touring an iconic album. Endgame Larry. Lovers to exes to soulmates.

[libermachinae]

Fault Lines Under the Living Room

Part IV: Touch - Chapter 13: Twisting and Snarling

Also available on AO3 Chapter Summary: A hunt is on and the jig is up. Word Count: 3272

---

Gigatron had known, upon entering the throne room, that it was his destiny to have found this place. Why else would the the throne, a grand centerpiece from which he could observe every move of his soldiers, be so perfectly fitted to his frame? From here, he’d known, he would lay the foundations for the campaign that would bring the universe, at last, to its knees before the Decepticons. A place like this was reserved for champions and kings, and his claim over it proved that he had the makings of both.

So the reports concerning the Autobot infiltrators concerned him little. In the hours since their arrival, Startle and Sweeper had alternated rushing inside with alerts to the effect of, “The grounder was spotted in the midst of sector Z4, driving inbound,” or, “The slagged shuttle intercepted and we lost visual.” They treated each announcement as if it were news. Gigatron was well aware Deadlock was headed in fast with an Autobot hanging off his spoiler. He knew his current regiment would struggle and ultimately fail to catch him. Everything was progressing as he had always expected it would, so he stayed in his throne and waited them out.

He knew, as he answered the latest hail to his comm, that while victory would inevitably be his, this would not be it.

“Report.”

“Sir,” Vanquish said, “Deadlock got away.”

“Explain.” Vanquish was among his best, the captain of his security forces and first choice for rare away missions. Hellbat had handpicked him, and Gigatron trusted no one’s judgment more. Clearly, a few years separated from his roots had done nothing to blunt Deadlock’s edge.

“We thought we had him cornered,” Vanquish said. “There were three blasters aimed at his head and a sniper up above. Pothole moved in and he took an unlikely evasive maneuver over the wall at his back.” He grumbled, his pride hurt. “He’s fast, sir.”

“Any sign of his companions?” Gigatron asked.

“No, sir.”

“Is he injured?”

“No, not that I could see, sir.”

“You had him cornered and didn’t shoot him.” This was why he so eagerly awaited Deadlock’s arrival; idleness had proven unkind to his own mechs. Deadlock, whether he ended up serving as idol or an example, would bring them back to the caliber Gigatron expected of those under his command. First, though, he had to get here, and Gigatron was growing tired of being patient. It seemed that afford this encounter the gravity it deserved, Deadlock had decided to turn it into a game. Fine. Gigatron could humor him, if only briefly.

“I’m taking my team,” he decided. “Return to base and await further orders. I don’t need you all broadcasting my location to him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gigatron cut the comm and made to gesture to Hellbat, only to remember he had left on his own errand. He waved instead to the next nearest mech, Sweeper, who straightened to attention.

“Get my squad ready,” Gigatron commanded. “We’re joining the hunt.”

~*~

Seated in the Decepticon shuttle, hovering at the far edge of Decepticon territory, Ratchet barely moved. There had been a cough sitting in his engine so long it felt like the fumes were corroding his pipes, but he batted down commands to clear it even as his internals stung and his filters felt heavy. He could distract himself by tapping against his knee, but the feeling was starting to overwhelm his rudimentary distraction technique. 

It didn’t help that his other main distraction was judging him, harshly. Rodimus hadn’t said so much in words, but he found it amusing that Ratchet was holding himself to such stringent demands when there were easier solutions. Each time he felt the wave of derision, Ratchet shot back with the simple point that Rodimus wasn’t speaking for a reason. Both of them were silent as Drift slipped into the base, desperate not to distract him but unwilling to cut the comm for even a moment, the crackling feedback of his malfunctioning comm suite their only sign he was still operational.

There had been so many close calls getting him in this far, and he still wasn’t all the way to the target yet. Somehow, he planned to sneak a pair of potentially unwilling Decepticons back out of their fortified base, and then once outside somehow maneuver around the patrols, which were growing more aggressive with each near miss. They’d all known going in this would be a dangerous, difficult operation, but Ratchet kept wondering if they could have done more to prepare. If they’d gone in not just watching one another’s backs, but being—

Rodimus intercepted the thought before it could go any further. Regardless of the fact they kept looping back to it, now wasn’t the time.

“I’m in,” Drift whispered, offering an ideal distraction.

“What are their defenses like?” The words tumbled out of Ratchet, followed by a hacking filter cough that he immediately muted himself for. His fans were still spinning when he jumped back into the channel.

“—very spare,” Drift was saying. “Could’ve walked in through the front door.”

“That’s not normal, right?” Rodimus asked, assuming the answer but trying to avoid saying something stupid in front of the expert.

“It’s not like there’s standard practice out here, but no,” Drift said. “A group with that sophisticated a defense system normally wouldn’t leave their headquarters unattended.”

“Is it possible it’s a decoy?” Ratchet asked.

“Sure,” Drift said nonchalantly.

“As in a trap?”

“Uh-huh.”

Ratchet didn’t bother adding anything else. Rodimus’ thoughts were bland and resigned; a mental shrug, perhaps a pat on the shoulder. Ratchet accepted it as the best he was going to get.

“Any signs of Grit?” Rodimus asked to fill the empty space.

“Not yet. Have an idea where he might be, though.”

“Thought you said they don’t keep standard practice in these places.”

“They don’t.”

Ratchet was going to push him further on it when he heard the subtle click of disconnection.

“Drift?”

No response.

“Drift?” he tried again, pointlessly.

“What—did he—”

He did. He did, Ratchet was certain, because the last tone of a comm being broken was completely different from one shut off manually. That knowledge, combined with Rodimus’ unending confidence in Drift, allowed them to stave off the cascade of panic they felt at being shut out so suddenly.

“Why would he cut us off?” Rodimus demanded.

Ratchet briefly wondered if they were coming to rely too much on their mind link, losing touch with how to understand other Cybertronians without it. The passing thought was swept along in the tide, though, inconsequential compared to their much more pressing concerns.

“He found something.” And now he was facing it all alone.

“Not alone,” Rodimus reminded him. “He’s got us.”

He wasn’t wrong. Ratchet reached out and held onto Rodimus’ certainty, feeling Rodimus do the same as he started to input the commands for takeoff.

~*~

Gigatron slammed one taloned foot to the ground and roared, echoing through the barren canyons. Another dead end and no sign of Deadlock. The little shuttle had made one appearance but fled the moment Gigatron gave chase, leaving him once more to wait for reports full of almosts and nearlys.

The tracks Drop Down had found led to a cliff with no apparent follow through. Same with the trail Sweeper had slithered over. Now, Rageor was chiming in, claiming he had found something. Gigatron flapped his wings twice and took to the air, homing in on the provided coordinates. Rageor stood before a tall cliff face, two members of his squad on either side of him, facing something hidden between the three of them. Gigatron let himself drop, brittle dust stone buckling beneath his feet as he landed and sending a cloud up into the air. He coiled his necks up to their full height before he stepped forward, flames licking his teeth.

“Show me,” he demanded.

Rageor nodded and stepped aside, revealing a mech cowering against the wall. Blocky and tan with green accents, his utterly plain appearance would have made it possible to mistake him for a neutral, were it not for the purple insignia splashed on the back of his shoulder. Gigatron turned to the captain of his vanguard, who raised his hands and took a step back.

“That’s not Deadlock,” Gigatron growled.

“He claims to have information,” Rageor said, turning his face away when the flames came close. Gigatron turned one of his heads to the unknown Decepticon, who cowered from the direct attention and squirmed as though trying to press himself into the rock itself.

“Well?” The thrill of the hunt was waning, glory still at bay, and Gigatron’s patience was wearing thin.

“Dr—Deadlock, he brought me here,” the Decepticon said, “on his shuttle. Rickety little thing, meant we were in auditory range the whole time.” He gulped as Gigatron pawed at the ground, talons driving furrows into the soft stone. “He and his Autobots, they were trying to be vague, but they had something on their ship. Some kinda weapon.”

“And?” Gigatron asked, unimpressed. He hardly needed to ruffle his platelets to reveal his own flying arsenal. If this Decepticon intended to use this weapon as a bargaining chip for his life, Gigatron wasn’t sure which side he was undervaluing more.

“And they specifically didn’t want you getting at it”

Hm. Hadn’t he heard a refrain like that before?

The Decepticon froze as Gigatron straightened, each of his hands rising high to scan the distant horizon. Deadlock might have been the key to this planet’s greatest asset, but Gigatron hadn’t gotten where he was by limiting his prospects.

“All patrols, update priorities,” he announced. “It seems there is a second prize in our midst.”

~*~

“That is what we are, that is why we’re here. Machines of war, of—”

Hellbat broke off mid-rant, which was fine, because with two guns aimed at his head and the tip of a sword digging into his back, Drift was only half paying attention. The rest of his limited focus was on Grit, kneeled at Hellbat’s side with his hands bound behind his back and plating locked tight as a blast container. The stone army he had tucked to the side for now, concerning but not an immediate threat while they remained in their dormant state.

“What? Gigatron, sir,” Hellbat snapped, glaring at the ceiling as though he could see his commander through the stone. “You can’t—we need the Autobots alive.”

Drift did his best not to react, though the blade digging harder between his shoulder panels suggested he didn’t do well enough.

“What’s—I don’t know—what do you care about some cheap Autobot weapon? We have the army, remember? That’s—”

Drift’s control slipped. He flinched from the edge of the sword cutting into his subplating, but it didn’t stop him from switching his comms back on. Security be damned, they were already compromised.

“Gigatron knows about the Enigma,” he rushed to say. “Get off the planet, go, they—”

“Hey, enough.”

He thought he heard the blip of a response before the gun pointed at his temple twisted around and came down hard against his helm. His vision went to static as he went down, not from the blow itself but the audible POP as his busted comms suite finally gave out. A hand grabbed his drooping shoulder and hauled him upright again, while another forced his helm up to meet Hellbat’s optics.

“If you tell me where the Autobots are, I’ll promise to put them into stasis before I begin the harvesting process,” he said. “It’s a much better end than they’ll find in Gigatron’s maw, I assure you.”

Helm swimming with pain and spark frantic with worry—please, let them somehow find a degree more sense than they had displayed throughout the extent of this ordeal—Drift somehow managed to find Hellbat’s optics and lock onto them.

“You know, you almost remind me of them,” he said. “You’re all terrible at compromise.” His voice sounded hollow, and when the next strike came he sagged down to his knees, waiting for the pain to fade and the static to clear. He tried pinging his comm suite but got nothing, not even the echo of a signal failing to reach its destination. He was fully cut off.

“Go,” he heard Hellbat bark. “Gather your team. You know what to do.”

“But sir—”

“Once I’ve gathered everything I need from him, you can do whatever you please with what remains,” Hellbat promised Vanquish. “Now go.”

The blade drew away from his back, followed by retreating footsteps. He peered up at his remaining guards, guns still aimed, and Hellbat, who had drawn out a pair of stasis cuffs. Drift glanced at Grit. The returned look was weary, but not yet beaten. The silent dialogue that passed between them might not have been precise as a comm, but it was much faster: Drift only had to leap back as Grit threw himself at Hellbat.

Both guns went off, their near misses giving Drift an opening to draw his swords and rush them. Movements simple, cuts clean: one guard down faster than the time it had taken him to get up. The other fired again, forcing Drift to dodge to the side and back. The remaining guard circled Drift, finger wrapped around the trigger and clearly waiting for him to make the first move. Drift let him, maneuvering himself until his back was to the hallway, the guard standing between him and the stone army.

Down on the floor, Grit didn’t have a way to pin Hellbat, but he was keeping him occupied, both of them twisting and snarling around each other as they fought for the advantage. Hellbat managed to curl one leg between them and shove Grit off. He rolled into Drift’s path, who hauled him up without taking his optics off the guard. Hellbat rose to his pedes with an almost insulting level of patience, dusting off his armor and brushing his hand over the minor dents Grit had left in his plating. Drift shoved Grit behind himself, swords immediately coming back up when he saw the guard twitch.

“Go,” he said without looking back. “I suspect your teammate needs help right now.”

“Which one?” Grit growled. “They’re both—uck, never mind. You want these two for yourself? Have at ‘em.” He took off, awkward gait echoing through the empty stone halls. Drift didn’t know how he would get out of the base with his arms bound, but with so much else riding on him he couldn’t worry about it.

Hellbat’s guard twitched, tempted by the easy target into opening a window. Drift spun his blade forward, going for the gun, but Hellbat shoved him to the side. The scuffle was enough to break the gun’s aim, but now it was pointed at Drift as he rolled to the side and threw off Hellbat. He swept out a leg, knocking over the guard, and used his momentum as he stood to kick the gun to the other side of the platform.

He made to chase after it, but a flash of movement to his other side caught his attention: Hellbat had taken off. Drift gave a second kick to make sure the guard stayed down, then rushed to the edge of the platform, Hellbat touching down at the control panels in the middle of the room.

“Enough of this.”

“Hellbat, don’t!” Drift launched himself over the barrier, knowing he was already too late.

“Maybe a few of you will be left well enough intact for me to finish me work, maybe not,” Hellbat said. “It doesn’t matter; destiny will have its way.” He pressed something on the panel and the whole room began to hum.

~*~

Comms were still online and broadcasting, but they hadn’t used them since Ratchet finally gave up trying to hail Drift. Since then, communication had taken place entirely within their heads, ideas and plans and anxieties cascading and mingling until once more it became a challenge to remember where one started and the other began. Unlike before, though, the overlap in their minds did not overwhelm. Instead, their shared fears were pushed down under the joint weight of their assurance and commitment, elevating a single priority above all the noise of their eddying thoughts: find Drift.

Rodimus was hovering in a canyon near the base as Ratchet moved in. To speed his approach, Ratchet was keeping the base between himself and the orbital cannon, a risky move when they didn’t know how desperate the Cons were. This was the best their combined processors could come up with, though, and addressing all of their doubts would have wasted time better spent searching for Drift.

Rodimus watched their surroundings, looking for any sign of the Con hunting parties that had hounded him and Drift on their way in. The world below was as still as the stone that made it, though, no glints of passing armor or bored blaster rounds to pinpoint the enemy. He knew they had to be out there (unless they were already back in the base, a possibility they weren’t ready to think about yet), but the deep valleys and harsh shadows were working in their favor. There was a real possibility he was being sought just as intently by mechs who would see him long before he found them, but he didn’t dare to leave his post in case Drift came running out of the base, in need of urgent pickup.

It was thanks to his vantage point he was able to witness two arrivals at nearly the same time. The first was the Decepticon shuttle sailing into view, dodging between the tallest rock formations with a dexterity that shouldn’t have been possible for the unwieldy shuttle. The second, and the more startling, was a beastformer of immense size twisting out of the shadows, many eyes locked on the approaching ship while its body rippled and coiled, preparing to spring.

Rodimus shouted something, more sound than word and utterly inconsequential. Ratchet swallowed his panic and the shuttle swerved into a tighter turn than it was designed for, swinging out of the way of the incoming pounce but directly into a stone peak. Even at a distance, Rodimus swore he could hear the terrible sound of rending metal, rattling Ratchet’s thoughts and shaking his control. Rodimus dropped the speeder into a dive, aiming for the shuttle, but Drift’s ship was already spitting out its own complaints, shaking like it was on the verge of falling apart. He could see Ratchet’s ideas forming in real time, and no, stop, that was a stupid idea, don’t—

Got each other.

The Decepticon shuttle’s thrusters heaved up to full burn. There wasn’t the space to gain much speed, but the momentum was enough, slamming into the beastformer who belched flames and raked claws across the cockpit. He was aiming to tear his way inside, but before he could he was smashed into, then through a stone wall, the entire nose of the shuttle lost into a band of an explosion and an outpouring of thick, black smoke.

“Ratchet!” Rodimus yelled, unable to tell whether all the panicked, fearful thoughts were shared between them or just his own processor knocked into hyperspeed.

