#which is slightly different (but only in terms of technicalities) as a case of Torturer As Witness

[nebulouscoffee]

That scene between Tuvok and B'Elanna from 'Resistance' wrecks me actually... It's such a great moment for both characters (and actors, Tim Russ is SO underrated ugh) which highlights the differences between the two of them so well- yet, ultimately shows that under certain circumstances (in this case, torture) the distinctions between people... don't really matter. In an episode full of political violence, this moment is so significant, and I don't even really think I have the smarts to articulate why but I'll try lol.

TORRES: We told you already. We don't know anything about the Resistance.  AUGRIS: I've heard that many times, from many people. Take him.  (The forcefield is lowered, and Torres grabs the guard that steps through.)  TUVOK: Lieutenant, stop! That will not help either of us.  AUGRIS: He's right.

Everything about the way this scene (and the final shot where she's shoved back into her seat) is framed makes B'Elanna appear small, helpless- and embarrassed at her own helplessness- in that cell. We see her fidgeting, unable to sit down, constantly trying to break out or improvise her way out of the situation (she gets electrocuted earlier while trying to tamper with the circuitry)- it makes me wonder whether Tuvok was chosen to be tortured not because they believed he was more likely to have information, but because B'Elanna was more likely to be demoralised watching helplessly as he's dragged off. Augris's line implies that he's "broken" a great many people in the past; a tactic to instil fear and a helpless sense of inevitability in them both (torture doesn't work as a reliable way of extracting information; this is stated in dialogue in other Trek episodes such as 'Chain of Command' so the assertion here is at least not that- but what it does do is demoralise the public involved in resistances like this one.)

Later, B'Elanna is still trying to escape (do the guards know she's doing this? Are they just not intervening?) and she hears him screaming. Tuvok is someone who considers letting others witness him lose control over his exterior a huge (indecent, violating, humiliating) vulnerability, and the fact that he's the one being tortured is Not Insignificant in this context but like- it could've been the other way round. And B'Elanna knows that. It could've been her, and perhaps a small, scared part of her is relieved that it wasn't her, which is an awful way to feel (and if there's one thing B'Elanna hates, it's feeling like a coward). Also- the sheer violation of this, for B'Elanna to have witnessed him in this state, against her will- to later see him bloodied and weakened and flung in a cell, to have heard him screaming in pain- without his consent, knowing she can never un-witness it, knowing it wasn't her fault but still being put in such a situation where she has now played that role... Does this experience forcibly rewrite their respective conceptualisations of each other? Was Tuvok even thinking of her- somewhere outside, listening, worrying, blaming herself, fearing for herself, feeling ashamed, feeling so aware of him and her and the shared humiliation of this- when he was in there? Did seeing her upon coming back out change things? Could it ever change things? Did her presence, even as an outsider, whose memories of this event will always be (visually, at least) the constructs of her imagination- somehow make what happened in there real? Does her role as witness- and her memory thereby carrying some sort of legitimisation of what happened to him now, however warped and coloured by her own perspective and fears and embarrassment- make things better for Tuvok? Does it make things worse? Would he rather have endured this in secret? Would it have been better if she were a total stranger? Would it have been worse? And does any of this even matter when, for a moment, your life (your personhood, your goals, your presence) was completely reduced to what you "must endure"?

AUGRIS: We don't have to ask your friend any more questions, if you give us the answers.  TORRES: I told you I don't.  (Torres stops herself from hitting Augris, who leaves.)  TORRES: I'm sorry. I guess I always assumed that Vulcans didn't feel pain like the rest of us. That you were able to block it out somehow. Until I heard. Was that you I heard?

And the way B'Elanna's voice breaks when she asks this, as if she was still somehow hoping the answer would be no... There are complexities to this which again I don't feel like I'm smart enough to articulate, but like- yes, B'Elanna would like to hear that it wasn't him because that would mean her friend wasn't tortured "that badly", he wasn't put through "enough pain" to scream that way, and it's easier and more comfortable to think of violence (and violation) as something you can rank on a scale, and the lower on it Tuvok's experience ranks, the better! the more easy it will be for them to "move past" this! - but also, there's this element of "I want the answer to be no because that would mean I would not have been a participant in your humiliation, just some stranger's whose voice I don't have a face to put to, which is much better than having to know what you (my friend, my colleague, my respected senior officer, someone I will have to see every day on the bridge, someone I know prefers to keep vulnerabilities hidden even deeper than anyone else I know) sound like when you scream. But also... it doesn't really matter, does it...? Whatever he says, there always was still a moment- however brief- where B'Elanna heard a man screaming in agony, and thought it could've been Tuvok. And in that moment, that possibility was created. Now, it will always exist. That moment will always have happened. It will always have done something to her. It will always exist between them; an ugly, uncomfortable bond.

And this is getting into even more things I'm not smart enough to articulate, but like- it's pretty significant to me that B'Elanna is one of the few characters who never actually tries to poke Tuvok into Doing An Emotion, even normally. She doesn't consider trying to get him to crack an entertaining pastime, unlike others (and I'm sure her experiences of feeling like an outsider- always- feeling Very Visible As Klingon, play a role in this- "all they ever saw was my forehead" does not lend itself so kindly to "let's see if we can get Mr. Vulcan to smile", "why, Tuvok, it seems you've been corrupted by Human (read: default) rituals after all!"- it's a light-hearted joke for many, sure, but what if Tuvok genuinely considers the idea of smiling in the presence of others reflective of a humiliating loss of control and deeply debasing?) I think it's pretty clear from canon that he's just being himself; he's not trying to be a killjoy or trying to be mean, he's just Vulcan. And this is one of the few moments in Trek I can think of when a Vulcan's perceived "control" over their emotions is not connected with their reluctance to laugh or cry or say something sentimental, but... this. B'Elanna is shocked, she's horrified, she demands an explanation as to how he can possibly go through something like this and not feel the desire to "fight back" in a way she understands- and the way she cannot grant him the pretence of not having witnessed, here, the way she can't just shove this in a box, pretend she never heard, because she's just so fundamentally honest- and Tuvok (who is also so fundamentally honest), in a painful moment of openness, tells her exactly what his reasoning is. He lets her see. He lets her hear; on his own terms. He wants for her to understand (for her to witness?) his (very Vulcan) distinction between resistance and endurance; his understanding of endurance as its own form of resistance. Idk it's such a quietly powerful and like- devastating- moment for me... So many people try, over and over, thoughout the show, to get Tuvok to break his Vulcansona- try to make him smile, make him say tender things, make him get irritated- just to see if they can do it. Just to see if he'll ever crack. I bet B'Elanna wishes she never had.

[psychicbarbarianinfluencer]

How would you rank every main villain in the movies from favourite to least favourite?

So all of these guys

And before anyone says anything Yes Gristle and Crimp do count as they served as antagonists with a fair share of screen time for the majority of a movie each so they deffo count as main villains.

My ranking would go

Chef. because I loved how sadistic and bitter she acted and how manipulative she could be it made her a very fun villain plus in terms of what was implied her past list of crimes are nightmare fuel ( like the cook book she wrote about trolls )

Barb. even tho I complained about her before I do love her personality wise I just find her forgiveness very forced and unearned in the story.

Gristle. he's a lovable idiot for sure but his heart is in the right place and I feel the first movie did a good job of keeping him in a position where he was technically a villain for most of the movie But there was enough decent sides to him shown that his redemption at the end didn't feel forced or unearned in my opinion unlike barbs, plus him and Bridget are cute af.

Velvet and veneer. I lumped these two together since I see them as a packaged deal lol neither of them would be much if they were a solo villain but together they make a very fun duo.

Crimp. I don't really care for her to be honest personality wise I find her to be self pitying but not really the sort of character I can actually feel any pity for since she's just a villainous henchmen Who goes along with her bosses evil plan and then expects sympathy when they are slightly mean to her like girl you didn't extend the same sympathy to Floyd And he didn't actually have a choice in being around Velvet and veneer unlike you, to be honest her forgiveness at the end is another case where I think its forced and unearned as she deserved punishment. And honestly I don't see why the movie thinks she should be seen as sympathetic? when it seems like she went along with floyd's kidnapping and torture just because she didn't wanna have to find a new job which honestly makes her a pretty crappy person.

Creek. I actually don't hate his character but I don't love him either and I do find him to be the most poorly written out of all of the main villains as he basically feels like he bounces back and fourth between being two different characters As he has the motivations and set up of a sympathetic reluctant villain who would normally feel remorse and undergo a redemption by the end of the film but he has the personality of a sadistic henchmen whose only motivation is that he enjoys hurting people So it just feels like the writing was all over the place for him to be honest.

[meanautisticenbian]

Fuck it, I'm gonna dissect all the bullshit in that one Lilith post bit by bit

TW// Lilith hate, victim blaming, abuse, cult mention, ableism towards Autistic people, sexualization of minors (briefly mentioned)

I'll be putting my text in bold just in case it's hard to distinguish between the pictures and my commentary

Here's the post I'm referring to in case you're curious

Moving on and starting with this bit

People pay attention to Eda all the damn time, she's literally one of the main characters. Funny how you only mention tik tok and nothing else. Is that the only other social media you have? Because fans on different social media platforms act much differently; on IG and Reddit stuff like the sexualization of minors and fucking ODALIA AND ALADOR STANS are normalized, where everywhere else it's pretty much universally agreed that that stuff is bad. I don't know a lot about what toh Tik Tok is like just because I don't usually go on tik tok, but even if it is like this, it's not the same for the rest of the fandom. A lot of the fandom still hates Lilith and blames her for her abuse and not being able to leave

You say that like she's a bad person, she's really not. The curse she placed on Eda wasn't intended to be permanent and probably wasn't even supposed to take the effects that it did. She was most likely scammed. I mean look at how she reacts when Eda transforms for the first time. She also feels guilty enough about it to throw herself into an abusive situation and spend almost her whole life trying to make up for it. Lastly, yes she hurt Luz, but let's not forget that Belos threatened her life upon Eda's capture and Lilith was running out of time and had no other option. Obviously what she did was wrong but she's not the real monster here.

"I do like Lilith" this entire essay says otherwise.

Literally none of us ignore any of the bad shit she's done, stop lying about us.

Yes, Lilith did mock her for her curse, which was messed up, but we don't actually know for sure if the curse is basically canonically a disability in that world, so if that's the case then for now it's technically not ableism until we get confirmation otherwise.

"it was an accident and I forgive Lilith" no you fucking don't. First of all this entire essay is you talking about how evil you think she is and secondly, if it really was as bad as you view it, you wouldn't be that forgiving.

Ah yes the victim blaming, the one thing that almost everyone does to Lilith and barely anyone talks about.

There is literally not a single Lilith stan out there who blames Eda for getting cursed. You're just mad that your victim blaming towards Lilith got called out so you silence us by lying about how we do the same thing to Eda.

No one is making Eda out to be the villain either, the only example I can find of this is a few fanfics where she treats Lilith a lot more harshly than she should, and even then, scenes like that are written in a positive light as if you're supposed to be on Eda's side, so with that in mind, the writers of these fics are clearly not even Lilith stans. In terms of how actual stans treat Eda, the worst they do is make her slightly ignorant of Lilith's trauma, kinda like the fandom, minus the "slightly", until she grows as a character and learns to see the red flags. If that's the problem you're talking about, then breaking news: Eda's not perfect either. She has flaws too just like literally everyone else in the show and people are allowed to write about them

Tell me the truth: are people making playlists for Lilith that include a lot of sad and angry songs because she's not a happy person anyway so there wouldn't be a point in having any happy songs, or are they making "trauma" playlists? There's a difference

I'm sorry, are you trying to tell me that people recognizing Lilith's trauma is victim blaming Eda? That's not how it works sweetycakes

There is far more Eda angst out there than there is for Lilith, where are you finding so much Lilith angst? LILITH is the one who's traumas are being ignored while Eda's gets all the attention. You're acting like one of those white cis gays on twitter who see black people talking about the anti blackness they experience daily and accuse them of being homophobic because "there is so much homophobia in the world and they still manage to make it all about race".

No one is saying that Lilith has worse trauma, we're only saying that her's is also severe and that it definitely exists. Also funny how you're allowed to be mad at us for comparing Lilith and Eda's trauma (once again lying about us), then you go on to do the exact same thing and say that EDA'S trauma is worse. Even if, hypothetically speaking, Eda did have it worse, that doesn't mean Lilith doesn't have the right to be traumatized. Both of them have trauma, both should be recognized. Also, Lilith had far more going on in her life than just the guilt of her actions, she was was implied to have been psychologically and maybe physically abused, and was probably even tortured. Stop ignoring all the red flags and condemn the actual abuser (Belos) before you criticize anything the abused (Lilith) has done.

We're not making everything about Lilith, like shut up.

Please don't say that autistic people "have autism", it implies that it's something that can be removed from us. For example: you don't say "a person with blackness" when referring to black people or "a woman with homosexuality" when referring to Lesbians.

Oh yeah I'm also autistic so here are MY thoughts

Amity and Lilith are not antagonists anymore, hcing them as Autistic is not villainizing autism.

The autistic Lilith headcanon was made by autistic fans, allistics only latched onto it because they either wanted to be supportive or they saw that she actually had a lot of autistic traits

You're not the only autistic person alive, just because you're not like Lilith or Amity doesn't mean none of us are or they're not autistic. I mean, I know I am

You're not fun or funny

"not all Autistic people are like this" remember that line, dear readers

Actually, I prefer the autistic villain trope MUCH more than the grown ass autistic adult that acts like a five year old trope. At least we'd have less stereotypes associated with us.

Autism is not supposed to be portrayed in only fun and happy characters, that is literally the epitome of stereotyping and infantilizing. You literally just said that not all autistic people are the same, doesn't this count as being all the same? Does this mean I don't exist anymore? Am I just not autistic? Are you even aware that a flat affect or monotone voice is literally a very common autistic trait? You can't just say that we're stereotyping autistics and then just go on to stereotype us, like what the fuck are you even on? Is it only ok when you do it?

Amity is not edgy for fuck's sake

Literally no one is headcanoning Lilith or Amity as autistic because they're mean, we headcanon them as autistic because they actually show traits of it

Oh, our harmless headcanons are making you feel uncomfortable because they don't fit into the stereotypes you made up about us? Good to know our plan is working I guess

Last thing I wanna say regarding this post as a whole: why are you acting like liking Lilith and feeling sympathy for her is a bad thing? If you find this then don't say "I don't think that's a bad thing", answer HONESTLY

Well that's all I have for now, thank you for reading, I need to go to bed soon

[shezzaspeare]

Pilot/Episode 1: Patching Things Up With Pastiche & Fanfiction

Hi, hello, and the wait is finally over! My name is Blessie, and welcome to the first episode webisode log installation I've decided to call these things an episode for now because why not also let me know what do you actually call these things episode of The Science of Fanfiction, where we take a closer look into our beloved works of fanon because we've all got plenty of time to spare till Season 5. Before I continue, I would like to thank everyone who's liked and reblogged the last few posts before this one. It means a lot for a small and growing Tumblr user like me, and your support is something I cherish more than my modules. You guys rock!

Anyways, like with most things, we have to talk about the boring and bland stuff before we proceed with the fun stuff. For today, we are going to settle the difference between a couple of things: first being the confusion between pastiche and fanfiction; then the distinctions between tropes, clichés, and stereotypes, which we'll tackle the next time. It's important for us to establish their true meanings in order for us to really understand what fanfiction truly is, even if it's merely just a work done for the fandom. I know – it's boring, it's something that shouldn't be expounded that much, but I believe that all forms of writing (unless it's plagiarised) is a work of art — and fanfiction is not something we always talk about. I hope that by the end of this, you'll learn about what they really are as much as I did. Let's begin to talk about the—

[Image ID: A flashback of John (left) and Sherlock (right) finding an elephant (not in the screen) in a room in The Sign of Three. End ID]

. . . I did say that this GIF will always have to make an appearance here, didn't I?

So, just as with Sherlock Holmes, all other works of fiction have their own pastiches and fanfiction, and many more original works out there have taken inspiration from them to create their own books. Although they've gained popular attention, this will not be possible if they did not have taken inspiration from the materials their writers had at the time.

[Image ID: Various actors as Dracula. Jeremy Brett in 'Dracula' (1978) (upper left), Adam Sandler in a voice role for 'Hotel Transylvania' (2012) (upper right), Gary Oldman in 'Dracula' (1992) (lower left), and Bela Lugosi in 'Dracula' (1933) (lower right). End ID]

For instance, Bram Stoker's 'Dracula' (the second most adapted literary character, next to the consulting detective himself) has been portrayed on the screen over 200 times — from Gary Oldman to Adam Sandler — and has spawned off numerous books and pastiches of its own such as Stephen King's 'Salem's Lot'. Its cultural impact served as a basis of how we see vampires today, since some characteristics of the Count were made by Stoker himself. Stoker's creation is the brainchild of his predecessors and inspirations.

[Image ID: Vlad the Impaler (left) and a book cover of 'Carmilla' by J. Sheridan Le Fanu (right). End ID]

Other than the ongoing hysteria over dead back then and the existing vampire folklore, Stoker also took his inspirations from the published books on vampires he had at hand. He is said to have taken inspiration from Vlad the Impaler, a Romanian national hero known allegedly for having impalement as his favourite method of torture. He is also said to have been inspired by the J. Sheridan Le Fanu's 'Carmilla', a Gothic lesbian vampire novella that predates Dracula by 26 years. I could go on, but hey, we're going back to Sherlock Holmes now before I deviate any further. However, if you want to know about Dracula's literary origins, I suggest you watch Ted-ED's videos about the subject matter such as this one or this one.

Very much like Stoker, ACD didn't just conceive Holmes on his own. He took his own inspirations from what he had available at the time.

[Image ID: Dr Joseph Bell (left) and Edgar Allan Poe (right). End ID]

As we all know, ACD's biggest inspiration for Sherlock Holmes was one of his teachers at the Edinburgh University, Joseph Bell. He was famous for his powers of deduction, and he was also interested in forensic science — both characteristics which Holmes is greatly known for. He also drew inspiration from Edgar Allan Poe's sleuth, C. Auguste Dupin ('The Purloined Letter' & 'Murders in Rue Morgue'). As ACD himself has said at the 1909 Poe Centennial Dinner: "Where was the detective story until Poe breathed life into it?" Some other writers he took after are Wilkie Collins, Émile Gaboriau, and Oscar Wilde.

Now, what does this say about us Sherlockians/Holmesians (depending if you're the coloniser or the one that was colonised)? Basically, ACD laid the groundwork for us with Sherlock Holmes: his humble abode 221B that he shares with his flatmate Dr. John Watson, his adventures, memoirs, return, casebook, last vow, and all that. Now that we have this material at hand, we can now make our own versions, takes, or even original stories featuring the characters of the Canon. Our inspiration comes from ACD's Sherlock Holmes, and we now get the chance to make our very own stories/conspiracy theories about them.

As I have mentioned earlier, Sherlock Holmes is the most adapted literary character in history. He has been adapted in over 200 films, more than 750 radio adaptations, a ballet, 2 musicals; and he's become a mouse, a woman, a dog, even a bloody cucumber. On top of all that are numerous pastiches and fanfics, and finally, we have arrived at the main topic of our post!

Fanfiction and pastiche are often confused together since they have three common elements: they take after the original work, they usually use the characters in that original work, and more often than not do are they set in that same time frame/period or not long after that. The common misconception is that pastiche are printed fanfiction, which is only partly true. While pastiche is definitely fanfiction in some ways and vice versa, there are fanfictions out there that aren't necessarily classified as pastiche that have been published.

Let's get on with our definition of terms to clear up the confusion a little more. Pastiche, according to Literary Terms, is:

. . . a creative work that imitates another author or genre. It’s a way of paying respect, or honor, to great works of the past. Pastiche differs from parody in that pastiche isn’t making fun of the works it imitates – however, the tone of pastiche is often humorous.

A good example of a pastiche is Sophie Hannah's 'The Monogram Murders', which is her take from Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot.

[Image ID: A book cover of 'The Monogram Murders' by Sophie Hannah. End ID.]

Although this was a commission from Christie's estate, it's still considered as a pastiche as:

It's takes after Christie's writing style;

It is set in the early years of Poirot's career (1929), which is still within the time frame that the author wrote him in;

It features Poirot and;

It pays respect to Christie in a sense that it stays true to her (Christie) characters and way of storytelling.

Meanwhile, our good and slightly unreliable friend Wikipedia defines fanfiction as:

. . . is fictional writing written by fans, commonly of an existing work of fiction. The author uses copyrighted characters, settings, or other intellectual property from the original creator(s) as a basis for their writing. [It] ranges from a couple of sentences to an entire novel, and fans can both keep the creator's characters and settings and/or add their own. [ . . . ] [It] can be based on any fictional (and sometimes non-fictional) subject. Common bases for fanfiction include novels, movies, bands, and video games.

To avoid any copyright infringement issues if I ever use a popular fanfic in the fandom, we'll use my (unfinished and unpopular) Sherlock Wattpad fic, 'Play Pretend'. You can read it here.

[Image ID: The second self-made book cover of Blessie/shezzaspeare's 'Play Pretend'. End ID]

Why is it considered a fanfiction and not a pastiche?

It takes after an adaptation of Sherlock Holmes (BBC Sherlock) which is a TV show, not the ACD canon itself;

The author (in this case myself) uses her own writing style and does not take after the original story's style;

Although it is set well in modern-day London and after Season 4, it also features scenes decades before the actual fanfic is set and outside of London;

I added a considerable number of characters, i.e. siblings to canon characters;

I had my own take some of the canon characters' personality especially after the events of Sherrinford;

It is written by a fan – myself. It is a work of fan labour and;

It is only a work of fanon, and isn't likely going to be considered by the show as its writing style is different from the actual show.

To put it simply, you can have more freedom in a fanfiction as it does not necessarily restrict you to follow or take after the original stories. Alternate universes (AUs) such as Unilock and Teenlock are perfect examples of this thing.

So can a pastiche be classified as fanfiction? Yes.

Can a fanfiction be classified as pastiche? Not all the time.

What's the difference? While yes, they share the basics, pastiche is technically leans more onto the original work's fundamental elements whereas fanfiction is a broader range of works inspired by the original work but doesn't necessarily follow all or any of its fundamental elements.

In order for us to understand it more, I'll give another example.

[Image ID: The 'Enola Holmes' title card (upper left) and Henry Cavill as its Sherlock holmes (upper right). Underneath it is a a scene from the opening titles of BBC Sherlock (lower left) and Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock Holmes in A Scandal In Belgravia. (lower right) End ID]

Most of you are familiar with these 21st-century adaptations of Holmes: the 2020 adaptation of Nancy Springer's Enola Holmes books and BBC Sherlock, which needs no further explanation – but for those who don't know, it's basically Holmes and the gang if they were alive today. I specifically chose these two as they are the ones that I believe would get my points across best. Though both are considered as wonderful pastiches with a well-rounded cast and awesome visuals, if we break them down bit by bit, we'll see which one is more of a pastiche and which one is more of a fanfic. (Yes, I know they're both screen adaptations. However, as Enola Holmes was based on the books and BBC Sherlock's fanfiction has the show's scenes written out in most fanfics, hear me out.)

They share these characteristics of a pastiche:

They feature characters from the Canon (Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, and Lestrade);

They have additional characters added by the writers (Including but not limited to Molly Hooper, Eurus Holmes, and Philip Anderson for BBC Sherlock while Enola Holmes has Lord Tewkesbury, Eudoria Holmes, and Enola herself) and;

They pay respect to the original Canon as their stories are based on the cases (BBC Sherlock) or simply what was going on around them (Enola Holmes).

They also share these characteristics of a fanfic:

They are made by enthusiasts of Sherlock Holmes (Moffat has called himself and Mark Gatiss 'Sherlock Holmes geeks', while Nancy Springer's Enola Holmes books are not just one or two but six);

They follow a common trope (we'll discuss these tropes in the following episodes) that goes on in the fandom (Sherlock's Sister & Modern AU)

They are based on a fictional subject (Sherlock Holmes);

They used characters and story elements that are copyrighted by the author/author's estate (fun fact: prior to the production of Enola Holmes, the Conan Doyle Estate filed a lawsuit against Springer & Netflix over Sherlock's emotions since he was more 'sympathetic' than he was portrayed in the Canon – this was later dismissed by both parties) and;

Their writing styles don't necessarily follow ACD's.

Despite these similarities, there are very obvious differences between the two that separates them from being a pastiche and a fanfiction.

Enola Holmes embodies pastiche more as it doesn't stray far away from the original elements of the Canon. It's still set in Victorian England. While Springer added characters of her own and definitely twisted the Canon to suit her series, she didn't necessarily place them out of the social construct that was going on around the characters. It follows ACD's writing style more as Enola Holmes' setting still remains within the Canon's original setting.

Meanwhile, we can safely say that BBC Sherlock is a work of fanfiction. While it did give us The Abominable Bride, the main series focused on Holmes and Watson in 21st-century England, which is drastically different from Victorian England. There are phones, black cabs, and cellphones — things which ACD Sherlock Holmes doesn't have. It also diverted from the Canon in the characters themselves, which is mostly seen in the names: Henry Baskerville became Henry Knight, Charles Augustus Milverton became Charles Augustus Magnussen, the H in Dr Watson's name stood for Hamish and Sherlock's full name is actually William Sherlock Scott Holmes. They also changed the personalities of some Canon characters: Mary was actually an ex-assassin, Mrs Hudson was an exotic dancer who drove a kick-ass sports car, Irene Adler is a dominatrix, to name a few. Moffat and Gatiss created a world of their own featuring the characters of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, which is really what most of us fanfic writers do with Mofftiss' rendition of Holmes.

In conclusion: while pastiche and fanfiction could have been the same thing, they're actually not. There's more to them that just printed fanfiction or pastiche e-books, and we all should take some time to see and observe them in a closer perspective.

And that's it for our first episode! I hope you enjoyed it. It was a lot fun for me to write this, especially now that I'm only starting. I would also like to note that while intensive research has been done on this series, some parts of this comes from my own observation and opinion, which may vary from yours. I am very much open to criticism, as long as it is said in a polite and civil manner. I'm still young, and to be educated as I go is something that could really help me with this series.

Like and reblog this you like it. It helps out a lot. Be sure to follow me as well and the tags underneath if you want to see more of TSoF.

See you soon!

Blessie presents – The Science of Fanfiction: A Study In Sherlock (2021) • Next

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SOURCES • Pinterest, Google Images, Wikipedia, Literary Terms, Conan Doyle Estate, Definitions, The Sherlock Holmes Book, and Google

[devilrising]

Fallen Draco, Pt. 14

This story is following a prompt set by @mymindsmadness

Summary: AU where Draco is a fallen angel, and the way he gets his wings back is by guiding Harry in defeating Voldemort, but it all goes wrong when Draco starts falling in love with Harry.

Word Count (Part 14): 3,216

Word Count (Total): 45,312

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Mentions of abuse/torture (non-graphic), graphic injuries

***

26th April, 1998

It turns out Harry did have a plan. Multiple, actually. After that dinner with Hermione and Ron two days ago, Harry firecalled someone who he trusted to rescue Mother from the Ministry. Once Harry told me that the rescue team was on its way back to Grimmauld, I couldn’t stop pacing around the drawing room. But now, as Apparition cracks on the doorstep, the only thing I feel is dread. What if something's gone wrong? What if she’s terribly hurt? Harry glances over at me with reassuring green eyes, before rising from his dining room chair and answering the door.

“Right this way- over here!” Harry’s voice echoes down the corridor, bouncing off the walls. I clench my hands into fists trying to calm my nerves. Giving up immediately, I jump up from the leather sofa I was reading on, and walk to the mirror. Gazing into my reflection I sigh heavily. I pull my wand out of my pocket and wave it over my entire body. My wings slowly fade out of sight, as do the remainders of my cuts and bruises. Turning and leaving the dining room, I walk as slowly as I can towards Harry. Slowly ends up being slightly faster than normal, but it’s better than sprinting which is what I feel like doing.

“Lay her down here,” Harry is saying when I arrive at his side in the kitchen, next to a couch that’s been transfigured into a small bed.

“How is she?!” I ask Harry, my voice raised above normal pitch with worry.

Harry turns to look at me and places a hand on my shoulder. “I can’t be certain.”

I swallow hard and pull him into a hug. My head rests on his shoulder as his arms wind around my back.

“Thank you,” Harry nods to the wizard carrying Mother, a stranger to me. The man nods back and walks out into the corridor. Harry releases me from his arms and I finally turn and look at her.

Mother’s pale skin has turned black, blue, and purple with bruises. Red lines run down her skin in the form of cuts and blood trails. I feel the warmth drain from my face as I take in a particularly harsh graze down her left side where the skin looks like it’s been peeled away and stuck back on as an afterthought. Suppressing a shudder at her delicate figure being torn apart, I pivot around to face Harry.

“We need to help her.” There is no room for argument in my voice. This has to be done and I want to be a part of it.

“Let’s get started then,” comes Harry’s response. No questions asked. He knows how much this means to me.

Harry summons a stack of books from somewhere in the house, and I listen as they thud the whole way down to the basement—no doubt running into furniture and knocking things over. Harry catches them with a swift hand and puts them on the rounded end of the bed, where they wobble for a while before settling in. I scan the titles quickly before finding one about testing for internal damage. The book is a massive volume in a red cover with a white cross on the front. Harry scoffs at it for a second, the colours and symbol clearly meaning something to him. Opening the cover, I search for an index on the front page. I find a section called “Magical Scans for Internal Bleeding” and flick to the referenced page.

A wall of text and nothing else is there, and I swallow hard.

“Maybe we will need Hermione…” I whisper. “I don’t understand a word of this.”

Harry takes the book from my hand and runs his eyes over the paragraphs. “Neither,” he confesses. “But hold on… I can fix that.” I watch as Harry pulls his wand from his pocket again and waves it over the book. The words rearrange themselves and shorten, the entire book thinning out slightly by the time he’s done.

“There we go…” he murmurs. “Now we can read it.”

He hands me the book back and my jaw drops. Harry has essentially translated it out of scientific-medical terms into something we can easily understand. Overwhelmed by the thought, I press a firm kiss to his mouth before reading over the page. Harry wraps an arm around my waist as I read, kissing my forehead every so often.