The shuttle’s engines ground it forward until something gave and they flared out with a series of pops and bursts. The entire craft was forced upward once more before the thrusters finally burned out and it slumped, the angle of the hole it had made forcing it to turn like a final wave goodbye.

[countessofbiscuit]

What are your Bobasoka headcanons? I've already gone through all of the (criminally little) fic on ao3 and I especially loved Smothered and Covered, and I saw the majority of the fics in the tag were gifted to you so I'm assuming you're the OG shipper. Feel free to essay if you like!!

Thanks for the ask and kind words about that fic :3 

Oh, Bobasoka … where to begin? It’s a pairing that’s been bumping around in exchange requests for a few years — I figure it’d be easy for anyone invested in Ahsoka’s relationship with the clones to be compelled by the idea. Lledra used to draw Boba and Ahsoka interacting, and it was probably a few panels of their incredible Destinies comic that set my Bobasoka wheels turning. I’m also drawn to them because their journeys traverse so much canon; there’s not just a sandbox to play in, but a whole goddamn stretch of beach, stretching far out into the horizon ...  (#AhsokaLives #BobaSurvived :D)

I have to lead with the proviso that almost everything I write/daydream about/headcanon has a groundsheet of Rexsoka. Ahsoka’s interest in Boba, in my head, is intimately tied up with her attraction to and/or relationship with Rex — or, at the bare minimum, her intimate fellowship with the clones. She went through puberty (maybe with heats!) surrounded by a literal army of handsome, roughly college-aged dudes; that must’ve been a heady mix of heaven and hell. If she didn’t quench her thirst before war’s end and her (eventual) separation from Rex, she’d probably be pretty dehydrated when stumbling across Boba. As for Boba’s attraction to Ahsoka, well ... she’s very pretty, she’s potentially useful, she’s not likely to skewer him in his sleep (+2) on account of being a Jedi (-1), and now she’s the one down on her luck; if he falls in bed with anyone, why not this girl who isn’t afraid of him and stares a lot at his lips?                         

And Boba is like a hot shipping potato — satisfying, hard to fuck up, goes well (read: makes for an intriguing story) with almost everyone. And I think it has everything to do with his liminality, something he shares with Ahsoka and probably recognizes.          

Their neither-this-nor-that-ness overlap in such interesting ways, and they each bring their identity issues to the table — Ahsoka as an on-again, off-again Jedi; Boba as a clone who isn’t a Clone™, a Mandalorian by birth and bearing, but not by the book. At different points in their stories, they identify as different things, and that would affect their headspace and color their view of the other. They wrestle with themselves and each other. Force-user and bounty hunter; privileged topsider and orphaned juvenile delinquent fugitive; GAR commander and outcast clone; Jedi and Mandalorian; Disillusioned veteran and disaffected army brat; Rebellion agent and Imperial contractor.

And as much conflict is baked into these dynamics, it also generates a certain magnetism; and I believe they recognize, on some level, their shared trauma and the symmetry in their experiences. Boba and Ahsoka both have happy childhoods with very little to distress or vex them (beyond the art, I do not jive with Age of Republic: Jango Fett, a Disney-canon comic that not only doubles-down on the Jango-wasn’t-Mando nonsense, but shows him being rather cavalier about Boba’s life); Geonosis happens and their adolescent lives are dominated by war (which is how they came to actively threaten each other as space!secondary-schoolers — whaaaaatf!); they are both dubiously (even wrongfully) imprisoned; and they both suffer alienation and incredible personal loss.  

Boba was set apart from the clones before he was even pulled him from the jar, othered and elevated from the beginning. He never bonded with brothers, he does not identify as a clone. And while there are examples of clones making overtures to him, canonically his relationship with them is fraught and probably made worse when he gets banged up in Republic Central at the tender age of eleven or twelve — and of course, Ahsoka is an accessory to this, the second chapter in his tragedy at the hands of the Jedi. He needed help (whether he wanted it or not), it was not given by clones or Jedi alike (hamstrung by bureaucracy, sure, but surely some other means of intervention might have been lobbied for?), and Boba becomes a right teenage disaster, well-balanced only in the sense that he has a chip on both shoulders.

(n.b. Putting my RepComm hat on for a second, I can’t help but sniffle-laugh at the idea that the Alphas watched him get thrown in a maximum-security slammer and were like “Ah, there he is, the feral vod’ika. First time, we’ll let the little snot earn his stripes. Second time, we’ll bust him out and send him on a tough love retreat with A’den or Jaing.”)

Ahsoka, meanwhile, is part-and-parcel of the institutions that Boba sets himself against, even after she too has been cast out by circumstances beyond her control. She grows up in a supportive Jedi community and then spends some seriously formative years with a whole slew of brothers — brothers that should have been Boba’s! 

Boba, on the other hand, is a great example of the proverb that a child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth. (As he tells Hondo, “Why should I help anybody? I’ve got no one.”) 

The resentment that must create! But also, later, the quiet empathy too — maybe when Boba’s having one of his better days and Ahsoka’s obviously not. 

And all of the above is interesting enough, without also touching upon the wildcard that is Mandalore.

Boba’s relationship with Mandalore .... well, that’s contested in- and out-of-universe and I won’t allow myself to essay overmuch. I subscribe firmly to a Mandalorian Fetts construction of canon, even though Boba must be someone who struggles mightily with Mandalorian identity. He’s raised by a bona fide Mando, a solicitous, loving father who’d have no reason not to pass on his language and beliefs; but at the same time, it takes that village, and when Boba’s clan of two is shattered, he has no one else. The loss of his dad unmoors him from his only anchor to Mandalorian culture and clan.

If Boba had been close to the Cuy’val Dar, one would think he’d have turned to them rather than fall in with Jango’s criminal acquaintances; or maybe the bounty hunters just scooped him up first, and troubled lil’ Boba was shepherded through bereavement by folks who enabled and encouraged him to externalize his anger in a way that gave him a (false) feeling of agency and strength. 

Whatever the reasons, Boba does not repatriate himself to Mandalore (much to Fenn Shysa’s melodramatic dismay). He strikes me as a lapsed Mandalorian; he doesn’t exactly follow the creed besides wearing the armor (scavenged? his dad’s sans helmet? canon is confused on this point, but he doesn’t go Mando until the unfinished arcs at the end of TCW, either for lack of stature, lack of armor, or lack of enthusiasm). I feel like if someone rocked up to Boba in a cantina and had the balls to ask “hey, so you a Mandalorian?” Boba would be like “<ominously slow helmet tilt> who’s asking” and never give you a straight answer.

Meanwhile, Ahsoka gets a crash course on Mandalore from none other than someone who, at one point, belonged to a sect that wanted to expunge Jaster’s legacy from the galaxy — and at the very least, had reason to dislike clones. This isn’t the place to explore my Boba/Bo-Katan feelings, but know that they are fathomless, and I would pay good money to be a fly on the wall of that Kom’rk when Bo-Katan gives Ahsoka Mando History 101 with her own special sauce. Ahsoka is probably more up-to-speed on Mandalore than Boba, and at one point, she may even own more beskar than him! (n.b. After the crash, I think one of the first places Rex and Ahsoka bounce is just inside Mando space, to scope out the Sundari situation and maybe try to scramble a signal to Bo-Katan; she’d have the goodwill to at least get them back on their feet if she can’t help them lay low herself. For a variety of reasons worth maybe ficcing down the line, they aren’t successful.)

I don’t really have a concluding statement except, I just think Bobasoka’s neat :) They hit all my depressed-Millennial buttons.

Headcanon by bullet-point isn’t really my style, but this is tumblr so ... tl;dr:

They recognize a lot in each other, even if they’re slow to admit it, if ever. Boba’s a cagey bastard and Ahsoka doesn’t ever like him enough to be emotionally honest.

They bump into each other during Ahsoka’s walkabout(s) ‘cause Coruscant’s Underworld ain’t big enough for the two of them. Without Slave-1, Boba couchsurfs at Nyx Okami’s garage, but he does his laundry at Rafa’s. He might even borrow the Martez’s new, useful friend for a job or two. 

Ahsoka eventually matures enough to be sensitive about her use of the Force on and around clones, and she definitely doesn’t use it around Boba. Definitely not during sex.

Boba is privately weirded out every time Ahsoka uses Mando slang she picked up off the clones or the Nite Owls.

Boba absolutely kills Cad Bane in that shoot-out, keeps the hat, and lets Ahsoka have it. She shoves it out the airlock and uses it for target practice. 

So many great smut flavours! Hatesex. Acquaintances with benefits. “You’re traumatized and touch-starved and you look just like him/them, and I know how to be gentle and what to do, so maybe we could … ?” They’re both privately comfortable with their bodies and sexuality, but Boba’s got trust issues a parsec long and Ahsoka’s lost confidence; it’s always an awkward affair, but desperation wins out.

They exchange comm codes every time they run into each other, which is kind of pointless because they both use burners.

Ahsoka hitches a ride on Slave-1 more than once. There really is only one bed, so it’s either sleep upright, sleep in a pokey prisoner hold, or sleep with him.

For a few years, Boba can pass as a last-generation clone — the ones that got sold off in bulk units to slavers before Kamino sunk another three years’ food, board, and training into them. Boba pretends he doesn’t notice, easy to really, since he tells himself his helmet is his face. But occasionally, when Ahsoka can convince him there’s profit in it, he agrees to play sleeper agent and assists in liberating a few here and there. 

They don’t talk about Aurra Sing.

When an Imp really crosses him, Boba passes on intel to Ahsoka to ruin their day.

Once, when they’re both super skint, Ahsoka volunteers to get handed in to some relatively minor and out-of-the-way Imperial garrison, so Boba can collect, bust her out, and split the pot with her. It’s the closest she ever comes to telling him “I trust you” — and when he brushes the idea aside, citing something about risk, it’s the closest he ever comes to telling her “I love you.”

Boba sees Inquisitors as muscling in on his game. There are so many lousy Force-users around nowadays, it should be easy pickings, but Inquisitors get privileged information. So he makes sport out of misdirecting them, especially from Ahsoka. 

When he pisses her off, Ahsoka fantasizes about Bo-Katan taking Boba down a peg or two while she watches :)))

Boba experienced Ahsoka’s heat once, secondhand through a cabin wall. He thought he was being clever by shooting Rex up with some Nevoota stim pollen, locking him in with Ahsoka, and hijacking their locked ships. Longest three days of his life, limping on broken hyperdrives and shared fuel stores to the nearest waystation to a soundtrack of violent lovemaking : \

Bounty hunters invariably bump into spies and agents because they work in the same areas. The agents pretend to be bounty hunters, eccentric business people, sex workers, or a range of other things. Sometimes each party knows all about the other, but it’s only polite not to mention it. This happens to Ahsoka and Boba A LOT, especially once she becomes Fulcrum; rebel cells and Imperials often want the same people. Occasionally they exchange fire. A couple times Boba gets imprisoned in Ahsoka’s own brig. Once, Boba blows her cover and definitely lives to regret it. 

(this essay was originally punctuated with pics, but replies with images won’t show up tumblr tags so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) 

[la5t-res0rt]

Wanted to ask about beetlelyds, sorry, I thought it was technically cannon? Like in the old comics after the show ended she grew up and married him. Sorry I’m an old school fan and have no idea why this whole thing is such a big deal. Wasn’t the actor like 20 too? I’m sorry if I sound very dumb. I’m not used to this new tumblr.

youre fine you are one hundred percent allowed to especially when you do it civilly as you have done here

first of all the biggest issue faced in the whole what is and is not canon debate is the fact that there are three (four if you count the limited comics run) publicized iterations of my media

i will go over each very briefly just kidding this is going to a long answer so i will spare the dashboard with a readmore

there is the movie which im sure you dont need me to explain the plot since youre an old school fan but basically the climax is that yes beetlejuice does go for the marriage angle in exchange for stopping the exorcism of adam and barbara and his motive for this is so that he can cause as much chaos as he wants on the mortal coil but his plan is thwarted when barbara rides a sandworm into the house which promptly eats beetlejuice sending him to bureaucratic death limbo

the end of the movie features the deetz and the maitlands happily living together with lydia havign a new appreciation for her situation and beetlejuice gets his head made real small which is very funny haha 

so no in the movie they are not canon editors note the actress who played lydia winona ryder was a teenager while filming the movie she turned 17 the year it released 

the next is the cartoon which i will admit has the most grounds for being considered canon but in the end the show is about a middle schooler and her best friend who is a ghost which in itself is a pretty iffy gray area sort of thing but for a childrens cartoon to work a friendship is better than the obvious enemy status they held in the movie

anyway in the cartoon they are potrayed to be very close friends with lydia being the person beetlejuice cares about the most and honestly if you were to watch it with no prior knowledge of the media and if you ignored their massive and obvious age difference than yeah you probably would read it as a romantic relationship 

however lydia is a middle schooler and that is simply immoral

there have been writers for the cartoon who have been credited to say that a relationship is what they were trying to invoke but for obvious reasons they couldnt exactly move forward with that angle with them establishing that lydia is a child in middle school and a fully grown adult man dating a child who is in middle school is immoral and also illegal in the united states and in canada 

this isnt a good argument for whether or not something is canon and i will tell you why with one simple name and that is luke weber

if you dont know who luke weber is he was a storyboard artist on the cartoon steven universe he is known for making a lot of self ship artwork of him and the character pearl

he worked on the show isnt his material canon no of course it isnt it wasnt put in the actual publication and also if memory serves he was eventually asked to leave the project after he drew art of the shows creator giving him permission to date pearl and calling them her otp and a lot of fans hated this because the most generally accepted interpretation of pearls character is that she is sapphic so a lot of people took issue however that again is just a widely perceived headcanon it is never stated what her actual sexuality is no one in that show is because it isnt a show about that its about wait im getting off topic sorry

what im saying is what can truly be considered canon is what you see on the screen and with the cartoon they are definitely the most friendly with each other and that is why so many people in the beetlebabe shipping community take so much stock in the cartoon because it is the easiest to read the relationship between the mas romantic although that is not what the show actually provides in black and white terms

interpretation does not equal canon and in this case no matter what anyone says the fact remains that in the cartoon itself they are friends good friends yes but friends all the same

it is definitely not a show about a grown man grooming an adult and if it were you definitely shouldn’t be stanning it the extreme because grooming a minor is wrong and it is apparently a problem in the fandom

anyway if the cartoon and the movie are both products of their time and there was more leniency on content bear in mind this was the same era as notorious animation powerhouse and known predator john k who was a showrunner on ren and stimpy and he maintained a relationship with a teenager which was an open secret that nobody really took issue with because in that time being a woman in the animation industry was tricky business and your career could be ended easily if you rejected advances luckily time has moved forward and the animation industry although still full of problems of a similar nature at least people are getting called out and punished for it

you can look more into that yourself its really upsetting though

as for comics i havent been able to find good scans of them and im not willing to purchase them but in my search i never found anything about the two of them ever being married in the cartoon again because she is a child i did find a cover where he appears to be getting married and hes asking lydia to get him out of it but im not sure where the comic actually goes all i know is she is standing off to the side shrugging and looking like she doesnt really care

anyway that brings us to the musical which is set in the modern day 

in the original libretto lydia is described as thirteen but since they got an actress who was older in the updated librettos she is listed as 15 and the story is pretty similar to the movie the young girl befriends ghosts and they try to scare her family out etc etc

the major difference between the film and the musical are that lydia and beetlejuice are more like friends like in the cartoon 

she summons him to help scare after the maitlands attempt doesnt really work so he shows up and they have fun terrorizing people together however she drops him for the opportunity to perhaps get her mom back but when no one will help she goes back to beetlejuice who tricks her into almost exorcising barbara

she agrees to marry him in order to stop the exorcism and he only wants to get married so he can be alive again and cause problems on the mortal coil like in the movie in the musical he states several times its a green card thing whihc obviously doesnt make it okay but still

anyway lydia tricks him and runs off into the underworld before the wedding can happen blah blah blah she goes back blah blah and she agrees to go through with the wedding to save her friends and family with a plan to make him go away for good

theres a very tongue and cheek song called creepy old guy which points out how wrong the whole thing is but everyone is going along with it in a very comedic matter and it includes the line 

i cant believe some cultures think this kind of things alright

basically saying yeah this is very very wrong anyway they do get married and beeltjeuice is alive for like 6 seconds before lydia stabs him to death with bad art and he dies thus nullifying the marriage because death do you part etc

so in the musical no at the end of the show they are not canon because he is dead their marriage is nullified and they go their separate ways

anyway sorry about that i just need to make it very clear that these three properties are all very distinct from each other and basically all three are indeed canon since they are publicized material and arguing the validity of which one is pointless editors note all actresses who played with the exception of dana steingold were minors for the majority of their runs as lydia with sophia ann caruso the originator of the role turning 18 during the run and dana being in her late twenties presley ryan however was a minor the whole time and still is one

tldr no they aren’t canon but to the credit of some people in this fandom their interpretation isnt too far of a stretch thanks to the era and some of the writers wishing to imply a relationship between an adult and a child

i also need to address how this is all a big deal and i suggest you take a peak through my discourse tag and check out @leedia‘s blog to see some of the more harmful things done by beetlebabe shippers

the beetlejuice fandom is home to many minors after the musical came out since musical fandom is vast and the ages of its members varies and normalizing pedophilia is harmful to them not to mention the people who have been effected by sexual harassment at the hands of adults

both sides have victims of csa but one side continues to perpetuate the cycle by showing time and time again that this behavior is normal and easily romanticized in the name of coping and literally anyone who has ever been to a good and credible therapist could tell you that posting cp even if it is simulated cp isnt a really good way to cope and you can get mad at me for saying that its totally fine but and im going to remove my character veil here for just a second as a csa survivor myself i think its harmful to not only myself but many others ok the veil is back down

tldr again there is a lot of bullying and harassment going on with both sides having their own issues but there is one side whos issues run a bit deeper in my humble opinion 

thank you for your question it allowed me to talk a lot you are welcome to discuss further with me in dms if you wish i honestly recommend giving the musical a listen because it is very fun and despite what some people say its very clever and if you get a chance to see a boot of it its visually stunning

one last note that i couldnt really fit in here but a large portion of the beetlebabes shipping community ignore the musical because it openly condemns the idea of beeltejuice and lydia having a relationship and a lot of the antis take issue with much of the writing and characterizations of the cartoon just a note that i think is important since were talking about canon

[kindred-is-obsessed]

Reasons you should be watching Craig of the Creek

Not enough people are watching this wonderful show, so I thought I’d do my best to introduce people to it. It’s made by former Steven Universe crew Ben Levin and Matt Burnett, so if you’re missing Steven Universe while it’s on hiatus this is a great way to keep away the hiatus blues, or if you just enjoy in cartoons. It’s great for a whole list of reasons, which broadly fall into the two categories of great representation and great storytelling:

Canonical queer representation

-       The witches premiere in the episode The Curse. If you aren’t sure if you want to watch this whole show definitely watch this one at least! It’s my absolute favourite not least of all because it’s about teen goth girls in love. It has a sequel The Last Kid in The Creek which is also wonderful, and the witches cameo throughout the series. I don’t want to spoil too much but The Curse is essentially about the two not wanting to be separated and struggling to admit their feelings for each other. (Spoilers: they do and walk off alone, blushing, staring at each other lovingly, while the kids aww at them)

-       Bernard and his girlfriend watch a cooking show hosted by a gay couple.

-       Other cameos, hints and coded queer kids such as JP’s sister (who has fancy dinner reservations with Kat, a woman with a shaved head who compliments Kelsey’s fake sword). There’s also Raj and Shaun (two very close friends), as well as several very boyish tomboys, including Handlebarb and Turner.

-       All public bathrooms I’ve spotted in the show have gender neutral signs on them which is nice.

POC representation

-       Craig, the main character, is black and has a loving family explored in depth, including an activist grandmother working for the council, a wise and fun grandfather, a supportive fun dad who loves his amazing wife, an adorable assertive little sister, and an angsty overachieving older brother who just wants to be a good grownup who loves his family and girlfriend.  

-       There are MANY characters of colour. There are black and brown characters, Raj is Indian, Stacks is Hispanic (and it’s implied she is an immigrant), there are several Asian characters, Kelsey is Hungarian and Jewish, a persistent background character wears a hijab (I’m pretty sure she was named at some point but I can’t find her name anywhere. She definitely has lines at one point). I’m sure there are others I have missed. No one is a stereotype as far as I am aware.

Subtle neurodivergent representation

-       JP is possibly on the autism spectrum. I’d love neurodivergent people’s opinions on this, but while the representation isn’t canonical or obvious I think it’s good that while JP is represented as having different thought processes from his friends, he isn’t made fun of for it, at least not by them. It’s noteworthy I think that he’s the eldest of the core trio, probably because he finds it easier to relate to younger people who still share his imagination and care less about his unique way of thinking. His neurodivergence is explored most explicitly in the episode Jextra Perrestrial, so if you’re interested in this kind of representation definitely check that episode out.

Non-nuclear family representation

-       While the main character is a member of the typical nuclear family you see on TV (except black, and actually interesting) most of the other families we see are not.

-       JP is raised by his mother and older sister. His father is never mentioned and their house is definitely in worse condition than the others we see. His family works hard to take care of each other. His sister is a nurse and both her and her mother are away a lot of the time, but they both love JP very much. JP’s sister also happens to be really openly body positive. I love them a lot.

-       Kelsey’s father is an only parent. There’s still a lot of mystery surrounding how Kelsey’s mother passed away. It’s a very subtle but important part of Kelsey’s character and comes through in really bittersweet adorable ways (not limited to Kelsey using her “half-orphan”ness to guilt trip a man into giving her money)

-       Other kinds of families are scattered throughout the show, including families that move around a lot, a home-school kid with a strict mother, and more.

Unique approach to fantasy and sci-fi

-       You know how most kids show will take a kid’s fantasy and bring it to reality? Well Craig of the Creek keeps the fantastical and nostalgic element of that line of thinking but never confirms or denies whether the kids fantasies are real or in their heads. And not in a Scooby Doo way where the fantastical elements are explained away, but are hinted as a possibility right at the very end. Instead, two perspectives (the fantastical perspective and the realistic perspective) are woven into every episode.

-       This means there are two ways to interpret every episode. You can view the witches as real witches, or as goth teenagers. You can view Helen as a kid from another dimension, or a home-school kid who is never at the creek at the same time as the other kids. You can view Deltron as a cyborg from the future, or as an imaginative kid from a big city.

-       This is super unique and fun to watch. They come up with so many new ideas and its always fun to figure out what’s actually happening, while still getting to relive childhood fantastical nostalgia.

-       Almost all of these episodes use this to talk about an issue, but these issues can get quite complex and are definitely not shoved down your throat.

Overarching mystery plot about a colonialist kingdom / cult

-       Love the slow burn storytelling of Steven Universe’s Diamond Authority? Love putting together the mysteries of Gravity Falls? Then you’ll love this plot about colonialism, classism, bullying, peer pressure and more and its mysterious build up including cryptic graffiti art and flower symbolism.

-       Even before this arc properly begins, Craig of The Creek primarily centers around the microcosm of the Creek. Many of the episodes have a lot of commentary on society, politics and how different factions of people form and interact.

-       The show is over 50 episodes in and this arc is only just starting to kick off so now is the time to catch up and watch.

-       Fun complex villain(s)

Complex relatable characters

-       Want commentary and nostalgia about horse girls, children’s tea parties, weird kids, angsty teens, young weebs, dweebs and more!? Every childhood obsession is represented in this show.

-       Adults! All the parents and older teens in this show are just as rich and complex as the kids. They are all so interesting and fun.  

-       Want characters with arcs, aims, fun relationships and complexity!? Look no further! Redemption arcs! Revelations! Found family! It’s all here!

Great art and soundtrack

-       Cute background and character designs that make you nostalgic as hell and are also beautiful and well thought out.

-       Sometimes the art design is changed up for a particular episode to portray a certain fantastical / sci fi element. It’s very fun and engaging. 

-       An opening song that’s fun to sing along to, bittersweet ending song that makes me want to cry, a couple of musical episodes including a super fun rap musical episode, and a great OST

Queer headcanons

-       There are tons of ways to interpret the show but here’s some of my head canons just to get an idea.

-       (Note that despite my headcanons I use the pronouns for the kids that they use in the show cause I’m not certain about any of it and they’re kids who haven’t come out yet and also for clarity and consistency’s sake – I’m not saying trans people are not their genders. Don’t worry I’m nonbinary)

-       I headcanon that all the main trio grow up to realise they are queer. They strike me as that weird group of friends that doesn’t fit in with the other kids and aren’t quite sure how they all came to be friends, only to later realise they all showed early signs of breaking gender roles and that’s why they stuck together.

-       Craig definitely grows up to realise he’s gay, bisexual or queer. His admiration for characters like Deltron and Green Poncho are definitely crushes that he mistakes for a strong sudden and eager desire for friendship.

-       Kelsey probably grows up to realise she is nonbinary, a trans boy or a WLW. I mostly headcanon this because I relate to her a lot and I’m nonbinary and queer so I said so. She reminds me a lot of myself as a kid. She throws herself into books, mostly fantasy for escapism. She fantasises and writes a lot for the same reasons. She dresses like a tomboy (She always wears her hair up in the same bun which strongly reminds me of my own childhood hair dysphoria) and she hangs out solely with male friends.

-       JP gives me strong trans lesbian vibes, or to a lesser extent nonbinary vibes. (I know his sister is WLW coded but take it from me there can be more than one queer in a family). He is interested in girls, specifically Maney the horse girl (he even joined the horse girls for one episode). He wears a long V-neck shirt that is essentially a dress ALL the time. He’s aware that he’s different and while self conscious sometimes, mostly just wants to express himself the way he wants to. He also chooses to go by initials JP over his very gendered name Johnathan Paul (In a recent episode he names a ship after himself, calling it “The SS Johnathon Paulina”).

-       (Sidenote if you do start watching this show and I see any nasty shipping of these characters in non puppy-love fashion so help me god)

 Other reasons

-       The show is at times very intertextual and references Princess Mononoke, Super Smash Brothers, Sailor Moon, Lord of the Rings, and a billion other things. It also has some fun cameos, including background images of the Tres Horny Boys from The Adventure Zone, a TARDIS from Doctor Who, and a Cookie Cat from Steven Universe.

-       Honestly, this post hasn’t done the best job explaining why I love this show so much. You honestly just have to watch an episode to understand fully what I’m talking about, so give it a go! Watch The Curse at least, it only goes for 10 minutes.

[aion-rsa]

Shadow and Bone Review: Netflix Adaptation Brings the Magic

https://ift.tt/3n43xxx

This Shadow and Bone review contains no spoilers.

Millions of readers worldwide love young adult fantasy fiction, but even the most wildly popular titles—Sarah J. Maas’s Throne of Glass series, Cassandra Clare’s Shadowhunters books, Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games trilogy, and many more—are generally written off as “guilty pleasure” escapism, shallow, meaningless stories for people who just aren’t ready to take real literature seriously. (Barf.)

Part of this reaction likely stems from the widespread public backlash to the few young adult fantasy series to gain mainstream popularity, like the Twilight saga or the aforementioned Hunger Games. But, in truth, the dismissive attitude toward these stories most often feels like straight-up misogyny. After all, this is a genre that not only tends to be most openly appreciated by women but also one that unabashedly centers complex female characters in its stories. Often several of them at the same time!

Therefore, the arrival of Netflix’s Shadow and Bone is exciting enough for its own sake: It’s a propulsive story with great characters set in a fascinating, fully realized fantasy world. But it’s also something of a statement: That this sort of fiction—and the women who both champion and most frequently star in it—have an important place in the world of genre storytelling. And, thankfully, this is a series that more than lives up to the pre-release hype.

Leigh Bardugo’s bestselling Grishaverse novels are full of the sorts of details that tend to make for great fantasy television at its most basic level. There’s a war-torn kingdom battling both foreign enemies and an ever-expanding literal darkness, a complex system of magic that both empowers and alienates those who possess it from the bulk of society, and a girl looking for a place to belong who must ultimately claim her own power. (Quite literally in this case.)

Read more

TV

Shadow and Bone: Why Netflix Cast Its Fantasy Adaptation With Relative Unknowns

By Kayti Burt

Books

Twilight: What Was The Deal With Jacob and Renesmee?

By Nicole Hill

In the kingdom of Ravka, elite magical soldiers known as Grisha can manipulate matter at its most fundamental levels, allowing their orders to control specific elements like fire (Inferni) and water (Tidemakers), solid objects like metal or textiles (Durasts), and even various aspects of the human body (Healers and Heartrenders). The primary story of Shadow and Bone follows Alina Starkov (Jessie Mei Li), an orphaned soldier and map maker whose mixed-race heritage has often left her feeling out of place in the only country she’s ever known. (The decision to complicate Alina’s racial background is one made specifically for the Netflix series, by the way, and it’s a great choice.) But when her childhood best friend Malyen Oretsev (Archie Renaux) is named as part of a military unit ordered to cross the deadly Shadow Fold —literally a giant wall of darkness full of monsters that’s hundreds of miles wide—she unleashes a power she never realized she herself possessed. Alina, you see, is not just a Grisha, but a legendary Sun Summoner, whose powerful light-based magic could destroy the Fold forever.

Whisked off by the mysterious General Kirigan (Ben Barnes), the commander of Ravka’s Second Army—a.k.a. the one with all the Grisha in it—to learn to use her newfound abilities, Alina finds herself separated from Mal and everything she’s ever known. Thrust into a world she doesn’t understand and with powers she can’t entirely control, Alina will have to decide whether to trust Kirigan, with his equally rare shadow-based abilities and promises that they can change the world together.

The Netflix drama actually combines two of Bardugo’s book series into one—the fantasy adventure trilogy also titled Shadow and Bone, from which this adaptation takes its name and the bulk of its plot, and the more heist-oriented duology called Six of Crows. Since the latter technically takes place several years after the former, chronologically speaking, the Netflix series invents a prequel plot for key Six of Crows characters Kaz Brekker (Freddy Carter), Inej Ghafa (Amita Suman), Jesper Fahey (Kit Young), and Nina Zenik (Danielle Galligan) that ties them all more firmly into the main Shadow and Bone story.

If you’ve read Bardugo’s books, your mileage is likely to vary on how you feel about this choice. For the most part, it works, even if it takes several episodes for the Crows crew to feel like they aren’t having a completely different adventure on a totally different show. Jesper and Inej particularly benefit from the additional backstory provided here, and Galligan’s Nina is every inch as delightful as anyone might have hoped. Viewers who have not read Six of Crows may struggle to understand precisely what motivates Kaz, but his complicated relationship with Inej is almost compelling enough to make up for it.

In fact, one of the most striking elements of Shadow and Bone is the care it takes with all its central relationships—potentially romantic or otherwise. One of the criticisms most frequently leveled at popular YA fiction is that their stories are often flimsy excuses to create love triangles for fans to fight over. (See also: Gale/Katniss/Peeta, Edward/Bella/Jacob, etc.) But this series actually goes above and beyond in this department, adding a depth and nuance to Alina’s relationship with Mal that isn’t always present in the novel—and has nothing to do with romance. (Though, reader, I ship it a lot.) That same care and thoughtfulness is applied to pairings throughout the show’s canvas, and it’s truly wonderful to see.