“Okay… so we need to cast this spell and then write down the results so we can see how her body and magic are functioning,” I tell Harry. I hold up the book so he can read the spell’s incantation and see the required wand movement. “I probably won’t be able to cast it, so can you do it?”

“I can give it a go,” Harry says with a nod. He turns to a pillow not being used and transfigures it into a small mouse. I quickly freeze it in place so it can’t scuttle around and ruin the bed. Trust Harry not to think of something like that.

“Salutem taxationem,” he enchants, flicking his wand to form a cross in a circle. I watch with bated breath as numbers and words rise above the mouse, detailing everything from heart rate and blood pressure to magical signature—in this case a zero, because it’s a mouse.

I hug Harry tightly before reversing his transfiguration. “I guess I’ll scribe then,” I suggest. He nods and turns to face Mother.

“You’re sure about this?” He asks. “What if something goes wrong, it’s not like I’m a professional.”

“Then we’ll take her to St Mungo’s, I just don’t want to risk something else happening to her.” I can’t allow her to be taken again. Not when I have her now and have already failed her.

“Sure,” he replies. “Okay then,” he murmurs under his breath. I summon a muggle pen and a notebook like Hermione’s, getting ready to take down information.

“Salutem taxationem.” Harry casts the spell over Mother and we watch as the numbers and words rise up once again. I immediately start moving the pen over the paper, jotting down her heart rate, blood pressure, blood sugar, oxygen levels, magical core strength, and a whole range of other figures. The spell wavers a couple of times but never dies out, a testament to the strength of Harry’s power.

“Finished,” I say, the second I write the last word. Harry drops the spell, the results wavering and flickering out of existence.

“Let’s see them,” he replies with a raised eyebrow. I watch as different expressions cross his face. Harry seems to understand what he’s reading completely, and I feel kind of stupid that I don’t. I know what some of them mean, but that’s only a handful, and the rest I’ve never even heard of.

“Everything looks alright Draco,” Harry declares a couple of minutes later.

“Really?!” I ask, excitement bubbling in my chest.

“Yeah, it’s all external damage apparently.” Harry puts the notebook and pen down on the ground before stepping closer to me. “Now we only have to clean and close her wounds,” he states.

“Oh thank Merlin,” I breathe. I peck Harry’s lips again, finding it addictive now I’ve started. I still can’t believe he lets me.

Harry grins and kisses me a bit longer. “Come on, let's get her healed up.”

With reference to another book—this one titled “Cleansing and Closing Wounds”—Harry and I manage to remove the excess blood and any dirt or possible causes for infection. The waste is gathered into an empty potions vial and set aside for Hermione in case she wants to run any tests on it. Then, it’s my job to knit her cuts back together. My stomach squeezes as the pale skin shifts and reforms under my wand, memories of the same on my own body coming to the forefront of my mind. Harry’s hand on the small of my back keeps me concentrated, the only reason I manage to finish the task without being sick.

“Is that all of them?” I ask once I can’t see any more lines.

“It appears so,” Harry confirms behind me.

“Thank Mordred for that,” I say on a heavy breath. I never want to have to do that again.

“You don’t want to thank Mordred,” Harry chuckles. “He’s basically Voldemort but in the past!”

“Technicalities,” I wave the argument away. “It’s a saying, and I said it.”

Harry shakes his head, black fringe falling into his eyes. “Come on, let's get her to bed.”

“Which room?” I ask. “It can’t be the one she used to be in.”

“I know…” Harry chews his bottom lip for a second. “What if she’s in your room?”

“Would there be enough space for both of us?” I say with a tip of my head.

“Probably not,” Harry confesses. “But you could stay with me…”

“Harry Potter! Are you saying what I think you are?”

“We don’t have to do anything,” he says, throwing his hands up to show his innocence. “But I’d like having you next to me.” Harry blushes an adorable dark red.

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it…” I admit.

“Which part?”

I slap him. And then kiss him. “So we’re doing this?”

“I guess we are.” Harry kisses me again.

I pull away first, my breath gone and my heart pounding. “We have to move Mother.”

Harry sighs, presses his lips to the side of my mouth, and levitates my mother off the makeshift bed. He walks out of the kitchen with a backwards glance at me, and then makes his way through the corridor and up the stairs. I wait a second, not knowing what to do, before deciding to follow too. I catch up pretty quickly and walk just behind Mother’s floating feet. The stairs prove to be slightly difficult, given the sheer number of them, but Harry manages to get her up and onto the landing. I offer to help, and once Harry agrees I take over the charm. Harry all but collapses in on himself, exhausted from the amount of magic he’s used today. I levitate Mother’s body into my room—or… my old room—and carefully drop her onto the bed.

She looks ethereal there, her blonde hair a halo around her pale skin and eyelashes. Despite being really injured a couple of hours ago, she looks much better now. Her skin still has a certain tone to it, revealing recent trauma, but for the most part she looks to be healing nicely.

“She looks good Draco.” Harry’s sudden voice behind me makes me jump, unaware as I was with my surroundings. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Harry murmurs into my ear.

“You didn’t!” I protest. “And yes, she does.”

“I definitely did, and I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. You should have seen your face!”

I scowl at Harry from over my shoulder. He tickles me in retaliation. His fingers dig into my skin, rubbing against my ribs and waist.

“Fine, fine!” I give in. “I forfeit!”

“Do you admit it?”

“Guess so,” I huff.

“Oh come here,” Harry says with an eye roll. His lips land on mine and I allow myself to smile into him.

“We have things to do Harry,” I murmur as his mouth connects with my throat.

“Mmmm,” Harry hums against my skin. “Yeah, you.”

“No, Harry. Like preparing for a war.” That sobers him very quickly and steps away. “Sorry, that was uncalled for,” I apologise.

“No, no. You’re right,” he sighs. “I’ll call Hermione and catch her up with Narcissa, we’ll figure something out to keep her safe.”

I only nod in response. We turn and leave the room together. “I guess I’ll cook some dinner for us,” I offer. “Merlin knows you can’t cook.”

“Thank you Dray,” Harry smiles. I scoff at the nickname.

***

The water finally starts boiling, and I carefully pour it into the two mugs sitting on the kitchen counter. The teapot is heavy and very hot, and I rush to put it back down as quickly as possible. Scents of peppermint and chamomile fill the kitchen, and I tip my head closer to take it in. I push my hand through my hair, annoyed at it falling in my eyes. It’s growing very quickly, and is steadily reaching my shoulders. Sighing, I search through the cupboards to find a tea tray. As I bend down to open the bottom row of cabinets, a sharp pain cuts down my back.

Not again… I bring a hand up and around to touch my spine, and find it covered in blood. At this point I’m just sick of it. Gasping in pain, I stand back up and hunt for a towel or something to clean up the blood I know is about to come. I don’t see anything immediately, and give up when I feel my wings twitch where they’re connected to back. A groan pushes past my lips and pain shoots down my back again. I twist and bring my hand back to my skin, finding it warm and wet. A drip rolls downwards, tracing down my skin. I feel around for the bones I know are jutting out of my back and grip them hard. They feel solid and normal in my hand, and I travel up to where they split into branches. The feathers are soft but droopy, and as I’m touching them they curl in towards the bone.

A scream is ripped from me as they start to fall out; memories flashing before my eyes of the days spent in the Manor, and the pain I experienced, merging with the current pain underneath my skin. I force my hand away from the feathers and back down my bone. It’s twitching, shuddering inside my skin.

“Draco!” Harry shouts, running into the kitchen. “What’s happening?”

Relief fills me when I meet emerald eyes. Harry will help me. He always does. His question goes unanswered, but he catches on once his eyes roam over me. Blood is dripping down my back and arm, red lines a stark contrast against my skin. His eyes bulge, he swallows hard, and then he’s rushing towards me.

“They’re going back in Draco,” Harry explains as he looks over me. “Your wings are withdrawing into your back.”

“Ughhh,” I groan as I feel them shift slightly. Now that he’s said it, I can feel them moving beneath my skin. It’s going to be a slow process this time. Bone grates against bone and I shudder at the sound and feeling. It’s like being exposed to the cold, and it sets my teeth chattering in the most uncomfortable way imaginable. A rush of warmth follows, and I’m repulsed to discover it’s a wave of fresh blood. My head spins, the room going blurry and spotty with purple dots.

“Nu- numb me,” I gasp out to Harry as the pain rapidly increases.

I hear Harry patting himself down, hunting for his wand within his clothes. When he finds it, he recants a long, intricate spell. Must’ve gotten it from the books.

A cool relief washes over my body, and the pain dulls down to a bearable level. I can still feel every push into my skin, every time something catches or grates, but the pain isn’t there.

“Thank you,” I manage to get out in a whisper shout. I shudder again, my body twitching, as the bone sinks in further. “Where is it up to?” I need to know how much longer. I need to prepare myself mentally for this.

“Just where it splits into the branches,” Harry replies. His voice is unsure and worried.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, swallowing hard.

“I’m not totally sure…” he says. “It just- the feathers are curling in and falling off. Has that happened before?”

“I don’t think so…” I murmur. “But my memory isn’t working too great right now.”

“Oh Draco, I’m so sorry you have to go through this.” Harry walks around to face me, his hand on my shoulder and his eyes sympathetic. He rests his forehead against mine, his tan skin filling my vision and making me dizzy for a totally different reason.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I say as the first branch shifts under. One of the sharp bones catches on my skin, and I feel it tear. I gesture to Harry, who goes back around and carefully unhooks it.

“There’s no way I wouldn’t be here,” Harry replies.

The moon is high as time passes while we stand in the kitchen, the charmed windows reflecting the sky above ground. Eventually, the entire bone structure recedes into my back, and feathers litter the tiles. Harry collects them all with wandless magic, conjuring a jar and placing them gently inside. The numbing spell starts to wear off and I can begin to feel Harry’s hands wandering over my skin gently. We stand pressed up against each other for a few minutes, wrapped up in the comfort and warmth. I feel safe and at home in Harry’s arms. But something is off.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Why haven’t they regrown yet?”

Harry sighs, rubbing his hand over my arm. “I’m not sure.”

I feel tears burn at my eyes. I’ve gotten so used to having wings these past few months, and now it feels weird to not have the weight pressed into my back. Searing pain shoots down the entire length of my spine again, and I almost laugh at the timing. It feels different than normal though, the pain is more… distant. It feels far away, like it’s not happening on the surface of my skin, but rather to a different person entirely. The very-most tip of my wing prods against the inside of my skin, and then it breaks through. It doesn’t stop. The bones keep rising out of my back with no intention of slowing down. The pain still doesn’t register, even as the skeleton becomes fully visible.

“Merlin Draco!” Harry shouts as he realises what’s happening. He whips around to face my back, gasping with the sight he sees. “They’re fully regrown! Draco, they’re fully regrown!”

“Let me see!” I call out, excitement filling me to the point I can’t control my voice.

Harry conjures a large mirror and holds it up to my face. Sure enough, the webs of bones are back in place.

“Feathers?” I breathe. I raise my hand to touch them, but quickly withdraw when I realise just how soaked through with blood they are.

“Let me clean them,” Harry offers with a kiss to my cheek. “Tergeo!”

I watch as the blood is siphoned off my wings, and my jaw drops.

“Harry. Harry are you seeing this?! Please tell me I’m not imagining it!” I gush.

Harry lifts a reverent hand and strokes it over the feathers, eliciting a shiver from me. “Definitely not imagined…” he murmurs. “Dray, they’re white. Actually white,” Harry laughs with amazement and joy.

I twist to face him, sharp pain reminding me that my back has just been split open. I wince, my face screwing up. But none of that’s relevant, because my feathers are white, and I’m fully restored.

***

A/N: Another chapter out on time! I hope everyone is staying safe and that you’re looking out for yourself. Stay home! and spend all day reading fic because why not? Xx

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[khrsecretvalentine]

sunset reset (for lighteningdancer)

from: @trilies to: @lighteningdancer / Ginger Pairing: Byakuran/Shoichi

Note: Hey there, Ginger! You’re quite the familiar name to me at this point, so I got really excited when I pulled your name. Then you gave me so much freedom and so many liberties that I sort of short-circuited on what to write at first, lmao! However, per your advice, I did go with something that I don’t really write a lot of, both re: characters and, like… tone? Subject matter? I was apparently in A Mood (tw) when I began writing. I do hope that this end result is something that you find any sort of enjoyment in at all. If not, just let me know, because there’s plenty of other stuff that I’d love to make for you. Relatedly, let me know if you have an AO3, because I’d love to put it on this on there properly gifted to you! Unless you don’t want your name attached, which is also valid. 

Content Warnings: Time Travel Fuckery, Alternate Universe Fuckery, Character Death that debatably counts, Suicide, a short Sex Scene, attempts at Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapping, non-detailed Torture, general Abuse, the intense and vaguely defined set of mental issues that come when your brain just gets overloaded with being Yourself but hundreds of times with hundreds of slightly-to-extremely different memories in slightly-to-different worlds aka “byakuran’s mental state must be a fucking trip" 

——

Once a human tastes food for the first time, they always end up hungering for more, whatever "more” might mean for that particular individual. Maybe they look to be sated, content and full and warm. Maybe they look for a taste that can’t be beat, by their estimate. Maybe they simple look for something new, something interesting- a change in palate. On some level… He thinks Shoichi Irie is like that for him.  Byakuran doesn't need him. Of course he doesn’t. But if he’s being completely and utterly technical, he doesn’t need a lot of the things that he takes for himself, because none of it actually matters in the end. It’s all just a game, something he does because it's interesting. That would be easy enough for anyone to understand, right? Sometimes you turn on a game counsel and feel the need to get all the achievements, and other times you do it because you want to see how far you can strain the system until it shatters completely. It really all depends, and sometimes, they’re both the same thing. One day, in one universe, he’ll complete the Tri-Ni-Sette, and that will be that. In terms of gaming, he supposes that would be the end all for the main objective. Very fittingly, he comes to learn that it is the most difficult task, no matter how much he prepares and plans. Well, it would be a boring game otherwise.  It comes as quite a surprise that what would be a simple side quest any other game is almost just as difficult.