Netflix has also clearly spared no expense in its creation of Bardugo’s fictional world, from the dense, crowded streets of Ketterdam to the magic-filled training grounds of Os Alta’s Little Palace. This is a universe that not only feels carefully thought out but fully lived in. Sure, Shadow and Bone might have done a better job of explaining the specifics about how these locations all relate to one another (Kerch is actually a separate country! West Ravka is not!) but it’s hard to be but so angry at something that generally feels like the pages of a beloved story come to life.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

It’s true, Shadow and Bone is not a perfect adaptation of Bardugo’s novels. Several important secondary characters barely seem to merit a mention onscreen here (sorry, David Kostyk), and the rushed sequences at the Little Palace generally leave most of the secondary Grisha and their abilities feeling sadly interchangeable. And the series doesn’t always do the greatest job explaining the basics of Grisha life for casual viewers—I’m not sure it ever really spells out the differences between the various orders, nor does it go into tremendous depth about why things like Morozova’s stag exist. Yet, as a whole, the series feels often feels downright magical, a thrilling adventure that always remains firmly anchored in the story of the complex heroine at its center. Bring on Siege and Storm.

The post Shadow and Bone Review: Netflix Adaptation Brings the Magic appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3apIb8M

[rose-of-gabriel]

i wrote a fic about the Mandalorian taking care of you while you menstruate bc i can

that’s where we’re at rn

You have a personal bone to pick with whatever laser-brain designed the human female. Let’s make it continuously bleed for a quarter of every month, and since that isn’t enough of a pain, let’s add actual pain on top of that. Genius.

You bite your lip and try to focus on successfully landing the Razor Crest. Mando’s cashing in on three separate bounties, which should give you enough credits to take it easy for a while. Well, as easy as the Mandalorian can take it. You suspect his pace was even more ruthless before he found the kid, but fatherhood has forced him to relent, just a little.

You really don’t mind his lifestyle. Anything is better than that mind-numbing mechanics job back on Nevarro, though the stabbing pain in your gut makes you miss the old shack you called home.  No one around to judge you for collapsing in on yourself and praying for death.

That’s how Mando finds you: in the pilot’s chair, folded in half with your head on your knees. You don’t bother to look up as you grumble, “Ready to go?”

He doesn’t respond right away, probably deciding whether or not he should be concerned. You realize that this is the first time he’s seen you like this. Your implant makes it so you only bleed every three months, and you’ve been traveling together for almost four. The part of you that is harboring a completely futile crush on the Mandalorian wants to melt into the floor. The rest of you can’t be bothered to care, knowing that if it doesn’t concern his kid, his work, or his creed, he doesn’t care, anyway.

When he still doesn’t answer, you slowly lift you head to meet his metal gaze. You try to offer a smile, but the lights of the cockpit make your head pulse and it turns into a grimace.

The baritone of his voice reveals nothing when he asks, “You okay?”

No, you want to growl between your teeth. You don’t, because if there’s one person in the universe you know you shouldn’t complain to, it’s the Mandalorian.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You close your eyes and take a purposeful breath through your nose. “Are there any heat packs left in the medkit?”

“No. I think we used them up when the kid had that cold.”

Kriffing aces.

“Okay, I’ll add it to the list.” You sag deeper into the chair. “We shouldn’t go so long between supply trips, next time.”

“No one was stopping you when we were on Malthor.” He says with a hint of mockery.

You wave a dismissive hand. “That was all merchants and you know I can’t haggle for shit.”

He blows out a breath, the closest thing you get to making him laugh. It’s a small victory that nearly makes you forget the demon attacking your uterus.

You haul yourself out of the pilot’s seat and the protests from you body must be so loud even the Mandalorian can hear, because he takes a step forward and insists, “What’s wrong?”

You start to say it’s nothing when he takes yet another step, getting closer than you’ve ever dared to. Gods, you hope he doesn’t notice the way your breath catches.

“I’ve spent my whole life watching people.” He says in a tone you’ve never heard before, equal parts menacing and tender. It makes your gut twist in a completely different way. Then he adds dryly, “And you’ve got about as much subtlety as a rancor.”

You deflate.

“Yeah, yeah, piss off.” You mutter under your breath. Then in a huff, you admit, “It’s menstrual pain. You happy? Nothing I haven’t dealt with before so let’s go.”

You’re through the hatch faster than you need to be, the awkwardness burning under your skin. You busy yourself with the kid’s cradle, making sure he’s secure despite there being nothing to actually secure him with. The child tilts his little head at you like he can sense your embarrassment.

“Hey, Bug.” You whisper conspiratorially, “Don’t look at me like that.”

He lets out a string of nonsense that sounds a lot like you’re the one acting weird, although you may just be projecting. Mando drops down from the cockpit and you suddenly remember you need to check every single pocket of your day pack, just to make sure everything is where you left it.

“Is it bad?”

The question surprises you, and you’re not really sure why. It’s not because he cares. You know there’s a heart underneath all that beskar. It’s something in his voice, a gentleness that isn’t like the kind he uses with the kid.

After a moment, your neurons decide to fire again and you manage to say, “No. I mean, mine are pretty heavy, and the pain is sometimes a lot, and the migraines really suck but oh my gods, I can’t believe I am talking to you about this.” Or that you just said that part out loud.

You spin on your heel, all attempts at subtly flying out the window as you activate the kid’s pram. “Ready to go, Bug?” You squeak, cheeks burning.

You reach for the control panel to lower the ramp when Mando takes your hand and pulls you around to face him. You can’t think of anything other than kriffkriffkriffkriffkriff, heart hammering against your ribs so hard he must be able to see it.

There’s a torturous moment of silence before he says, “You stay here with the kid. I’ll go to town and get what we need.”

That brings your panic to a screeching halt. “But… you have to turn in the quarries.”

“I’ll collect the credits then head to the shopping district.”

All your nerves start to dissipate in the wake of a very familiar spite. “Mando, I’m not a liability. I don’t need to stay behind.”

A nagging voice reminds you that there’s no way to sound tough when talking to the kriffing Mandalorian, but something shifts. There’s the slightest dip of his helmet that makes you think you’ve surprised him, that he’s looking at you through new eyes.

“I know you can handle yourself.” He says carefully, like he’s worried about getting this wrong. “This isn’t an emergency, though. Just… just let me go. Try to feel… better.”

There’s something in his voice that helps you know it isn’t a judgement, that he’s not offering because he thinks you’re some stupid flower that needs protected. He’s just a friend who sees your pain and wants to help, in whatever small way he can.

You do smile, this time, though quickly squash it in favor of a very serious-business-face. “Okay, fine. Let me help you unload the quarries, at least.”

Once that’s done, you sit on the loading ramp with Bug and watch the Mandalorian leave for as long as you can before the pulsing behind your eyes becomes too much. Leaving the ramp lowered, you shut the bay doors and find your data pad, searching for a kid-friendly holo that Bug will like. He’s going through a phase where anything to do with water excites him. You lay out your bedroll and set the kid up with a Mon Cala cartoon, his ears perking up in approval.

After he’s situated, you skulk off to the fresher. Luckily, you have a decent stash, so you don’t have to ask the Mando-fucking-lorian to buy you menstrual products. The Crest’s medkit is pretty sparse, though, and most of what you do have is either for field injuries or baby stuff. You toss back some child’s pain killers and go to curl up with the kid, keeping your eyes shut tight against the barrage of colorful animations.

By the time Mando comes back, you’re both only half awake. Without a word, he scoops the child from your arms and settles him in the bassinet that Kuiil made. You don’t try to move, just listen as the Mandalorian flits about the ship and puts away supplies. After a while, he returns, sitting with his back against the wall, facing you.

“How’d it go?” you mumble, peeling your eyes open to see that he’s removed his armor and sits in just his helmet and base layers. You want to appreciate the form-fitting clothes, but everything hurts too much.

“Sit up for a second.” He tells you, and that’s when you notice the huge shopping bag beside him. He coaxes you up, then fishes into the bag. “Here.” He says, handing you a heat pack.

“Oh, bless you.” You nearly weep, cracking it in half to activate the heated gel. You press the pad against your stomach and immediately sag with relief.

“Take these.” The Mandalorian says, producing two white pills and a thermos. “They’ll help with the pain, and your headache.”

“Oh…” you bring the thermos to your nose and realize it’s some kind of tea. “Thank you.”

You revel in the hot compress and tea, totally satiated, but the Mandalorian goes on. “I picked these up, too.” You actually gasp when he pulls out a box of golden tuiles. “I thought they might be…”

“My favorite.” You all-but shriek, setting your tea aside and making the same grabby hands you’ve seen the kid do a hundred times. You stare at the pack of cookies as if they’re precious treasure. “How the hell did you know?”

Even the voice modulator can’t hide his amusement. “A few weeks ago, when we were in that market place on Naboo? A woman was selling them and you got this feral look in your eye.”

“Yeah, that’s because these are the best thing ever.” You insist, tearing the box open. The sweet scent is like a drug, and without thinking, you reach in and hand him a cookie. “You have to try one.”

Equally thoughtless, Mando takes it, and before the obvious can come crashing down, you spin around and shove a cookie into your mouth, burying your head between your knees. You try to focus on the taste of the cookie and not the fact you just stupidly offered the Mandalorian food when you know full-well that he can’t eat in front of you. Nothing to do now but just bear down and wait out the awkwardness.

Your ears are practically ringing as the seconds tick by, bracing for the humiliation as he reminds you about one of his culture’s most obvious rules. You wait, but instead of a discontented sigh, you hear a crunch, chewing, and then, “Okay, yeah. I see your point.”

Your brain short circuits at the sound of his unmodulated voice, but there’s no time to savor it. He’s already getting up and heading toward the cockpit, speaking to you from behind a wall of static. “I’m going to set course for Arvala.”

You lift your head, too tired to process what just happened or what it means, if it means anything. “Hey, Mando.” He stops but doesn’t turn around. You smile anyway, because this definitely meant something. “Thank you, for all this. It’s… thank you.”

He turns his head just slightly and gives you a nod before disappearing into the cockpit. You take another swig of tea before curling up on your bedroll. Physically, you’re a disaster, but even that can’t keep the smile off your face.

[dweemeister]

Flower Drum Song (1961)

M*A*S*H and Star Trek: The Next Generation have long been television favorites of mine. My parents introduced me to both shows – fixtures in American entertainment as Vietnamese refugee families fled to and renewed their lives in the United States. The writers of M*A*S*H, a show set during the Korean War, did not make it a secret that the show mirrored American involvement in the Vietnam War. M*A*S*H understandably focused its attention on its mostly white doctors, nurses, and non-coms. But from time to time, the show railed against war’s horrible effects on the local populace, on whose land such bloodshed is waged. In these episodes, M*A*S*H always cast Asian-American actors of varying ethnicities to play the Koreans (the value of these depictions of Koreans varies, but it is evident the all-white writing staff gave their best effort to portray Koreans in their full humanity). For a show that aired from 1971-1983, this was a radical decision as yellowface was still a widely-accepted practice in Hollywood. Star Trek, in its various incarnations, has espoused “Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations” from its inception. Numerous Asian-American recurring actors and guest stars of these shows have appeared in these shows I cherish (and many others) for decades. My memory flows with many of their faces and voices, even if I do not recall their names.

Adapted from C.Y. Lee’s novel of the same name, Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II’s musical Flower Drum Song debuted on Broadway in 1958. The musical resembled nothing currently on the Great White Way, with an almost entirely all-Asian cast. Yet this musical still caused consternation. Some Asian-Americans expressed their rightful disapproval towards Rodgers and Hammerstein’s patronizing dialogue and racially insensitive characterizations. For this film adaptation by Universal (this is the only Rodgers and Hammerstein film adaptation without 20th Century Fox’s involvement), screenwriter Joseph Fields – who collaborated with Hammerstein on Flower Drum Song’s book – made major adjustments in order to stem controversy. Fields rearranged the plot and soundtrack and, most importantly, rewrote more than half of Flower Drum Song’s dialogue in order to accomplish a more respectful (if still imperfect) portrayal of all the musical’s characters.

The reworked Flower Drum Song attracted a star-studded Asian-American cast. So many in this cast are actors and actresses I have known only through their guest or recurring television roles, maybe the odd extra in a movie. To see them act in non-denigrating roles, sing, and dance in a major Hollywood studio feature film was revelatory. I admit, while viewing Flower Drum Song, feeling pangs of frustration over how Hollywood’s structural racism precluded too many in this cast from stardom. But that frustration was overcome by joy – a joy in seeing these Asian-American actors display their talents in a fashion I, even in 2020, long to witness. Though still constrained by Rodgers and Hammerstein’s stereotypical views towards people of Asian descent, Flower Drum Song is a unique cinematic experience.

Mei Li (Miyoshi Umeki) and her father, Dr. Han Li (Kam Tong) have stowed away on a ship carrying them from their home in China to San Francisco. The Lis are here to complete Sammy Fong’s (Jack Soo) request for a mail-order bride. Sammy is the slick-talking owner of the Celestial Gardens nightclub, who just so happens to be in a relationship with his principal showgirl, Linda Low (Nancy Kwan). So when the Lis arrive at the nightclub, Sammy realizes the pickle he has put himself in. In his attempts to dissolve the marriage contract, he has the Lis take up residence with the Wang family – including patriarch Wang Chi-Yang (Benson Fong), Master Wang’s sister-in-law Madame Liang (Juanita Hall, a mixed-race actor of African-American and Irish descent, in yellowface), eldest son Wang Ta (James Shigeta), and younger son Wang San (Patrick Adiarte). Secretly, Sammy has convinced Madame Liang to allow Mei Li to fall naturally in love with Wang Ta. Meanwhile, Linda is flustered with Sammy after learning of his mail-order bride plans. They separate, and she soon begins to start dating Wang Ta. Wang Ta is also the object of affection of childhood friend and seamstress, Helen Chao (Reiko Sato). If you could not guess by now, the plot of Flower Drum Song revolves around complicated relationship polygons.

Actors also appearing in this film are Victor Sen Yung as the Celestial Gardens’ emcee, Soo Yong as Madame Yen Fong (Sammy’s mother; this role was to be played Anna May Wong, but she died before production began), and James Hong as the head waiter at the Celestial Gardens. Virginia Ann Lee and Cherylene Lee play Wang San’s girlfriend and the Wang family’s youngest daughter, respectively.

In this rewriting of Flower Drum Song, screenwriter Joseph Fields, there is a greater focus on generational conflict. This film adaptation is unclear when the story takes place. But by looking at some of the technology and mannerisms, I will guess sometime after World War II, probably the 1950s. In this rendition of San Francisco’s Chinatown, first-generation Chinese immigrants live alongside the second and third generations. This mix creates a tension that permeates across the film – from how characters dress, behave in public (if they even go out in public) and private settings, and most notably romantic expectations.

The depiction of this tension is simplistic: those are not American-born uphold as many traditions as they can; those who are American-born are “Chinese” to some extent, but mostly do not think much about Chinese traditions. You are either assimilated into American society or not, says Flower Drum Song – a troublesome generalization that persists in Asian-American subgroups whose history in the U.S. is not as long as Chinese-Americans. But, in a rare instance for a Golden Age Hollywood film, Fields assures that this adaptation does not mock the first generation for not being as “American” as they could possibly be. Assimilation is on the terms of the characters, not contrived societal norms. Another anomaly in Flower Drum Song: the younger generations are assertively American, rather than offshoots of their elders. The younger generations’ unaccented English, wide range of characterizations, and their incidental Asianness (in that they do not feel the need to announce their Asian or Chinese heritage to others or to the audience) is unusual for the time in which this film was released. At the very minimum, Flower Drum Song tries to normalize Asian-American personhood. When the film fails to uphold that, it is mostly because of preexisting issues. In those instances, Fields cannot write his way outside how Rodgers and Hammerstein had already presented Flower Drum Song on the Broadway stage without compromising the duo’s artistic intent.

Many of the actors involved are not Chinese-American, but the performances are sincere, whether comedic or dramatic*. Having seen only a few of his works, I now wonder whether James Shigeta was just so naturally charming. As the go-to Asian-American romantic lead in Hollywood (not that he was cast in such a role often), his performance is seamless, appearing almost effortless. The same could also be said for Nancy Kwan, fresh off her well-publicized cinematic debut in The World of Suzie Wong (1960). An alumnus of the Royal Ballet School in London, Kwan also shows off her fancy footwork multiple times. Kwan’s dancing mastery is without question and, paired with choreographer Hermes Pan (best remembered as Fred Astaire’s principal choreographic collaborator), showcases her talents. As Mei Li, Miyoshi Umeki is slightly hamstrung by her role’s characterization. Yet as one of two actors who reprised the role they originated on the Broadway stage (along with Juanita Hall as Madame Liang; Jack Soo also appeared on Broadway, but switched roles), I was convinced by Umeki’s emotional fragility and shyness – all this for a character who has just arrived in a foreign land, bewildered by what she sees.

For the M*A*S*H fan in me, there is a special delight seeing Jack Soo and Patrick Adiarte here. Soo, best known as Det. Nick Yemana in the sitcom Barney Miller and for his distinctive face, is the natural comedian in the cast. His delivery – physically, verbally – is fantastic in this film. Adiarte, who also starred as Prince Chulalongkorn in The King and I (1956; I had not made the M*A*S*H connection when I watched that film four years ago) has a solo dance number (“The Other Generation”) in Flower Drum Song that I was floored by due to his athleticism.

As lead choreographer on Flower Drum Song, Hermes Pan directs several dancing segments for the film, each one markedly different from the other. The three most notable dance numbers are “Grant Avenue”; “Fan Tan Fannie”, “Love, Look Away” (the first two include Nancy Kwan; the other includes Reiko Sato and James Shigeta). Alongside the production design by Alexander Golitzen (1940’s Foreign Correspondent, 1960’s Spartacus); Joseph C. Wright (1942’s My Gal Sal, 1953’s Gentlemen Prefer Blondes); and Howard Bristol (1940’s Rebecca, 1959’s Anatomy of a Murder) and the costume design by Irene Sharaff (1951’s An American in Paris, The King and I), the dances are built for Technicolor – even though the film’s Chinatown looks too obviously like a soundstage construction. The abstractions in “Love, Look Away” offer the best example of this choreographic-production design-costuming collaboration. The use of empty space, props suggesting physical divisions and other people, and the enormous dreamlike atmosphere position the scene to be a cinematic manifestation of Helen’s unrequited love for Wang Ta (notably, the dancing segment uses the melody of a song not sung for Helen, but for another). In its ethereal beauty, “Love, Look Away” is a marvelous several minutes of cinematic dance – appearing in a decade where such scenes would only become more rare.

The order of the Rodgers and Hammerstein songs has been rearranged drastically from the original Broadway production; one song (“Like a God”) was dropped entirely because Universal’s executives, “feared that a number in which a Chinese American man compares himself to a god might offend audiences in the American South.” Whatever. The exclusion of “Like a God” does not affect the film much, as this adaptation of Flower Drum Song is a substantially different creature than the stage version. Owing to the performances, the two most notable songs of the musical carry over to the movie. The self-assured anthem “I Enjoy Being a Girl” (Nancy Kwan dubbed by B.J. Baker; Kwan did not protest the dubbing, despite the fact she could sing) may not contain Kwan’s singing voice, but it does boast her charismatic performance.  In the film’s second half, “You Are Beautiful” has Shigeta’s and Umeki’s acting complement the former’s tender singing. But most of the songs – including two of the dance numbers when not considering the choreography (“Grant Avenue” and “Fan Tan Fannie”) – fail to leave an impression. Having Juanita Hall sing “Chop Suey” (an American Chinese dish) underlines the irony of having a non-white actor play someone of Asian descent.

In the Rodgers and Hammerstein repertoire, Flower Drum Song is among the least performed of their musicals. A 2002 revival with copious revisions remains the only production outside the musical’s Broadway and West End debuts – Flower Drum Song has not been on tour since the 1960s. It may not compare well musically, lyrically, and dramatically to Carousel, The King and I, or South Pacific, but it is miles better than the likes of State Fair. But the original production of Flower Drum Song, as written, is now considered offensive to contemporary sensibilities. As the preeminent musical theater compositional duo of their day (I would argue that they are the best in the medium’s history), Rodgers and Hammerstein – through The King and I and South Pacific and Flower Drum Song – intended through their stage musicals to break down the racial barriers that they abhorred. All three of these musicals incorporate ethnic and racial stereotypes that can never be stricken entirely from their film adaptations and subsequent musical revivals. Rodgers and Hammerstein’s intentions are well-meaning in their advocacy for cross-racial understanding, but their messages are muddled. Their work reflects a lack of racial sensitivity, at best.

The 1961 film adaptation of Flower Drum Song is the first major Hollywood studio movie to have a significant number of Asian-Americans as credited cast members since Go for Broke! (1951; a WWII film dramatizing the service of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team). Flower Drum Song ups the ante over Go for Broke! as it has an almost all-Asian cast – a feat not replicated again until The Joy Luck Club (1993) and then Crazy Rich Asians (2018). The environment in 1950s and ‘60s Hollywood excluded Asian-Americans in front of and behind the camera, so I can understand why there are only two films from that era with a majority-Asian cast. But I grade on a temporal curve. There is no excuse in modern Hollywood for the twenty-five-year separation between almost all-Asian casts. Are we to expect that the only Hollywood movies with nearly all-Asian casts/majority Asian casts in the future will be the sequels to Crazy Rich Asians?

For the longest time, Flower Drum Song was the one major Rodgers and Hammerstein musical I knew least about. I suspect, of the duo’s musicals that have been revived, it is the one in their repertoire that even self-professed theater buffs are least aware of. Being the only Rodgers and Hammerstein musical not distributed by 20th Century Fox does not help. Nor does the fact that its last home media release was on DVD in the 2000s. In 2008, Henry Koster’s Flower Drum Song was inducted into the Library of Congress’ National Film Registry. That honor marks the film as integral to the history of American cinema. As the constant writing of American cinematic history continues, as audiences become attuned to the history of non-white individuals in Hollywood, perhaps more people will see the importance of this movie. What would have happened if James Shigeta, Nancy Kwan, Miyoshi Umeki, Jack Soo, and their other co-stars were offered the same quality of opportunities of their white colleagues? We will never know. But Flower Drum Song can help the viewer envision the answer.

My rating: 7/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL).

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

* My sister will tell you that she does not believe that anyone in this film’s love polygon has a genuine mutual love. I agree. Mei Li’s love for Wang Ta appears genuine, but that is the extent of it.

[k-she-rambles]

Because I cannot just let this go: KOTORxSongmaster AU

Warnings for war, mentions of genocide, medical abuse, depression, vague implications of past assault (Atton is your friend but uh, he is not Nice), characters who don’t want to talk about sex talking about sex/infertility/impotence (it’s the repression paradox: the Forbidden Topic is talked about a lot because it’s Forbidden) and fantasy ableism. It’s Orson Scott Card. There’s Awesome and Ehh... NB: this is not how puberty blockers work IRL. I’m pulling things both out of my tuchas and from a work of fiction.

.

.

It takes the Exile hours to realize what is distracting her, but also warning her of approaching droids, this foreboding that has burrowed under her skin.

She can hear the Peragus mining facility singing.

The creak of metal, the sizzle of lasers, the klaxon of the alarms. The oppressive silence that is more than the silence she is used to. And below that, fear.

It has been five years since she has heard anything sing.

§

(The Exile hears no songs.

She is not deaf, in the peculiar way the Songhouse reckons deafness –-not as the quality of being unable to hear with your ears, but being unable to hear your own nature, sung.

But it is not just herself she cannot hear.

The Exile hears no songs.

It is as if the universe and everything in it is dead. When Master Vrook speaks, she cannot hear what he really means, below the dry bluster. Kavar’s tone is neutral in a way that is entirely different from his Control. Atris’ voice has a song like bright wind over snow, but only in the Exile’s memory. When she speaks, it’s only a voice.

The Songmasters sing Malachor. They sing warmongering, betrayal, the Dark Side, and over all, loss. The Exile only hears it in a recording, years later: the loss of music meant the loss of songtalk.

At the last, the Exile ignites her lightsaber, and drives it into the stone. The sound is empty, empty, empty.)

§

Kreia’s Control is incredible, and so it is always gratifying when she reveals something of herself. When she speaks, she never uses songtalk.

Come to think of it, Atris doesn’t either.

§

It’s the holos of Malak as a Sith Lord that bother the Exile the most.

It isn’t that he was the first padawan to show her around the Jedi Songhouse enclave on Dantooine when she arrived. He took himself too seriously, even as a child, but he was kind. He asked her the questions the adults hadn’t thought to, and answered, unprompted, the questions she was afraid to ask.

It’s his jaw. Malak was a songbird, though the songmasters never placed him out. (It was always Malak who was the songbird, not Revan, who grew into her voice only as an adult.)

But the horrifying idea of Revan taking a songbird’s natural voice away isn’t it either. It’s that the Exile doesn’t believe for a second that it was to teach him a lesson. It’s easier to believe that Revan loved him, and that changes things, morphs the horror into pity for them both.

It it so wrong, she catches herself thinking, the impulse to silence a song that is in agony? To hear the pain which you have caused, and make it stop?

§

“Soo...” says Atton, nudging a broken piece of droid with a toe. “Songhouse, huh?”

“Mm.”

“Must be hard. No family, no, ah --”

The Exile snorts. “Typical.”

“No? ‘Cause I heard--”

“The Songhouse is a family, Atton. When I was brought in I was adopted. Legally.”

“...okay, so how does an ancient, galaxy-spanning organization legally adopt a kriff-ton of kids?”

“Illegally.”

Atton smiles at that, and it’s almost honest. No teeth.

The Exile relents. “It depends. The other thing, I mean. Species, biological sex, whether they thought you’d be a songbird when you were adopted.”

He makes a vaguely interested noise.

She continues breaking down the blaster rifle in her hands. “Once the puberty blockers wear off, those who might have borne children generally find they can’t —hence the Songhouse’s aggressive adoption practices.”

“Oh. That’s not too bad, then.”

She looks at him coolly until he flushes, two spots of color on a face that might have once been tan.

Sallowed by dissipated living. A follower. Without someone to lead him all he is is appetite –-that is Kreia, in her mind’s ear. Had it not been part of her gift of the voice, the Exile might not have separated Kreia’s words from her own thoughts. True, Atton looks like he hasn’t seen sunlight or a nutritionally balanced meal in years, but there is...

You have no natural talent for healingsong, says Kreia sternly, but does not correct the Exile’s assumption.

Atton is still babbling. “Not that, uh, I’m in a position to say.”

Her laugh is a small huff of air. “It’s what I grew up with. They say Ancient Selkath doesn’t have a word for wet.” She tries to sing Modesty, and doesn’t even get as far as don’t stare before her voice cracks and the song turns to ashes in her mouth. Stupid. Like poking at a missing tooth. She’d never had a problem not trying to sing when she was traveling alone.

“I know that one,” says Atton. “I meant...the rumors get really uh, colorful. I was being stupid. Earlier, I mean. I was –I meant to be filthy but didn’t mean it to be nasty if it’s something you can’t—”

She puts down the rifle. “I won’t die if I have sex, Rand.”

Atton looks anywhere but directly at her. “Right. Stupid.”

§

After years of silence, the music is distracting. Eddies and curls, the ticks in the hyperdrive, T3′s gears, Atton’s constant mindless not-quite-spoken chatter. Bao-Dur doesn’t realize he hums as he works, but she can pinpoint his location, his mood, and a sense of what he’s working on anywhere in the ship.

“I will teach you Control,” says Kreia, and the Exile bristles. She is not a Bell or a Breeze, learning how to breathe, learning Control for the first time. But she keeps Control, and obediently sits down to meditate.

She tries to imagine a lake in the mountains, surrounded by the walls of her Control, and fed by the meltwater of her life, just as she was taught. It is the reservoir of her songs, released only when she chooses, not in tears, or sudden flights of passion.

She hasn’t done this in years. Who knows what that lake might contain.

The image won’t come.

“Let go of what ought to be,” says Kreia. “I am only interested in what you are.”

The deep lake has become...something else. A marsh, a bog. The sweet, thick smell of decaying plants feeding the living ones. There is a sense of wet, but there’s no sign of where the water comes from, and no sign of what makes it stay. It’s like nothing she has ever encountered. “Is that...good?”

“It is you,” says Kreia.

§

Years of doing everything but sing with her voice have left their mark. Lightsong and darksong both sound mangled, strained. Once, the Exile could fill a room with sound, to the edges and no farther, with no distortions. Now, she is lucky to hum a healing without her voice cracking.

She doesn’t exactly regret not keeping her voice conditioned –-she could have sung in exile, technically. Did, once or twice—sung a familiar tune for a drink or a job, sung a lullaby to calm a crying child.

She could not bear it for long: a tone-deaf stranger pulled from the street would still sing from the overflow of of the life they bore inside them. She does not.

There was nothing there. She sounded like a corpse trying to carry a tune, no matter how correct her notes.

She tells herself the song would have only sounded like Malachor, anyway.

§

Atton has Control.

There are hints of it on Telos, but —

No. Atton sings.

The realization hits the Exile like a ton of bricks. Atton sings. It is not the same as having a song, for all living things (and many things that aren’t alive at all) have a song. Atton sings: with his body, with his thoughts, keeping his mind and his hands and his mouth vacuously busy in ways that any songmaster would call “wasting your songs.” But he’s doing it on purpose. He lets those who listen, listen, but they listen to a tune of his choosing.

It’s a gift of the voice. They aren’t rare, but there’s no usual form they take, and so they can be mistaken for other talents. Revan had a gift with languages. Poor Bastila had been saddled with battle song in a time of war. The Exile herself had a gift: the ability to catch the thread of any song and the power behind it, to harmonize with anyone, of any skill.

§

Revan was quick to sing of herself. You never knew all of what was going on in Revan’s head, but you always knew who and what you were following.

§

(“If a place there is not for the songs to come out,” Master Vandar says in her mind’s eye, one of her earliest lessons as a padawan, “Drown you will in all the things you cannot express. Inflict them you will on others, without knowing them yourself. A grave affliction it is. Even Sith songmasters sing. Sing we must, even if the tone needs correcting. Our debt to the galaxy it is.”

“What happens to padawans like that?” Revan asked.

“A question, that is not,” said Vandar, “for so many young ears.”)

§

(Don’t tell Alek, Revan had sung, a rare concession to ignorance over knowledge. They’d given Revan a name, at the Songhouse. They called her after her favorite historical figure. They’d called her Fiimma, the one who had to know Ansset’s song, who’d changed the course of the Songhouse by disobedience, courage, love. (which one depended on who you asked) Don’t tell Alek.)

§

On Goto’s ship, Atton finally sings of himself in his own voice.

The Exile hears war, hears following Revan, even as she changed, because she was worth following. She hears death, hears killing, and hears the part of him that loves death, that loves killing.

Atton sings, and the Exile hears Control, perfect Control, the kind that takes all emotions in and gives back nothing genuine, nothing uncalculated, nothing of his. High walls, a deep lake, cold and remote. A place of the drowning of the soul.

And then the singer, his singer, the one who let herself be caught, the one who broke open his Control by force. She sang the love song as she died –as Atton killed her, singing it back without voice, singing it back with a knife.

The Exile sings back her shock, wordless: Only one Songmaster of the High Room on Coruscant in recorded history had ever dared such a thing as his singer dared, and never by force.