The very first time- if anything can even be called a ‘first’ at all when it’s all happening together, at the same time ,and yet completely separate- he decides to lay a claim to Shoichi Irie simply because it feels as though it’s what he should do. Another thing to check off the list. Besides, there’s a little fondness to it, he supposes. That’s not too surprising. Everyone always has that brief bit of fondness to the first character in a RPG that is kind to them, or makes the first move. He can remember playing a game with a female PC, and being charmed despite himself when a male knight almost immediately gave him a gift. Nothing special, nothing exciting or edgy, but amusing enough.  Shoichi Irie isn’t a knight in any meaning of the word. Byakuran’s impression of him at his young ten-years-younger self is that of a typical awkward nerd, although he has to admit that one’s first impression probably isn’t reliable when it involves time travel panic. Yet that doesn’t change the most important part of their meeting, and it’s that he owes everything to that young flustered teenager who had run into him in the street. He hadn’t given him a rose or sweet words, but rather something so much more valuable.  There are numerous jokes to be made about the tropes and cliches which are so prevalent in otome games, but Byakuran has found they aren’t exactly wrong in some cases. The Shoichi Irie he finds in this timeline fits so neatly in so many little boxes when he meets him for a second impression, watching him play at a seedy bar in a grubby dark side of town. Gone is the frantic nervousness, wore down into something much more exhausted that weighs down underneath his eyes and leaves just a little too much room underneath his shirt. Just a passing glance is enough to tell that the bassist is down on his luck, probably not helped by the fact that he’s not really fantastic at his instrument of choice. Judging by the way his bandmates are either in no better position or spit quiet words out at him with narrowed eyes, Byakuran can tell that they no doubt owe a lot of money from having all their nice equipment. For types like that, just like in all of the little romances he’s played through a screen, it doesn’t take much but a little bit of attention and kindness to draw Shoichi in. He doesn’t even need to do it that often, to his amusement, able to spend plenty of time building up this iteration of the Millefiore while attending to Shoici on the side.  He’s successful with his Millefiore. Of course he is. Having cheatcodes to the universe makes it so very easy. Bit by bit, he lavishes care onto his little side quest, first bringing him in with compliments and indepth conversations even Byakuran is pleasantly surprised to find he enjoys. Then come the casual outtings, treating him to coffee or lunch, the two of them so absorbed that it reminds Byakuran of how fun these minor little things can be as a detour. He makes sure Shoichi never has to pay, the ill-gained money in his pockets always being more than enough. Sometimes it’s a fight to make it happen, of course. Despite his situation, Shoichi always seems to want to be self sufficient, and there’s a fire in his eyes that tugs at the interest of Byakuran’s heart. So down on his luck, and yet he still tries to struggle like this. How cute. Still, Byakuran manages to convince him one way or the other.  Yet the game can’t merely stop at pampering a “love interest”…  He makes the offer at the backstage of one of the many trash bars Shoichi plays at, his back against the wall while his arms have wound lazily about Shoichi’s body. A year of pampering has lead him to looking better than he did before, and a few minutes of Byakuran grinding his thigh inbetween his legs has lead him looking even better. Forget the nervous teenager that awoke him to all of this, forget the dead eyed man he’d seen on stage once. There’s that brilliant flickering fire behind Shoichi’s contacts, brow stubbornly crumpled, skin flushed so vividly it looks as though it should hurt, and his lips slick from every heavy breath that rushes out of him as he digs his fingers into Byakuran’s shoulders to weather the ride. Even when his entire body shudders, nails digging in past cotton, he still tries to press a bruising kiss to the side of Byakuran’s neck. Of course he can’t let Byakuran control the whole situation that easily.  (His first clue, and one he ignores for longer than he would admit.)  “You’re so cute, Sho-chan,” he murmurs into his ear, dragging his fingers down along his spine. Against his leg, he can feel Shoichi’s arousal straining painfully in tight denim and, almost better, the way he shivers when the warmth of his voice rushes through his ear.  He can barely speak, so wound up in lust as he is, but Shoichi pushes through. “Who’s ever heard of a bassist being cute?” he rasps. There’s a ragtag sort of afterparty happening in the bar proper, drowning out the sounds of their rutting, so he does his best in keeping quiet. All that does is make his voice low and husky, drawing Byauran’s eyelids halfway down. That’s more than good enough, he thinks, and he eases up on the pressure. Shoichi blinks up at him, dazed and aroused, unable to stop Byakuran as he adjusts himself until he’s sliding down the wall and inbetween Shoichi’s legs. Understanding hits him quick enough, and he braces one arm against the wall. It doesn’t escape Byakuran how his breathing only gets all the harder.  “I want to keep you,” he says, his own voice low, possessive, and he can almost see the way it drops right through Shoichi’s gut. His fingers make quick work of popping open the button to his jeans. “Will you let me, Sho-chan?” Using the very tip of his tongue, he flicks up the zipper and takes it between his teeth, eyes staying locked on his precious interest’s own gaze the whole time as he drags it down slowly.  “That’s…” The words are choked in his throat, and he tosses his head back as Byakuran slides his aroused cock out into the open air. “You’ve given me so much… and now you’re asking me that?” “But I want to hear it, Sho-chan.” Grinning slyly, he drags his tongue up from the very base of Shoichi’s cock and flicks tip against tip. Satisfaction pools in his stomach at how the hips in his hands jerk. “Let me keep you, or else I won’t let you come even a little bit.” He nuzzles his way back down, hot breath ghosting along sensitive skin, until he can wrap his lips around his balls. It’s harder to watch Shoichi like this now, buried into his hips, but he can still hear the way his hand slaps across his mouth, muffling the harsh gasp he makes. In contrast to the quiet his interest is desperately trying to maintain, Byakuran lives to shatter that. Underneath the yells and laughter and pounding music of the bar, he sloppily licks and sucks along the aching arousal that’s right at his face, every sound an obscene prayer. He knows it works up Shoichi, too. It’s hard not to pick up on it, feeling how his legs shake and his hips tremble from the effort of holding back.  There’s not even any reason to edge him for long. Soon enough, Shoichi is gasping and keening over his head, squirming desperately into Byakuran’s mouth. “Dammit- dammit, Byakuran- take me! I want you…. Nn-” He glances up at that, pleased at what he sees: Shoichi looking down at him, teeth digging into a finger from where his hand isn’t quite covering his mouth, arousal twisting his expression so desperately. “I want you… to take me. Keep me. Please-!"  At the end, when Shoichi is slumped against him and drifting down the tides of post-orgasm, Byakuran indulgently curls his fingers into his hair to keep his face pressed into his shoulder. "No takebacks,” he purrs, ignoring the soreness along his back. “I’ll keep you forever now, Sho-chan. Even across universes.” Blissfully unaware of threat and lie alike, Shoichi laughs breathlessly against his shirt. “Romantic.” When Byakuran says it, he says it as a lie. But what do you call a lie that becomes a truth when you never meant for it to be? Never one satisfied with leaving a side quest partially forgotten or abandoned the first time through, Byakuran pushes all the way. He helps pay off his debt, convinces him out of a band he’s clearly miserable in. With the money he’s so quickly managed to accumulate, there’s no question of how easy it is to get Shoichi to live with him. Free of any real obligation, Byakuran watches in faint interest but mostly amusement as his interest begins to relax. He’s really, truly, unbelievably still nothing impressive with a bass, but at least he seems more content as he fiddles with it and all the other songs he tries to write. What’s more relevant to Byakuran is how Shoichi gets back into what he dismissively calls his “old hobby”. Byakuran had always wondered how a bassist’s teenage self could end up time traveling… and the answer, he realizes with every idle computer program and toy Shoichi makes, is because Shoichi Irie is in fact incredibly intelligent. So intelligent that it seems a waste that he ever became a musician, a fact that he makes sure to pass along to his many other selves. This intelligence comes back to bite him when he returns to his high rise apartment after a nice long trip dealing with a minor emergency. It was nothing serious, just some minor complications one Federico Ferrino left behind in his death. Truly the Vongola had a lot of resources, to be such a bother even in death. Yet he finds them to be less of a bother than the sight that greets him once he steps into his apartment. Shoichi is curled up in an armchair that’s been forcibly turned so that it’s facing in the direction of the front door, knees digging against his chest. He jolts a little at the sound of the door, eyes going to Byakuran faster than a gunshot.  Now now, what could have happened, he wonders? Byakuran rolls the question in his mind even as he carelessly drops his bags to the side, already making his way over to his interest like a good boyfriend would. “Stomach again?” he asks, reaching out to sweep his fingers up into Shoichi’s bangs. It’s been a while since the bassist has had to deal with his infamous stomach aches, brought out whenever he’s too tense, too nervous, too stressed. “Sho-chan, I didn’t realize you would miss me that much!” His hand is grabbed before he can fully pull it away, musically calloused fingers folded almost delicately around his own. Byakuran blinks, eyebrows raising, before he looks properly into Shoichi’s face. All the expressions which would normally be there- sulking aggravation, taut anxiety, restless worry- are completely absent. Instead, his brow is wound tight together, and there’s something… new to his eyes. Dark green is focused fully on him, steeled in a way he can’t quite recall ever viewing before. “Byakuran,” he says, desert grave quiet, “what do you do for a living?” Everyone makes mistakes on their first blind run, of course. Byakuran has made a couple, despite his various connections that are all to himself, and he generally doesn’t worry about it. This particular mistake is that he’s left Shoichi alone, guarded for but not watched, for far too long. With all the things Byakuran is getting up to, well, he doesn’t have full and complete of the world yet. News anchors will talk, radio personalities will gossip, and the internet churns so quickly with facts and facts that are twisted and facts which only have the name but not the definition. Shoichi has been busy. He’s been paying attention. It’s all he’s been able to do.  Lying doesn’t really have a point here, not with how much Shoichi has pulled together. Besides, Byakuran has never really lied to him, has he? Shoichi doesn’t react well to that statement, but it’s true. He’s only been vague, never giving the whole story , only bits and pieces. Maybe he could do damage control, if he really tried. Byakuran doesn’t. It’s so much more fascinating to watch his interest yell and demand and accuse, arm sweeping out in scythe sweep of a gesture.  Shoichi has never burned so bright, not in this universe, and Byakuran is enraptured by this glitch he’s made happen.  They sleep in separate rooms for a while after that- Byakuran taking the lavish and comfortable master bedroom, Shoichi self-exiling himself to a sterile guest room that’s never once been touched. It only takes a couple of days before he breaks the barrier he’s erected, settling himself gingerly onto the couch besides Byakuran one evening. None of the lights are on yet, with only the setting sun illuminating Shoichi’s back from where he sits, eyes on him. “I’m sorry,” he tells him. “It was a lot to take in,” he says. “Can you just promise me that you’ll be honest with me from now on?” “Of course, Sho-chan,” Byakuran tells him, while promising no such thing. This, too, is a lie.  Shoichi must know it as well. He promises nothing either, and he writes I’m sorry once again on a letter he leaves on the counter in their darkened home when Byakuran returns again one day. A surprising amount of his things are left behind, with only the most sensible of clothing that’s been taken, along with all the basic necessities of a healthy human such as toiletries. When Byakuran checks one of his bank accounts, he’s not surprised to find a lot of money withdrawn. While he could pursue his interest, he doesn’t. Instead, he carries out the end of this particular life, his particular run, all the while quite aware of how the patches of rebel forces which never cease to defy him are granted a sudden boost in knowledge. It doesn’t really matter, in the end. This reality is a bust, and he toys with the different ways to end it.  Somewhere, out in the rebel hideouts that he systematically quashes, he’s certain Shoichi Irie dies… but he dies far away from Byakuran, out of his sight.  It’s a “Bad End” if your love interest betrays you and dies. Byakuran passes along the message to Byakuran of everything he’s gone through. It would be embarrassing if this was the side quest that he missed, after all.  Probably the problem Byakuran ran into, Byakuran muses to himself as he thinks over this particular set of alternate memories, is that Shoichi was a civilian kept in the dark for so long. Sure, he had been running around in all sorts of seedy bars in that universe, but being in the same vicinity as some two-bit thugs isn’t anything like dating a powerful mafia don who had blood soaked up to his knees. If he intervenes a little earlier… That sounds right. A slightly earlier intervention, nudging those morals a little further in the right direction, and Byakuran thinks that might finally help complete this little sub-plot. He just needs to get a little creative in when they meet. How they meet.  When he meets Shoichi Irie, he’s not the flustered teenager that gave him this opportunity and he’s not yet the boneworn bassist who played in side alley bars. Instead, he’s seventeen and clearly frustrated with the world, or perhaps merely his place in it. Byakuran only needs a day to see how people take advantage of him. It's  nothing so crass as outright bullying, not most of the time. Instead, they merely pile on expectations and requests onto him, disregarding his interests, disregarding anything else he might have on his plate. In a different way to that time in the bar, it’s easier than anything to slide his way into a friendship with him. Nudging him along towards what Byakuran wants for him… It’s a little more difficult to get the subtleties of that exactly right, and he spends a couple of lives dealing with that. It’s not a complete waste; he’ll need such skills for other people who aren’t Shoichi.  The best way, he finds, is simply phrasing things as harmless pranks in high school, things to tease those who frustrate him so much, things he can build upon so steadily. Shoplifting is a little harder, not something that his Sho-chan really has the hand dexterity for, but it’s easier when he can frame their targets as absolute bastards who deserve it… or detach them so neatly from his life that they don’t really matter.  What his real interest is, however, would be what he told himself from dating that tired and beaming bassist. It’s a waste to keep him as a petty thief, even if there is a kind of casual amusement in throwing stolen candy into Shoichi’s hair while he does his best to scowl instead of laugh. The good news is that he has dozens, hundreds, thousands of other selves knowledge at hand. It’s child play to talk tech with Shoichi, to convince him to stretch his intelligence right past the digital defenses of so many organizations and countries. From high school, to college, to them with degrees spilling out the secrets of the richest and most influential or sometimes holding it over their heads. It hardly takes anything at all to convince Shoichi to join his Gesso, this slowly budding and blossoming Millefiore. This should be it, he thinks. It took a try or four, but he’s finally got this route down.  He thinks that all the way to the day he triumphantly comes back from his meeting with that little Giglio Nero heiress, satisfied from the box he has in his hands. “Ta daaaaa!” he sings as he enters the office where Shoichi is waiting. His interest looks pretty good in mafia black, he has to say, even when he’s clearly fiddled his tie right out of place and jumps what seems like a solid foot into the air. “The meeting went great, Sho-chan.” “I feel like you’d say that no matter what actually happened…” Still, he moves out of the way, letting Byakuran flop loosely into his chair. Shoichi slides his hands into his pockets, trying to seem calm, before he moves them out again to rub his palms against his legs. “Were you able to resolve things mostly peacefully?” Gamma’s fingers broke, one by one, feeling surprisingly like nothing for how long they’d clutched to his pool stick. Genkishi had to be skewered to the wall, bloody dripping from his mouth, simply to keep him out of the way. When Aria had finally conceded, she’d closed her eyes for a brief moment with a box keeping their hands joined together, and a smile had crept onto her face. “Oh, the things that will happen,” she’d said, eyes too blue, too strange. For a second, she’d almost looked human.  “Mhm,” Byakuran says, because that’s the easy answer, and they have the Giglio Nero- what remains- on close watch. He won’t make a rookie mistake again, making it easy for Shoichi to stumble onto such a dark little thing. Setting the box down onto his desk, he flicks open the latch. The second Shoichi turns his back, Byakuran plans on getting nothing less than the absolute best replicas that he possibly can for the Mare Rings… but for now, there’s no harm in keeping them right in front of him. He has no idea when these were last touched, even by their mistresses, but the Mare Ring have a crystal clear shine to them that’s so smooth that not even water would stick. He’d slipped the Sky Ring back into its place after reveling in its quickly comfortable warmth, and it almost seems to glow again at his presence. In fact, it even seems to glow all the brighter than before. His eyelids dip just a little lower. “Amazing, right…?” He can feel Shoichi’s arm brush against his chair, nudging it a little bit. “All that worry, for some rings…” His voice isn’t into the disregarding tone it tries for, however. It’s even… dazed. Byakuran’s first thought is that he’s coming down from his anxiety high. That impression lasts for all of a single second before Shoichi’s hand reaches over from the side, drawn to the box, and Byakuran realizes that the Mare Sky Ring wasn’t glowing any brighter than it did when he first saw it.  Yellow blends into orange so well. Shoichi burns bright yet again.  The knowledge hits him like a bullet train, a feeling that he passes along the second he has the time to spare for it, and he almost doesn’t care that, in this world too, Shoichi once again slowly turns again, once again pokes his nose into something he shouldn’t have. It’s fine to lose that particular sidequest this time around, because he’s gotten a key bit of information that can potentially help in all the others. At the same time, it only makes what was once a silly little romance route gain so much more prominence to the main story that Byakuran can’t help but marvel as the flow of it.  The Mare Rings can’t speak, can’t communicate, and yet Byakuran can’t help but feel as though they’re the most people-like things he’s dealt with ever since Before. Their preferences in wielders tend to be specific, although they can be flexible if no better choice presents itself. The Rain Ring tends to lean towards bright and malicious, people who can demonstrate a sense of mocking humor before they clean away the filth of the battlefield. In contrast, those with any sort of commendable patience draw in the Cloud Ring, and the Storm favors anyone with a shimmering energy beneath an otherwise… passive facade.  The Sky Ring is his forever, in every single iteration of the universe that can possibly exist.  The Sun longs for Shoichi. Every time. Without fail.  Byakuran can understand why. Anyone would understand, he’s fairly sure, if they’d ever seen the way his eyes steel in resolution or the energy that burns from his body or the sheer brilliant gold of his flame. In worlds where he forgets, or where he slips up,  or where there’s merely a spot of bad luck, the Arcobaleno Curse seeks  out Shoichi for the intensity of his Flame.  That happens rarely.  Byakuran laid claim upon him first, after all.  In one life, Byakuran decides to go for a change of pace. Not every romance route can be won through simple kindness. Sometimes, you have to get a little bit creative, or you have to push for a certain event to go off. Sometimes, a Good End is reprehensible in the cruelty it takes to get there. At least, for normal people.  He draws the Gesso up as soon as he’s able, throws all of himself into making them a strong Family as quick as possible. Quick enough to have someone watching over Shoichi, make sure that he doesn’t drift too far from where Byakuran can see him. He goes through a fairly standard dull life, the few times Byakuran takes the time to check in on him- a brief flirt with paying a bass, graduating top of his class. Nothing to pay attention to. It’s after Shoichi’s first year of college that he instructs some of his people to kidnap him one night, when he’s on his way home from a concert of a band he likes and not expecting for a car to stop right besides him. It’s quick, silent, and completely professional. More than a few of his own must be wondering what Byakuran is doing… but that’s the case in every life he lives.  All they have to do is listen to him as he plays a game so long and expansive that they can’t even begin to imagine it.  There’s no reason to go straight into the harshest form of cruelty, not right away, not in this life. There are a lot of ways to twist a will, to shatter it and pull it together in some other shape entirely. Byakuran starts off with the kind of lodgings that would be perfect, if one were merely willing to ignore all the ways in which it’s a cage: sinfully soft furniture, nice lighting that can go from comfortably dim to softly warm, a bathroom large enough to be another bedroom, no windows, one entrance and exit, hidden cameras in more places than the obvious. Byakuran follows the advice of another life, and makes sure that there isn’t a kitchen or access to the outside world via electronics.  Shoichi Irie, in every bit of his incarnations that Byakuran can remember, is always devilishly clever, after all. Even when he had been a bassist who’d skipped college, trapped in a cycle of debt and unfulfilling gigs.  He’s also incredibly attractive, even now, disheveled in last night’s clothes, hair falling in a mess around his face, glasses askew on his face. One hand is curled against his stomach, a warning of the stomach aches that are to come, and his expression is twisted in such alarm that it stirs a heat inside of Byakuran’s chest. This isn’t one he’s indulged in yet. Not for the first time, he appreciates the ability to play with such a purposefully destructive game. “What do you want with me!?” Shoichi asks, sharp, panicked, and yet going right to the point. He doesn’t ask who Byakuran is, which is almost a shame. There are some amusing answers he could give there. And yet, he supposes this question is more important. At least, for someone in Shoichi’s position.  “Now now!” He laughs, draping himself in one of the armchairs that are around. He practically sinks into it. Really, he hopes Shoichi comes to appreciate that much in the time that he keeps him here. “I’m not going to torture you or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Not in this timeline, at any rate. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Byakuran Gesso, and it’s nice to meet you properly here. I’d like you to work for me.” Shoichi draws one leg up cautiously, foot digging into the mattress. What he’s prepared to do is anyone’s guess, only that he feels the need to be a little… steadier, perhaps, in case he needs to do something. The hand not clutching his stomach does similar. “This isn’t… exactly the normal way to get someone to work for you,” he says stiffly, and Byakuran’s heart flutters. There’s that Sun brilliance, hardening his eyes and burning him up from the inside out. He hardly had to push at all for it to appear, even in a situation like this. “What do you want me to work on, exactly?” “Oh, nothing that you aren’t already going to college for, Sho-chan.” The nickname makes him twitch a little bit, unaware as he is of how intimate they are long before he was born and long after he dies and even here in the present. They’re completely and utterly bound. He simply doesn’t know it. He will probably never know it, at least in most lives. “I’d like to pick your mind for the treasure trove of ideas I’m sure you have in there when it comes to technology. If you simply go along with it, you’ll find your time here to be quite nice!” Byakuran tilts his head to the side. “And if you cooperate, Sho-chan, then you’ll be out of here in no time at all. I’m positive we can work something out, don’t you agree?” The wary pull of his eyebrows downwards says Shoichi doesn’t believe him, which he shouldn’t. “I’m getting the impression that I don’t have a particular choice,” he says, still not easing up even the slightest. “Do I at least get the dignity of asking some questions…?” Byakuran crosses his legs and let his hands flow to the side in gesture. “All you like, Sho-chan!” He doesn’t promise he’ll tell the truth.  “Then… Why me? I haven’t even- I don’t have a degree of any sort. I’m not even close to graduating.” The hand at his stomach moves upwards, digging into his chest. “Why kidnap a college student who’s probably not even knowledgeable enough for the kinds of things you might ask for? Aren’t there smarter technicians and engineers who could do what you want?” There aren’t. Byakuran knows this for a fact, knows that he would have stumbled upon them a long time ago if anyone had that ability. Yet no one had done what Shoichi had. No one had gone through time, no one had broken it so thoroughly as he had. Byakuran can’t even claim that honor yet, as much as it would amuse him to. No, he merely flows across the many timelines, the many universes where he exists.  Shoichi is the one who reached out where he shouldn’t have, and Byakuran knows for a fact, after listening to him speak in the kinder timelines, that he can break even more if he really tries.  The trick is to get him to really try.  “I have utter faith in your potential,” is the answer Byakuran gives, grinning and flashing a wink to Shoichi. “But you don’t have to worry. Ask for anything, and I’ll make sure to provide it for you. Just knock, okay, Sho-chan?” He’s kept for a while longer, listening to question after question that Shoichi fumbles to pull out from his mind, and he’s not surprised when he almost immediately calls through on that 'knocking’ thing to start pulling in book after book to his room.  Despite it being a simple non-answer, the line about 'potential’ is also fairly true. Byakuran passes along all sorts of little tasks for Shoichi to do, starting subtle at first with computer programs on an isolated channel that Shoichi never gets to keep. Then, various little quizzes, seeing if he can outdo what they already are using in the Gesso and Millefiore. Byakuran rarely delivers them himself. Why would he? That’s something for those far lower on the ladder who have nothing better to do, or at least nothing more important than Byakuran’s pursuit of this sidequest. Instead, Byakuran likes to visit Shoichi in the middle of his time. Sometimes it’s while he’s working through the latest task he’s been given, papers sprawled out all over the floor and a pile working up on the desk Shoichi does his best to remember to use. It’s a nice change of pace from the repetitive motions of running a mafia empire. Shoichi doesn’t take to it well at first. “Of- what? Of course I’m not,” Shoichi says, honesty stuttering out before he can stop himself the first time Byakuran outright asks. “I know your name and literally nothing else, and you’re just- is this a test?” His mouth screws up, eyes narrowed over them. “To check if I’m… I don’t know, cheating or something as I work on this?” When Byakuran bursts out laughing at him, a lobster of a blush spreads over his face in a heartbeat.  “I told you before, didn’t I?” Byakuran says when he’s calmed down, sprawled out in an armchair. His head lolls to the side, lazy smile still in place. “I have full confidence in your abilities and potential, Sho-chan.” “Shoichi,” he mutters quietly, not really stopping the nickname.  “The only reason I’m here is because I’m bored. Besides, you haven’t asked for a rubber duck yet. I thought it might help to bounce your stress off something~.” “Rubber ducks should be a little cuter,” Shoichi mumbles into his shirt, already ducking back down into his work while still a little bit red. It takes a little while for him to eventually start reciprocating Byakuran’s attempts at conversation, but what are a few visits in comparison to the eternity that Byakuran has? The multiple visions of eternity, in fact. So it doesn’t feel long at all before Shoichi begins to speak back to him, gesturing to a paper here and there as he spills out his train of thought or his frustrations on a certain aspect of his latest project. When he finally does that, the other visits Byakuran takes begin to go a little more smoothly as well instead of Shoichi sitting awkwardly in a chair as far away from Byakuran as possible while Byakuran does all the talking. He knows it’s not only his imagination when Shoichi begins to show a little more warmth in response to his visits.  There aren’t many other options for him down in this windowless room, where time doesn’t feel real, where he can’t even sense time, and Byakuran is his only constant person. There’s a certain thrill in indulging in such a thing, at least for this life. One day, Shoichi doesn’t fight against the way Byakuran presses up behind him while he’s reading, white-clad arms lazily winding around him. He only glances up at him from the corner of his eyes, thumb worrying at the page in the book he’s been working through. “I don’t exactly have to point my room is bugged, right?” he says stiffly, a little bit of red burning at his ears. “Is there any shame at all that your- everything is being recorded while you’re doing this?” “When you’re the kind of person I am, you end up being watched all the time anyway, Sho-chan,” he laughs, directly into Shoichi’s ear as to watch him shudder. He’s not the only person in the world who has such a reaction, and yet Byakuran can’t help feeling more satisfied when Shoichi does it. That’s the thrill of having a favorite character, he supposes. Everything he does, Byakuran can’t help but hyperfocus on. “Now, what kind of things are you thinking of that would get you so worked up about being watched? And in relation to me as well?” The tone of his voice says everything that doesn’t get a word ascribed to it. The blush spreads from his ears to the rest of his face quicker than the heartbeat it takes to provide that much blood. Byakuran never stops the cameras from recording… He only goes back once he’s done indulging in Shoichi’s body to cut those particular parts out and save them for his own records.  More interested in this indulgence than the rest of the videos, and relaxed in what has to be his victory this time, Byakuran misses the little things that will give Shoichi away in other universes. The way he begins to sleep more reliably in his bed instead of falling asleep by accident anywhere else. How his hands duck underneath his pillows, still so “absentminded” as to be holding his glasses inbetween his fingers. Byakuran learns later how the sound of his apparent snoring hid the sharpening of his glasses frames against metal frames. Byakuran had made sure they were metal, so that Shoichi couldn’t use the wood chips of such a frame for whatever his brilliant mind could come up with. A pity that ingenuity works with everything at its disposal no matter the material.  In one universe, he punctures his own throat, slides the needle inbetween the rows of his own lungs, and chokes on his blood before medical services can pull him back from the brink. In one universe, he breaks through the system keeping the door shut and makes a break for it. He succeeds, or he fails, or he does both in the end, but it’s a loss on Byakuran either way. “All you have to do is give yourself to me,” he says one day, one universe, popping open a bag of gummy bears. It wasn’t his first choice, but the little gas station he’d stopped at before getting here hadn’t had any marshmallow treats, and, well, as long as it’s sweet, maybe he doesn’t care as much as some might think. The same could be said for how Shoichi has been forcefully tied to a plain metal chair, handcuffs biting into his wrists and rope binding his legs. To keep him from doing anything reckless, a gag keeps his mouth pried open. Tears and spit alike drip down his face, splatter against his pants…  His eyes are still so very stubbornly burning. A sort of fondness warms his veins, and Byakuran pops one gummy bear into his mouth before he reaches downwards. Fingernails catch along knots in Shoichi’s hair, curls always so thick when he’s first woken up in the morning and hasn’t had a chance to compose himself yet. Byakuran is intimately familiar with all the little quirks like that which make up Shoichi Irie. It’s a consequence of playing the same route, over and over and over again. For all the bad ends he’s steadily accumulating, Byakuran doesn’t regret it.  “Although I am curious,” he continues, drifting his hand downwards until he can curl his fingers around the back of Shoichi’s head and guide his gaze up to him. “What made you change your mind like this, Sho-chan? What made you so desperate that you’d want to risk killing yourself, or run away from here? I like to think I’ve been taking care of you so well that there can’t possibly be a problem. You can have just about everything you’d ever ask for.” It’s only the two of them in the room, all guards dismissed without a second thought. They’d only protest if they saw Byakuran reach down and undo the gag keeping Shoichi so quiet. Free of the obstruction, Shoichi takes a quick second to cough and catch his breath. Trapped in this place, at the end of the rope, he’s clearly lost some of that quaint politeness which he’d grown up with, because he turns his head slightly to the side and spits to clear his mouth. Byakuran supposes he should marvel that it wasn’t directed right at him. “Isn’t it obvious?” he says, voice a little raspy, unused. “You brought me here in the first place because… I’m so smart, right? That’s what you told me. And… did you think I wouldn’t put everything together? Realize what all my work was adding up to, even if you never showed me the final product, or the result?” He gives a hard swallow, head bumping against Byakuran’s palm once again. “It’s not like I want to believe it…. but what else am I supposed to think, when you keep me trapped in here?” Teeth grinding against each other, he grits out, “I don’t even know if my own family is alive!” They aren’t. That thought idly occurs to Byakuran right as Shoichi says it, because he vaguely remembers glancing at a report he’d gotten of a little bit of a scuffle against Hibari-Kai over in Japan which had taken out a good dozen of lives or more, and he’d seen the Irie family listed among the deceased. It hadn’t occurred to him that it was anything important. It still isn’t, he supposes. What’s the point of saying it here and now? Idly, he scrapes his nails along the back of Shoichi’s scalp and watches him go utterly still. “And would you return if you got a brief chance outside, Sho-chan?” he asks, amused. Shoichi’s silence is an answer all its own, and Byakuran moves on without really giving him a moment to spare for a potential lie. “You really need to go with the flow, ha. I think you’d find you would have a much easier time of things if you did."  Shoichi swallows again, throat bobbing. His stare doesn’t waver. "Your flow."  Byakuran tilts his head to the side and smiles. "It’s the same thing in the end.” “If I refuse?” “Then I’ll just have to persuade you otherwise.” Persuasion, in this instance and a few others, meaning that he spends some of his time breaking Shoichi where he can. Sometimes physical. Sometimes mental. He already has a good deal of factors on his side for it all, really, from the oppressive atmosphere of never even knowing what time it is and having not known for a great deal of time, to the nice little case of Stockholm Syndrome he’s nestled right into Shoichi’s chest. That latter part he makes sure to especially cultivate. Every broken limb, he helps nurture back to full and proper health again. Every sickness Shoichi catches, whether purposefully encouraged or which comes along as a side effect of all the stress, he takes care of. Even when he threatens to drown Shoichi, serene moments where he holds him down by the throat and watches his mouth work helplessly with every bubble of hair that works upwards, he’s the same person who tends to him in the aftermath. He dries him off, checks that his lungs are still working right, work that a medical professional could be proud of. Pain and pleasure are two things that are so closely related. Fear and hatred and love and obsession, Byakuran thinks, are probably very much the same. If they are, then maybe he’ll be able to make this work as he’s been trying to across multiple lives.  It takes him around a year to look down into Shoichi’s dull eyes and realize that he’s broken him and, unlike so many other things in the world, there’s no possibility of pulling this back together into something whole again.  The Mare Sun Ring longs to be on Shoichi’s fingers. Byakuran thinks he can relate, wanting a thing that continues to not want you back.  Spoiled kindness isn’t working, and neither does abject cruelty. If that’s how it is, than Byakuran can’t possibly imagine what he’s doing wrong in this area. Still, in the end, it’s only a sidequest. A very important sidequest, but not a necessary one. The Mare Sun Ring might want Shoichi Irie out of every other pawn in the current world it exists in, but it knows how to settle for things, too. Shoichi might be its type, might have the most brilliantly burning Sun Flame anyone could imagine, but there are others who, while not the ideal personality, have a Flame that can satisfy the conditions of a Mare Ring.  He’s not giving up or anything. That would be embarrassing for someone who’s playing the game so determinedly like he is. Rather, he’s… merely taking a break.  Of course, it seems like even when he’s taking a break to focus on other aspects of the game, he still ends up paying attention to Shoichi whenever he ends up crossing his path. Even if the route is harder than expected, Byakuran can still enjoy some aspects of it, especially when it’s not so pressing on his overall run. Shoichi is still surprisingly pleasant to indulge, especially when he’s so early on in the stage of things that the criminal aspect of everything aren’t so obvious. It’s easiest to enjoy Shoichi then, trading food and sharing earbuds to the same music and talking about how fragile and sturdy the world is in equal measure. When it’s only theories, it’s easier to get Shoichi to play along with it. In a way that Byakuran is slowly starting to get used to across his many lives, he inevitably turns on him sooner or later.  Sometimes a country’s government- usually Japan, occasionally Italy, America when it’s not a trashfire- will rope him in as an agent to keep track of him. Byakuran has to admit those lives are a little bit amusing, and he can never help playing up the cliche of it all when he can. The powerful mafia boss playing cat and mouse games with the determined cop, or secret agent, or general law enforcement… While he takes some time to relax in how he’ll next properly approach the Shoichi situation, he doesn’t worry about the end result, and merely enjoys the journey. There’s something to be said for an approach like that, especially when Byakuran uses Shoichi’s own handcuffs against him to pin him against the wall, teasing him about the lengths they’ve gone through with each other, and the sexual tension is thick enough for a chainsaw.  Other mafia Families clue in to the sheer skill that Shoichi Irie actually possesses, once every few lives, especially when the world begins to advance technologically so quickly that they have to start paying attention to engineers and those who are up and coming. Those realities are sometimes a little bit disappointing, because the destruction of the rest of the Families, especially those who have connections to the Vongola, are always the first ones he crushes underneath his heel. It’s a pity that he doesn’t get more of a chance to to with Shoichi in those lives.  Oh well. He’ll always have other rounds, other lives, other realities. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter.  Then there are the timelines where Shoichi takes things into his own hands.  This world has already been broken, shattered, vast expanses of ruined cities beyond the walls of his little fortresses where he experiments with his little civilization games. Here, people either submit, or they risk the destruction beyond that doesn’t deal kindly to those trying to carve out a life there. So with that said, he really has to marvel at the underground labs which Shoichi has created for himself. In the places where his people haven’t stormed through, covering the floor in dirt and dust of debris coating the walls, it’s impeccably clean. One of the few, perhaps the only, places where the grimy destruction of the world hasn’t seeped in. Befitting of such a brilliant engineer and technician, a defiled treasure trove of equipment fills the sparse amount of rooms that make up the shelter, and one has already completely self destructed with its remains utterly destroyed beneath the rubble. If they can recover enough, Byakuran has no doubt that the impact on numerous worlds would be immense. “If”… being the key word in that sentence. Shoichi is a genius in any of the worlds that bear his beautiful existence. For all that he can create, he knows exactly how to destroy it again. Almost more than Byakuran, Shoichi Irie has the perfect ability to completely destroy things, and yet he so rarely does it, save in moments like these where it’s to deny him everything he possibly can. His men corner Shoichi in a room that could, in some cases, be arguably titled as a bedroom. Byakuran has a closet that’s bigger. The mattress on the floor barely offers any substantial protection between the body on top of it and the hard ground beneath. The body on top of it has pressed himself back up against the wall with guns pointed at his face giving him no real option, and his hands are held up with the knuckles bumping into plaster. This one looks a real mess, Byakuran marvels, and he takes his time slowly looking over the engineer who’s been tirelessly and fruitlessly attempting to undermine him from beneath his very nose. A life of living outside of civilization has clearly taken its toll on Shoichi. What clothes are out here are basically as good as trash, and that includes the denim jacket on him that’s at least two times too big with more holes in it than Shoichi’s hopes must have by now, and the loose black tank top beneath it is hardly any better. That his actual pants and boots manage to fit, for all their worn nature, is quite impressive. Figuring out glasses in the wastelands has apparently not been a priority for Shoichi, because he’s squinting hard towards the armed men who can very easily take his life. It’s an action that almost makes him look more defiant than tired, than worn down to the very bone. He’s even disregarded scissors, possibly the most hilarious thing, because a good portion of his hair (definitely not all of it) has been pulled into a very lopsided ponytail near the right side of his head.  Lazily, Byakuran raises up a hand to dismiss his men. “Go look over the technology here,” he orders them, voice deceptively airy. Maybe it’s because of that which has them hesitate. Byakuran doesn’t, not when he levels them with a cold gaze full of threat, and that gets them moving again a hurry. He waits patiently  for the sound of heavy bootsteps to be as much in the distance as they can get before he steps forward to take up the whole doorway. “Hey there, Sho-chan. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” With the absence of armed guards, Shoichi collapses back a little bit, although his hands stay right where they are. It would be a gesture of anyone else in the same situation. “Yeah,” he says, voice following the same slump of his spine. “Yeah, it has. Years.” It didn’t take much for this particular world to crumble apart, after all. And yet, still he struggles to preserve it. The defiance is in more than the glare, now, and Byakuran marvels at it.  Hands in his pockets, Byakuran inclines his head to his old friend. “The offer is still on the table,” he reminds him. “Don’t you think that would be so much more appealing, Sho-chan?” He even laughs a little bit. “You’d be able to have a shower and everything! Maybe see things more clearly, hm?” Shoichi is filthy, thinner than in most timelines, and clearly has worked so hard that he’s not had the chance to sleep often. Even with every bit of that weighing down on him, he still slumps his shoulders with an annoyed huff. “Was that… an actual joke about my eyeglasses? At a time like this…” Even when everything is going at it’s absolute worst, he can still get that kind of reaction out of him. Byakuran laughs once more. “Well, it’s the truth, too!” Tilting his head ever so slightly to the side, Byakuran puts about the same amount of effort into the way his eyelids dip. “It’s all the truth,” he says, which is a lie. “The Sun Ring would be perfect on your finger,” he says, which is the truth. He’d left it back in the hands of the Sun Guardian he’d chosen for this world, once it had become clear that he would not accomplish his goal in this reality either. That meant, technically, there was no reason to make a claim on Shoichi in this world either. What purpose could he serve, besides potentially passing along more information to Byakuran in another world? And yet still he wants it. Wants Shoichi. Again and again, he’s courted and broken and threatened countless Shoichis, all for naught. Even if this world is useless…. He can only imagine the rush of satisfaction that would drown him if he managed to successfully capture one of the few individuals in all of his many existences who fascinates him so. Sometimes, in some places, he even almost ponders if Shoichi Irie is more his Player 2 than a love interest whose Good End he’s tirelessly chasing across numerous different realities.  Only a thought experiment in the end, that sort of thing. There’s a reason he ponders it more in the late night while some version of him drifts off to sleep, or turns over the idea while his body runs through the motions of a shower. If there is actually a Player 2 against his campaign in one of the many worlds, he’s yet to meet them, for one thing, and he’s fairly certain that there would be more of a fight than all of Shoichi’s desperate struggles.  Surely he must know it too, but all Shoichi does is let out a slow exhaled that scrapes up against lung and throat alike. Typical for someone who has dared to live out here in desolated wastelands. “I bet it would,” he says, a cough forcing a pause into existence. It’s too much for a body that’s become so thin and weak. “But my answer hasn’t changed, you know.” “So stubborn, Sho-chan.” It hardly takes a step before he’s within the room, and filling up a good portion of the space. A mattress can barely fit in here, so even with so little movement he’s already right between Shoichi’s legs. “It might be better for you over all if you just went along with it.” Smiling, he tilts his head to the side. He has no doubt that it’s as empty as he feels. “Everyone has a lot of questions for you back at my base that they’ll get out of you one way or another.” “Do threats actually ever help to convince anyone to do anything?” They don’t, and they never would with Shoichi. His lives have connected well enough that he is well aware of how Shoichi will stay true, even when he’s bleeding out, slow, alone. There’s always something beautiful about the way that fire burns right to the final ember of his existence. Byakuran thinks he could watch it for an eternity, if only he didn’t have the main story to get through first. Regardless, he leans down and forwards until he can pull Shoichi up effortlessly to his feet. Even with his clothing, he hardly weighs a thing, especially in comparison to Byakuran with immeasurable power behind him that could still grow so much bigger. “I thought you should at least know when you’re making a mistake,” he says, watching as Shoichi’s hands finally swing downwards. His fingers shake, quietly but violently. More from anxiety than ever any fear, Byakuran suspects, and always more exhaustion than anxiety. “We’re friends, Sho-chan, so, really, this is the least I could do!” This close, and Shoichi doesn’t really need to squint anymore to see Byakuran clearly. Weariness draws them a little further open, yet his gaze doesn’t shy away from Byakuran’s. In the world above them, in the world at large, so much has been dragged into ash and filth until brown and gray cover it as thick as any blanket. Even in places far away from civilization, the color seems to stick thicker than smog. Here, Shoichi’s eyes are still a deep green, so deep as to be untarnished jade, an oasis refusing impossible odds, poison that has burrowed past skin and flesh and blood and into Byakuran’s bones. “Friends, huh,” he says, voice a breath, an invitation.  “At the very least,” Byakuran murmurs before he accepts it, before he leans in and sweeps up those lips in a long slow kiss. Shoichi doesn’t push him away or, considering the atrophy of his body, make so much as an attempt. No struggle, no kick, no protest, not even so much as a bite. If anything, he actually leans in, palms pressing against the wall as if he’s chasing something, too. Only a centimeter keeps them separated when their lips finally part. Against all odds, the fire in Shoichi’s eyes seems to burn all the harder. Byakuran know the answer even before he wastes any breath on its opposite. “It’s still waiting for you."  He’s still waiting for him.  A kiss has hardly done anything for Shoichi’s chapped lips, the breath which rustles out from between them drying that brief wet respite. It’s hardly done anything for that look in his eyes, either. "Well, it’ll probably have to keep waiting.” Byakuran watches the muscles in his throat stick and bob, struggling for even a simple swallow. “There’s nothing else for me to do in this world. There’s no point.” On the technical aspect, he’s right, of course. The Tri-ni-sette cannot be completed in this world, even if he were to include Shoichi’s perfect brilliant flame to the Mare set. Everything Byakuran does in this particular world is only for his own amusement right now, even if that means dismantling society chunk by chunk, or seeing how far a group of people can be pushed before they shatter into pieces. Even Shoichi isn’t different from this. If he were to finally complete his route in this world, of all worlds, what would he do then? If this was Shoichi the bassist, he could have kept him sweet and separate from the dirty business of a world collapsing in on itself with his goading, could have ducked into their not-so-little apartment and played a more domestic game.  If this was Shoichi the student, he could fill his spare time molding him into something else, treat him customizable, put together all the pieces of a broken man until he wasn’t quite whole but certainly together.  If this was Shoichi the criminal… If he had stayed…  Well. There’s no world where Shoichi has ever stayed by Byakuran’s side as he’s reworked the world into something entirely different. It’s simply not a part of the route.  Byakuran accepts this easily, because he’s had to dozens of times before, in dozens of other incarnations. All he does is chuckle a little bit. “So pessimistic, Sho-chan!” “Optimistic, actually.” That’s certainly a surprise, and Byakuran has to pause, still smiling but with his eyebrows raised a little bit now. Shoichi grins at him, with just enough teeth to be a threat. He’s never felt threatened in all of his lives now, not since he was a kid in some life forgotten a long time ago, and yet that doesn’t take away the intent. “How long do you think you can keep this going, Byakuran-san? How many worlds do you think you can completely dominate?” “Ha. Well, Sho-chan, I think the answer should be fairly obvious, shouldn’t it?” He inclines his head back towards the door, hands preoccupied with Shoichi’s weight. “If I can do this much to this kind of world, then I doubt there are many others that will be as much of a challenge.” The real challenge is in completing everything, in putting together the exact right variables that will give him all of the Tri-Ni-Sette.  The real challenge is in completing everything, including finally keeping Shoichi Irie at his side.  Despite this fact, Shoichi doesn’t stop grinning, although some strength has drained from it. All his fire can’t give him the energy that his physical body lacks from little sleep and about as much food. “Well,” he says, “we’ll see about that. But nothing lasts forever, Byakuran-san. No one does.” And he grits his teeth together… and something cracks.  Later on, his doctors and researchers will marvel at the fake tooth layered over one of his real ones that had laid within Shoichi’s mouth. Such a thing would be delicate and tricky work even as a mere piece of art, yet Shoich had gone somewhere a little deeper. Literally, he’d gone deeper, apparently digging into old forgotten Estraneo strongholds and the secrets that had been abandoned a long time ago. An interesting invention- one of many, across many worlds, many mistakes- had been research into warping the body with the use of Sun flames via a set of specialized modified fangs. Creating a whole new jaw would have been impossible for even Shoich’s genius, at least with everything else he’d stacked up on top of his plate, and, considering the layout of the world, he’d probably never be able to get the necessary requirements for giving his body such base animalistic characteristics… But he didn’t need to.  All Shoichi Irie had needed was the base concept, the base technical aspects that could help active a Sun Flame within his body without the use of a Ring and change some internal trigger.  Sun Flames are activation. The Sun is energy. Too much energy, heart beating so fast as to burst, lungs quicker than the air they can absorb, mind falling apart from energy and crashing in on itself…  They’ll marvel at it all, the people he sends to investigate this, and a few will ponder if they can use this sort of technology to keep a tight rein on anyone beneath them, even if there will have to be obvious changes depending on the kind of Flame that one primarily has. Byakuran will let them ponder and experiment, because of course he will. In a world without any real goal, any real meaning to continue this particular save, he might as well, right? Yet he’ll never go on to use their findings, not in the way they intend, not even in other worlds. In the moment, in that underground bunker where Shoichi Irie lived out his last days frantically working on something that could never possibly have any meaning, Byakuran can only watch the way he jolts suddenly with an exhale so sharp that he breathes out blood… and then he goes limp.  Byakuran doesn’t smile. He can’t even act surprised. All he can really do, after a quiet moment of staring at a corpse, is lower it slowly back down onto the mattress he’s slept on for who knows how long.  Next time, then. If nothing else, he’ll always have next time.  “Byakuran-san, please, pay attention, I need you to have full understanding of the Merone Base, okay?” “I am paying attention,” he says, lips lilting up in a smile. It’s not wholly a lie. He’s always listened to Shoichi in multiple realities, even if he hasn’t listened to him on some occasions. So he’s intimately familiar with many ideas that Shoichi has brought up, some of them more solid in most realities than others.  The best realities for this sort of thing are the handful where Shoichi’s life has him meet someone born on an entirely different little island, separated from Japan by an entire continent. Byakuran doesn’t really mess with the workers on the lower end of things, which Spanner definitely qualifies as despite his own mechanical genius, but he keeps an eye on anything that is prone to influence Shoichi. In the universes where Shoichi Irie and the aptly dubbed “Spanner” meet, Shoichi almost always  comet collides into his talent with technology. Whether those are universes where Shoichi temporarily joins him… That’s a little more in the air. A coin flip, honestly, one of those things that is practically prayed to like the RNG in a gacha phone game.  That such existences are also the ones where Shoichi falls in love with another, where he burns so bright in a different direction, is something Byakuran is pretty sure he’s not jealous about. Why would he be? That happens in the occasional RPG, where your companions fall for each other if you never make a move towards them. Byakuran thinks of such occurrences, of such lives he’s lived with different lovers himself, and then stops thinking of them.  For this existence? This one in particular has Spanner working deep in the machinations of the Millefiore, not inclined to a leadership position that would take him away from the robotics that he loves so much. And Shoichi, in this one…  “Could you at least look at me when trying to feed me that lie?” Byakuran laughs again, shoulders shaking a little, before he rolls his head back along the couch to look at him upside-down. Shoichi the the Right Hand Man, the inevitable betrayer, stares right back at him before heaving out a sigh. Theoretically, he’s supposed to be clad in Millefiore lily white at all times, especially when dealing with official business here in Byakuran’s very own expansive office. Yet it’s a testament to the privilege Shoichi possesses that he can be half out of it already, revealing not a slick suit or combat ready tank top but one of his any ratty and worn band tees. If any of their subordinates caught sight of Shoichi in such a state, it would likely only further fuel the rumors Byakuran knows are out there, that Shoichi Irie slipped into his bed long before he slipped into one of the Millefiore uniforms. In some ways, they might almost be right, just never in the way they’d ever think to think.  If only Shoichi would want him enough to try and seduce him, and more than the simple fact that such a thing would be a hilarious experience. No matter the many different worlds, there’s always some… core to these characters. And it is a core part of Shoichi Irie that he’d never really be what one could call “seductive”.  “I’m looking,” he drawls, long and low, and something about all of it clearly has something to do with the way Shoichi jolts and his mouth twists. He doesn’t blush, apparently old enough to have restraint in some area even if not all of them, but Byakuran can recognize the little things like that. The Cheshire Cat smile on his face only widens. “What, Sho-chan?” “Byakuran-san, you’re…” A huff pops out of him and he strides over closer. “You know what, nevermind.” “Now now!” Byakuran laughs, reaching behind him to pull Shoichi closer once he’s in reach until his arms are folding over his shoulders and he can better see the schematics his supposed right hand is fiddling with. Still he keeps his fingers slipped through those reddish brown curls. They’re soft, comforting. A reminder that, at this stage in the game, he can still enjoy the little occurrences. Those are the kinds of things which help keep a person playing over and over again. “I encourage complete and total honesty in my subordinates, Sho-chan. It’s not good to bottle things up inside, either!” For all of Byakuran’s power- the physical where he’s become steadily good enough in close combat, the political and social where he could destroy a person’s life with a single message, the flames of his which burn through the barriers of separation and the barriers of flesh- For all of that, Shoichi in every iteration never seems to falter enough. He always manages to drum up a look of faint unimpressed exasperation, regardless of his situation. Byakuran likes the one Shoichi is wearing right now, the type where his fondness softens all of the harder edges until his affection bleeds through. If it ever becomes a dam, Byakuran suspects that will be one of the times when he’s won. “You only say those sorts of things,” Shoichi mutters, “because you find it funny when I get pissed off about things such as Glo Xinia and get petty.” “I don’t say it only because of that!” he says, even as he laughs. He laughs because it’s true, and he laughs at the ways it’s not, and because he’ll enjoy these moments where he can be with Shoichi with the Mare Sun Ring on his finger almost fake enough to make him think that this is a perfect run.  But he’s still waiting for that inevitable betrayal. There is always some core part, isn’t there?  Shoichi’s core has never made him take the final step into staying by Byakuran’s side.  Shoichi the Double Agent is a new one, although that only makes things a little more interesting. It also explains a lot, honestly, from how Shoichi had insisted on being able to take care of this younger Vongola with no reinforcements, to how he had kept their block against the Ten Year Bazooka’s effects so close at hand. Byakuran has to hand it to him- he could have been a world class actor in another world. Opposing him outright, or a heel turn at the last moment, those are the choices he’s used to. Yet he’d forgotten, in his apathy, that there was indeed a third option when it came to Shoichi Irie. There was nothing ever stopping him from going along with Byakuran’s plans while readying a knife for his back the whole while.  Faintly, he wonders if he would have bothered to stop any bit of Shoichi’s plot, at least in this world.  Probably not. All of his selves need to ignore at least one thing or go along with one plot if only to see how that might affect the timeline relevant to a completely different self.  It’s enlightening, too, listening to Shoichi explain the entire situation for the benefit of the younger Tsunayoshi Sawada’s group. While he likes to torment his many opponents with his supposed omniscience, Byakuran knows his abilities far better than anyone else. Certainly, he’s far closer to the very concept of omniscience than any other human would normally be… but he’s not quite there yet. If he knew everything, if he had the walkthrough guide to the game of his life, then he would have accomplished his main goal a thousand lifetimes ago instead of having it vex him so much. No, he only knows as much as any aspect of himself knows and shares with the rest of himself. He can’t be in multiple places at once, or, rather, he can, but they’re so detached as to something have no bearing on one another. Every life is its own, even as every life is him.  So, up until this point as he patiently takes in the meeting of his foes and Shoichi, he can’t ever have imagined that Shoichi the Underground Engineer had been thinking of this when he had questioned Byakuran’s ability to continue the game. It’s a brilliant play, a reality breaking move to match his own… and all he can do is smile, smile, smile. The inclusion of a love interest for the main character can really drag a game down, or raise it up to something so popular as to be overwhelming. A rushed and poorly thought out romance can dock a point or two from a review, while a truly heartbreaking or varied one can be the main reason why anyone even touches it.  Once upon a time, he had thought that Shoichi Irie had been just a minor side quest. Enjoyable enough on its own, sure, but no more than delving into a cave during a fantasy game for some quest or another. Entertaining in a mindless fashion. Yet even now, even without the Mare Sun’s quiet intense longing for a finger that won’t ever slip into it, he thinks that was foolish of himselves. Shoichi was never so simple as a minor side quest.  He was as vital a part of the main storyline as any party member, as any guiding NPC, as any fridged lover.  Byakuran wonders how he’ll die this time. Shoichi Irie doesn’t die.  Oh, he certainly does a lot of things that would logically lead to the death of most other people who attempted to do the same. He volunteers to be on the frontlines, despite lacking box and Ring both, staring Byakuran straight in the eyes as he says it. He helps control a moving tank of a headquarters to defend himself even when he’s being shot at. He removes himself from that tank, despite the metal being the best object of defense available to him, and forces exhausted legs to keep moving. He looks at the most powerful person in all of existence and makes demands of him despite the fact that he can’t even get up on his own two fee without assistance. All the while, he burns. Byakuran basks in it, even as he refuses to let this particular part of  the game go on any longer and denies all Shoichi would want for. This has always been a game between them, more than even the Vongola that so often seem to have a tendency of being his biggest obstacle in so many worlds. So, more than Tsunayoshi Sawada, more than the one of two remaining Arcobaleno in the world, more than anyone else, he savors the look of desperate frustrated outrage on Shoichi’s face. Out of his list of things he wants the most in the world, it’s not at his highest shelf, only perhaps in third place, and yet that’s more than good enough. Having that burning and sheering brightness focused on him alone will always place even when not in first.  Of course…. When first rolls around… When Yuni reveals herself, reveals that very puzzle Byakuran has been tearing over in so many places and times and lives, well, every gamer wants to get first place. Byakuran forgets him, save for the briefest flicker of a thought that he ought to thank him in one life or another for helping make this to be the run that finally succeeds. Loss is a new feeling, in more ways than one.  He’s lost his battle, and his war, fire stripping away flesh from bone, bone from existence. He’s lost the game.  He’s even, and especially, lost his sense of self as those flames do more than be rid of the physical. They sever him, completely, utterly, the changing of one blood red sky to something softer and quieter, and he’s never released how much was bearing down on his mind until it’s all been stripped away from him. In the last few seconds where he still exists- only himself, this self, this Byakuran Gesso who has lead this Millefiore family to where it is today in this very moment- there’s so much space to simply… think.  On a lot of things. On the very Player 2 that the Cervello once told him about, that Aria knew about with those amused deep eyes of hers, that a starving man in a lab cleaner than he was plotted so hard to bring into creation. On if perhaps this was perhaps a tester’s way of playing the game, but not how it was to be played. On if he had only been wistful when he’d seen a face twisted in quiet despair from beyond their little arena.  Next time. He wonders if there’ll be a next time.  “Just…. don’t? Alright? Can we please just, stop? I would appreciate it if you could stop. Just… stay in bed and don’t start a fight with the three other absurdly powerful people that are in this hospital.” Shoichi (the teenager, the young genius, thrice lived) tucks Byakuran into the hospital bed so securely like he thinks cotton will be enough to stop really anyone from doing anything. Byakuran lets him, and only partially because he’s surprisingly wore out. This, too, is a new experience, different from the many memories that still overwhelm him from other lives he knows but hasn’t lived. Then again, none of the lives that he’d lived had ever focused on anything but that one, singular goal. He’s never gotten to experience what it’s felt like to be shot at with full strength by one of the Arcobaleno, or seen just how much power the Vindice had been hiding beneath their dark coats for so long.  Not in many lives has he gotten to be so close to Shoichi like this, watching a face much younger than what he’s used to crumple up in an exhausted exasperation that apparently never aged a single bit since the day he was born.  It’s a brand new hospital room that he’s been moved to, now, and it’s completely empty save for the two of them. Everyone else who’d been present, those who would have been his Millefiore in another life, another future, have been looped into clean up efforts on account of the fact that none of them are so gravely injured like he is. Even Bluebell, although he’s fairly confident that she’ll do more playing than helping alongside the new friend she’d made as she’s been steadily absorbed into the Giglio Nero. That’s been slowly happening with all of them, he’s noticed quietly, and that’s probably for the better. He might not have the walkthrough guide for life- perhaps never had it- but he’s seen enough clips to know that they’d find nothing and neither would he if they stuck with him in the same path that he went down in one future that’s now ceased to exist for himself. The person at his bedside right now must know this as well, and yet.  “I don’t make any promises,” he tells Shoichi, smiling as the teenager slumps into a chair. He doesn’t look as bad as he could be, because Byakuran has seen him go through the full spectrum of destroyed and devastated and depressed…. but he does look dead tired, bags under his eyes better suited for the grave and his hair messy from lack of sleep or care. The frames of his glasses smack into his knuckles when he reaches up beneath them to rub at his eyes.  “I really wish you would.” Hands dropping down to his lap, he shifts awkwardly in his seat and glances back toward the closed door where armed guards are waiting just outside. For all his effect on the various aspects of reality, for the sheer potential of what he can do, Byakuran is always being watched. Yuni has accepted his assistance for this latest disaster, of course, but she’s surprisingly clever. That’s how she’d waited so patiently in another future, getting the Cervello into the perfect position to grant her access to the exact right place at the exact right time. Similarly, she’d agreed and complied with the Vongola when they’d requested surveillance on him. Byakuran doesn’t blame them. He’s not sure he’s still entirely attached to a lot in the world to do things like levy blame at anyone for just about any reason.  Shoichi is a direct contrast in that he doesn’t even remotely belong here, and everyone knows it. Everyone on Tsunayoshi Sawada’s side is a part of the Vongola officially now, with even the actual toddler being related to another mafia Family. The Varia, well, they don’t need any introduction to those who are a part of this life. The same can be said for Mukuro Rokudo’s lot, all criminals in their own right, and every single one of the Arcobaleno are wanted for their skills in both ways that can mean. Shoichi Irie is only a middle schooler at a good school whose family has been told that he was going to a tutor who could refer to him a good college while, the last some nights, he’s been involved in the life and death battles of overpowered criminal organizations and helping build a giant super robot that most college students could only dream of. If he wanted to wash his hands of everything, then he would have at least a 50% chance of success with how soft hearted the Vongola, Giglio Nero, and Cavallone could all be.  Yet here he is, one heel bobbing up and down through the air down to the floor while his hand remains loosely curled over his stomach. “I’ve killed you, you know,” Byakuran says casually, stretching his fingers along the too-clean sheets of his bed. From the corner of his eye, he can see Shoichi’s leg promptly freeze its jiggling. “In a lot of different timelines.” Even if it wasn’t directly, well, his hand was always buried deep in that particular pie.  It takes a long few seconds before Shoichi remembers to breathe. With his exhale, the invisible strings keeping his body upright seem to vanish and he slumps forwards. His hands curling into that curly hair are a sight Byakuran is intimately familiar with. “I know, Byakuran-san,” he says, polite even after all of this, across multiple realities. Polite even he sounds as though he would rather be having anything but this kind of conversation, preferably in a bed of his own somewhere.  Well, with how their first meeting in this particular universe had involved Shoichi yelling at everyone else about how he wasn’t to be trusted, it’s sort of a given that he knows. Regardless. “I thought you might need a reminder,” he replies, head falling back a little further into his pillow. Despite how long people can end up staying, hospital pillows really are garbage, he’s come to find. Even when the mafia is involved. And a little bit of the yakuza.  Shoichi’s fingers keep sliding further backwards, catching tangles and tugging free of them until he can rest them curved over the back of his neck. “Thanks for that,” he deadpans. As with many worlds, Byakuran seems to have a talent for getting rid of that patience, even in the times where Shoichi never holds it against him. With that, his head drops, glasses threatening to bounce right off of his face.  It occurs to him, then, that there might be something else responsible for the darkened skin under Shoichi’s eyes and the weight dragging his spine ever further down towards irreparable back pain. It’s something that he’s had to deal with for…. something that feels like years, but which he knows, by the way people quantify time, hasn’t actually happened. Yet that realization only makes Shoichi’s choice to be here over anywhere else in even this whole building alone a… puzzling mystery. His smile shifts a little bit, not as bright and careless, and he finally asks the question he’s been wondering for days and days now. “Why are you here, then, Sho-chan?” That gets Shoichi to looks up at him again, blinking a few times in pure befuddlement. “What?” “I’ve killed you a lot of times,” Byakuran answers patiently, still looking straight at him. This young, and his eyes seem a little darker than the brilliant green he has so many memories of. “I could kill you in this universe, too. So why are you still here taking care of me, Sho-chan? There are others you could get to do this.” Shoichi breathes in slowly again, and removes his hands from his neck with about the same speed. “I’ve been wondering that myself,” he admits. “But, Byakuran-san… You haven’t killed me yet.” …Huh. That actually wipes the smile from his face. When all Byakuran does is stare, head flopping to the side too quickly to be called a 'curious tilt’, Shoichi promptly flusters a nice red and jerks his shoulders up. “I know!” he snaps, which would be an overreaction if they didn’t know each other so well. Have known each other so well even without ever having met before in this lifetime before a little over a week ago, maybe. “I know the, the yet is kind of a, it’s a pressing point, there’s nothing guarantee that you won’t just…. do the same terrible horrible things all over again!” Every ounce of stillness is gone from him now. Free from their anchor along his own skin, Shoichi’s hands start to go flying everywhere as he gestures wildly. “I- I remember the kinds of things you can do, I know for a fact, and you’ve definitely proved that you can just… You’re not any weaker from that point in time, as far as I can tell! But I just-” He draws one hand back, raking it a lot more harshly through his hair than before. “I can remember you dying.” Brows drawn tight together, his eyes… They’re not burning, not in the way that Byakuran has become so accustomed to, and yet they’re an altogether different kind of intense that has him forgetting to even blink.  Shoichi says nothing more on that, says nothing on what was going through his mind as he watched even Byakuran’s very bones turn to ash on the wind. He doesn’t need to. In every lifetime of his that Byakuran has ever seen, his goal has always been to oppose him eventually, inevitably.  It’s simply never been a goal, he realizes then, that he’d ever reach with any element of personal happiness attached.  A single shuddering breath breaks the silence, and Shoichi continues with a trembling voice that’s only barely calmer than his frantic explanation from a second before. “But you haven’t killed me yet,” he repeats, like a spell. “Whatever will happen in the future, or any other futures, it just… It hasn’t happened yet. So I’m just going to deal with the now, with what we’ve actually done, before anything else.” That phrasing tips him off to what’s going on in that brain of his, and Byakuran eases back into his pillows a little bit more. “Hey, Sho-chan,” he says, making sure that he’s snapped out his own brain before continuing. When he’s sure he’s gotten his attention, Byakuran smiles. “You remember two different lives, hm?” His flinch says it all. Most of those who were tightly bound with that one particular future were, to his understanding and one way or the other, given some memories of the event. Byakuran’s knowledge of it is incomplete, admittedly, on account of that self being dead by that point, but he can extrapolate enough. The latest battle demonstrated well enough the combined abilities of the world’s greatest scientist, the unparalleled abilities of the Millefiore’s once-own professional Gola Mosca engineer, and everything that Shoichi Irie is. That sort of thing would have been easy enough for them to do, to the embarrassment of no doubt many other scientists in the world.  Yet there’s a problem with that. For all the others- the tenth generation of the Vongola, the reclusive and violent lot under Mukuro Rokudo, the Varia- they’d only remember the memories of that single time, perhaps an entire lifetime depending on what adjustments had been made for individuals such as Xanxus and Dino of the Cavallone. Yet even before he had died, Byakuran had learned enough to know that Shoichi Irie wasn’t anything like the rest of those who would remember that future, and in a way that had nothing to do with his favoritism for the other. Shoichi had been able to do what he’d done because a future version of himself had trapped a younger version of himself in his future long enough to suppress his memories of time travel, implant sleeper memories of that entire future along with plans to stop Byakuran, and then send him back into the past with the hopes that would stop something. Anything. By the time Captain Shoichi Irie of the Millefiore, double agent, had prepared his machine to let the Vongola’s tenth gen go back to their own time, he'd already been carrying the memories of an entirely different life and future around with him.  When Shoichi Irie the simple teenager had gotten those memories again, he’d remembered not just one other life, but two entirely separate ones, layered on top of the memories he has of his own life in this universe now.  Forcing himself to relax to what Byakuran finds to be mixed success, Shoichi leans forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands holding onto himself. “How… How do you deal with it?” he asks softly.  Byakuran jazz hands towards himself.  Shoichi squeezes his eyes shut in accompaniment to the scrunching of his mouth. “Alright, I- nevermind. I take back that question. It’s obvious how youdealt with it.” “Ha ha.” “Stop that.” Reaching up, he drags one hand down his face. “Please. Ugh, I think I’m going to be sick again…” “You’ve picked no better place for it, Sho-chan!"  "Please, just…. stop that too.” Sneakers scruffing against linoleum, he slumps backwards into his seat and delegates one hand to wrap around his stomach again. His other hand stays right where it is up against his face. “Okay, if you can’t… promise that you won’t get into a fight with the other super-powered forces of nature also being treated in this hospital, can you…” He falters, for a moment, no doubt remembering so many promises that Byakuran failed to keep. “…Just don’t do that again. Alright? Don’t… try any of those timelines again.” There’s a lot Byakuran could say about that, how he’s clearly lost so many rounds that he can at least gracefully step back from the controller, that he’s honestly become sort of tired after so many different livetimes where he worked so hard for something that he couldn’t get past…. But he doesn’t. That’s a conversation that can, maybe, come at a different time. For now, he only continues to smile slightly in Shoichi’s direction. “There are other things I want to do now, Sho-chan,” he answers, which isn’t really false in any way. It’s only simplified.  Shoichi takes what reassurance he can squeeze out of that response, nodding his head as if it’s made of lead. “Okay,” he says, quietly. “Okay. So I guess that’s… taken care of for now. I guess.” Even with armed guards, it’s good to see that even Shoichi is aware that Byakuran is only really contained when he wants to be. “Now all we have to do is just… focus on the present.” He whistles a breath out between his teeth. “Easier said than done.” While Byakuran’s own case far outdoes just about anyone else’s situation, well, that doesn’t change the fact that they’re both in the same boat of remembering more lives than 99.9% of the planet. How are they to move on so neatly, “live in the present”, when their minds are tied up in so many knot of other futures, other experiences, that they can barely stay put together? Byakuran nudges his hand a little closer to the metal railing of his bed, the failed purpose of which is to keep him in place. “Taking over the world is still an option, Sho-chan. And I’d still make you my Number 2, even.” The expression directed his way would be alarmed, if it wasn’t weighed down with so much exasperated annoyance instead. “Byakuran-san, what did I just say.” Prying his hand away from his face, Shoichi huffs. “Maybe Yuni-san would know… Even if I feel bad about bothering a little girl about this sort of thing. She wanted to talk with me anyway sometime this week…” Consider Byakuran’s interest stirred. “Oh, Yuni-chan wanted to talk with you? About what?” Rolling his head back, Shoichi is too exhausted to even look at him this time. “She wasn’t clear. Just that she wanted to talk with me and… Daisy-san…?” The sudden laughter that bursts forth from Byakuran’s mouth has Shoichi snap up in surprise. “What? What’s so funny!?” Grinning widely, Byakuran wipes away a tear of mirth from his eye with the heel of his hand. “Nothing big, Sho-chan,” he says, which is so transparent a lie that he doesn’t feel bad about it. Once again, he suspects he’s been outmaneuvered by a child, although the women of the Giglio Nero are so strange and otherwordly that perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. He has a suspicion of what exactly she aims to speak to Shoichi about.  Which leaves all the burden of effort on him now, doesn’t it? He allows his eyes to slide shut, comfortable exactly where he is. This entire time, perhaps he’s been playing the game all wrong, gotten the objectives all mixed up. Perhaps this isn’t even the game he thought it was. If that’s the case…  “I think I want to try things your way, Sho-chan.” And, for the first time in so many lifetimes, he feels a light touch at his own hand in return. 