“I won’t say that it is not –-” Atton’s songs are raw and awkward things, coming from a spring he did not carve, flowing through him like water, like smoke. He would not sing at all except he must. It feels like weakness, a bleeding wound, like something of his was taken away, even if he doesn’t want it back. “You’re not wrong, but –-” He sings, wordless, and she understands.

Atton knows, then, what Vandar had eventually told her, told Revan: a singer with Control who does not sing is a shame. A singer with Control who cannot sing is already dead. Marked for death. His singer had broken her Jedi oaths to save a single life.

It is no wonder that Atton has had such an uneasy relationship with songs and singers.

He wants the Exile to teach him anyway. He could be a shield, a knife in her hand. He wants to be.

She knows where to start. I will never hurt you, I will always help you. Atton sings it with a ferocity that takes her aback. Love does not end.

§

The Exile’s breath control gets stronger, her tone more clear. She hears Nar Shaddaa, hears the Ebon Hawk. More, she can hear and sing her companions. I’m glad to have you with me, she sings, and Bao-Dur’s and Atton’s backs straighten, despite only having a rudimentary grasp of songtalk. Maybe we can be friends. (Maybe, hums Mira, but it is open to the possibility, less hostile than it was.) I care about you, not the ways you are useful to me, the Exile sings, and Visas frowns, as if she doesn’t understand, as if songtalk were not the first language of all Miraluka.

I am listening, the Exile sings to Kreia, Your songs are full of distortions, but I hear you.

“Do you?” Kreia murmurs, gratified.

§

“What if there are monsters in the lake?”

In her memories, the Exile can never remember which of the Breezes she was meditating with had asked the question. No name or face gives her comfort. Bastila, about to be graduated early into Stalls and Chambers because of her gift, and already using ego to mask her fear? Juhani, who had come to the Songhouse late, and whose mood swings made her songs tempestuous? Belaya? Yuthura?

She was not wise like Vandar, or kind like Kavar, or firm like Songmaster Vrook. She had only been in the latter part of Stalls and Chambers, then, taking advantage the privilege of older padawans to teach the younger. It prepared them for adulthood, when they had to decide what to do with grown-up voices. She still wished they would have asked Master Zhar.

But they had asked her, and they deserved her answer.

“The monsters are songs, too,” she said, after a moment. “The ones you are afraid to sing.”

She meant to say don’t be afraid. She can only guess what the young ones heard.

§

Visas’ Sith songmaster master would sometimes take her voice, preventing her from singing the grief of her dead world. He is a hungry silence, more anechoic chamber than man. He drains the music from whatever he touches, chasing the echo of death, feeding on songs cut short, ended, lost.

Visas rarely sings her own songs, now. She sets them aside in favor of others’ --the Exile’s, or the echo of Nihilus’ power. It is not quite as viscerally terrifying as Atton’s song of Control: Visas instinctively knew that Control and Song are hand-in-hand. She does not keep Control when she cannot sing.

It is why, perhaps, she hides herself away and veils her face: emotions are strange and wild things, when you are used to singing them.

The Exile teaches her all the exercises and songs she remembers from childhood, and thinks of the Songmasters, trying to lose themselves on Nar Shadda, on Dantooine, on Onderon.

She does not think of years spent being a ringing silence herself.

§

Mira hears songs of individuals over distance, hears the distortion of people who aren’t home.

The Exile hones her pitch, teaches her how to grasp the song heard faintly and amplify it, singing it back so that it can be heard and healed. She teaches Mira posture, courage, how to stand and sing in any situation, even when you cannot stand: feet rooted, alert spine, breathe out, not up. No fear.

When Mira reappears after the Sith tomb on Dxun, joking with Bralor in his own tongue, there is a sense of something finally settled, a rhythm finally found.

§

“What did you learn in your exile? Visas asks.

The Exile rolls Visas’ lightsaber crystal in her hand, thinks of the smells of decay and of growing things, of water soaking up from the ground. She presses the crystal into the Miraluka’s palm.

“It is something like you learned, I think. I am alive. Song or no song or song-deaf. I am still here.”

“You think that is a good thing?”

“Why?” says the Exile, lightly. “Have you changed your mind about me? Are you going to lead me in chains before your songmaster?”

Never. The note is short and sharp, but there’s something the Exile can build on, there. My life for yours.

If you are frightened, I’ll be your friend, the Exile sings. The love song.

Visas scoffs, not recognizing it. “I do not fear death.”

Neither do you wish to live, the Exile does not say. “But you fear mine?”

“I regret it. I would delay it, if I could.”

The Exile smiles. “Then you’ll just have to keep keeping me out of trouble.”

§

The Exile had hoped to never set foot on Dxun again. It’s just as loud as she remembers, even with her dulled senses. It is not just the jungle --the moon rings with the memory of death and mines and fire and water, even though the fighting has long ago stopped. It’s either the echo of what came before, or the silence, after.

“It’s hard to hear myself think sometimes,” says Bao-Dur, “But being around you helps.” And: “I’m glad you let that old warrior go. I’m not sure I would have wanted to do the same.”

“It’s not always about what I want,” she says, gently. “There has been enough death and hatred, I think. So I chose.” She runs a towel over her hair, uselessly trying to get rid of some of Dxun’s damp, and adds “You wondered how I made it through without my songs. You don’t have to hear the song to make a choice.”

§

“Her influence threatens the integrity of the other students’ music!” says the recording of Songmaster Vrook. “She is like Ansset, and could doom us all.”

“That is a myth,” the Exile growls.

“Ahh,” says Bao-Dur, observing her without judgment. “I’m pretty sure Ansset was a real person. Last of the Three Imperators and one of the founders of the Republic? Ring a bell?”

The Exile crosses her arms. “He was a Songbird first and last. One of our greatest. The stories say,” she says, drawing the last word out, “that he could change people’s songs, even without singing. Make them feel whatever he wanted. Make them become what he wanted.”

“Creepy,” says Atton, at the same time Bao-Dur says “You’re nothing like that.”

“No?” says the Exile, and Atton is not sure if she is angry, or if that is some kind of loss or hunger in her face, her eyes.

Atton scratches the back of his head. “Well, sure. You can harmonize with nearly anyone. Even Kreia. You said that was your gift, not changing the songs of others.”

“This Vrook person called you dangerous in the same breath as average and disliked,” says Bao-Dur. “Are you sure he has even met you?”

She exhales, a small laugh. “He never liked me.”

“Then he is letting his personal feelings cloud his judgment, and you have your answer.”

§

Mandalore is deaf to songtalk, but his awareness is exceptional. “Your teacher is a fine hand at blocks, Exile.”

The Exile starts. She hadn’t thought of that, despite how teaching her to hear the thoughts of her companions exactly resembled shifting a block.

“Is there anything --”

“I’m not a doctor or a singer,” he says quickly. “You’d know more than I. But no, I don’t think she has bound any of us with anything stronger than blackmail.”

But she could, if she was resisted, lays unspoken between them.

§

The Exile came home, with the singers who would become Revan and Malak, once, four months before the full council sanctioned the intervention that had been going on eight months already.

Eight months of the background noise of war, strategy, and troop movements.

There were children practicing in the courtyard. Stalls and Chambers, she guessed, most with their own lightsabers. They wore white tabards over their tunics.

One of them tried to catch her eye, aware of where she had been and brimming with questions. He was good at noticing patterns in music. She’d tutored him on using that skill to hearing the harmonies between people, to expand it further, outwards, and notice patterns on the large scale. “Sing with us!”

The Exile shook her head. She hadn’t needed Revan’s warning: she knew war had changed her songs. To sing with anyone younger than Singer would be to threaten the purity of their self-expression, Revan had said, so perfectly mimicking Vrook that both the Exile and Alek had doubled over laughing. Revan had meant it, all the same.

“I don’t think I should.”

Words were enough, with his keen hearing, or perhaps it was her gift combined with his, and there was a harmonic between them already. The padawan sang it back: took what he heard in her voice and expanded on it, sang you are a shield for us, even in your silence, you couldn’t just do nothing, you will do it because you can.

There was something new in his voice, a thread of determination backing up his joyful curiosity. Here was one who could see a threat to all he had ever known and still sing in the face of it.

But the echo of death rarely came to Dantooine, in those days. He’d never seen it. She had.

The Exile sighed, all caution made useless. “Your chamber-master is going to kill me.”

“What is Atris going to say?” he said, amused. “I chose to sing it, so it is part of my song now.”

§

“I don’t hear anything different,” says Vrook. There’s no lie in his voice. “Your voice is not as good as it was, and you still have no songs.”

“But I sing!”

“I can’t deny that I see the effects of music. You make sounds, and things happen. And yet it is difficult to believe.”

The Exile waits. Perhaps Vrook’s lack of affection for her will allow him to tell her something that Zez-Kai Ell and Kavar could not.

“I see that you wrap the songs of your companions around you, but can you sing me a song of yourself?”

“And influence your songs, Master Vrook?” says the Exile. Her Control holds her steady enough to give her space to wonder why the question made her afraid, and, because she was afraid, angry. “‘Corrupt the purity of your self-expression’ with something you were never meant to know?” If she sang of Malachor, like Ansset sang of his life when he returned to the Songhouse, would it be mercy or cruelty? Even in Ansset’s time, it had been a close thing, a knifeblade either way, and it had been the experiences of one man, one who had never known war.

She carries Malachor around her like a cloak. A thousand songs in agony, a thousand voices silenced at her order. It is foolishness to think she does not.

“Hmph,” says Vrook, but there is a grudging and temporary respect as he gives her one last lesson.

Kreia, on the other hand, is incensed. “What fool denies wisdom offered to them? The tree that does not lean into the wind, does not withstand the storm. This planet and it’s people have seen pain, and is he processing it, or his own? Pah! He is ‘keeping his songs pure.’ And you,” she says, rounding on the Exile. “Do not think you are protecting anyone by your silence. They will learn or they will break.”

§

I’m sure I know you, the Exile sings, from behind the Disciple.

“I am sure I just have one of those faces,” he responds.

“That was songtalk.”

The Disciple turns around, his expression wry. “So it was. You do remember me.”

§

She does remember the padawan in Stalls and Chambers who sang her own song back to her, and he remembers her.

“The music, that is easy to forget,” he says. “With no need for Control to store your songs, and no need for singing. The stone of the Songhouse is my childhood home, my foundation, but when I grew up became a soldier, not a singer.” And: “The songmaster I would have chosen, the one meant for me, was lost.”

Lost, not dead. Her decisions had echoes she had not accounted for. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” says the Disciple. He gestures to the rubble around them. “I left the Songhouse before all of this. I had skills the Republic could use. Besides, I had already begun to have doubts when the Songmasters couldn’t hear the purity of your intentions. I did not want to be a part of the Songhouse if it would punishyoufor doing the right thing.”

“Purity of intentions does not mean I did the right thing,” says the Exile. “It’s easy to lose sight of what the right thing is in war.”

His amused smile hasn’t changed at all, nor his habit of hearing what she won’t say. “It would not kill you to admit that you have definitive opinions on the justice of your sentence.”

“Do you still wish to come with me?”

“I do.”

She takes his hand. “Will you sing with me, Mical?”

§

She finally gets a long conversation with Kavar.

It is good to see a friendly face.

He says much of the same things Vrook had: that her songs are a casualty of the war; that mortality is not conducive to song. His song is placid, calming. He is not lying, but he is not telling her everything, either. I can wait, the Exile thinks.

No. It is what Kavar is singing. You can wait. All things in time. The threat will reveal itself in time.

Not everyone has that luxury, Songmaster, she sings. Some who think they do, do not.

“How do you know what would have happened?” he counters. They are definitely not just talking about whatever is hunting Jedi. “Do you see what was lost because of Revan’s recklessness. Yours?”

“Do you not think I know what I did? Do you not think I carry it with me?”

I know you do, he sings. The apology is genuine, but it is as much apology as she is ever going to get. There is a sadness there, too, as if she has failed to learn something vital.

“The future is in flux and the past is a song already sung,” says the Exile. What’s done is done.

“Oh, my dear,” says Kavar. “Nothing is ever done.”

§

Someone, it seems, either in the Songhouse or in the Republic army, has taught the Disciple how to lay and remove blocks, and with his reopened connection to his songs, he is quickly combining the two, to devastating offensive and defensive effect.

In time, she thinks, the others will seek him out, let him sound out the shape of their minds, and make sure there are no nasty surprises there. Ask him to lay a few blocks of his own, against horror, against paralysis and confusion.

Well, she thinks. Everyone but Atton, who dislikes the Disciple, blocks, and people who deal in them.

§

“A word, songmaster?” says the Disciple.

She steps into the medbay.

The Disciple places his hands behind his back, but not before she can see that his hand is injured. “It’s about our pilot.”

Wonderful.

“He was asking some rather pointed questions, and I --” he clears his throat. “What I mean to say is that I’ve been away from the Songhouse long enough to know what is and is not my business.”

The Exile hums her confusion.

Mical shifts his weight onto his right foot slightly, and back again, a strange break of Control, for him. “For all that Atton’s ignorance of Modesty is startling, his song for you is-- what I mean is that there will be no back-singing from me, songmaster.”

The Exile pinches the bridge of her nose, comprehension finally dawning. Were they in the Songhouse, they would have never broached this subject. “Are you expecting a thank you?”

The Disciple lifts his chin, but blushes.

§

After that, it’s not entirely a surprise when Atton wanders into the cockpit with a cold pack over his eye --kolto is too valuable to waste on inter-crew spats. He waves off her hands when she takes off her gloves and reaches for him. He sits, and hums his own healing, looking pleased with himself when it works.

“All right,” says the Exile. “What happened?”

Atton looks sheepish, the mirror to Mical’s blush. “Uh. You remember the question I asked you, when we first met? About growing up Songhouse?”

“...yes?”

“Well you didn’t answer it all the way. You said how it worked for you, and said it was different for others. So I asked Mical.”

Sithspit. She stares at him. Asking questions, Mical had said. A startling ignorance of Modesty. Mical was trying to be gracious. “You deserved that.”

“Yeah. Well. I know that now. Matter of fact, I now know a whole hell of a lot of things I didn’t need to know, because after punching me in the face on principle, and explaining why you never ask a Songhouse kid that question, Mical treated me to a very nice lecture on the science of pain receptors and their connection to hormones, all the drugs you and he are allergic to, and a graphic theory on what happened to Darth Malak’s face. Which I really did not need to know.”

He has a point. “Sorry.”

Atton leans back, bracing his feet against the bottom edge of the control panel, and putting his hands behind his head. She knows better than to think he’s actually relaxed. “Why’d you answer my questions the first time, anyway? I probably would have wound the Disciple up about it, just to be an asshole, but I do like to know how much of an asshole I am before I really commit.”

“I don’t know,” she says, honestly. There’s no answer that she wants to give that is satisfactory: they either say too much or too little.

“I’m sorry. That those things happened, I mean,” he adds, when she raises an eyebrow. “To you, to Mical, to kriffing Darth Malak and Revan, even. Family should make you stronger, not...not limit your choices like that.”

“Ancient Selkath doesn’t have a word for wet,” she reminds him, softly.

“I know that,” he says, pulling his feet down from the ledge. “That doesn’t mean that wet didn’t actually exist.”

She is going to have to think about that one.

“Really makes me think, though. I’m not sure that I’m comfortable joining the Songhouse, if this...you know, big on bodily autonomy, me.” The last part twists, discordant, both truth and lie.

The Exile sighs. “I was disowned when they cast me out, Atton. If you want to join the Songhouse, you’re going to have to ask someone else.”

He snorts at that suggestion. “Not likely.” His clothes rustle as he squirms in his seat, crossing his arms and looking away. Rather follow you, he adds, singing so softly that the Exile can’t be sure if he sang with his voice or his mind. “Besides,” he says, louder, a bit too rapidly, “pretty sure they’re going to have to welcome you back, anyway. They’re a few singers short of a full chorus, and you’re the only Jedi Singer I’ve met with any sense.”

“Har, har,” she says, nudging his seat with a toe. “You’re right, you know. If the Songhouse survives all this, things will have to change.”

Atton swallows. “You know,” he says slowly. He still doesn’t look at her. “You know. If it’s worth anything, the Disciple told me he cleared all his medical checks when he left the Songhouse. You couldn’t hurt him. Unless you were into that, I guess.”

The Exile opens her mouth. Closes it. “Atton –”

“Don’t make fun. Kid’s got a heart like a star and the song in it is yours. Kriffing annoying, but if you haven’t heard him, you haven’t been paying attention.”

She throws her gloves at him and flees the cockpit.

§

The so-called Lord of Pain wraps himself in music, is barely anything besides song stitched together with veins of Control. He is loud, too much. He makes the Exile’s bones ache. Silence, she sings, breath, darkness.

Life without song, he sings. Impossible. Death.

Not death. Something else.

There is nothing else. Only hunger, only void. I do not wish to die.

You are not at peace.

Are you?

§

“Were you Revan’s teacher?” the Exile asks.

“Revan had many teachers,” says Kreia.

The Exile waits.

Kreia looks at her a long time, and then opens her mouth and sings Revan.

At least, as well as Revan can be sung by someone who isn’t Revan herself. Her song always lent itself to being projected upon by others.

It is answer enough.

§

Malak sings action over the Jedi Council’s inaction. Malak sings of the Mandalorians, sings rumors of death on the Outer Rim, sings innocents in danger, sings the Republic asking for help and finding none.

Outrage, sing the singers on the Exile’s left and right. War.

War, sings Malak. War. Outrage. The Songhouse has failed.

Illusion, sings the Exile. The figures on her left and right ignore her. Malak looks at her with a twinkle in his eye.

She’d forgotten what a pompous bastard he could be. “Alek, this is not the song we sung.”

Something had to be done.

“That’s true. But we set out to save the Republic, not throw down the stones of the Songhouse.”

Malak smiles at her, as if he knew she would agree with him, eventually. “You know that was never Revan’s desire. If you had heard what Revan heard...”

“If I had heard what Revan heard, I wouldn’t be here,” the Exile snaps. She hears the truth in it as she says the words. “If I had been following Revan, and not myself, do you think she still would have chosen you over me?”

She’s made him angry now, the line between memory and vision blurring. “They will remember me, little sister. They will not remember you.”

The Exile closes her eyes. Opens them. “I decided that Revan would not arrive with reinforcements. And so I closed the trap. I destroyed the Mandalorians. I destroyed my own forces. I won the war. But Revan delayed. I was loyal to the cause, not to her. I wasn’t intended to survive. I know that now.”

What Revan had heard had altered her song, even as it remained wholly hers, like hearing Ansset’s had changed little Fiimma’s.

Revan had not been able to hear the change.

“I don’t have to justify myself to you, Malak. I don’t have the luxury of saying I did what I was told, or that I was hoodwinked, somehow, by Revan’s charisma. I chose, and I can’t change the past. But my choices were not your choices. My reasons were not your reasons, nor should they be.”

“Wake up,” says Malak, almost pitying. “You have to wake up.”

You were going to be the songbird of Taris, Alek, she thinks. What was it that tipped the scales? Following Revan to Korriban? What Revan found in the wreckage of Malachor V? What happened after the Mandalorian War ended? Where did you go?

She ignites her lightsaber and grits her teeth, staring the illusions in the eyes.

She loses.

§

She hears the fear in the voices of her soldiers, and thinks she understands. “Let me go up, Captain.” I will do it. I will do it. Her voice cracks. She remembers the loyalty of her soldiers, the songs she had with them. Dxun was full of life, just as it was full of death.

She disables the mines by hand.

Was it wasted? Her soldiers ask. Did it mean something, in the end? Did we matter?

§

“I can’t. I won’t.”

Apathy is death, sing the illusions, a drone that rattles her bones.

The Exile almost drops her lightsaber.

Refusing to die is not quite the same as choosing to live, but she wouldn’t call it death. A stupor, a blindness, a sleep, part infection and part choice.

Kreia was right to ask if she’d found what she was looking for among the dead. Mical was right to chide her about sidestepping. It had been so easy to not to care, not to matter, not to remember that at the core of her was cold Songhouse stone, warmed by many hands.

Had she always been strong enough to bear it, or is she stronger, now?

How does this song end? asks the illusion of Kreia. The illusion uses songtalk where Kreia would not. The effect is unsettling. “Either you conclude it, or the echoes go on forever, unfinished.”

§

There is nothing in a dark nexus that you do not bring with you.

She crosses blades with the apparition of what she might have become, had she truly been Revan’s left hand as Malak was her right, and thinks it again, a mantra: There is nothing in a dark nexus that you do not bring with you.

She has always been able to sing in the face of death.

There is nothing in a dark nexus that you do not bring with you.

So what is this? She ducks her own blade and makes a run for it. She can’t keep her breath enough to sing.

Of course she’d seen the changes in Revan and Malak. She’d seen the changes in herself. But she had set her face long before Malachor: she had always intended to present herself for judgment. She had broken faith with the Jedi Council, and she believed she was right to do so, but such actions always had consequences.

She would not have followed Revan into the outer reaches of the darkness. She already had followed her to Dxun, to Malachor V, and through the nothing beyond. There has to be something she is not seeing.

The eyes of the specter are empty. There is no song in her, though her songs are as solid and cool as stone.

It is frightening, in an abstract way, but the Exile finds herself oddly detached from the fear. As if this battle is familiar.

There are no songs for this.

It is time to go home.

§

She hears the Disciple’s confession, and it occurs to her that Mical is angry. Angry in the same way that Atris was angry. Atris chose not to follow, and Mical had been too young to. That for all his Control, for all that he thinks and thinks and thinks, turning his problems over in his mind note by note, his sunny disposition is fought for, and won.

Mira calls Mical a tame kath-hound.

She is right. May the fates help whoever tries to take what he defends.

“The Seeker who brought you to the Songhouse named you well.”

“Do you think?” says Mical, and the song in his voice is bitter. “I always thought it was cruel. Someone who doesn’t look like much, named after the Emperor of the Galaxy. Mikal the tyrant.”

“Father Mikal,” says the Exile, gently. “You are an historian. You know this.” History had recorded Emperor Ansset’s heir, Ephrim son of Josif, as the first Supreme Chancellor of the Republic, but it was a Republic that the tyrant had dreamed of. The Songhouse remembered: Mikal was the father of the Republic. The tyrant who loved the greatest Songbird in history as a son.

“Do you not think,” says Mical, slowly, “that you will make it through this?”

“Something is coming,” she says, finally. And then, pitching her song to cut through the ambient noise of the Ebon Hawk: I have given each of you all I can. The legacy of the Jedi is in your songs.

Bao-Dur snorts, softly. He heard the undercurrent of the song. She suspected he would. He closes a panel on Remote, and she hears the same tune back. He has been listening to her lessons with the others.

Mira nods decisively at something. Time to stop running.

Visas waits. It will come when it will come.

Atton slams a storage compartment, suddenly, inexplicably, and incandescently furious.

§

“Wait, General,” says Bao-Dur. The Exile turns, and words seem to fail him then, because he sings: hope and anger, weariness and rest, vengeance and choices, all rolled up into a question.

She considers him seriously, and presses an off-hand lightsaber into his palm. “Your choice, of course,” she says, lightly, warmed by his trust, his faith. “But you’ve always seemed to thrive on the impossible. If you think you can defend the innocent with song, without malice against the enemy, then you can.” I believe in you.

Bao-Dur bows his head.

The Exile ignites her lightsaber. “Now, are you going to show me what you’ve learned from spying on everyone else, or are you going to stand there and let me lecture you?”

Bao-Dur laughs, his dry, quiet laugh so like her own, and it sounds like try me. “I’ll take practical experience any day.”

§

All she hears in this place is loss.

She takes off her armor, stashing it quietly in an anteroom just inside the door of the enclave. There is power running now, and she hears the fountains ahead, signs of human habitation. Signs of life.

There is an ache in her chest. She breathes deeply, slings a robe over her shoulders for the first time in nearly a decade. She is not part of the Songhouse, but she is a singer, and songmaster to other singers. She respects the wisdom of the Songmasters, but the near extinction of the Songhouse and her exile have made her a peer.

It is good to see things rebuilt. The green of growing things, the sounds of the fountains, the murmur of voices waiting for her.

But all she hears in this place is loss.

It is strange: conventional wisdom holds that grief unharnessed weakens song, but her heart is full to bursting with something indefinable. She could sing here, and shake the walls down.

She forges on, past the fountains. She does not hear Kreia follow her, nor Visas follow Kreia.

§

The Songmasters tell her of the gathering on Visas’ homeworld, of songs not just cut short, but emptied.

They’d seen an echo of something coming for them, and had gathered, thinking numbers might clarify the vision.

No, Atris had suggested numbers might clarify the vision.

It was Atris who had convinced the Republic to contact the Exile.

Atris, the historian, the archivist, who could not justify leaving her post and following her heart. Atris, whose song, in the Exile’s memory of their last encounter, spoke of bitterness. Atris who surrounded herself with Handmaidens who were deaf to song. To the changes in a song.

I was an historian, Kreia had said. I found more questions than the Songhouse could answer.

§

“Songmaster,” says Mical, turning back towards the dormitory. There is resolve in his tone. “It is not Kreia who has shaken you so.”

She gives him a level look, already seated on the meditation rug Visas bought for her on Onderon.

He tries again. “What did the Songmasters say to you?”

“The Songmasters are dead.”

“And Atris has betrayed us, yes. Songmaster.”

The Exile sits back. “Why are you here, Mical?”

“I was worried about you.”

“No, why are you here? I influenced your songs as a child. What is to say I’m not doing so now? Do you not wonder why you follow me?”

You are a parasite, spits Vrook in her mind’s eye. Forming bonds, leeching off the connections of others. Your gift of the voice has always given you undue influence over the minds of the young and wayward.

“I follow you because I believe what I heard from you all those years ago, songmaster,” says Mical. “I see with my eyes that it is still the case. I admire you. But the galaxy does not revolve around any one person, though any one person can dedicate themselves to defend it. You taught me that.”

The Exile fixes her gaze somewhere above his left ear. “At Malachor, it was –I assumed my songs were taken away, or that I was deafened by what I heard. But I stopped my own ears. The other side of my gift of the voice: if I can harmonize with anyone, I can also not.” She looks down, at the rug, at the decking. “I knew. I’d always had a knack for that trick. I pulled it on Revan once, right before a performance. I don’t remember why. Got the mother of all lectures from Songmaster Sunrider. But I knew, if I would have let myself remember.”

Mical sits in front of her, legs crossed. “You heard something you could not bear. To hear so much death at once would have killed you.”

“But to cut myself off from all song to stop listening? You can imagine the Songmasters’ reactions.”

Mical does not smile at this. “They thought you were the source of the echo of death that has followed us.”

“I am the bait. And I do carry something with me.” She looks away. “Malachor V is not gone. The song of the universe is suffering there, and I carry it, not as a cloak, but inside...”

It is like Mical cannot hear it. The Exile’s voice is empty. There is nothing of herself in it. What she has become is worse than what Atton was before: Her true song is the death of song, and the songs of others. She grows in strength from death, and from her companions. She uses her gift of the voice to sing what she hears, to sing her friends voices, their songs, to sing to the living. Everything in her song is chosen, gathered, borrowed, stolen. Not hers.

“And you think that is a matter of accident?” says Mical. “That you sing of life and living when you know also the songs of death and ending? That you spin songs from what you hear, and from the people who love you?”

She thinks of the twisted brightness around a black hole. She thinks of a bog, the water coming up from the ground, and the ground itself made of drowned plants. Death feeding life feeding death, on forever.

Mical nods, satisfied. “It is possible to be afraid of death, and so delay to make choices that will save more lives. That is why the Songmasters have failed where you have not. You know what it will take, and you are not afraid.”

“I am afraid.”

“But not of dying.”

No. Never of that.

§

She follows Kreia to Telos, to Atris.

The cacophony of darksong around her is unbearable. The Exile stops her ears and listens to the frightened woman in front of her instead.

She does not think to query the voices around her.

§

I have authored so much death, sings Bao-Dur. Let my song end saving something instead. I will die in a different way if I do not.

§

I do not fear, for in fear, lies death. I am not afraid to die, but no longer do I loathe my life. I ask you, finally, to forgive me for the path I took when I lost my way. It has taken time for me to return here. I’ve been stronger for the journey. What happens now shall not be done out of hate, or revenge, but for the sake of all life.

This body is a prison no longer.

Visas stands. “Let us go.”

§

“And so that is why you fight,” says Visas. “To prove Revan wrong.”

“Not Revan,” says Mandalore, rising.

§

Darth Nihilus is a hunger, a void with will, an eater of songs, a silence.

He dies like a mortal man in the end.

§

There is a place, the Exile knows, beyond all song. Beyond light, beyond dark, and in which there is nothing but oneself.

It is not this place.

The Exile stalks the broken surface of Malachor V. She stalks the halls of the Academy, the crucible Revan found and founded, a festering wound the Exile created. This is a place meant to break the innocent, to drive them to let go of song, or grow stronger in defiance. To change, or die.

She thinks of Atton’s songs, grown strong in spite of everything. Mira standing tall. Visas singing to herself of small pleasures. Bao-Dur surrounded by green and growing things. Mical, looking to the future clear-eyed and singing anyway. Mandalore’s steadiness. HK. T3.

She thinks of the echoes of Malachor V. Lives lost, future lost, a planet in agony, only held together by residual gravitic anomalies, the echo of the weapon that won the war.

(She can only hope Remote has found its way)

She will sing here.

She will shake the walls down.

§

She sends her students back to the ship.

Her face is set towards Trayus Core.

She does not notice Atton turning back.

§

“Wish I’d...never met you,” says Atton, and it sounds like I will always help you.

“You’re a damn liar,” says the Exile, trying to ignore the blood, trying to sort cauterized and uncauterized wounds, praying Kreia’s tutoring in healingsong will be enough. There’s nothing she can do for his eye, and likely not his arm either, but she was just fast enough and it is possible if any of them die today it might not be him. “You are never where you are supposed to be and you have always been a pain in my ass.”

“Ha-ohh, it hurts to laugh.” He reaches up a hand, and touches two bloody fingers to her cheek before it falls heavily back again. “At least I’m…good, good at it. Save...save your strength. Sion’s still out there.”

“He had better be,” the Exile growls. “You’re going to have a few dashing scars.”

“Liar. Was always ugly. Now my outsides...match my insides.” He hums and the song is his. Just his. “Thought I would never see...another face again. And then you were there again. Thought being a Singer was like breaking Control. Like giving up. But it made me more myself. You need to go.”

She’s aware that she is crying. She needs Control. “Don’t be a fool.”

“There are worse...things I could be.” His face twists. “Wish I could...have told her that. Sounds different...when you say it. Like you’re saying...something else.”

§

The Exile methodically weakens Sion’s Control.

In the end, he goes.

In the end, she sings Farewell for him, too.

§

Kreia hates Song, even as she sings, even as she knows that all living things have song, whether they hear it and sing it or not. Kreia loves the Exile, even as she tries to kill her.

§

You don’t have to hear the song to make a choice, the Exile sings, in a brief respite from whirling lightsabers. Life does not only consist of struggle. The answer to life’s betrayal is not silence. No silence is absolute. There is always something left. There are echoes. Nothing is ever done.

There is only yourself.

No. That which you cannot touch still exists.

§

I do not want your mercy, Kreia sings, though I thank you all the same. “I imagined this day, and wondered if you would offer. I wanted you to say those words. I did not imagine that I would lose the thread of all my desires and plans. That I would spurn my defeat. That in the end all I would want is for you to be complete.” You have been the best of them.