[harper-clarington]

Safe & Sound || Romper

Where: Clarington residence

When: December 4, afternoon

Warnings: a blowjob, discussions of Roman/Dare sex, vague descriptions of injuries, hints of d/s

Word Count: 4,737

Harper in bold, @roman-lynn in italics

Things had been rough in Riverdale the last few weeks. Roman looked like he had been drug to Hell and back; the injuries between his fight with Hunter Clarington and his showdown against Kevin Platt Jr. evident across his entire body. Bruises and cuts fresh on his skin,  and yet his pride was still intact. He didn’t understand why Harper was worried about him, there was no need. He knew how to hold his own and take care of himself. He was still alive, wasn’t he?He knew that Harper wanted the reassurance and he wasn’t too thrilled with staying in his trailer anyways, especially with the recent events on the South Side. He was thankful that he has already been on the North Side, his walk to the Clarington residence only a short ways away from Charlie’s apartment. Every step he took felt like a lifetime, but he finally reached the front gate. He pressed the buzzer, nervous that someone other than Harper would answer. “Hello?”, he called into the speaker box, shifting on his feet “It’s Rome”

Harper didn't know why she'd been so anxious since she'd found out about Darius and Roman's mutiny and their subsequent injuries. She'd been sure Blaine was taking care of Darius, but she needed to see Roman for herself to make sure he was fine, especially since he refused to go to the hospital. When the buzzer rang, Harper rushed over to open it,  not wanting any of the staff to beat her to it and ask questions. "Come on in," she said, pressing the button and then heading downstairs to wait by the door. She opened it, biting her lip when she saw Roman, and before she could stop herself, she was wrapping him in a tight hug. "Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with you Serpents?"

It took Roman longer than expected to make his way up the path to the front door. Somehow, he still made it before Harper albeit he was out of breath. He didn’t mind looking like he had just been in a fight, but he felt like he had been ran over by a tractor trailer. Twice. Going to a hospital just wasn’t an option for him, especially not with everything that had been happening. Sheriff Hummel had already held him once, when he had stumbled over Sebrina Smythe’s body, he didn’t need to deal with more questions from him. Roman’s eyes lit up when the door opened, revealing Harper and Roman felt his heart beat speed up. She was quick to move in for a hug, causing him to let out a sharp intake of breath. He settled one hand onto Harper’s back and buried his face into her shoulder. “Hello to you too”

Harper clung to him for a moment more, before reluctantly pulling back and taking his hand instead, pulling him into the enormous mansion and nudging  the door shut behind him. "Oh, I am so mad at you." She hated this. She hated being worried about stupid boys with stupid smiles and stupid eyes and stupid abs. Ugh. Once they were in her room, she turned . back around to see him, and frowned at the marks on his face. She reached up and carefully ran her fingers over them,  before shaking her head. "Please tell me the cuts have been cleaned and have ointment on them at least?"

Roman was able to breathe once Harper pulled away, the ache in his body dulling to a minimum. He didn't know what to say to Harper, he didn't understand why she was mad with him. A North Sider like herself  normally would have no care for who was in charge of the South Side gang. It was Serpent business--between himself, Darius, and any other member baring a snake tattoo. All he could do is roll his eyes and follow her through the halls up to her bedroom. They were quiet as they made their way, not wanting to rouse any suspicion from the Claringtons. Once the door was closed to her bedroom, he settled his hands on her hips as she lightly ran her fingers over his cuts, making him shiver. "Other than the big one on my forehead, no." Roman shrugged, "I took a shower like an hour after."

Harper shook her head, rolling her eyes. "A shower is not enough to stop an infection. If you're not going to get looked at, you need to at least take care of yourself and keep applying ointment to all of them. And icing your bruises to reduce the swelling." She got up for a second, and darted out of her bedroom to go rummage around in the kitchen. Usually, she'd feel weird about leaving someone alone in her bedroom, but for some reason she trusted that Roman wouldn't snoop. She grabbed an ice pack from one of the freezers, and grabbed some ointment out of the first aid kit as well, before returning to her room. "Alright, hold this on your bruises. 20 minutes on, 20 minutes off."

Roman furrowed his brow and grit his teeth; he didn't care about getting an infection or about bruises. He was going to look like this for at least a solid week, no matter what he did about his injuries. His intention for coming to Harper's wasn't strictly pure anyways. He figured he'd may be able to squeeze out an easy pity fuck out of her. That didn't look like it was going to be the case. With Harper fluttering out the door, Roman was left to his own devices. He bent down, wincing at his bruised ribs and unlaced his boots, leaving them next to the door. He wrestled out of his leather jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, leaving him in only a hoody and his jeans. He moved to the bed, sitting on the edge of it, hands idle as he waited for Harper's return. She came back, a force, bearing all sorts of first aid items and Roman felt like he could barely get a word in edgewise. "Harp--", he finally interjected, his hand on her arm. "I'm fine. I don't need all this."

Harper worried her lower lip between her teeth, gently pressing the ice pack to his face. "Why can't you just shut up and let me do this for five minutes?" She grabbed his hand and pulled it up, pressing it to the ice. "Hold it here. If you keep it on as long as I ask, I'll suck your dick." She reached down and grabbed the ointment, unscrewing it and then gently dabbing it over the cuts, making sure to work it in without pressing too hard, before she pulled back to examine her handiwork. "Anything more than this and I'm sure you'll act like I'm torturing you, so I guess that's enough. Keep the ice on." She felt calmer now that she'd done something, less worried that he'd drop dead in front of her. She took a minute to look him over, and now that she'd patched him up, she had to admit, at least to herself, that the roughed up look was kind of hot.

Roman exaggerated a groan and rolled his eyes, slightly annoyed. The ice was freezing on his face, but the cool burn was slowly numbing the pain behind his eye. He allowed Harper to move his hand to hold the ice pack and laughed, surprised at her negotiation tactic. “Deal.”, he said, agreeing  to her terms. He sat quietly as Harper dabbed the ointment on the few cuts that were visible. He a lot more bruises and cuts underneath his clothing, mostly covering his chest and ribs, which he was sure she would see. Without  retort, Roman lifted his hoody with his free hand, showing her underneath. “Actually, I was going to say that I had a lot more under here.”

Harper muttered a swear word under her breath that would probably be considered 'unladylike' if her mother ever heard her say it but she didn't quite care at the moment. "Oh my god. Is it just your chest or are their any on your back and legs too?" She came back over to him, and perched next to him on the bed, carefully putting ointment on some of the other cuts before she grabbed a different icepack and started to hold it to the biggest bruise on his chest. "I feel like an ice bath would be more useful here but I don't want you to freeze either. We're going to have to make do." She shook her head. "I cannot believe Darius lost fingers. How does that even happen?! Are gang coup d'etats always this gorey?"

Roman awkwardly pulled off his sweatshirt, lifting it over his head along with his tank top underneath. His skin, ridden with bruises was on full display for Harper. “Chest and back are pretty rough, but I can’t lie that the ice bath idea isn’t all that bad. I used to do that back when I was still in high school—for baseball” Roman let out a small groan, a few of the cuts stinging with the application of the ointment. “Coup d’whats?”, he repeated confused as to what Harper was asking. “All I know is that Mean Man Platt brought a gun to a knife fight”

Harper stifled a gasp at the map of bruises blossoming across Roman's skin. "Yeah. Ice bath is sounding more and more like a good idea. I mean we have everything we need for one if you actually want to do it? " She raised an eyebrow at his explanation though. "Baseball, huh? Would've pegged you as more of a football or hockey guy." She shook her head fondly, pulling back a smidge once she was sure she'd coated everything she could in the disinfecting cream. "A coup d'etat. In technical terms it refers to when a military seizes power and overthrows the leader of a state. But I can't believe you guys didn't think he'd have a gun? What leader gives up power easily?"

Roman shook his head at the idea of getting into an ice bath at this time of year. “You kidding? I’ll end up catching pneumonia and dying before you can even get your mouth on me.” The hairs on Roman’s neck stood up, a shiver going straight down his spine. “I played baseball since I was 7, little league and the whole thing.” Roman shrugged, still not completely understanding Harper’s verbiage. He knew he agreed with her though, there was no reason why Kevin Sr was harboring a gun. Not unless he was afraid of something or guilty of something. “We’re Serpents. Guns leave evidence, so we don’t do guns.”

Harper snorted. "Shut up. We'd crank up the heaters. But suit yourself," she murmured, moving the ice pack to some of the bruises on his back. She couldn't resist leaning down to kiss him, slow but sensuous. "That is such a cute mental image." She finally stopped her ministrations, satisfied that she'd done as much as she could. She pulled back and then sat down next to him on the bed, nodding as he explained. "Uh...reassuring, kind of? But yeah that's true. Guns are pretty easy to trace. Daddy talks about 'foolproof evidence' all the time at the dinner table." She couldn't conceal her eyeroll at the thought.

It was awkward kissing Harper like this, shirt rucked up and hanging around his neck and still holding the ice pack to his face. He groaned, a small whine emitting from his mouth in complaint as she pulled away. “How long do I have to keep this thing on for?” He let out a ragged breath, and flopped down on the bed as Harper pulled the ice off his back. “Your dad...he’s a lawyer, right?”, he asked curiously, “Point being that there was no way to see that coming. I could have killed the guy.”

Harper giggled, and then glanced at her watch. "Give it a couple more minutes, you big baby. I promise I'll make it worth your while." She idly ran her fingers through his messy hair as she spoke. "He owns the jail and he's a warden there, but yes, he does have a law degree and he did co-create a law firm with Adrien Smythe," she explained. Her dad's strange obsession with crime and punishment was something that never particularly interested her. "I don't blame you. Ugh."

Roman nudged his head into Harper’s hand, itching for the contact. He pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and looked up at Harper as she made fun of him.  “I’ll believe it when I see it” Roman’s brow furrowed; he chose to ignore Harper’s comment about who her father was. Everyone knew who the Claringtons were in town, it had been more rhetorical. He focused on how Harper seemed to care about his anger towards Darius’ injuries, sounding like she almost had genuine concern for him. “Yeah, I mean...Darius is my brother. And the Platt’s—they’ll get what they deserve.”

Harper sat down on the bed next to him, leaning into his side but taking care not to put to much weight on him so that she didn't aggravate his injuries. "Alright, alright, shush." She tilted her head up, a bit curious. "So what...happens to them? Now that they're out?" She bit on her lip for a moment, reaching out to take Roman's free hand in hers. "It's sweet. That you and Darius are so close. Have you always been that way?"

Roman pulled Harper closer to him, his arm wrapped around her waist. Her weight on top of him was enough to ground him, keeping him focused on the conversation instead of the spark of irrational jealousy he felt. “They’ve been stripped of their skins and exiled.” Roman didn’t really know what was going to happen, it seemed inevitable that somewhere down the line he and Darius would have to deal with them again in the future. “Me and Darius are...I don’t know, we’re close. We have a complicated friendship” Roman laughed, his mind offering up memories of Darius fucking him.

Harper wrinkled her nose. "I'm not...I can't follow this snake metaphor that far. What exactly does being stripped of your skin entail? Is it like you lose the jacket or what?" She snuggled into his side, a warm feeling blossoming in her chest when he wrapped his arm around her. She reached up and brushed at his bruise. "You're probably okay to take the ice off now," she said, before returning to the topic at hand. "Complicated how? How long have you know each other anyways?"

Roman swallowed, unsure if he should reveal to Harper all the events that unfolded. It wasn’t as if he was embarrassed or regretful about his actions, more so he didn’t want Harper to think of him as awful or get turned off. “I mean, yeah, that’s part of it. But the other part is the tattoo.” He peered over his shoulder, at his own Serpent tattoo. He took a moment, deciding against going into detail, before talking about his friend and new leader of the Serpents. “I couldn’t even tell you. Since we were kids, to be honest. He’s like family, which is weird cause I mean, I’ve not been coy about it. We’ve hooked up here and there. “

Harper brushed her fingers down his skin and traced the outline of the S of the snake's body, tilting her head to the side. "What happens to the tattoo?" She questioned, feeling a bit apprehensive about the answer. She couldn't help but giggle a little bit, her mind filling in the blanks with some very appealing images. "No way. That's kind of ridiculously hot." She was quiet for a moment, unsure if it was overstepping for her to say it but deciding to anyways. "It's kind of nice that you guys have built your own family though. There's something kind of romantic about choosing who you consider your own instead of whatever crap the universe decides to bestow on you."

A shiver ran down Roman’s spine as Harper traced his tattoo. He felt goosebumps pop up on his neck and curled his toes. “The Serpent tattoo is sacred. Cause like the jacket, you can’t just take it off. So, in exile you either get your Serpent burned off or cut off. It’s..a lot for you I’m sure” Roman laughed, of course Harper would think the idea of him and Darius together was hot. Hell, it was hot. But, it was more of a one-off happening. “Serpents are family, but there are some that i consider blood. Like Dare.”

Harper grimaced a little at the thought. It sounded all kinds of barbaric but to be fair, the guy they wanted to do that to had literally shot off part of Darius' hand so she supposed she couldn't blame them. If everyone who got 'skinned' was equally awful, she could sort of understand why it was a thing that happened. "I'm not like...in love with the thought but he also shot Darius' fingers off so fuck that guy and his skin." "I don't think you;'re supposed to fuck your blood," she joked, leaning in to nuzzle at his throat. She pressed a small kiss there, and then giggled, pulling back a little. "But in this case, I am willing to make an exception on account of two people as hot as you should definitely like...smooch...at the very least. It'd be a crime not to."

As gruesome as the act had been, skinning the Platt’s had been an honor. Their Serpent tattoos hung on the wall of the basement of the Whyte Wyrm as a warning to all. He and Darius weren’t to be fucked with. They were there to restore some of the Serpents reputation, since the elder Platt had trashed it, marking vile acts like rape and assault as simple tasks. But, no more. They had rid of that stench and of his son.

He couldn’t help but laugh at Harper, she seemed to not be able to get over the fact that he and Darius had hooked up. Almost seeming as if the idea of it turned her on. “You’re a little obsessed with that thought.”, he joked playfully. “You getting all hot and bothered by it?”

Harper smirked up at him, tilting her head to the side and biting her lip. "So what if I am?" She purred, before she carefully shifted her body to sling a leg over Roman's lap, before moving in one swift movement to straddle him. "You're hot. He's hot. What's not to like about the thought?" She leaned in to kiss him, this time far hungrier than the sweet kisses she'd bestowed upon them earlier. "Besides, I believe I made you some promises earlier. I'm a woman of my word. I intend to keep them."

Once Harper was settled on his lap, Roman could feel all the blood rushing down to his lower half. It had only been a week or so, but he was aching to be buried inside of Harper. He felt the jealousy build inside of him, although he had no right to be—since Harper wasn’t his. But, he felt possessive over her in a way and it wasn’t good. “mmm, I guess.” He said with a roll of his eyes. When she leaned to kiss him, he met her halfway, his hands splayed across her back. He pulled her lower lip into his mouth, his teeth barely nipping. “yeah? It’s a good promise.”

Harper couldn't help but grin a little at his petulant tone, but she didn't comment further, happy to focus on the feeling of his lips on hers instead.  She groaned against his mouth at the feeling of his teeth and then pulled back, smirking. She reached down to pull her top off, dropping it on the floor next to her, before leaning in to kiss him again. She rolled her hips down as she felt him start to stiffen under her. "I think a blowjob was definitely promised, was it not?" She purred, before crawling off him and instead getting on her knees in front of the bed, her fingers impatiently working at the button on his jeans, eager to get his cock out.

Roman was impatient, his hands grasping at her bare flesh. He bucked his hips and could feel the heat coming in waves off her making him breathe out a mumbled curse. His cock felt restricted in his jeans and he craved her touch. The sight of her on her knees was enough to get him fully hard. His pupils were blown wide and filled with lust, his mouth watering. “Fuck—please”, he said scrambling to help her get his jeans off.

Harper tugged his jeans and boxers down, before wrapping a hand around his cock, leaning down to lap at the head. She looked up at him as she did so, making sure she was making eye-contact, before she took the head of his dick into his mouth, sucking softly. She loved being on hers knees like this for him, bringing him pleasure and watching him fall apart. It made her feel sexy and wanted and special and she loved chasing that feeling with him. She breathed through her nose before sinking down deeper onto his cock.

Making eye contact with Harper as she went down on him was one of the sexiest things. He felt like all of her attention was focused on him. His breath hitched as she took him in his mouth, and he leaned up on his arms to get a better look. “Jesus—fuck, Harper”, he breathed, fingers grasping at the bed sheets. He couldn’t help but buck his hips, his cock completely sinking into Harper’s mouth making his eyes roll back into his head

Harper hollowed her cheeks out and concentrated on sucking Roman's brains out through his dick. She wrapped one hand around the base, squeezing the part of him that wasn't in her mouth as she swallowed around his cock. She pulled back a smidge to lave some more attention to his head, loving the way he said her name when he was in the throes of pleasure, and with renewed enthusiasm she sunk back down, this time letting him hit the back of her throat.

The attention that Harper was giving the head of his cock, had Roman feeling wild. The sensation of her tongue lapping at the rosy tip had him seeing stars and all he wanted was to bury himself into her to the hilt. When she took him all the way, his cock hitting the back of her throat, he couldn’t help but pump his hips a little, his eyes closing partially as he fucked into her mouth.  “Fuck. So good”, he mumbled, his fingers threading into Harper’s hair.

Harper swallowed around his cock as Roman rocked his hips forward. To further emphasize how happy she was for him to take control of the situation, she crossed her hands behind her back and then blinked up at him innocently. Something about Roman drove her crazy. A part of her just wanted him to take full control and just ruin her, make it so that she'd feel him for days, and she just wanted to push him to the point where he'd snap and do just that.

Harper taking her hand away had him blinking his eyes open. She looked seemingly innocent, as innocent as she could look with his cock still buried in her mouth. He pushed his hips closer to Harper, testing the waters, seeing how much she could take. “Fuck, look at you.” Roman sank into the heat of Harper’s mouth, biting his lower lip. “Taking my cock in your mouth like it’s nothing”

Harper whimpered around his cock but she didn't react further. This was exactly what she was hoping for, for Roman to just take whatever he was feeling out on her. She didn't know what it was about the whole situation, but she was addicted to it, to him. Her words had her practically preening and she tried to push herself forward even more, wanting to be good for him.

The words started to fall out of his mouth like nothing, just easy. Harper seemed to want nothing more than what he wanted and that incredibly hot.  Not focused on her own pleasure but just on him. He could get behind that. “Just like that”, Roman murmured, coaxing his cock further into Harper’s mouth, before pulling out completely. “Fuck, your mouth is so good.” He took himself in hand and eased the tip inside Harper’s mouth, just allowing the tip to get most of her attention. “You look so good like this”

Harper moaned around his cock, her eyes fluttering shut at his words. This was exactly what she was hoping for, hoping he’d do. She whimpered when he pulled out, straining forward for more before he nudged the tip back in. She kept her eyes closed and her arms crossed, just focused on the sensation of his cock in her mouth and his hands in her hair, wanting to make him good, wanting him to come down her throat and mark her all over.

Roman couldn’t help but feel a sense of submission coming off of Harper in waves; her demeanor making the animal inside of him claw at his chest, desperate to come out.  She looked incredible like this, on her knees, just taking anything that she could get. Roman felt his pleasure reaching its peak, his balls drawing up and his stomach tightening. He pushed his hips forward, filling Harper’s mouth one last time before he shuddered and cursed. “O-oh, fuck.”

Harper swallowed around him as Roman worked his hips deeper into her mouth as he came, the salty taste spilling onto her tongue and down her throat. She pulled back slightly, sucking at the head as she worked him through the aftershocks, before she pulled off completely once she was sure he was done. She cleaned him off with kitten licks, before sitting back on her heels completely. "Was that good?" She asked, sweetly, licking her lips as she met his eyes once more.

Roman continued to fuck into Harper's mouth as he came, stars bursting behind his eye lids as Harper worked him through his orgasm. His breath completely betrayed him, unable to speak other than soft grunts and moans until Harper pulled back from his softening cock. He blinked his eyes open, seeing Harper still on her knees, the image making his cock weakly pulse against his thigh. His eyes locked with Harper's and he laughed, "Good? Fuck, that was amazing"

Harper tried not to look too smug but she wasn't sure if she succeeded. "I told you I'd make things worth your while," she purred, before she got back up from the floor, brushed off her knees and then joined him back on the bed. "How you feeling now, champ?"

Roman rolled his eyes at the nickname, in no position to bat an eyelash as she had literally just sucked his dick. He threw his arm around her waist and breathed out a heavy sigh. “I’m feeling exhausted, to be honest. It’s not exactly easy to get sleep when your face feels like it’s been melted off.”

Harper leaned her head onto his shoulder, running her fingers up and down his bare arm. "Uh yeah, that's because your body is going into overdrive trying to compensate so it can heal you. Do you wanna take a nap?" It was maybe a little more domestic than they usually went for but she figured he deserved it.

Roman hadn’t originally planned to sleep, but he felt the exhaustion settling into his bones. “You sure?” He asked between a yawn, lolling his head to the side.

She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his exposed neck. "I'm positive. I could probably use it too. Besides, I sleep better with a warm body next to me."

Roman nodded, pulling Harper in close, tangling their legs together. “Okay, just like an hour or so though.”, he mumbled under his breath. After pressing a kiss to Harper’s cheek, he closed his eyes, sleep coming to him quickly.

[violetosprey]

BTD: Rire/Cain Compare and Contrast

One thing I like about the BTD and TDDUP games is that pretty much every single character in the series is unique.  Hardly any of them line up in the same format as any other the others (due to occupation, objectives, level of sadism, personality, etc.).  Actually out of the entire series, there’s only really two characters that come close to being “carbon copies” : Cain and Rire.

This used to bother me a bit, but it doesn’t anymore because when you put a little more thought into it, the two couldn’t be anymore different.  It’s about time I put my thoughts onto paper though so I stop trying to lump these two together all the time :P

Game spoilers below.

First off, laying out the most important fact here:  It doesn’t matter how “similar” these characters are in the context of the games because they are created/owned by two different people.

Rire is owned by Darqx.  Cain is owned by ElectricPuke.  

Sooo I could technically end this post right here just for that sake.  These were two friends with two separate characters for their own universes.  They have full knowledge of the other’s character.  I don’t know who had their character first, but really this isn’t the case of either of them copying the other.  It’d be worse in my opinion if a creator kept dishing out the same exact type of character each and every game with just a different coat of paint on them so to speak.  Both creators are pretty good though with their character diversity :)

1) Why Rire and Cain feel like the same “model”

Well they both happen to be supernatural beings of the “dark” variety (one’s a demon, and one’s a fallen angel) who are very charming when you first meet them, but reveal themselves to be complete sadists later on.  They’re pretty overpowered, so you’re completely at their mercy.  They both do physical torture, as well as mess with your mind.  They are torturing the MC simply because they’re bored and they found the MC “interesting.”  It is highly likely you will end up dying when you meet them (though same with most any of the other BTD boys).  And they’re also incredibly difficult to please.  They want a victim who will fight back a bit, but they also don’t like a victim who is totally “uncooperative.”  Sometimes they don’t even mind a little submission from their victim or the victim even showing willingness to engage in certain activities.  Really, they just want someone to “play” with who keeps them on their toes.  Also, I’d have to double-check, but I think they’re even the same height XD

So yeah...pretty similar on the surface.  I have to admit though that these two are my 2nd and 3rd favorites out of all the BTD characters, so clearly I didn’t really mind how the setup went :P  

2) Why the two characters function completely differently underneath the hood

First off, appearances.  While snappy dressers I have to say, they’re EXTREMELY different in the looks department.  Rire’s got this luscious hair in a short ponytail while we have Cain sporting this more, almost delinquent look, with his hair dyed red in the middle (it looks fantastic slicked back though!).  Rire’s also got a little more chest hair and same facial hair, and Cain seems slightly...leaner I guess?  Overall, I find Rire’s appearance to look a bit older to me.  Certainly more of a mature gentleman.  Cain doesn’t look so young that he’d pass for a teenager, but he’s definitely got a “younger adult” look in comparison to Rire.  Which is hilarious considering that Rire is actually at least a couple thousand years younger than Cain I believe :P  

Second, the setup/predicament that MC walks into.  Both you meet in a nicer establishment.  With Rire, it ends up becoming a one-night stand the MC gets into that goes horribly wrong, resulting in them becoming a prisoner in their own house at Rire’s mercy.  Cain you meet by chance, have a nice little chat with, then you actually leave but he kidnaps you shortly afterward.  Instead of your home, MC is actually taken to where Cain stays.  So with one, your natural safe zone has now become a prison, while with the other you get taken far away to a place that’s unfamiliar to you that you have no power to leave yourself.  They’re both scary in different ways.  This kind of leads into the next bit.

Third, their restrictions.  Fun fact, Cain is likely the more powerful of the two.  But the funny thing is Cain doesn’t have as much freedom to move about as Rire does.  Rire is a demon royal and the king of his demon sector where he’s from.  Every now and then when he gets bored, he’ll pop into the earth realm to mess with some poor unfortunate soul.  It’s implied he’s done this on more than one occasion.  The only reason he doesn’t linger too long there is because a) he’s probably satisfied once he’s had his fill and b) if he’s the king, he’s probably got to make sure he’s not absent for TOO long from his sector, least some up and coming demon get the idea to usurp him.  Gotta let your people know you’re still the boss :P  Otherwise, no one’s probably looking for Rire to come back (he’s supposedly a bit of a tyrant).  

Cain on the other hang has actually broken out of prison recently (how recently is up for debate).  There are indeed other angels stronger than him looking to get him back in his cage, and of course he doesn’t want to go.  So he’s smart enough to keep out of sight long enough when he’s on earth.  When he goes to find a new toy though, he wants to savor the “playtime” more;  So he kidnaps them and brings them to his hiding place.  I guess you could say Rire has more freedom but less time when he’s enjoying himself, while Cain has more time to enjoy himself but less freedom to move about.

Fourth, powers.  Rire’s a little more physical, using mostly his tentacles (ichor) to torture someone.  Seeing as he can sprout as many as he’d like, keep people at a safe distance, and they can become both liquid or solid, he can get pretty creative.  He seems to have SOME control over a person’s psyche, but I think Darqx confirmed isn’t not really full on mind control.  He’s got more control of demons underneath him.  And it depends on how strong the person’s mind is (that’s why you can break free from it).  He’s likely got highly regenerative abilities.  He...MIGHT have teleportation, I can’t remember either in the game or Darqx’s notes (he might just be super good at sneaking up on you honestly).  And of course, he can take your soul if it’s part of a “deal.”

Cain’s got a larger repertoire of abilities.  He’s got a bit more mind control capability it would appear (according to Puke’s notes, more like getting people to admit truths and a minor telepathy bond).  So Cain’s a bit more capable of messing with your mind than Rire is.  Cain can disguise his physical form, as well as physically transform others into fallen angels or demons.  In one ending, it is implied he can either take control of someone’s soul...that or it’s more like “your soul belongs to me now” while you physically keep it.  Not sure.  He can heat things up (like boiling the bath) and manifests objects like roses and chains.  He seemed to be able to use “invisible forces” such as barriers and a weight on the MC as well.  He’s got quick regeneration, and he DEFINITELY can teleport.  So Cain’s more of a wild card than Rire because with the array of abilities he has, you won’t necessarily know where the danger is coming from before it’s too late.

Fifth, end game play.  Rire’s looking for a “quickie” in more ways than one.  The more entertaining the person, the longer he lets them live.  Ultimately though, you’re going to meet your doom at the end.  If he doesn’t like you enough, he’ll just kill you.  On the slim chance that he does end up liking the MC...then he gives them the choice of whether or not to live.  If they say they choose death, he gives it to them.  If they say otherwise...then he actually takes the victim’s soul for his collection.  I am aware now from reading Darqx’s blog that Rire can do a “mark” thing on someone he likes as a way of ownership...but a) that is probably INCREDIBLY rare for him to do, and b) I have no idea what happens after that (if he either takes his victim back home with him, or if he just lets them “free roam” and he comes back to “play” with them whenever he likes until he gets bored...and probably kills them).  My guess is he doesn’t really ever take any of his victims home.  If he ever feels “affection” for anyone...I have a funny feeling it wouldn’t be a good thing either.  He just plays with his victims wherever they’re at, kills them or takes their soul, and goes on his way.

Cain’s actually hoping for something a little more long-term.  He’s gone through the trouble of wandering around incognito when he’s a wanted criminal, so hopefully when he spots someone he fancies he doesn’t have to go replacing them too fast.  Like Rire though, he’s initially thinking of torturing and inevitably killing his victim.  UNLIKE Rire though, you do have a very slim chance of getting on Cain’s better side for a better ending than being trapped in a bottle for all eternity.  If you prove to remain entertaining to Cain, but he still will see you as a toy that’s beneath him, he’ll turn you into his demon minion.  If Cain feels more affection with you, he may start to view you as an equal.  Then you gives you the choice of either leaving of your own free will (sadly you can’t return to Earth though- gee thanks Cain :P), or staying with him and becoming a fallen angel.  Puke’s implied the MC has become more of Cain’s equal if he does this.  While again, still very difficult to gain Cain’s favor, my guess is the reason you’re more likely to meet a better end with Cain than you are Rire is because Cain was once a human.  Cain’s lived a long time, and while he is no where near good, he’d be more capable at sympathizing with others.  He also seems to have “quiet and thoughtful moments.”  Rire’s pretty much the very text book definition of a “demon.”  Cain’s a tad more complicated (but still very sadistic).

Yeah I just had to do this so I would stop lumping these guys together.  I love them both a whole lot and appreciate even the more minor differences between them.

[protytwo]

You Too Can Join an APA by Jay Zilber

They've been around for over a hundred years, long before organized comics fans (or science-fiction fans) were around to adopt them. So it's a little odd that amateur press associations—apas for short—are still so little known. They survive to this day almost solely on the strength of word-of-mouth publicity, for in all this time there have been few serious attempts to bring this unique form of communication to the attention of mainstream fandom.

Apas have always had a difficult time getting publicity, partly because they are, indeed, so little known. They're not commercial endeavors, so they are never advertised. And though some apas may get an occasional short plug in a fanzine column here or there, these plugs don't tend to generate much interest because apas just can't be explained in a kernel of information 25 words or less. Apas can fulfill different purposes for different people, and at least seven definitions come to mind:

1.         Apas are limited-circulation fanzines; in order to receive a copy, one must also be an active contributor to the apa.

2.         Apas are the next-best thing to a comics convention, a fannish social get-together on paper.

3.         Apas are the underground fan press, free of the "commercial" restraints and limitations of mainstream, high-circulation slick fanzines.

4.         Apas are a system of centralizing correspondence which makes it possible to keep in touch with a large number of other fans at the same time.

5.         Apas are an outlet for creativity and self-indulgence. They are an invaluable learning tool, through which one can develop writing, drawing and editing skills. They provide built-in feedback and constructive criticism on such creative endeavors.

6.         Apas are where the old, tired fans go as an alternative to total gafiation.* And often, they are where the old, tired pros go for relaxation from their professional writing.

7.         Apas defy clear-cut categorization in technical terms. Communication studies break down all media into two categories: mass media and interpersonal media. A mass medium—such as television, film, books, or this magazine—is a one-way system in which the Communicator sends a message to a group of Receivers, a large mass audience. If that audience wishes to relay their comments or reactions about this article to its author, they're met with various obstacles; they usually can't go back through the original medium and write their own article (or publish their own magazine) in order to make their reaction known. The obstacles are not insurmountable—hence, letters columns—but the original Communicator can get no direct or immediate feedback from his mass audience. That would require the use of a two-way system, an interpersonal medium (such as the telephone or, in the case of face-to-face dialogue, air), with which both parties have the opportunity to be both Communicators and Receivers in turn.

 INSIDE THE APA

 Obviously, there are many reasons for the appeal of apas; each member has his or her own individual attraction for being an active "apan," and the contents of an apa mailing is a mixed bag that reflects this diversity. CAPA-alpha was the first—and still one of the best—comics apas, and any recent mailing of CAPA-alpha showcases the full spectrum of what apas are all about:

Some members of CAPA-alpha (abbreviated K-a for esoteric reasons) are accomplished fan artists; they contribute superb illustrations and clever graphics, including a good deal of spectacular work that gives new life to the downtrodden "ditto" medium, imaginatively taking advantage of the so-called limitations of spirit duplicating. Other members are still learning the techniques of the craft; their inexperience betrays their enthusiasm and their work pales in comparison.

There is considerable discussion in K-a of all aspects of comics and comics fandom: behind-the-scenes news, reviews, indexes, speculations and such. Much of this discussion is insightful and well-informed, and some of it is insubstantial and short-sighted at best.

But comics are only a starting point—the discussion and commentary naturally spills over into related areas of science fiction, movies, television and home video recording, personal computers, and all areas of popular arts and culture. Personal trials, traumas and tribulations are also given much attention; some members use K-a as a sort of diary in order to sort out their thoughts and feelings about current events in their lives, and their hopes for the future.

Occasionally, there is original fiction or comic strips that range from brilliant on down. A good deal of purely self-indulgent or experimental material is run through the apa, for, should a member want to try out some new creative ideas, there may be nowhere else to put it on display. While self-indulgence is not necessarily encouraged, it is certainly tolerated for the most part—at least until someone's material becomes completely unintelligible and he is no longer communicating but talking to himself.

For some, the bylaws and politics of K-a itself take an overwhelming prominence in their apazines, and new meaning is given to the concept, "the medium is the message."

There is fannish news, rumor and gossip, there are special group projects and collaborative one-shots, there are comics convention reports that alternate between truthful accounting of fact and wildly exaggerated nonsense. There are in-jokes of the sort that simply aren't the least bit funny outside of the apa's membership (and even among the membership they aren't funny except at four in the morning).

This is the stuff that apas are made of—all this and more. There is no pay or compensation except in terms of personal fulfillment. Apas reflect every stage of fannishness, from the wide-eyed neophyte to the burnt-out gafiate. Apas are networks of communication and life-long friendships that never have developed in any other way. They are an integral part of the universe of fandom… but to truly understand the attraction of belonging to an apa, one must experience it first-hand.

The mechanics of apas are fairly simple, though they may at first seem confusing to the uninitiated. Since each apa has slightly different policies, I will continue to use CAPA-alpha as a useful prototype.

In order to join K-a, a would-be member starts by sending an initial fee of $3.00 to the current Central Mailer. Some apas require new members to be sponsored or voted into membership; this is not the case with K-a, but full membership still does not come right away. As a matter of practical logistics, K-a has a size limit of 40 members and presently has a modest waitlist. A new would-be member is sent a sample copy of the current K-a mailing and his name is placed at the bottom of the waitlist. Membership turnover may be slow; it may be several months, possibly a year or more, before a slot opens up for him. In the meantime, waitlisters may contribute to the apa as though they were already members, but can only purchase copies of mailings when they are at least three months old—and then, only if sufficient extra copies remain available.

At length, the patient waitlister is invited to join the apa. In order to attain membership, he must now produce an apazine; K-a requires that members contribute at least four pages of original material to every third mailing. (This is the minimum required activity, or "minac," to use the inside jargon; of course, one may contribute more often and in greater volume, as in fact most CAPA-alphans do.) The new member is responsible for printing his apazine, or arranging for its printing; he must deliver 50 collated and stapled copies of his zine to the Central Mailer by the stated deadline (usually the first day of each month) and keep his postage account in the black. If he fails to meet minac, copycount, finances or deadline, he risks being dropped from membership, though extensions are sometimes granted under extraordinary circumstances.

The Central Mailer is elected annually; he is a member of K-a who, in return for only the real or imagined glamor or ego-boosting the post has to offer, has opted to take on the tremendous responsibility of seeing that the mechanics of the apa remain well-oiled and that the mailings come out on time. He manages the apa's business and finances; he organizes the apazines as they arrive in the mail from the 40-odd members and waitlisters around the country, collates their stacks of apazines into 50 identical volumes that contain one copy of each zine, publishes the apa's Official Organ, and mails the bound copies of the mailing to the entire membership.

All this is much more work than can be suggested in the time it takes to describe it, and it's why most apas have a membership size limit; otherwise, the work of managing K-a would increase to the point where it would have to be a salaried full-time job.

After its long, torturous trek through the Postal Service, the member finally receives his copy of the mailing and reads it with all due enthusiasm. Perhaps he jots down some notes as he reacts to someone else's comments that he wants to discuss in his next apazine. The cycle continues every month, as it has with only one interruption since K-a's first mailing in October, 1964.

WHERE IT ALL STARTED

 Actually, the concept of the amateur press association goes as far back as the late 19th Century—long before comics or SF fandom existed—with the formation of the National Amateur Press Association (NAPA) and other "mundane" amateur journalism spas. NAPA was founded in 1876 and was originally seen as a sort of training ground for professional journalists. Indeed, many early amateurs did "graduate" to become professionals, and the Association saw this as the most defensible role for NAPA.

At the outset, the inner workings of the original apa were worlds away from the present-day fannish version. In this early concept of NAPA, members were loosely organized by a constitution drawn up at a national NAPA convention, but the gist of it was that members were simply instructed to send copies of their amateur journals and publications to one another.