The Exile nods.

“Farewell, Exile,” says Kreia, and it sounds like the love song.

§

Atton leans against the doorway, a Jedi’s cloak shrouding the ruin of his arm. There’s a kolto patch over his eye again. The Exile listens, and hears the echoes of Mikal’s grudging acceptance that nothing short of sitting on the pilot’s still-healing gut wound would keep him from waiting.

Everyone is waiting.

“Mira said someone ought to see if you needed carried out,” he lies.

The Exile raises an eyebrow. From the way he’s swaying, she is the one who is going to be doing the carrying.

“Don’t just stand there, we have a bomb about to go off. And I see that look. I figure we have a long way to go to get to wherever we are going next. If you, you know, happen to need a pilot.”

§

The song of Malachor V ends, its echoes no longer unfinished. They are carried forward in the voices of the lives it touched; the memory of song.

§

I will never hurt you. I will always help you. If you are hungry Ill give you my food. If you are frightened I am your friend. I love you now. And love does not end.

[theessayist]

Movies that have made me cry like a baby

For a movie buff who’s more inclined to the gruesome thrill of horror flicks and the ingenious narration of crime films, I’m pretty in love with emotional movies. It takes a lot for this ENTJ to shed a tear; even on purpose; and in fact, I can only name a few titles that really got these eyeballs of mine watery. 

I think a major part of the reason why I love emotional movies is that the way that I still get affected by them helps me determine if I still have a moral, empathetic anchor... You know... Somewhere deep down there. It gives me solace. 

Moving on, knowing that I’m not an easy shell to break, I can guarantee that the films I’m about to mention will absolutely tear your heart apart. 

S/N I haven’t watched Miracle in Cell No. 7 or any Frank Darabont masterpiece yet, so if they hit hard enough, I might make another list. 

S/N #2 Animated films will be separated. 

5. Marriage Story (2019) dir. Noah Baumbach 

I’m a 17-year-old single girl living with my perfectly stable parents who love each other so much and I’m happy and eternally grateful for that; but why the hell am I crying?! 

Starting off on our list is a movie that made me cry because of the immense confusion I felt as I watched two exhausted, beautiful humans go through a painful separation when they clearly still love one another. 

I think the main reason why this film made a waterfall out of me is because I didn’t know how to feel. I didn’t know if I should side on Nicole, since she was the one who made more sacrifices and considerations; or Charlie- since he was the one who was suffering in the ugly end of the stick. It made me feel frustrated and angry in a way that I wanted to push them back together, and at the same time, pull them both apart. 

I’d like to say more- but now I just want to credit Scarlett and Adam for the most heart-wrenching fight scene I have ever endured in all seventeen years of my life.

4. Train to Busan (2016) dir. Yeon Sang Ho 

I watched this Korean zombie horror flick thinking it was going to quench my thirst for some brutal flesh-ripping, blood and gushing gore. I NEVER got tired of zombies- whether in movies, video games or soap operas, I eat that crap up. And so I dived in ravenous as hell, thinking I was gonna get purely that. 

But instead I got a pretty, pregnant woman and her protective husband, an inadvertently neglectful dad and his adorable child, a hobo, and two teenagers my age who’re just as afraid as everyone else would be. 

Oh, and a scumbag whose selfish deeds are so unspeakable I’d rather say ‘Voldemort’. 

Seokwoo didn’t have to smile like that, you know. It’s little contrasting details like that that make emotional scenes so goddamn irresistible. 

This movie got me by surprise- my unsuspecting self who did not expect any tear-jerker was cut up from behind with a father, and an almost-father, sacrificing for the love of their lives. Who doesn’t cry to that kinda stuff? Please cut their chests open and install a heart. 

3. Titanic (1997) dir. James Cameron 

Oh yes, the popular royal tear-jerker, sitting right next to the campus queen bees, The Notebook and A Walk to Remember (to which I didn’t cry, for what it’s worth). As much as I loved the romance that so beautifully blossomed between Jack and Rose, quite frankly I did not cry because the former died. Although that was really sad, too.

You know what gave me a stuffy nose and two red eyes for three days? The other passengers, for gosh’s sake. 

The guy who got shot by the seaman. That seaman who shot himself afterwards. The band who played through the chaos. The maids that drowned in the ballroom trying to look after everyone else. The lone kid in the hallway who could’ve drowned. The mother tucking her children to bed. And most of all, the old couple cuddling each other as water rushed in their room! 

I don’t think I’ve to explain why that subtly painful montage broke my gold-titanium alloy heart. It didn’t help that the lovable Captain Smith chose to sink with his ship, too. 

2. Forrest Gump (1995) dir. Robert Zemeckis 

Before I watched it, I didn’t know what to expect from this movie. But it had Tom Hanks (who, to me at that moment, was purely Sheriff Woody), and I knew it was iconic; so I sat through, thinking it was another one of those great films that was going to bore me. And boy, was I wrong! 

So, unlike all the other films on this list, Forrest Gump actually made me cry in a heart-warming, happy, beautiful way. We watched this guy persevere through the challenges of his universe, we saw the way he rewrote history, we laughed at his utter stupidity, we lamented the come-and-go relationship with Jenny, we grew to love Colonel Dan; everything about it was amazing and touching and the end was just so incredibly satisfying, I didn’t know films could make me happy that much. 

I was just really, really proud of our boy Forrest and how he lived, okay? Leave me alone. 

1. Scent of a Woman (1992) dir. Martin Brest

So, I’m a really big fan of Al Pacino. Why? Because, like I said- crime is my #1 genre. Specifically, organized crime. And who’s the prince of the organized crime genre? You guessed it- this man. He was Jimmy Hoffa. He was Tony Montana. He was Michael Corleone, for crying out loud! 

As a new, young fan, he has established in me the image of a tough, hard-wired man who would stop at absolutely nothing to achieve what he wants. Not morals, not friends, and definitely not family (F stands for Fredo). So what did I expect when he became the blind, eccentric, women-obsessed war veteran Lt. Col. Frank Slade? I had no idea.

That was why it got me so hard- because I was viewing Al play a largely different role. And what’s astonishing about it is that I didn’t see him as Al Pacino. Didn’t see him as a godfather, a union leader, or a drug lord. I saw him as that in-denial old man- washed up, empty, and feeling unwanted for the things he’d brought about in his life. For half the movie, I was admiring every nuance, the clever dialogue, the relationship-building, the philosophical aspects. The other half, I was crying profusely. 

To be specific, I cried four separate times through the two-hour feature; especially during the Ferrari scene. It’s weird I know, but I cried there the most. The film was a very remarkable experience; and all these is why it is my number one pick for a film that will definitely gouge your eyes out. 

I highly recommend all of these features for both lovers and non-lovers of the emotional aspects of film. Even I, as a crime and horror fan, could attest for the fact that these films are not a waste of your fast-paced time. You will be awed.

[margridarnauds]

002 orleans, 001 peyronan, lets GO

001 | Peyronan

when I started shipping it if I did: Funnily, it went under my radar for YEARS, because I. Did not care about Lazare at ALL. Did not even L I K E him. And the 1789 fandom, as a whole, was VERY anti-Ronan. You could not say ANYTHING positive about Ronan at that time. Then, during a stream of Zuka 1789 in June 2017 (THREE YEARS. WHAT THE FUCK? HOW HAVE THREE YEARS PAST?), I was like “Oh? O H? O    H  ?” and so It began. I started off with the idea of creating a contained series of drabbles, highlighting the two of them over the course of the musical. The idea was that it would essentially be PWP, disconnected, plotless, researchless, no feelings involved, no softening of Lazare, and would probably end at Ronan’s death. But, as I began working the concepts further, I realized that wouldn’t work, and within a few months of beginning the project, I started to call it “The Abomination”, due to it warping far, far out of my control. These days, a LOT of what I’ve written ties back to those original ideas for The Abomination, and a lot of the concepts used in Between the Waves started there (Printing Press being one of them.) 

my thoughts: THE BOIS. THE B O I S. My favorite totally canon ship. The two of them really do balance one another out really well, they’re the classic fire and ice combo (though, underneath Lazare’s ice, there’s fire, and underneath Ronan’s fire, there’s ice.) Ronan’s character arc begins and ends with Lazare, and there’s SOMETHING about him going to Paris with this idea of “Okay, I’m going to kill the Comte, take back my lands, and dance on the ashes of the old world” and then meeting Lazare and being like “...okay, new plan: Save this fucking disaster from himself”. There’s something about his arc going from hatred to love. And could this be done with Olympe as well? Yes, it could be. But, for me, I like the full circle happening with Lazare, since he did start this. Both of them have a Hell of a lot to learn from one another, there’s going to be a lot of grappling when it comes to establishing equality, a lot of sniping back and forth, but I also do think, legitimately, they could make one another happy. (And, Hell, even if they didn’t, that doesn’t mean it can’t be a fun ride.) 

What makes me happy about them: The general idea that the Comte de Peyrol, a cold-hearted, professional guard dog who probably never really even THOUGHT of love as something he could have, could melt for this revolutionary, no matter HOW slightly, enough to risk everything for a relationship. That, despite everything else, Ronan could love him back. That, even if only for a few months, they got to be HAPPY with one another. 

What makes me sad about them: The ending. The things that were left unresolved. It’s doubly sad in, say, the PLP universe, where Lazare really DID love Ronan with his entire heart, but Ronan really died without KNOWING the extent that Lazare was invested. And that Lazare will have to live the rest of his life, HOWEVER long that will be, thinking of how he destroyed the one person who ever gave a damn about him outside of what he could do for them. 

things done in fanfic that annoys me: Given that the fandom mainly consists of me + the various friends I’ve kidnapped into the fandom, there really ISN’T all that much? Like, I feel like the 1789 fandom, as a whole, is a fairly chill space (knock on wood.)

things I look for in fanfic: Existing is a lovely start. 

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: I don’t MIND Camille/Ronan, Ronan/Olympe, or Olympe/Lazare. They aren’t FAVORITES in the same way, but I would probably read fanfic for it. And I have read fanfic for Ronan/Robespierre as well. 

My happily ever after for them: Lazare chooses to leave the Army after realizing that it’s destroying him, the two of them escape the worst of the Revolution together and go away, either to London or America (I. Doubt. That someone as high profile as Lazare could slink away to the country like a ton of other aristocrats did.) They live together more or less openly, Lazare deciding against taking a wife for convenience’s sake, and society is left to deal. In theory, they keep two separate bedrooms, but in practice? Yeah, that peasant boy is spending all his time in Lazare’s bed, and Lazare has no complaints. 

who is the big spoon/little spoon: See, I WANT to say “Lazare”. This has been my official stance for YEARS. That Ronan routinely cuddles up to Lazare (who had a very difficult time admitting that he, in fact, needs cuddles), and Lazare pulls his arm over him, protecting him, since we KNOW that Lazare tends to feel a deep sense of duty re: protecting the things most important to him, whether that’s the Crown or Ronan. BUT CONSIDER. BIG SPOON RONAN attacking from behind and Lazare getting to feel safe and secure for ONCE. 

what is their favorite non-sexual activity: Ronan likes Lazare reading to him. Lazare has a very warm, smooth voice, when he isn’t barking out orders. Ronan loves getting to cuddle against his shoulder or on his lap, Lazare stroking his hair with one hand and holding the book in the other, letting his voice flow over him. Lazare will sometimes (gently) chastise him for not listening to a single word he says, but it’s worth it to see Ronan at peace (and, in the case of at least a few of the works, it isn’t a particularly great loss, anyway.) 

002 | Orléans

How I feel about this character: Thotty, ambitious bastard who should NOT be this charismatic and yet somehow IS. Also right for a solid 60% of the musical. I’m trying to articulate all my thoughts but they are just variations on “SON” and “PROBLEMATIC”. 

All the people I ship romantically with this character: Margrid Arnaud. Arnaud, Margrid. The sister of Marie Antoinette. Street Gremlin. I can KIND of see Antoinette, in a very, very odd way. Less “I love you so now I’m going to destroy you” like the Hungarian did, more “We were friends, there were Undercurrents to it, Things happened to make them have some mutually hurt feelings, and being stung like that set up this Mood for things later on.” 

My non-romantic OTP for this character: I’m actually really interested in Louis & Orléans, as a relationship. Like, they were COUSINS. Something went deeply, deeply bad in their relationship at some point, and it totally ruined both of their lives. In another life, they might have been closer, but, with a throne between them....there was really no other way for it to end. 

My unpopular opinion about this character: The LOVELY thing about a fandom that consists of, like, three people on a good day is that IT’S MY SANDBOX. But, one thing that I do think is that it wasn’t really a straightforward Mnaipulator-Manipulatee relationship with Margrid. She signed on knowing fully well that she would get her hands dirty, Orléans TOLD her as much, and she wanted it, at the time. It didn’t really benefit him to conceal what they would be doing. The two of them just happened to drift to two different places over time. I’ve seen a certain....tendency to baby Margrid over her choices, because she DOES have a traumatic backstory, but...she can still be rather reprehensible as a human being herself. In the early stages of the musical, HE’D be more likely to hold her back from doing something awful as opposed to vice versa. I also do think that...he didn’t GO OUT intending to supplant Antoinette. That was formed after years of seeing her bungle ruling the country. You can even see it in M cast when Antoinette turns down Rohan’s attempt to make nice, where he has this very distinct “Oh....she DIDN’T....she did” face. That isn’t the face of someone who’s THRILLED that things are going according to plan, that’s the face of someone who’s realizing that there’s only one way for this to happen and for France to remain in one piece, and it’s for him to take the throne. 

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: The problem with Orléans, as a character, is that at least in the Toho production, I DO think he’s fairly well done. It’s hard for me to REALLY see....what I wish could have happened. Because you kind of realize that there were only ever a few ways for this to end, and as the musical progresses, the available options just get narrower and narrower. It isn’t GOOD, but like....you UNDERSTAND how it happens. I do wish that he had more scenes with Margrid, obviously from a self-indulgent ship perspective. Not even in terms of “canonical makeout session” (since I almost feel like a canonical makeout session would ruin it), but in terms of him finding out that Marie was her sister and that THAT was where he went wrong, but also....I’m not sure how MUCH it would have ended, and there’s something to be said for the tragedy of him just never KNOWING why she betrayed him. That hurt, furious look on his face as he’s led away really is probably the best place to end their relationship on. I would have loved to have seen their second meeting, after Hébert convinced her to take the job, since it would have REALLY given a ton of groundwork for their working partnership and would have given them the chance to discuss their kind of disastrous first meeting.  Obviously, I would hope that he gets his head screwed on properly and he runs off with Margrid to America, where they end up living peacefully for many years and having children who are spoiled absolutely rotten, along with his other, legitimate children, who also flee to America. Philippe, being himself, naturally ingratiates himself to the new country, becoming very active in politics, and upon his summoning of his dear friend the Chevalier de Saint-Georges to America, the cause of Abolitionism is given a massive head start. It isn’t entirely France....or London, where Philippe’s heart will always lie, but it’s a nice existence, and his ego is suitably stroked by the American fascination with royalty. (He and Laz still have at least one near-duel, which is halted by their respective significant others.) 

my OTP: Morléans. Shockingly. 

my cross over ship: Never 5get @lochley fucking selling me on Marie/Olympe/Orléans. 

a headcanon fact: Part of why he has his ongoing snipefest with Fersen is that he’s bitter that Fersen was able to fight in the American Revolution while, in his case, after the Royal Family tossed him to the wolves after the Battle of Ushant, he was forced to remain in France and sit it out, and someone as active as Orléans could barely STAND it. (Also, along with Ronan, has SOME form of ADHD. He has a lot of plans, and one LARGER plan, but when it comes to things outside of that one larger plan? Yeah, he scurries around, chases after whatever seems good in the moment. It drives Margrid up a WALL.)