NAPA only began to evolve into the more modern concept of apas because of the lack of cooperation from the United States Post Office. NAPA's organizers had tried to get their individual amateur journals declared eligible for Second Class mailing privileges without success. As an alternative, they established a centralized mailing bureau; any interested publisher could send their journals to the bureau manager, who would in turn distribute them in bundles to the Association members. Some took advantage of this service, while others continued as before to send their publications directly to one another. As a result, these "private" mailings were not always fully distributed to the entire membership, and only the most active members could expect to receive both the privately-mailed, limited-circulation magazines and the centrally-distributed bundles. NAPA did not even actually require members to publish anything at all, so that an interested but inactive member might receive only the bundles.

This separation of active and non-active members brought about a bizarre class separation of amateur publishers. NAPA also encountered a number of other problems during its formative years; its members rarely used their journals to communicate with one another, and many would-be publishers experienced difficulty in purchasing or gaining access to a handset letterpress, the most commonly-accepted method for printing member-journals at the time. It was this stumbling block that made it impossible to establish a "minac" requirement that all members be active publishers. Yet the notion of a new kind of apa persisted, an apa in which every member was a participant.

Oddly enough, the link between mundane and fannish Amateur Press Associations was provided by no less a personage than H.P. Lovecraft himself. Lovecraft became involved in amateur journalism as a youth, and joined one of NAPA's rivals, the United Amateur Press Association (UAPA) in 1914, and then NAPA itself three years later (for both of which he served several terms as president). SF (then-)fan Donald Wollheim learned of the mundane apas through Lovecraft in the mid-1930s, shortly before Lovecraft's untimely death in 1937. By most recountings, Wollheim saw apas as a useful solution to the problem of keeping up with fanzine trading and a method of reducing postage as well, and promptly joined the National and United Apas. With help from some of the other major SF fans of the time, he then founded FAPA, the Fantasy Amateur Press Association. July 1937 saw the first tiny, 42-page bundle of fanzines, still bearing little resemblance to any modern-day apa. But it was only three months later, in FAPA's second mailing, that two of its members introduced what later became the life-blood of contemporary apas: mailing comments.

Quite simply, mailing comments are the inclusion in members' apazines of comments on the previous mailing. It was the solution to the noted lack of communication within mundane apas; prior to the mailing comments in FAPA, discussion of topics raised in one another's publications was almost nonexistent. Mailing comments provided a sense of continuity from mailing to mailing, and brought about a degree of group spirit and camaraderie among members never before conceived. More than merely exchanging fanzines, apa members now exchanged ideas; rather than just absorbing information, they were now encouraged to think about and react to what their fellow members had to say.

Additionally, FAPA promoted the notion of substance over style; inexpensively mimeographed or spirit-duplicated contributions were not discouraged but actually taken for granted to be the most sensible printing method for a low-circulation apazine, and this made it practical and affordable for every member to contribute. Unique, innovative and successful in everything it set out to achieve, FAPA became the model for most of its followers and imitators in SF fandom, and eventually for its second cousin, comics fandom.

*Gafiation (n), a common fannish buzzword from the root "gafia," an acronym for "Getting Away From It All."

  Mark Evanier contributed the left cover to Capa-Alpha's 200th mailing, while in 1971, Wendy Fletcher was an active apa fan. She now concentrates on Elfquest as Wendy Pini.

A young Frank Miller contributed to apas and this sample page shows, even then, a sense of design and drama that has since matured into some the finest comics work done today.

NOTE: This article was first published in the March 1983 Comics Scene magazine. Comics APAs were very big back in the Seventies and Eighties. These days, surviving APAs are very unlikely to have a full membership and there isn’t any waiting period before a fan is invited to participate and join the membership roster.

[mortythesp00k]

Egg of the King

I know I’m not alone when I say that I miss Kaneki. I know he’s technically still around in the form of Dragon and we did recently get blessed with this panel:

But that’s not quite the same. To make up for his absence, I am going to dedicate this post to some speculations concerning Kaneki’s current state and what will happen when he (finally) emerges from his massive kakuja.

First, a quick rundown of the current situation. We have not seen Ken’s face since chapter 144. The last truly coherent statement we got from him was this chilling line:

In the following chapters we got to see Dragon rise up from the 24th ward and create a path of destruction through Tokyo:

After this initial rampage, Dragon has gone dormant. The question we are left with is: what is happening to Kaneki within this monster?

The first theory is that Kaneki is asleep within Dragon and has no conscious awareness of what the monster is doing. This seems like the most popular theory within the narrative, but there is still an element of speculation:

We get a slightly more scientific opinion from Kimi:

Basically, Dragon is operating on instinct alone and is not being actively controlled by Kaneki.

This theory is definitely plausible and I would not be too surprised if it turns out to be accurate. This theory would also keep some consistency with the properties and narrative roles of kakuja in this series. As we saw here:

A kakuja tends to leave its user with little conscious awareness of what they are doing. They also tend to create a state of delirium that exposes the id. The kakuja is a means for the narrative to explore some interesting themes dealing with madness and the nature of power, but delving into those is not the focus of this post. If Kaneki does not have any control or even awareness of what Dragon is doing it raises some questions about responsibility. Naturally, it is hard to pin the blame on him if he was not in his right mind, but his choices did lead him to this point. I think if this theory holds true, Kaneki will emerge in a state of confusion and will struggle to come to terms with the damage Dragon caused.

The next theory is basically the opposite of the preceding one. According to this theory, Kaneki is awake within his kakuja and is in complete control of his actions. Dragon does seem to have woken up in recent chapters:

This might mean that Kaneki is also awake within it. Additionally, dragon released these somewhat rudimentary kagune soldiers:

One one hand, this seems like too advanced of an action to just be a “response to stimulation.” On the other hand, we have limited information about how kagune clones work, which makes it hard to use this as definitive evidence.

If Kaneki really has been controlling Dragon this whole time, he has gone through a much darker transformation than I anticipated. This seems like quite a stretch considering how far he has gone throughout the series to safeguard the lives of others, but I suppose it is possible. I think it makes the least narrative sense of the three theories I am discussing. If Kaneki did actively carry out an act of mass murder and mass destruction, his character arc would be completely derailed. It would also make much of his character development throughout the series seem pointless. It could potentially represent a big step in the wrong direction that he will have to overcome, but I do not think there is enough time left in this story to deal with that.

The final theory is a blend of the last two. This theory states that Kaneki is awake within Dragon, but has no control over the monster’s actions. This theory does make some sense in the context of how kakuja’s tend to work as I mentioned before. Many people have also pointed out this odd behavior:

The eyes on Dragon seem to be intently watching its surroundings (especially Touka). This continual observation might just be a reflexive behavior of Dragon (we are kind of in unprecedented territory here), but Kaneki might also be looking through those eyes from deep within his kakuja.

This theory has the most room for interpretation in terms of its potential narrative significance. Being forced to watch as Dragon destroyed Tokyo against his will would undoubtedly have a negative impact on Kaneki. It seems like this would be just another opportunity for Kaneki to agonize over his decisions. This might leave him in a dejected and helpless state similar to when Yamori was torturing him. However, I can also see this leading to an entirely different outcome. Having his agency stripped away but retaining his awareness of the world around him might be an ideal catalyst for Kaneki’s growth. It seems obvious that he would not be unaffected by witnessing the devastation caused by Dragon, but seeing (hearing?) all the important people in his life working together to save him and witnessing the conflict of the Qs without being able to help might force him to actually think about his choices and what he can do moving forward (wouldn’t that be nice?).

I have another bonus theory that I am just going to throw in here for the heck of it. I call this the “just according to keikaku” hypothesis. I have seen some people speculate that all the events following Kaneki’s crowning as One-Eyed King have been according to some scheme of his. I will admit that I am slightly suspicious about certain conversations like the one he has with Takizawa:

And his remarkable amount of calm when Goat was facing increasingly dire circumstances:

However, I do not think that is nearly enough evidence for such an outlandish idea. First of all, it would make almost no sense within the narrative. Furuta’s plan borders on the edge of being too complex to be believable. It seems completely outside the realm of possibility for Kaneki to have not only foreseen every move Furuta would make, but to also to have decided that letting Furuta win was for the best. Furthermore, this theory would make the excellent inner monologue in chapter 144 meaningless and suggest that Kaneki was willing to accept the deaths of the Squad Zero kids and who knows how many others.

Now that we have gone through some of the theories about Dragon’s current state I have seen floating around the internet, I will advance a final piece of speculation about the nature of Dragon and what it might produce. The gist of this theory is that the monster we are seeing right now is not the final form of Dragon (THIS ISN’T EVEN MY FINAL FORM intended).  

First, I would like to look at what Furuta has said about Dragon so far. He introduces us to the idea when he it talking to the other clowns about his plan:

While Dragon’s current state is indeed formidable, Furuta seems to suggest a level of intentionality behind its actions. Being “merciless” seems more like a characteristic of someone making choices. An avalanche or earthquake is not merciless, but a man willing to kill others without hesitation is (if the second theory discussed above is true, then this does not apply). Additionally, his comment about defeating Eto and Arima seems a little odd to attribute to a beast that, though it may be impossible to defeat, does not seem like much of an offensive threat to a powerful individual. Anyone who can avoid being crushed or eaten as people like Juuzou (with a comparable skill level to Arima), seems safe from Dragon.

On top of that, Furuta uses rather interesting language when Dragon appears. First he says:

Followed by:

This might just be Furuta’s usual weirdness, but it may also suggest that the creature in front of him is only the infantile form of what is coming. Dragon does grow quite a bit after this moment and apparently ate some kind of “nucleus” that Furuta had inside of him, so he might not be referencing anything beyond that.

This kind of vague language returns when he confronts Ui after the emergence of Dragon:

Ui wanted a treasure that would bring back his dead comrades, but what is Furuta actually talking about with this metaphor? Is Dragon’s current form the treasure or simply the “X” marking Furuta’s true objective? This would be good foreshadowing for the current efforts to “dig up” Kaneki if it were the case.

So far all I have presented are alternative interpretations of Furuta’s notoriously vague dialogue (not the most compelling evidence, I know), but there is a more general problem that this theory addresses. Over the last 30+ chapters we have gotten a general understanding of what happened to the One-Eyed King of old:

It is clear that this king failed at his goal (whether that was the destruction of the Washu or a liberated ghoul society). Furuta likely knows the fate of the previous King. He knows that he (or she?) was unable to break the birdcage. The problem is that history is repeating itself. Kaneki has become a giant kakuja monster and collected a strong base of allies. However, it was at this point that the previous King was pushed back. While Kaneki might have some support from parts of the CCG, it is unclear whether or not that will be enough to make the difference (and it’s still anyone’s guess what the CCG will want to do with him or the other ghouls once he is out of Dragon). The point is, Furuta might have known he needed to create something that could go beyond what the previous One-Eyed King was able to do. That thing might not be Dragon itself, but rather what emerges from it.

This idea is further supported by how much Dragon’s current appearance resembles an insect larva (especially a caterpillar):

(I was going to put an actual picture of larvae here for comparison, but I know bugs make some people uncomfortable. A quick google search will be all you need if you want a side by side comparison).

A larva is a creature that has hatched from its egg, but has not reached maturity. Perhaps Dragon’s current form is similar. This might have some connection to all the butterfly imagery in this series, but I am not about to dig into that can of worms (also intended).

The implications of this being true are hard to pin down. On a more practical level, this problem:

Will most likely be solved (which is great because I will actually cry if Kaneki dies of old age before he gets to see his child). 

It is clear that Kaneki has undergone a value/personality shift of a still unknown severity. This makes it hard to predict how he will act when he does finally emerge, but if the current form of Dragon really is only a means of creating an even more dangerous entity, then Kaneki might be a real nightmare when he emerges:

Thanks for reading my post! I hope it was somewhat enjoyable (I know I had fun putting it together) even if these ideas are a bit far-fetched. This year ought to be a wild one for Tokyo Ghoul and I could not be more excited for it. See you wonderful people in 2018!!!

[moviestorian]

what do you think Theon and George Warleggan have in common?

Hi!

First of all, I am so SO very sorry it took me ages toreply. I’ve had plenty of different things to do, and I thought this is such aninteresting question that deserves a fully developed reply. Finally, I’mreplying, and the final result is over 3000 words. :P

Disclaimer: my interpretation is basedon both show and book Theon, but almost entirely show version of George (he’sslightly different than his book counterpart, and also I’m reading The BlackMoon, so I wouldn’t even have a full context to discuss book George, so…)

I briefly outlined the topic at the endof this post, but it’s really short, and I will try to be moreprecise here. Ok, let’s start!

George& Theon vs. fandom

I will start with something which may not be a typicalparallel and is not directly connected with George/Theon’s personality (I mean,it could be refered to many other characters), but I still find it strikingenough to consider. I’m talking about the fandom’s most usual reaction to bothof these characters. Theon and George are (probably) equally disliked byPoldark/GoT fandoms. There are (rather small)groups of their fans of course,but there are definitely many more of those who - to put it mildly - dislikethem. Quite frankly, I think Theon’s fanbase is actually bigger than George’s,but this may be because GoT/Asoiaf fandom outnumbers the Poldark one.

Coming back to the fandoms’ reaction, George and Theonare commonly perceived as “evil”. George is rather frequently calleda “villain” (I kinda get why people think so but I’d argue with that, tome he’s more of an antagonist, just like Javert or Frollo), and while I don’tsee people using the same term to describe Theon that often, I’ve come acrosssuch opinions as well (also…I believe GRRM called him a villain…). Finally,they both receive a fair amount of hate, and well… this hatred can be very nasty(selective empathy, maybe?). I guess I shouldn’t be surprised anymore, but I’mstill quite astounded how awful things people can write… (I’m talking aboutposts in which you can find such gems as “Theon deserved to be tortured”,castration jokes etc., or “George should be flayed alive” and that Rossshould’ve put his face in fire.

Identityproblem

George Warleggan and Theon Greyjoy, as Inoticed, deal with the “I don’t belong anywhere” problem, even thoughtheir issues come from slightly different backgrounds (btw, they are both quiteshitty at solving their problems). George, as a wealthy and powerful banker whois grandson of a blacksmith, does belong to neither aristocracy nor commonfolk,and isn’t actually being accepted by either of these groups. When it comes toTheon, he is neither fully a Stark nor fully a Greyjoy. His arc is more of anidentity arc than anything else, I would say. As a hostage in Winterfell, he isreally close to the Stark family (as he admitted himself, Robb was more of a brotherto him than Rodrick and Marron) but he’s not one of them and he always remainsa Greyjoy in the Northerners’ eyes (and apart from Robb, he is rather indifferentto other Starks, definitely not one of them). However, he’s been in Winterfellfor so long that he doesn’t fit the Iron Islands, too - and hence, hissupposedly glorious return in A Clash of the Kings is one huge disappointment for him.

As a direct result of this problem, Georgeand Theon are doing their best to “prove themselves” - Warleggan is tryingreally hard to become a member of aristocracy, and Greyjoy wants to showeveryone that he is a true Ironborn. With pretty unfortunate results. Theirmain problem is, though, that they are not people they’re pretending to be, andI think they both know it deeply in their hearts, so it becomes some sort of acomplex for them. In early season 2, when Demelza asks him what’s thedifference between being a miner’s daughter and a blacksmith’s grandson Georgeangrily responds that “she will always beminer’s daughter, while he is a gentleman”. And it is not the only timewhen George reacts very (let’s say)sensitively when somebody brings up thematter of his origin. I think this is because he knows that no matter how many times he’ll deny it, he will always beblacksmith’s grandson. It’s pretty similar in Theon’s case, and although I disagreewith statements that the Starks were/are his true family, many GoT characterstend to think so. However, I can’t deny that he is strongly attached to theStarks and is influenced by what he experienced in Winterfell. Yet even beforethat, when he was just a child, he was not a “typical” Ironborn, he was a shy,sensitive child.

Acceptance & isolation issues

Something strongly related to the pointabove. I already mentioned the problem of not being accepted by theNortherners/Greyjoys (Theon) or commonfolk/aristocracy (George). No matter howmuch Theon and George will try, and let’s face it: both of them, yet especiallyGeorge, do stuff that not only don’t help them but actually makes the problemworse, they will always remain somewhere inbetween. Theon will always be “thatStark hostage” or, even worse, “Starks’ dog” in Ironmen’s eyes, and George willalways be “that upstart (poodle)” in aristocracy’s eyes. 

Because of this acceptance problem thereappears an isolation problem, too. I find it quite striking how lonely Georgeand Theon are. In Theon’s case it may not be that obvious because of the maskhe wears (smiling a lot, etc.), but in my opinion there’s no doubt he IS lonely. In George’s case it’sactually both pretty ironic and interesting about the TV characterization ofhim, because he seems more introverted than Theon, but at the same time he shows his loneliness quite often – butin a subtle way. Even in public places a viewer can frequently spot him beingalone. Because of this loneliness, Theon and George have this one person theystrongly rely on psychologically – I’m talking about Robb Stark and ElizabethChynoweth-Poldark. I already mentioned how Theon treats Robb as his youngerbrother, and I will also say that I think Robb is also the closest personequivalent to a true family member he ever had. When it comes to George, hecares about Elizabeth very much, to the point of obsessiveness (one couldwonder, who is George more obsessed with: Ross or Elizabeth?), and she isactually the only person (at least as far as I remember, correct me if I’m wrong)he speaks openly to about how lonelyhe feels (“Loneliness is not one-sided,Elizabeth. A man may feel it, too”).

Difficult family relationships/(poor) interpersonalskills

This partially comes as a result ofidentity/acceptance problems, and partially affects the mentioned issues aswell. I will start with saying that George is an orphan in the show (we don’tknow when exactly he lost his parents, though) and while technically both BalonGreyjoy and Alannys Harlaw are alive (well, Balon dies in AFFC, but Theon stillgot to see him in ACOK), Theon is so isolated from them since he was takenprisoner that he basically don’t have parents, too. I assume he was quite closeto his mother when he was a child, but his relationship with Balon wasextremely cold and this never changed. So, as consequence to them not reallyhaving fathers, George and Theon’s personalities are shaped by father figuresthat are not exactly very positive for them – Cary Warleggan and Ned Stark (ohmy, I never thought I will be comparing Ned to Cary, but here I am).

Let me start with Cary. Even in thebooks it was noted several times that Cary has too big of an influence onGeorge, but I promised to stick with the show and so I will. From season 2 Caryhas been less and less significant character in George’s arc, but I’d say it’sstrongly visible how many of George’s actions are somehowinfluenced/strengthened by Cary in s1 (happened once or twice in s2 as well,but George is already very independent by that time and usually decides to dowhat he wants). Cary is really, really cold and pretty amoral (he gives offthis vibe of not having much empathy, if any) and seems to have no problemswith doing harm at all, when even George seems to hesitate. One of such momentsare when Cary is absolutely not moved by Julia Poldark’s death and literally raises a toast (!) for “Ross Poldark’sdownfall” after his little daughter’s death and dissolving Carnmore CopperCompany (note that George slightly raises his glass but doesn’t drink, anddoesn’t look happy in the slightest). To be honest, he doesn’t seem very closeto his nephew in emotional terms, too – they are more like business partnersthan relatives, and allow me to emphasize: before marrying Elizabeth Cary isthe closest family member George has; the onlyfamily member he has. Taking this into account, what kind of person George issupposed to be? In some aspects he is similar to his uncle – distant and cold,and where does he get it from? Again, we don’t know how old was George when hisparents died so we’re moving a little bit into a headcanon zone (at the sametime, we don’t know what Nicholas Warleggan was like, and it’s probable that hewas similar to Cary to a certain extent, they were brothers after all).Assuming it happened when George was a child/teenager – then Cary definitely had a strong influence onhis personality and perception of other people/emotions in general. Then,assuming it happened when George was in his late teens/early twenties, thatinfluence would be way less significant, but it doesn’t mean there would be noinfluence at all. George still could have tried to somehow “stick” to the onlyfamily member he has and sought for his approval, at least in how to deal with business and make investments.

Before I will explain similiaritiesbetween Cary/George relationship and Ned/Theon relationship, let me emphasizethat Cary and Ned are not the same. Eddard is loving to his family and capableof showing his affection, while Cary is not. Where I see a parallel is how Nedis cold towards Theon, and Theon isliterally quite scared of him, which does influence him negatively. Let mequote the books to present how Greyjoy felt about Ned Stark (bolded by me foremphasis):

“As if ten years in Winterfellcould make a Stark. Lord Eddard had raised him amonghis own children, but Theon had neverbeen one of them. The whole castle, from Lady Stark to the lowliest kitchen scullion, knew he was hostage to his father’s good behavior,and treated him accordingly. Eventhe bastard Jon Snow had been accorded more honor than he had.

Lord Eddard had tried to play the father from time to time, but to Theon he had always remained the manwho’d brought blood and fire to Pyke and taken him from his home. As a boy, hehad lived in fear of Stark’s stern face and great dark sword. His wife was,if anything, even more distant and suspicious.” (GRRM, A Clash of Kings, Theon I)

Or here:

“This was never my home. I was a hostage here. Lord Stark had not treated him cruelly, but the long steel shadow of his greatsword had always been between them.He was kind to me, but never warm.He knew that one day he might need toput me to death.” (GRRM, A Dance with Dragons, The Prince of Winterfell)

These quotes alsohighlight Theon’s acceptance problem pretty well, but let’s go back to therelationship issue. Theon was taken prisoner when he was, if I remembercorrectly, 9 years old and stayed there until he was 19. So, his teenage yearswere shaped by: a) being isolated from his parents; b) having “parent figures”that are distant and make him literally insecure; c) feeling isolated by hissurroundings. This is not a healthy environment for a growing child. Theon had,undoubtedly, far worse than George Warleggan (who at least did not feel thathis life was on threat), but what I see they have in common here is that theyboth hardly had someone to truly rely on, and if you don’t have support in yourown family (or what is close to your family), why should you expect suchsupport from others (that’s why George seems a bit paranoid at times, as ifeveryone was against him personally)? Therefore, they develop very poorinterpersonal skills.

Because they don’t havevery positive and supporting family relationships, they can’t create veryhealthy relationships with women (at least I believe this may be the case). Bythe way, I can’t unsee some similarities between Ros/Theon(show only) andMargaret/George relationships, but I guess it’s a discussion for another post. WhatI think they have again in common is that Theon has huge problems withdeveloping relationships with women other than having sex with them (it startschanging in ADWD, when he helps Jeyne Poole), and usually objectifies them.George technically doesn’t do that (he treats Elizabeth with huge courtesy),but disrespecting Demelza, in a sense, makes him feel superior (especiallysince he is technically a lowborn, too. Demelza just highlights his insecurityabout his origin) – he constantly calls her “a kitchen maid” and tells theguards in Bodmin that she is a harlot to prevent her from trying to save Rossfrom hanging. Theon doesn’t treat lowborn women well, too, and his insecuritiesprevent him from creating a long-lasting and loving relationship. George kindamanages to make that with Elizabeth, but their marriage (and pre-marriageperiod) is far from perfection – he can be obsessive and (sometimes, but still)manipulative, but then is gentle and loving.

Compensatory narcissistic personality disorder

Alright, I am not the most competentperson to discuss this, and @incblackbird wrote an amazing book in which shedescribed Theon’s formation of his identity and defense mechanism he uses, so Iwill be rather brief here. So, what Theon and George share psychologically isthat they are both hella insecure, and they try to hide it behind the mask ofarrogance (in the series it’s brilliantly acted by Alfie Allen and JackFarthing, I honestly think they make one of the most nuanced performances inthe show they’re in). In case of Theon it’s his “constant smile” (it’smentioned many times in the books), and in George’s – his general posture,especially how he tends to hold his chin very high and proudly. I love thescene in 1x08 when he’s going to Trenwith very quickly, silently crying, andthen he just stops and put his usual mask on, to hide his emotion and makeimpression of having full control over himself. Another scene when you can seehim “posing” is in s2 (episode 3, I believe?) when he’s “training” in front ofthe mirror.

Theon and George also seem to havesuperiority complex, often being expressed by them downplaying or hurtingothers to make them feel better. However read ASOIAF or seen GoT/Poldark knowwhat I’m talking about. ;)

Capability of doing terrible things

A side effect of what described above.Both of these characters did some really horrible things (and that’s mostly whythe fandoms dislike them), in order to prove themselves (esp. Theon) or getwhat they want (George trying to get closer to aristocracy). Theon definitelyregrets what he did, and in the show I get the impression that sometimes Georgedoes too, although he would never admit it (I think his behavior shows that hisconscience is not quite clear, he’s not Cary after all). To illustrate whatthey did I will give some examples: Theon abused Kyra (left her crying aftersleeping with her), turned on Robb and killed the farm boys and burned theirbodies, while George tried to have Ross hanged and forced Morwenna to marryWhitworth against her will.

Tendency to like “pretty things”

Alright, that’s the last thing :). Theonand George have, in a manner of speaking, quite interesting fashion sense, Imean that they like to wear/be surrounded by pretty things. This is noticed byBalon Greyjoy (probably other Ironborn too), Ross Poldark and aunt Agatha, andat the same time serves as a mean to highlight their identity problems – thatTheon is not fully a Greyjoy and George is not fully an aristocrat. Once again,allow me to use quotation from ASOIAF to show what was Balon’s reaction toTheon wearing jewellery:

“His father slid his fingers under thenecklace and gave it a yank so hard it was like to take Theon’s head off, hadthe chain not snapped first. “My daughter has taken an axe for alover,“ Lord Balon said. “I will not have my sonbedeck himself like a whore.” He dropped the broken chain onto thebrazier, where it slid down among the coals. “It is as I feared. The green lands have made you soft, andthe Starks have madeyou theirs.”(GRRM, A Clash of Kings, Theon I)

And now let’s compareit to George’s case. It’s a bit more visible in the books, but I promised tostick with the show and I’m going to keep my promise. ;) In 2x03, when Rossstarts a fight with George, George is wearing a ruby on his stock tie, and I maybe wrong, but I haven’t noticed any other male character in Poldark wearingjewellery on their stock ties. Obviously it was not the reason why Ross startedthe fight, but later in the same episode Andrew Blamey and Francis ask him forthe cause of this conflict, and he responds that he didn’t like his stock tie,which means that he noticed that anddidn’t like it (possibly reminded him of George being a nouveau riche, who’sricher than all Poldarks together). Another scene is George’s conversation withaunt Agatha she tells him:

“I remember the first time Francis brought you here! Fligged out in yourfrills and fallallery! (…)Velvets andsilks you wore. ‘Twas plain your mother had no taste.(…) And you, staring about like abull-calf that had strayed from its stall.”

That was the final one. :) I hope you are satisfied with my answer,anon! I know it’s very long, but I hope it’s at least a bit interesting!Obviously what I wrote here is by no means everything that can be said on thistopic and I’m pretty sure there’s something I missed. ;)

[preserving-ferretbrain]

The Reading Canary: Chaos Sucking

by Robinson L

Sunday, 29 March 2015

Robinson L tears into the second and third books of Patrick Ness' "Chaos Walking" trilogy

Uh-oh! This is in the Axis of Awful...~

Patrick Ness began the Chaos Walking trilogy with The Knife of Never Letting Go, which our esteemed editor reviewed here. I can't be bothered to give a synopsis, so please read the review if you need filling in on the particulars of New World, the characters, Noise, etc.

I don't have much to add to Kyra's assessment of Knife, except that the phonetic spelling coupled with the first person narration really, really bugged me.

Anyway, Ness followed up Knife with book two, The Ask and the Answer, and rounded out the trilogy with book three, Monsters of Men. Since my primary issues with the two books are very different, I'm going to structure my analysis differently for each one. I'm also going to spoil the hell out of both of them, but I won't claim to do anywhere near as good a job of spoiling them as Patrick Ness did by writing the blasted things.

The Ask and the Answer

At the end of

The Knife of Never Letting Go

, Todd and Viola arrived in Haven only to find it taken over by Mayor Prentiss. The Mayor arranges for Viola to receive treatment at a local medical facility, but hides her location from Todd, making further contact with her contingent upon Todd's cooperation. Todd reluctantly goes to work for the Mayor, at first to assure Viola's safety, but as time goes on he begins to identify more and more with the role, even as the things he does grow more and more horrific.

After a brief convalescence, Viola escapes Haven (by now renamed New Prentisstown) and joins the Answer, a partisan group led by the head healer, Mistress Coyle. Though repulsed by the Answer's terrorist bombings in Haven/New Prentisstown, Viola throws her lot in with them to resist the Mayor's tyranny.

There's actually a lot of promise to this book, and Ness works that potential to a certain amount of success. This is simultaneously the book's biggest strength and its ultimate downfall. First off, let's look at what Ness is doing right before we examine how and where it all goes wrong.

Themes and Style

(Warning: The following section contains possibly triggering content in brief discussions of domestic violence, violence against women, and political terror)

It has happened throughout history: peoples who go to war tend to become mirror images of their enemy[1]

The tendency of two sides in an armed conflict to grow increasingly similar in the atrocities they commit against each other is one of the major themes Patrick Ness explores in

The Ask and the Answer

. Every attack by the Answer provokes Mayor Prentiss to implement another crackdown and increasingly draconian methods of social control … which in turn provokes the Answer to even greater acts of terrorism.

The other major theme Ness tackles in this book is corruption, how good people become party to political oppression, torture, murder, even wholesale massacres. By throwing in with Mayor Prentiss, Todd quickly finds himself on a very slippery slope, with each barely excusable but apparently necessary infraction leading to another, slightly less conscionable one. By the end of the novel, Todd has put a group of the local sentient species (Spackle) to work in a concentration camp, branded them with metal bands, branded the human women left in Haven/New Prentisstown as potential allies of the Answer, and helped torture women suspected—on no real evidence—of collaborating with the Answer

[2]

. He hates his job at every step of the process, but he's just about able to convince himself of the necessity of each step, helped along by classic apologist rhetoric courtesy of the Mayor, such as “Surely truly loyal women would be happy to make such small sacrifices to protect law and order” (I paraphrase, but that's the gist of his argument).

Judith L. Herman, author of

Trauma and Recovery

, makes the point that in cases of both domestic abuse and political kidnappings, perpetrators employ intermittent acts of kindness and “gifts” as part of the process of breaking their victims. Ness neatly illustrates this principle early on, with the Mayor using just such an application of strategic mercy to gain first Todd's cooperation, and then the people of Haven's.

The narrative in this book is split between Todd and Viola—fortunately, Viola's narration can actually spell, which significantly cuts down on the reading problem I encountered in the previous book. Even Todd's portions have gone down from literally painful to just occasionally irritating, either because Ness has eased off on the “creative” spelling or just because I've grown desensitized to it.

So to sum up: the book has good, well-observed discourse which deals with important contemporary issues, and even the spelling has upgraded to “tolerable.” And I couldn't effing stand it.

Presentation

My first major problem with

The Ask and the Answer

is that Ness employs all the grace and subtlety of an industrial sledgehammer in putting his points across. By page 100, even a functionally brain dead reader will understand how the Mayor is shaping Haven/New Prentisstown into a police state and shaping Todd into a model enforcer, how Mistress Coyle is just as bad as Mayor Prentiss, and how each atrocity by the one provokes a bigger atrocity by the other. Ness has made all his points crystal clear, but he takes the following 415 pages to beat them even further into the reader's skull, just to make sure. I can appreciate the points he's making, and under other circumstances would applaud him for making them, but I resent being bludgeoned by them.

My second major problem is that the themes Ness is playing with pretty much necessitate his main characters (especially Todd) acting absolutely horrible for 90% of the book—and spending most of the remaining 10% passive victims of forces beyond their control. As a reader, I can just about understand Todd's actions, but I still find them incredibly alienating. Perhaps there are authors who can write a good person who spends the majority of the story doing exactly what the reader desperately wants them not to do and still have it be engaging and not off-putting—if so, Patrick Ness is not among their number.

Part of the issue, I suspect, is that I came into the novel expecting an action adventure story with a dystopian setting, like Scott Westerfeld's

Uglies

or Suzanne Collins'

Hunger Games

. The latter two work as action adventure stories by carefully balancing out the dystopia's horror: even

The Hunger Games

at its grimdarkest, understands there are some places it must not go, so it doesn't. Ness dives recklessly into that dystopian horror, but still insists on retaining the action adventure elements: good wins over evil, the heroes emerge scarred but not permanently damaged, and no matter how badly they behave they never cross the

Moral Event Horizon

. The two styles clash horribly, and if there was any hope of Ness pulling off the “Todd becomes police state enforcer” scenario, making the series also an action adventure story drives the last nail into its coffin.

I'd probably have given up on the book early on, but the last damnable thing about Ness is that he's so masterful when it comes to tension that one can't stop reading—in that highly manipulative, almost drug-addicted mindset: “I don't want to keep doing this but it's so hard to make myself stop.” As it was, I frequently had to take a break from reading to cuss out Ness for feeding me this dreck.

The book has other problems. Early on, Ness introduces

two

young women who manage to feel like essentially the same character despite taking diametrically opposed reactions to Viola's arrival (one becomes instant Best Friends Forever while the other despises Viola and only helps her out of principle) and serve the exact same function in the story: get fridged in order to prompt Viola to action. Is it any less skeevy when a female character is fridged to further another female character's story instead of a male's? Somehow I doubt it.

At the climax of the novel, Mayor Prentiss also kills his son Davy, because Ness was worried he might be getting too subtle. Davy, of course, was in the middle of an awakening process and had almost become human, and his murder, along with sending the melodrama up to eleven (yet again), cut short a potentially interesting and enjoyable character arc. Looking at it that way, I suppose Davy had to go before he brought up the novel's enjoyment factor.

Davy's death is arguably the emotional high point of the book, but here Ness' “creative” spelling comes back to bite him in the arse. We have Todd the narrator standing over Davy's body, listening with tears in his eyes to the other's dying confession, and casually mentions hearing an “explozhun” in the distance. At that point, any pathos Ness had managed to achieve evaporated in a puff of abject silliness, and the whole scene instantaneously degenerated into unintentional hilarity. I'm given to understand, the technical term for this is “bathos,” or, if you're a fan of TV Tropes, “Narm.”

Final Thoughts

As one last method of annoying me, Ness spends the bulk of the book having Viola and Todd questioning each other's motivations for working for a despot and throwing in with terrorists respectively, and questioning each other's loyalty into the bargain. This ties into the theme of enemies in wartime becoming mirror images—with each side treating the other's atrocities as unforgivably monstrous while excusing its own atrocities as regrettably necessary. And it is equally alienating.

It also bears the distinction of playing to the cliché romance trope of misunderstandings cropping up between the lovers to cast doubt on their respective commitment. In other words: insufferable from two directions at once.

Nothing could make up for the excruciating alienation of the first 450+ pages, but I have to admit the ending, where Todd and Viola reconcile, agree to save each other like they always do, and proceed to lay a righteous smackdown on the Mayor is both sweet and greatly satisfying. Not good enough to be cathartic, but probably the best Ness could realistically have managed at that point.

In terms of sheer unreadability,

The Ask and the Answer

is the worst book of the trilogy, though it does have hands-down the best climax. It's probably the worst book in most other ways, too, but its awfulness is spread out over a space of 515 pages. There's no one moment where the reader stops, and—after double- and triple-checking to make sure that yes, they really did read something that abominably wrongheaded—says, “You know, I was with you more or less up to this point, but this part right here ruins it all.” For that, we shall have to look elsewhere …

Monsters of Men

In the final installment of the trilogy, Todd releases Mayor Prentiss to fight off a vicious attack by the Spackle. Meanwhile, a scout ship containing Viola's friends Simone and Bradley arrives on New World to prepare the way for the colony ships. Todd and Viola forge a reluctant alliance between the Mayor, Mistress Coyle, and the two scouts to protect the humans from the Spackle, and eventually secure peace. Naturally, this proves a difficult task, and divisions among the three groups constantly threaten to ruin the whole process.

What I Liked

I found

Monsters of Men

exponentially less excruciating than

The Knife of Never Letting Go

and

The Ask and the Answer

. There is some amount of the protagonists (especially Todd) doing bad/incompetent stuff when they should know better, but unlike in the previous book there's a lot of other things going on, most of which aren't nearly so alienating.

I scored this from the library on audio, obliterating any concerns over spelling, although I did catch the guy narrating for Todd's pronunciation of “reckernize” a couple times. Listening to the audiobook may also have helped with the difficult bits, as they went by quicker and with less active participation on my part.

The three narrators all do a terrific job. Nick Podehl (Todd) took a little while to grow on me, probably because he does such a swell job of nailing down Todd's voice, and spelling aside, Todd's narrative voice is definitely an acquired taste. He does a fantastic Mayor Prentiss, though. I'd always imagined Prentiss speaking with an affably evil, faintly patronizing tone; Podehl's Prentiss is straight-forward and conversational, which arguably works even better.

Angel Dawe (Viola), apart from narrating like a pro, has a thoroughly lovely voice. The pleasure of listening to her is only marred towards the middle, when Viola develops an infection, and her dialogue is interrupted with constant fits of coughing.

Rounding out the cast is MacLeod Andrews narrating for the Return, a Spackle whom Todd saved in the previous book, and the only survivor of the Mayor's massacre. Andrews plays his role well, adopting a faintly unworldly voice which conveys the character's alien nature quite well.

For the last installment in a series with such a propensity for mowing down supporting characters,

Monsters of Men

actually has a fairly low body count among the characters we're supposed to sympathize with, and many of the most likable supporting characters do, in fact, survive. Moreover, I can think of three specific scenes where I was sure Ness was setting up to kill off Bradley, Lee, and Angharad respectively, and in the end none of those things happened. I find it kind of nice when an author can fake me out that way.

The last compliment I'm going to hand out is for the world-building. The Spackle are still a bit more human than the sci-fi hardliner in me would prefer, but Ness does a fabulous job of fleshing out their society. For instance, they refer to themselves collectively as the Land, and their leader is the Sky. This confused me at first, trying to differentiate between people and geographic markers, but then the Sky refers to the time of the first war, when “we were a different Land under a different Sky”—which is beautifully poetic if you ask me.

What I Disliked

You remember what I said about a surprisingly low bodycount? Well of course, Ness had to balance that out somehow, and being Ness, his solution naturally rates approximately 80 MegaBrooks on the

predictability scale

. No points for guessing that the only semi-reasonable authority figure in this book dies, only to be replaced by one of our young protagonists.

And while Ness aptly demonstrates how warfare is always the product of some combination of misunderstanding, misinformation, prejudice, paranoia, and demagoguery, sometimes he seems to be saying that it can still be necessary. Many people will agree with Ness on this point, but I don't and it bugs me. A lot. If warfare is predicated on lies and behavior which is the height of iniquity in all other circumstances—then surely there are other ways to find solutions to the issues warfare is supposed to resolve.

Then there's all the bollocks about leaders and followers. As might be expected from the villain of the piece, Mayor Prentiss has a very elitist view of human nature, insisting that most human beings deep down really want to be led—people like himself and Todd and Viola and a few others are the exceptions, the ones born to lead instead of follow. This is how he's able to control large groups of men through their Noise, and how Todd occasionally does the same to one or two at a time. Even after he's semi-reformed, Mayor Prentiss still believes a benevolent dictator who shapes the people's will through their Noise is the best kind of leader.

The problem is that the text bears him out on this point. With a rare handful of exceptions, the people of New World really do behave like sheep, unquestioningly throwing their support behind one charismatic leader or another. The only amount of independent thinking they ever display is deciding which charismatic leader to align with. In short, they behave

exactly

like the born followers the Mayor describes. Sure, controlling them through Noise is bad, but controlling them through demagoguery is only bad if it's evil people like the Mayor and Mistress Coyle doing it.

Speaking of the Mayor, though, Ness actually does something very interesting with him during the middle third of the book. With the help of the scouts—Simone and Bradley—Todd and Viola force the Mayor to help them try to make peace with the Spackle. Nobody trusts him, of course, and Mistress Coyle vehemently insists that he must be up to something.

But Mayor Prentiss really does seem to be helping out and genuinely seeking peace. After a while he starts talking of having been “redeemed.”

[3]

Todd doubts this, and a couple times tells the Mayor flat-out “yer not redeemable,” but with a little less conviction each time. It gets to the point where Todd chooses to save the Mayor's life over Simone's.

There comes a time when the main characters have got all their problems pretty much sorted out. They've made peace with the Spackle, with the fate of Mayor Prentiss being the only major sticking point; the political situation among the humans has died down—Prentiss is still around, but the colonists will be able to deal with him when they arrive in a few weeks; Viola has recovered, Todd has a new father figure; all-in-all, things are looking up.

The interesting thing would be to stop there; Ness has things approximately where he wants them anyway, and sorting out the remaining loose ends will entail some tough decisions with no easy answers. It leaves us with the question of the Mayor, the terrible ghoul built up over the course of the first two books, now redeemed like Darth Vader, and inconveniently alive following his redemption, unlike Darth Vader. What is his place in society now? What manner of punishment will the Spackle and human communities impose upon him for his atrocities? How much punishment

should

they impose? How will he reconcile those atrocities with his own conscience?

Well yes, Ness

could

do that. Or he could have Mayor Prentiss yell out “Surprise! I really was evil along! And now I'm going to restart the war and try to get every single human being on this planet killed off in glorious battle! Muahahahahahahaha!” and have Todd and Viola et al. reply “Ahhh! Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal!” and proceed to stop him, though only after a dully predictable climax involving a forest fire, a flood, and retreading territory Ness has already covered amply over the course of the book. Which is precisely what he does.

As a humanist, I reject the notion that any human being is beyond redemption, so I admit I'm biased. But that objection aside, having the Mayor prove a villain in the end is exponentially less interesting from a narrative perspective. The previous two books built up Mayor Prentiss as horrifyingly powerful and completely devoid of redeeming virtues. Fair enough, I could name a couple billion such villains from literature, and Ness does a better job than many of making his villain believable and threatening. Such characters exist to be righteously killed off in one fashion or another, and they're deliberately kept unsympathetic so the reader can cheer unreservedly when they get their fatal comeuppance.

However, when an author deliberately raises the question “is this villain redeemable?” there are only two ways things can go. Option #1 “No,” tells the reader absolutely nothing, does nothing to enhance the story, and goes nowhere. It's the worst kind of lampshade hanging: drawing attention to a stock trope while simultaneously playing that trope by the numbers and completely failing to do anything new or interesting with it. Option #2: “Yes,” on the other hand, leads immediately to the question “What then?” This opens up a vast field of questions and possibilities to explore, as illustrated above.

So, of course, Ness goes for Option #1. He does throw me a halfhearted bone by having the Mayor magnanimously commit suicide to spare Todd from murdering him. I'll admit that's better than nothing, but it still comes directly after the Mayor's own acknowledgment that he's “not redeemable,” and,

as our esteemed editor has pointed out

, having a character make amends immediately before nobly sacrificing their life is a lot easier than having them live with the consequences. In short, it's a cop-out.

The big climactic conflagration set off by the Mayor's return to form is tediously predictable. The Spackle turn against the humans again, but their leader comes around just in the nick of time to stop hostilities from flaring up again. Both Spackle and human characters have to relearn the lessons they spent the last four hundred effing pages learning in the first place.

[4]

Todd, Viola, and the other named characters run around putting out fires. Lots of characters whom we neither know nor care about die in the ensuing fire and flood, and Haven gets destroyed and it makes no difference. Todd and the Mayor have a showdown that—apart from taking place on a beach instead of Haven city hall—is a recycle of their battle at the end of

The Ask and the Answer

, bringing nothing new to the table.

For decades, action-adventure readers have been conditioned to expect a big, apocalyptic climax and final clash of good and evil, and to have a villain who's thoroughly evil, although the option of one last altruistic gesture immediately before they die has grown increasingly popular in the last ten or twenty years. It would've made for a much more original story to have the surprise twist be that the plot ends at the point where the characters had things mostly worked out anyway, with no big catastrophes or confrontations, leaving Todd and Viola et al. with the thorny question of what to do with a reformed but still troublesome Mayor Prentiss. And yes, that is counter-factual criticism but frankly, I'm beyond caring.

All this was irritating, but it was hardly unexpected. Indeed, as I've just explained, it would've been surprising if Ness

hadn't

thrown all that stuff in, cheap and annoying as it was. Unfortunately, there's more. Much more.

Minority Warrior

The following section covers aspects of the book which gave me pause. While they don't offend me personally, I suspect they might offend others—notably those who don't share my privilege—and I feel it behooves me to give fair warning.

Many people have objected to the fact that, in Ness' universe, human men have Noise but human women do not. Towards the end of

Monsters of Men

one character says that women probably do have Noise, and they have to figure out how to access it. At no point does Ness ever explain why Noise manifests so radically differently in women as opposed to men, and one is forced to assume it must be because women and men are so fundamentally different as to be practically two separate species. Which, um, they aren't.

When Bradley begins manifesting Noise, it quickly transpires that, big surprise, he has the hots for Simone, who for whatever reason isn't interested. Lee also has a hopeless crush on Viola, as if you hadn't figured that out long since. Ness uses their conditions to explore unrequited love, just as he's previously used the Noise to explore frustrated erotic desire.

The thing is, the only characters depicted as experiencing unrequited love are male. The only characters depicted as experiencing erotic desire are male. Viola desires Todd emotionally, and he reciprocates, and I think there's a brief allusion to Todd thinking about her sexually, but no hint that Viola might have such thoughts for herself.

It smells faintly of Nice Guy Syndrome, as does Viola's conversation with Simone, encouraging the other woman to give Bradley a chance because “he's a good man.” Maybe I'm paranoid or getting off on playing More Feminist Than Thou or both, but I think it may be telling that Ness has Viola appeal to Simone in terms of a rational assessment of his good character, rather than his desirability as a boyfriend or lover.

And getting back to that low body count among the sympathetic characters, arguably the most prominent sympathetic character to die in the book is Simone herself. Simone is the leader of the two-person scouting party; strong and competent and resourceful and pretty damn cool. And the thing is, once both she and Mistress Coyle are dead, the only female character of any importance to the story is Viola. Next runner up is Todd's

horse

for heaven's sake. Contrast this with the six prominent, sympathetic male characters who also survive to the end. Bit of a gap, there.

I've also seen Ness criticized for failing to consider homosexuality in the earlier books. In

Monsters of Men

, two of the most prominent sympathetic characters had same-sex Love Interests—both of whom were fridged earlier in the series, so I'm not sure Ness is scoring many points there, either.

Text Bomb

Getting back to the climax, the Mayor throws himself into the sea and dies, and Todd and Viola share a joyful embrace on the shore, knowing that whatever happens now, everything is going to be okay. And then the Return shows up and semi-accidentally kills Todd.

Excuse me, my melodrameter just overheated again.

…

Okay, that's better. My first thought on reading this was that it had to be the single most gratuitous bit of sensationalism Ness has ever written, and keep in mind this is

Patrick Ness

we're talking about.

Then he launched into a tortuously drawn out

[5]

scene between Viola and the Return. Like the rest of the series, it's all overblown and takes five times longer than it ought to in a mishandled attempt to enhance tension. But for all that, there's some decent character development for both Viola and the Return, and it does serve to underline many of the trilogy's themes. It even manages to tie in Todd's murder of a helpless Spackle fisher in

Knife

—the Return absorbed Todd's guilt for that act through his Noise, and now he bears a similar guilt for a similar murder.

Not that any of this was strictly necessary. Ness had already explored those themes quite satisfactorily, and Viola's and the Return's character development basically amounted to relearning lessons they'd already learned. The sequence added nothing new, but it did sharpen the recycled material.

Yes, it was inane and drawn-out and dumbed-down and more melodramatic than Russell T Davies on steroids, acid, and meth all at the same time, but coming out of the sequence I grudgingly admitted that it was more than just Patrick Ness indulging in yet more cheap sensationalism.

… And then he pulled a J. K. Rowling. Turns out, Todd's alive.

What the f***?

What the f***ing f***ing f***ing f***ing f***ing f***ing f***ing f***ing f***ing f***ing f***ing f***?

Over on my livejournal, I coined the term “Text Bomb” to denote a development so unexpected and so ridiculous or awful or both that the reader's brain initially rejects it as impossible. In those terms, Todd's resurrection at the end of

Monsters of Men

is a Thermonuclear grade Text Bomb.

Mere words cannot describe the head-banging inanity of this move, but I'm damn well going to make them try.

I believe a number of people found Harry's resurrection in

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

a cheap cop-out, but in my view, Todd's is much, much worse. My reason is that Rowling had long since squandered any thematic coherence she might once have had. Harry's death and resurrection are equally meaningless because there are no themes to

Deathly Hallows

, just Stuff Happening.

Whereas Patrick Ness knows how to carry a theme. Sure, he's hamfisted and his repertoire consists almost entirely of cheap tricks, but as Dan pointed out somewhere in the

Girl Books for Girls series

(I believe it was Part Four) the thing about cheap tricks is that they do work. It's the crassest, basest way to say what you have to say, but it gets the job done.

Harry's return in

Deathly Hallows

has no thematic consequences—it's just Rowling wanking. Todd's return in

Monsters of Men

goes back and nukes all the thematic and character development Ness poured into the preceding scene. The whole thing—the emotional high point of the book, and probably the series—instantly implodes when the linchpin which gave it its driving force (Todd's death) is pulled away. In that one moment, the entire trilogy lapses into farce.

Admittedly, Ness puts together a pretty good excuse for why Todd seemed dead without actually dying, but this does nothing to address the thematic mess Todd's return leaves in its wake. If Ness really felt he needed to include all that development for Viola and the Return he should have had the guts to give his scenario the conclusion it demanded and have Todd stay dead. If he truly couldn't bear to kill off his protagonist, then, as I've already pointed out, it would've been perfectly plausible from a thematic perspective to cut the action off after the Mayor's defeat and not raised the prospect of killing his protagonist in the first place.

Ness chose neither option; he went ahead and wrecked his own discourse instead.

The Canary Says

The Ask and the Answer

is an excruciating read, constantly alienating the reader and dragging out its points

ad nauseam

.

Monsters of Men

is enjoyable if occasionally irritating, but its ending—when compared to the quality of the rest of the book—is one of the worst affronts to good literature ever published.

Maybe I'm being too harsh with Ness. He's obviously trying to be sophisticated and engage with some pretty complex ideas. In my view he sabotages himself by his heavy reliance on repetition and on sensationalism and grandstanding, but perhaps I give him too little credit. I found

The Ask and the Answer

just shy of unreadable, but people who are less bothered by protagonists doing wrong will probably have an easier time of it. And while the conclusion to

Monsters of Men

is a narrative travesty, people without my peculiar sensibilities may find it highly enjoyable despite its technical failings. If I really liked Todd rather than feeling mostly indifferent towards him, I'd probably cheer his resurrection even though it undermines everything Ness was trying to say.

Maybe I'm being too harsh with Ness, but I don't care.

I'm not here to be fair, I'm here to be judgmental

, and these books got right up my nose. My advice: stay away.

[1]

Nonviolence: 25 Lessons from the History of a Dangerous Idea

, by Mark Kurlansky.

[2]

The Mayor's method of interrogation is essentially waterboarding, and it is unambiguously treated and referred to as torture.

[3]

Granted, he attributes this to Todd's influence as if he were some sort of secular effing Messiah, which I didn't much appreciate.

[4]

Having to learn the same lesson over and over again is realistic, and I expect it's possible to depict this process in narrative fiction without being incredibly fecking annoying, but the task is beyond Patrick Ness' abilities.

[5]

What did you expect? Short and to the point?Themes:

Reading Canary

,

Books

,

Sci-fi / Fantasy

,

Young Adult / Children

~

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https://ronanwills.wordpress.com/

at 19:51 on 2015-03-30I was initially kind of surprised to see this in the axis of awful, but then I read your actual post and thought back to my own experiences with the books and it's perhaps not that surprising.

I read The Knife of Never Letting Go more than six years ago, loved it and ran out to buy the other two. But I found The Ask and The Answer's relentless pacing and breathless prose so exhausting I felt like I had to take a break before tackling Monsters of Men.

That break kept getting longer and longer, and now the book is sitting on a shelf in my room, unread. Now that I know where the story ultimately goes, I'm kind of glad I didn't bother.

I'm willing to bet that if I went back and reread the first two books I'd probably be far less taken with them- it's been long enough that my tastes have changed significantly, and at the time I was young enough that "it turns out that both sides are just as bad as each other" still felt interesting and somewhat revelatory. When the same theme comes up in fiction now (the example that comes to mind immediately is Bioshock Infinite) I find it trite and not at all useful or worth saying.

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https://thatcharacterdies.wordpress.com/

at 01:07 on 2015-04-02On the subject of making a story about how both sides are committing terrible acts without making your protagonists monsters or completely passive- I think perhaps the best way is the noir approach. In other words, have your protagonist be basically decent, but caught up in the world of powers far beyond them, and thus unable to enact more than a little change. A good example of this would be John le Carre- take The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. Lemas is more or less trying to be an okay person, but his attempts can't compare to the ruthlessness of the powers he's caught between. Of course, there's a reason le Carre tends to have downbeat endings, and noirs tend to be bittersweet or downers.

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https://francessmithsite.wordpress.com/

at 21:53 on 2016-02-19

Is it any less skeevy when a female character is fridged to further another female character's story instead of a male's? Somehow I doubt it.

I'm going to have to disagree with you there. I can see what you're getting at, but I don't think it's useful or even possible for a work of fiction to treat every character as equally valuable, for want of a better word, and everyone's story as equally important. Any attempt to try is likely to result in a shapeless, bloated mess. You have to decide whose story it is, and then you have to render everyone whose story it isn't subordinate to the person whose story it is.

To take the example that you've given, it sounds like the two young women are introduced solely for the purpose of getting killed later on in order to motivate Viola. And, to be honest, that sounds perfectly reasonable to me. If he had introduced them, developed them over several volumes, brought you to care about them and then killed them off in a perfunctory manner like poor Lian Harper then that would be something to complain about, to be sure, but I've always felt the real problem with fridging was not that it kills women but that in doing so it disrespects both the characters, the care and attention that other artists have put into them, and the love that they have inspired in the fans. None of which applies when the victim is a redshirt, and all of which conversely can apply when the character dies in a thematically valid conclusion to their character arc (looking at you, Adrian Tchaikovsky).

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Robinson L

at 22:30 on 2016-02-19Okay, good point about the difference between killing off an established, long-running character to motivate another character as opposed to killing off a walk-on. (I may be misremembering here, but I thought I heard somewhere that the original Woman in a Refrigerator was always intended to die to motivate her boyfriend - the Green Lantern - to do something or other, but was still given a good whack of development so that the reader would feel her loss along with him.)

I'm not entirely convinced, but no counter-arguments immediately spring to mind. If somebody else wants to take up the argument, I may or may not agree with them, but I'll let the point stand for now.

I mean, it can also be skeevy if a) female guest and walk-on characters are frequently stuffed in the fridge to motivate the main characters, or b) the tone of the piece gives the implication that this death is especially tragic or heinous because the victim is female, but these aren't always the case.

That said, introducing a character, and developing them just enough to make the reader mildly invested in them as such, and then killing them off to motivate a main character is often a cheap-shot. In this case, from what I remember, there were plenty of other potential motivations for Viola to take the actions she takes. (Another case in point:

The Night of the Doctor

.)

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Show / Hide Comments -- More in March 2015

[theconservativebrief]

If the migrant caravan didn’t exist, President Donald Trump might have needed to invent it.

The existence of a massive group of Central Americans pushing toward the US without papers — even if they are still hundreds of miles away — seems like something Trump’s GOP might create in a lab to unleash on the eve of the midterms.

But the caravan is real. The migrants in it — mostly Hondurans (with some Guatemalans), half of whom are girls and women, many intending to seek asylum in the US — are real people.

They made the decision to leave their home countries, assessing that the danger of leaving was outstripped by the danger of facing gang death threats or feeding a family on $5 per day. And they made the decision to go together, joining the caravan as it progressed, instead of alone like tens of thousands of their fellow Guatemalans and Hondurans (and Salvadorans) do every year.

The caravan has provided an irresistible visual for Republican closing arguments about immigration. In Trump’s first TV ad of the presidential primary in 2015, he used an image of a mass of immigrants; fact-checkers revealed the picture was in fact taken in Morocco. Now, as he nears the midterm elections, Trump has the image he wanted all along.

The decision about 160 Honduran migrants made to travel as a group in the open to the US — and the decision thousands have made to join them en route — is the result of a situation that predates Trump. The United States and Mexico have worked to make the journey to the US less appealing to Central Americans, but many residents of the Northern Triangle find the prospect of eventual asylum in the US — however difficult it is to get there — more appealing than the insecurity they’re facing at home.

The current wave of Northern Triangle migration raises hard questions about the distinction between economic and humanitarian migration, the US’s ability to process asylum seekers, and the role Mexico plays in the region. Those are emphatically not the questions that are coming up in the Trump-driven conversation about the caravan — which is using the sheer fact of a mass of people traveling northward to activate fears of an invasion by unknowable foreigners.

Over the past decade, there’s been a rise in the number of unaccompanied children and families crossing the US-Mexico border. Increasingly, they are people fleeing violence and insecurity, coming from the Northern Triangle of Central America — Guatemala, Honduras, and Central America.

Meanwhile, unauthorized border crossings of single adults, Mexicans, and people looking for seasonal work have greatly declined. The result is a change in the character of who is seeking to cross into the US:

To get to the US-Mexico border, Northern Triangle emigrants have to get through Mexico, a journey that takes weeks.

Under current US and international law, asylum seekers from Central America are allowed to apply for asylum either in Mexico or in the US. Many take the first option: Asylum applications in Mexico have gone up more than 1,000 percent since 2013, and most are from citizens of Northern Triangle countries. But applying for asylum in Mexico isn’t a walk in the park. Mexico has been accused of indiscriminate long-term detention of asylum seekers (exacerbated by a two-year backlog in processing applications), and some parts of Mexico aren’t safe for people who are already fleeing violence.

The US has enlisted Mexico to apprehend Central American migrants before they get to the US. Some 950,000 Central Americans have been deported from Mexico over the past several years, and human rights groups have reported torture and disappearance by Mexican security forces.

The crackdown has made an already dangerous journey more dangerous. The harder it is to get through Mexico without attracting attention from the authorities, the more that task falls to professional criminal organizations who might smuggle drugs alongside migrants or abuse migrants physically or sexually. The involvement of criminal organizations makes Mexico even more anxious to crack down.

For some Central Americans, the solution to this problem is hypervisibility: traveling out in the open, as part of a large group of people that can’t simply be grabbed or disappeared. That’s the reason small human rights organizations have gotten people together, on occasion, in “caravans” — and the appeal to hundreds or thousands of migrants who’ve joined them in trying to get to the US.

For some, it’s a way to call political attention to what they’re fleeing and what migrants have to endure; to others, it’s a desperate exodus; to some, it’s simply an opportunity that came along to hope for a better, safer life.

On October 12, 2018, a group of about 160 Hondurans set forth from the town of San Pedro Sula — which in the first half of the decade was often referred to as the “murder capital of the world” — in hopes of arriving to present themselves for asylum in Mexico or the United States.

Seventy-five miles and two days later, the caravan was more than 1,000 strong, according to the estimates of Associated Press reporters. By October 15, the AP estimated about 1,600 Hondurans had amassed at the border with Guatemala.

Jsvier Zarracina/Vox; location and date information via Associated Press

The earliest spokespeople for the caravan were a journalist and former leftist legislator named Bartolo Fuentes and his wife, human rights activist Dunia Montoya. The conservative government of Honduran President Juan Orlando Hernández (with the help of friendly media outlets) has accused Fuentes of organizing the caravan to embarrass the Hernandez administration and promote instability.

Fuentes has vehemently denied that he organized the caravan even in its early stages, and has laughed off any idea that he coordinated an exodus of 1,600 people. Instead, he’s painted the caravan as an illustration of how miserable life is in Hernandez’s Honduras: The situation is bad enough, he argues, that so many people have been inspired to pick up and leave.

The government of Guatemala attempted to close the Guatemalan-Honduran border to the caravan on October 15; after a standoff of several hours, Guatemalan officials backed down. The caravan continued to grow as it crossed Guatemala, and arrived about 3,000 strong at the Mexican-Guatemalan border on October 19, when the members slept overnight on a bridge at the border after being driven back by Mexican riot police with pepper spray.

Mexico has begun slowly admitting caravan members to ask for asylum, and several hundred have complied. But more have decided to stop waiting and swim across the river to enter without papers. On Sunday, a surging group of migrants — thousands bigger than the group that had waited on the bridge — agreed to continue onward from Chiapas, Mexico, to the US.

Caravan members have given journalists a variety of answers to this question.

Some of them have pointed to concerns for their safety. One woman told the AP’s Sonia Perez D. that she’d been in hiding after a local gang threatened to kill her because they’d mistaken a tattoo of her parents’ names for a symbol of a rival gang. Another, traveling with her husband and two sons, told the Los Angeles Times’s Kate Linthicum that after her 16-year-old son refused to sell drugs for a gang, “they were going to kill him or kill us.”

Others have cited poverty, and the inability to support their families on $5 a day.

A few are trying to get back to America after having been deported, to return to their families (including US-born, US-citizen kids) and the lives they’d built. “I miss my PlayStation,” one caravan member told Linthicum. “I miss Buffalo Wild Wings.”

In a lot of cases, people are probably motivated by more than one of these — a generalized sense of desperation and a generalized sense of hope for a better life.

But the reasons given by caravan members are squarely representative of the current wave of Central American migration to the US.

In US law, there’s a firm distinction between “asylum seekers” (who are fleeing persecution because of their identity, usually from their governments) and “economic migrants” who are looking for a job. But the division in real life isn’t always so neat, and few of the people trying to come to the US from the Northern Triangle right now fit just one of those boxes.

Many people are leaving because they fear for their lives if they stay, because they’re being threatened by gangs and the local government is either complicit or absentee. They’re seeking asylum, even if their circumstances may not fit neatly into the definition of “persecution” in US asylum law. (Attorney General Jeff Sessions has used his authority to make it harder for people to claim asylum based on domestic or gang violence.)

Others are technically “economic migrants,” but they’re not simply coming for a better job — they’re fleeing desperate poverty. And with Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) stepping up deportations of unauthorized immigrants since its inception in 2003, especially of Mexican and Central American men, many migrants who’ve been deported have every incentive to try again.

US law treats these groups of people very differently — deportees who reenter illegally, for example, are permanently barred from ever getting legal status in the US, while people who can claim a “credible fear” of persecution are allowed to stay and seek asylum. But as far as the journey is concerned, that doesn’t matter. They’re all facing the same dangers, so they’re all traveling together.

On October 22, as the caravan regrouped on the Mexican side of the Mexico-Guatemala border, the United Nations estimated its size at 7,322 migrants. The UN estimate is the only official estimate of any sort, so it’s the best thing to go on for now. (Prior to the UN’s assessment, the AP had been estimating the caravan as slightly smaller — 3,000 on the Guatemalan side of the border — and it’s not clear whether the caravan has grown or the AP was underestimating its size.)

Estimating crowd size is an inexact science even when the crowd is stationary. But the caravan isn’t just on the move; it’s stretched out — people go at their own pace, hitching rides or resting. It’s possible while the leading edge of the caravan was stuck on the border bridge between Mexico and Guatemala, the rest caught up, causing the estimate to grow.

It’s hard to tell where the caravan ends and typical everyday Northern Triangle emigration begins. As Bartolo Fuentes pointed out in an interview with CNN Español, the size of the caravan as it left Honduras was roughly equal to the number of Hondurans who emigrate every 15 days. And the coverage of the caravan appears to have inspired others to plan their own.

The size of the caravan has led a lot of people to assume that someone must be organizing and supporting it. A video that appears to be from near the start of the caravan route, which shows money being handed out to women, has been used by conservatives in the US as evidence that the caravan is a liberal plot (Florida Republican Rep. Matt Gaetz has blamed George Soros) and by the Honduran government as evidence that Fuentes and Libre, the political movement to which he belongs, are behind the caravan.

But whatever that video actually captured, it doesn’t represent the truth of the caravan as it’s continued into Guatemala and Mexico — a straggling procession of people relying on humanitarian organizations and sympathetic locals for food, transportation, and medical assistance.

It’s hard to guarantee safety for such a sprawling group. The Honduran government has confirmed that at least two caravan members have been killed in accidents since the departure; several police officers and caravan members were injured when the caravan burst through a border fence on the Guatemala-Mexico bridge on October 19. The bet that caravan members are making is that it would be more dangerous to travel alone.

Because the caravan is large and not centrally coordinated, however, it’s impossible to know the identity of every migrant traveling with it. That makes it very easy to raise the specter of criminals or terrorists hiding within the caravan — to use any question mark to paint the whole caravan as a faceless and threatening mass.

The short answer is b-roll.

B-roll is a TV industry term for the brief clips that run on mute to illustrate a segment while an anchor is narrating or a talking head is commentating. If a channel is giving a lot of coverage to a particular story, the b-roll clips it has for that story will get a lot of play — making it hard for any but the most dedicated viewer to tell when or where something happened, or even whether it’s happened more than once.

Caravans make for evocative b-roll: masses of people pressing toward the United States. Fox News leaped on the story of the caravan the minute it reached Guatemala with captions that talk about a press of people at the “border” and only a tiny note in the corner identifying that “border” as a Central American one.

And the president, Fox News-watcher-in-chief, has taken his cues on the caravan from the cable news channel. He started railing about it when Fox started covering it on October 16.

The caravan is a perfect obsession for Trump for the same reason it’s a perfect obsession for Fox: powerful images that appear to validate conservative base fears of “invasion” by “lawless” foreigners and the countries that “send” them. Trump himself has been using imagery like this since he started his presidential campaign in 2015 and talked about Mexico “sending” rapists and murderers over the US-Mexico border.

The caravan has provided more fodder. It’s a constant motif of his near-daily rallies and his morning and evening tweetstorms as the midterm elections approach.

His rage is being fed by hardliners in the administration who want to do more to crack down on families and asylum seekers at the US-Mexico border (options being considered include forcing parents to choose between months-long detention and family separation). It’s also being fed by Fox.

Other Republicans were already following Trump’s lead in making immigration their key issue in the closing weeks of the midterm campaign, amid concerns that the Republican base won’t turn out without Trump on the ballot. They’ve followed his lead on the caravan too. While GOP hardliners within the administration are using the caravan as a reason to push for a change to the laws governing children and asylum seekers who arrive at the border, Republicans have turned the caravan into a reason that Democrats shouldn’t be allowed to take Congress — because they would let in untold numbers of migrants.

The Trump administration absolutely believes this is the way to fire up the Republican base for the midterms. But it’s hard to tell how much of this is deliberate strategy and how much is Trump’s personal obsession — or if there’s any difference between the two.

Even before the caravan set out, the administration was raising alarms about families coming to the US-Mexico border. But the current situation isn’t really a crisis of numbers so much as a crisis of resources.

Overall, apprehension levels in August and September 2018 were only a little above average for the past several years at this time. And they’re still way, way below pre-Great Recession levels. (For context, apprehensions in fiscal year 2018 were a little more than half as high as fiscal year 2008, and about a quarter of fiscal year 1998 levels.)

But the people coming in are different.

Over the past several years, apprehensions of single adults at the US-Mexico border have declined. At the same time, apprehensions of unaccompanied children, and of parents with children, have continued to increase. In September 2018, children and families made up more than half of all people apprehended crossing the border illegally — up from 17 percent in September 2013.

The US has developed a border policy that’s designed to maximize the efficient apprehension and deportation of everyone trying to cross the border illegally and not get caught. It is not designed to facilitate the processing of families who are seeking asylum, a decision that is not immediate. Nor can families be kept in conventional ICE detention centers while they wait.

Refusing to offer asylum would violate international law. So the Trump administration has been trying to crack down on how families are treated after they arrive — by detaining or separating them, for example.

There is some evidence that efforts to deport families leads to fewer people seeking asylum. But there isn’t evidence that harsher treatment of asylum seekers accomplishes the same goal. Neither the 2017 pilot nor the widespread 2018 policy of family separation had the effects that officials hoped for at the border. Neither did Obama’s efforts to expand family detention in fall 2015.

The Trump administration’s sweeping border crackdown has, in fact, made it harder for people to seek and receive asylum. But it hasn’t been enough to persuade people that they’d be better off staying in their home countries.

There’s only so much the US can do with the caravan still weeks from US soil. Sending US officials to stop a group of people from crossing a border from one non-US country into another — or trying to disperse them within Mexico, for example — would be a pretty straightforward invasion of national sovereignty. (Trump has threatened to send “the military” to the US-Mexico border, but the only option that appears to have been seriously discussed in is sending additional National Guard troops to the border.)

As far as Donald Trump is concerned, though, the failure of the governments of Guatemala and Honduras (and, somehow, El Salvador) to stop the caravan from leaving their countries is an insult to the United States — and a reason to slash foreign aid to those countries.

Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador were not able to do the job of stopping people from leaving their country and coming illegally to the U.S. We will now begin cutting off, or substantially reducing, the massive foreign aid routinely given to them.

— Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) October 22, 2018

Agencies say they haven’t received any guidance over foreign aid cuts. And plenty of key Trump administration officials believe that the only way to reduce emigration from Central America to the US is to invest more in Guatemala, Honduras, and El Salvador.

Trump does not buy into this narrative. In a February speech, he said that the governments of Mexico and the Northern Triangle are “not our friends” — and that the US was getting played for a fool by sending them millions of dollars in aid.

Trump’s officials, though, still buy into the investment narrative. On Thursday, at a think tank event with the Mexican ambassador to the US about border security partnerships, Customs and Border Protection Commissioner Kevin McAleenan stressed that investment was as important as enforcement in stopping unauthorized migration. On Monday, the US ambassador to El Salvador stressed that aid would continue.

The irony is that the more Trump paints Central American countries as irredeemable hellholes, the more he strengthens the case for allowing its refugees to seek shelter in the US.

Some number of the people currently traveling toward the US will almost certainly arrive at the US-Mexico border eventually. Some number will elect to stay in Mexico (as of Monday, Mexican authorities had already received 1,000 requests for asylum from caravan members) or be detained and deported en route.

It’s impossible to know how many people will fall into each of those categories. And while whoever makes it to the US will still call themselves “the caravan,” it’s not clear that most Americans will notice. When a few hundred members of the spring caravan arrived at the border in May, the only people still paying attention were in the Trump administration.

The key question right now is whether the Mexican government will be able to forcibly disperse this caravan, as it did with the group in spring. The Mexican government has said that it won’t provide travel visas to members of this caravan, and that people who don’t seek asylum in Mexico will be deportable.

In general, the Mexican government has a lot more capacity to enforce immigration law than the Guatemalan or Honduran governments. But its first attempt to stop the caravan from entering the country didn’t work. And despite rumors, it hasn’t yet tried again.

The caravan is absolutely not, no way, no how, going to be able to push its way en masse across the US-Mexico border — even if the US military doesn’t get involved. And it probably wouldn’t even try.

It is perfectly legal for caravan members, or anyone else, to seek asylum in the US without papers.

Caravan members could present themselves legally at an official border crossing (officially termed a “port of entry”) and say they fear persecution — entitling them to the screening interview that could start the asylum process. Or they could choose to cross into the US between a port of entry and then tell the Border Patrol agent who apprehended them that they feared persecution — they’d be committing the misdemeanor of illegal entry, but they’d still have the legal right to seek asylum.

It’s then up to the US government to honor those rights. Human rights advocates charge that the Trump administration often doesn’t.

Across the US-Mexico border, right now, people are being made to wait weeks at ports of entry before being allowed to officially enter the US and seek asylum. Advocates recount stories from asylum seekers of officials on both sides telling them they aren’t allowed to seek asylum in the US, or of Mexican officials detaining them or threatening them with deportation after they tried to present themselves at a US port.

When the caravan arrived at San Ysidro this spring, the US didn’t allow any of its members to enter initially, due to the restrictions at the port of entry. It gradually allowed a few at a time to enter legally over the next days and weeks.

In the meantime, a Human Rights Watch report published last week alleges that Mexican police arrested two of the asylum seekers and beat one of them, and a group of armed men attempted to burn down the shelter where another group of asylum seekers was staying.

One Mexican official told Human Rights Watch that the US had asked the Mexican government to clear out the plaza where asylum seekers were waiting. If Mexico had complied, it would have, essentially, deported people from Mexico because they had to wait in Mexico before being allowed to cross legally into the US.

These things happened to small numbers of caravan members at a time. They happened to groups that looked just like any other group of Central Americans trying to come to the US. The ultimate fate of the spring caravan, if anything, proved the point of why caravans are important: because even if size and visibility to the US (and the president) create political backlash, they make it harder for any individual migrant to disappear.

Original Source -> The migrant caravan, explained

via The Conservative Brief

[thegloober]

Gareth Evans on the Brutal Violence and Practical Effects of Apostle

by Simon Abrams

October 15, 2018   |   May Contain Spoilers

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With the gory pagan horror film “Apostle,” Indonesian filmmaker Gareth Evans takes a big step away from the martial-arts genre that he put his indelible stamp on in both the “Raid” films and in “Merantau” before that. “Apostle” isn’t Evans’ first commercially released horror film: his contribution to the 2013 horror omnibus film “V/H/S 2” is widely considered to be the best in that movie. “Apostle” feels like more where that grisly short came from, though it also resembles British horror classics like “The Devils,” “Witchfinder General,” and “The Wicker Man,” all of which are acknowledged influences for Evans. In “Apostle,” Dan Stevens plays Thomas Richardson, a disillusioned atheist who travels to the secluded island of Erisden to retrieve his sister Jen from a pagan commune run by Michael Sheen’s Brother Malcolm, a desperate man who worships a mysterious Goddess. 

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RogerEbert.com spoke with Evans about how he achieved certain practical effects, why his latest film is so brutally violent, and what the film’s violence reflects about real-world toxic masculinity.

Of the your film’s acknowledged influences, “The Wicker Man” is the most irresistible for comparison’s sake, despite big differences between the two film’s lead protagonists. Your film’s protagonist, Thomas Richardson, is a very disillusioned atheist/agnostic, while in Robin Hardy’s film, the woman is very misguided by his faith. There’s that flashback to Thomas’s missionary days in Peking, but I wondered if you could talk about where Thomas comes from.

We kind of played off the idea of that Thomas’s father is devoutly religious: there’s an inscription above his fireplace about religion and suffering and things like that. So in terms of backstory: Thomas would have shouldered a lot of whatever physical abuse occurred in that house when he was a child. And he would have shielded his sister from it, so his sister was protected from that side of their upbringing, in a way. We started there with the backstory and what drew Thomas and Jen very, very close together. At every turn in Thomas’ life, he’s been met with violence. So the Peking Boxer Rebellion, when we came up with that as a flashback sequence, it was something to give us a sense of place and time, that validated my preference for this story to be told at the turn of the Victorian to the Edwardian period in England. We did some research into potentials for what could have been the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak, in terms of promises, disillusionment, loss of faith and descent into atheism.

The period is really striking. I’ve read you saying that the film takes place around 1905. Is that right?

Yeah, 1905.

You immediately place us in a different time at the beginning of the film, just using mannered language during the voiceover narration that’s taken from Jen’s letter to her father. Recording voiceover narration is so tricky, especially when it’s supposed to capture a character’s subjective point of view or emotional state. It’s even more tricky when you record somebody’s emotional state through voiceover with such mannered, period-specific language. Where did that letter and the way the characters talk come from? What was recording that voiceover like?

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The letter was probably one of the first things we wrote, so when it came to developing the concept for the film … I had the initial seed of a concept, which was a short film that I sort of half-made in 2004/05. That film started with a similar premise, with a woman leaving and the only thing remaining left behind her was an envelope with a letter and a rose petal inside. So those elements carried over into what we ended up doing with “Apostle.”

When we were developing this concept—and reconfiguring that seed of an idea into something that would be set in 1905—we started adding more and more layers to it. One of the first things they did was write that letter. That kind of set the tone, in a way, for the world and the way the characters would behave, talk, or speak. It informed the characters’ language and their world. So it was very, very early on we wrote the letter. 

In terms of the recording for it, I wish I had a better story for you other than we were in post-production doing the sound mix and we brought Ellen Reese in to do a recording of it. The beautiful thing about Ellen is that she’s such a talented actress that she managed to find, for me, exactly the right tone of internal fear but also something that felt like a little bit of resentment for the people holding her captive. It was a yearning for her safety. It was just a real interesting reading, really. But we didn’t have to do too many takes of that letter read because Ellen nailed it.

What was the name of that earlier short film?

Back then, it was called “Petals,” as in Rose Petal. It was a very, very different thing, but that was playing along the idea of Mother Nature to a degree, though not in the same level we did in “Apostle,” with the Goddess and things. It was more like: me in my early 20s trying to do a short film, thinking I could do a cool straightforward horror film in 10 minutes. It wasn’t that well developed, it was conceptual.

Was it ever released anywhere?

No, we never finished it.

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You utilize Dan Stevens’ physicality in ways few other filmmakers have. I wonder if it’s fair to say you wanted the character’s presence—and the audience’s summary understanding of who he is—to mostly come from his body language?

I think a lot of it came from Dan, to be perfectly honest. There were moments with that character where we talked a little bit about his laudanum addiction, his dependency on it, all these things that could make him weak and vulnerable. I feel like audiences will get behind a hero like that. They get behind people who are not necessarily going to power-drive their way through a situation. Dan had to feel like he was somebody who could absolutely endure and persevere through that set of circumstances, and he brought with him this incredible off-kilter performance, this off-kilter body language that made him feel quite jittery and unsettled. When that’s your POV into this universe, and that’s the guy who’s going to take you on that journey, you immediately don’t feel comfortable. You immediately feel like you’re not on solid ground. And so a lot of that came from him. 

I’ll give you an example: Dan and I talked about the idea of his slurring of speech. When we were making the film, we shot so much out of sequence that when we were jumping forward through about five or six different stages of the narrative and story order, I noticed that his slur would adapt and shift: it would sometimes be very strong or sometimes start to feel weaker. Initially, everyone’s thinking, “It’s a continuity error,” but we were looking at the margins of the script and it was like he’d beaten it out into, “This is the turning point where Thomas abandons the laudanum and starts focusing on the task at hand, and then he finds an element of sobriety and control.” At that point, his muscles and jaw start to relax and he’s able to talk, to have clearer diction then as well. So yeah, he really did put a huge amount of effort and a lot of work into it, and I think it’s a remarkable performance on his part.

It really is. You mentioned a turning point. For me, watching the film before speaking with you, the big turning point in the film comes in the scene where [hapless Erisden resident Jeremy] is tortured. I love how you visualize that change with this great POV shot where we see the sky from Jeremy’s perspective as the veins in his eye get crushed. I wonder how you achieved that effect both with the camera and those spidery red veins over the camera.

That was one of those shots where I always felt, “I don’t know if this is going to work.” I’m not a massive fan of POV shots usually. I find them to be quite distracting; they remove you from the story you’re telling. But I thought I could earn it in this instance. So in that whole sequence, when Jeremy’s being carried in towards the table, we insert one POV shot earlier in there, which is an upside-down POV shot, just so it could buy us the later POVs. Without that first shot, I think the second one would’ve felt even more distracting. In terms of the visual look of that scene, we bought ourselves the right to do that shot.

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In terms of the technical ability to do that: we had the camera mounted on kind of a tripod head that we could kind of create the sensation of a ratcheting of the camera position so it would gradually feel like it was cranking up to point to the sky. And then everything else from that was all in the hands of Andi Novianto, who has been my VFX wizard since the first film I made. I’ve used him all the way up until now. We had three different VFX companies do work on “Apostle,” and Andi did the vast majority of the shots, and that was one of his shots. The great thing about Andi is he was working remotely from Indonesia at the time, so I had to just give him these little WhatsApp messages, speak to him on the phone, and try to convey what was in my head so he could replicate that. And so it was a case of just trying to explain the veins, the crushing of the veins, the fact that the vision would be slightly cloudy and blurred. And lo and behold, we get a version of the shot that comes in from Andi and it’s absolutely spot-on and perfect for what we wanted to do.

The sequence is upsetting for a couple of reasons, especially because from the start of the scene, we see that torture table getting built, but not the people who build it. It sort of takes a village, but nobody is singled out. From what I’ve read, it seems that production designer Tom Pearce oversaw the making of that torture device. Where did the materials come from?

Yes. First of all: Tom Pearce is an absolute genius. I loved working with him on this, and I felt like he just completely got everything we were trying to do with the film. When it came to the table: I started to design things in little sketches. I did some research into the medieval capital punishment method, which was not a fun afternoon at all. [laughs] It’s pretty dark stuff. Actually, the things that are in real life are far, far, far worse than anything we could have come up with ourselves. 

Anyway, I came up with this table and the general gist of it was that all the items on there had to feel like they were organic to the village. So it’s made out of slabs of wood and wrought iron, and the vices would have been things they might have used in the construction of the houses. They would have been used for building tools. And the drill itself would have been used to carve out holes in the wood, again, in order for it to work as construction. So all of those elements, all those things that made up that heathen stand, would’ve been used to build the village, but now assembled in this way it’s to destroy a villager. So it had this nice, creepy, messed-up juxtaposition there that really spoke to us.

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The gore in this scene begins with an unblinking, head-on look at the heathen stand’s drill tip as it enters actor Bill Millner’s head. Which is striking since, historically speaking, most gore movies have to shy away from showing actual penetration. Most gore movies show you blood welling up afterwards, but they won’t show you the moment that a murder weapon gets into someone’s skin. Is it fair to say you’d consider it a cheat to cut away before the drill entered Jeremy’s skull?

I think the intent was to reverse viewers’ expectations: I actually didn’t want to show the gore for that sequence. This is one of the stark contrasts between what this film is and what the “Raid” films are. When it came to the “Raid” films, everything is adrenalized, crowd-pleasing. It’s a roller coaster. You can watch an action scene unfold and cheer at the end of it. But in “Apostle,” this sequence was designed to hurt, to not only be physically, but emotionally painful. So I wanted to show you how that device worked, how it functioned, how the mechanism works. What happens when you turn this dial, that dial, whatever. And at the moment it’s about to be used, I’m going to cut away to show the emotional reaction of the people watching it, because you have people close to Jeremy breaking down in hysterics. The sheer devastation of his death is tearing them apart. And then meanwhile, you look at the community, the villagers, and even they are horrified by what they’re experiencing and seeing because none of them wanted it to happen. But what we’re experiencing in that moment is the overthrowing of a system. It’s the installation of a dictatorship through [Brother Malcolm’s second-in-command, Quinn], and everyone’s too afraid to challenge him. Because he’s Brutus; he’s about to overthrow everything. And so in that respect, it was an opportunity to say something about the village and the people there, and not be something that dwelled on purely the violence. So I’m going to put all the violence into (pardon the pun) your head, not on the screen.

How did you achieve that practical effect for this scene? It’s a great magic trick. What materials were used and how did you choreograph, as you said, eliding and implying so much of the violence?

You mean in terms of the drill tip?

Yeah, not just in terms of the blocking of the camera, but also what materials you used for the prop skull.

We did some really, really basic tricks. We were able to do a lot with the combination of Bill’s actual head and a prosthetic head. We would just drill holes at the top of the prosthetic head using rubber drill bits. We also extended the drill bits with CGI so we could have it pierce the skin of Bill’s head. The piercing of his skin is a CG effect from Andi, who is my wizard. A lot of it is clever split screens and keeping the cameras locked so that we can combine a number of different elements to make it feel like you’ve seen everything in one shot. When Quinn does place the rose petal very, very deep inside Jeremy’s head, that’s a combination of two different shots stitched together, so to speak.

The violence in your films always has this element of hyper-realism that I haven’t really seen in other films. There’s a detail in one “Apostle” scene that’s pretty quick, where a guy gets impaled by a whole bunch of spears. The detail that struck me most: you show the guy breathing heavily after he’s been murdered. You just hear him breathing heavily for what feels like an eternity. How integral for you was that detail? And when did you add that effect to the scene, that he’s still alive and we can still hear him panting?

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Tom Pearce and I discussed how we were going to get that shot to work, and how we were going to get that effect to work. In fact, we kind of looked at … you know when you get like Snooker cues, where you can kind of screw them together? Basically we kind of worked on that as how we would do the spears going through the body. So we strapped a metal plate on actor Ross O’Hennessy’s body with lots of screw points, so we could screw in the fronts and backs of the spears to get them in the right positions, from the entry point to the exit point. Effectively, those positions were based on the game of Snooker. 

As for the idea behind that scene: I really wanted to do a slow shot that would take its time to curve around, so that we see the guy propped up by the positioning of these spears that have gone through his body. I owe a lot to Kiyoshi Kurosawa, who did “Cure.” He did a film called “Charisma,” where there’s a whole sequence where one of the characters is killed with a katana sword that gets pushed through the body slowly and comes out the back of a wicker chair. It’s done in a way that’s almost all one shot. It’s an incredible trick and I was blown away by it, but there’s a stillness to it, a stillness to that person’s death, and that’s what I wanted to achieve. I wanted to get this stillness to this would-be assassin’s death, so that when the camera comes around, it would allow us to see this guy who, even in his dying moments—even though he’s literally seconds away from fading and being no more—every ounce of him wants to put that knife into Malcolm. So when Malcolm does come close, he is still driven by his task at hand, which is to kill this so-called prophet.

There are two more scenes I wanted to single out: the meat grinder table with the cables. From start to finish, did your conception of that scene change at all, or was it exactly as you imagined it?

That was a scene that we worked through a lot in pre-production. The mangle table was probably one of the most complicated things we’ve designed in terms of choreography because unlike the more … not straightforward, but unlike hand-to-hand combat where someone’s going to punch, someone’s going to kick, someone’s going to block, someone’s going to throw … in this scene, it’s a fight between two people, but nobody is ever going to really swing a punch or throw a kick. They only come into contact with each other maybe twice during the entire scene.

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That whole sequence revolves around the table and how it functions. So before we could even do anything, we had to understand the engineering of it, the mechanics of that table. That was the challenge with that whole sequence, understanding the counterweights, what would happen with the counterweights, how they functioned and played a part of it, how does the lock-lever work. If you push it forward, then the counterweight will drop and push the hooks through the machine at a rapid rate, so it could be used to drag or pull up anything that’s too heavy. Once we sort of understood how that machine worked, that’s when we could start having fun with it, and that’s when we could start figuring, “Oh, OK, so this is the back and forth, this is the prey and the hunter and then the hunter and the prey as the tables get turned.”

Terrible use of the word tables there. But yeah, for me it was a fascinating experience and I was very fortunate that “Apostle” was my first project where I got to work with Jude Poyer, who’s a stunt coordinator who had spent a lot of his time in Hong Kong and came back to the UK to work in the industry. I’ve known of him for a really long time and we’ve become very, very good friends. We have a shared encyclopedic knowledge of Hong Kong action cinema. So he’s kind of become my action designer by choice now, and we’ve been working together lately on the next thing we’re doing. But I was so fortunate to have him and his team on board for this thing, because they really helped get under the hood of that machine and kept asking those questions so even though there were moments where I was happy enough to be like, “Oh, this just works! Let’s just do this!” They would demand that kind of understanding. They were like, “No, we have to know that this machine works. We have to know every aspect of this because the logic has to hold up.” And I’m so glad that they pushed for that, because it just made the scene a hell of a lot better.

The most harrowing scene in the movie has to the one where Thomas is trapped in that claustrophobia-inducing water canal, the one where he first meets the Goddess. Talk about some of the challenges you faced filming that scene.

Let’s just put it this way [laughs], that was nobody’s favorite day of filming. First of all, I always have to apologize to my director of photography, Matt Flannery, because he’s claustrophobic! And in everything we’ve done so far, I’ve put him in really increasingly tight spaces and nightmare situations, and this was no exception. It was a difficult environment to shoot in. We basically built a narrow canal and then we put a lid on top of it, so in a way, it was a coffin with a lot of water in it. That’s very uncomfortable for Dan, who we put in there for about a 10-11 hour day? He wasn’t in there for 11 hours, but he was in and out, in and out, shot by shot, setup by setup. 

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It’s not fun when you’re dipping yourself into water. No matter how much you try to heat it, it’s always going to feel a little bit cold. And then you go into a tent pumping heat in there, so it’s not good news. That was a day no one was looking forward to and no one wanted to go back and do again. It was hard to light, it was hard to pull focus in there, very difficult to get the shots we wanted to. But yeah, when people are watching it, they don’t really care about what we went through to make it! To work it has to be effective, so if it strikes the level of fear we hope we could with that sequence, then yes … I keep wanting to say it’s worth the suffering of that day. The truth is: everyone suffered except for me! I was pretty comfortable looking behind the monitor saying, “Yeah, let’s go again!” I always feel sort of disingenuous whenever I talk about how difficult life on set is, because for me it’s very, very comfortable!

It seems like the brutality of “Apostle” is, given the context of the story, a reflection of the male-dominated cruelty that the film criticizes. With the exception of [Jeremy’s girlfriend, Ffion] and the Goddess, most of the explicit violence happens to Thomas rather than the other women. Is that a line you didn’t want to cross, to show and exploitatively … brutalize these female characters?

Yeah. I didn’t see the point in showing violence against women. It’s been done, and to be honest, I feel like we’re past that now, or we should be in terms of that kind of exploitative angle. I’m a father raising a daughter, so that kind of stuff doesn’t really have any interest to me, you know what I mean? I don’t want to create content like that. We allude to certain things. Obviously, we don’t completely shy away from it. The film is about, to a degree, how these three men behave. It represents a little of the toxic masculinity that’s been prevailing for the last two or three years, that scares the shit out of me in terms of where we are as a society and where we are globally right now. So there’s those elements of it, and Quinn definitely represents some of that in terms of his attitudes and behavior, and his response and treatment of the women on the island. But I think you can do things about that without having to physically show that and create content that is just transgressive for the sake of being transgressive. It didn’t make sense for this film to be about that. It made more sense for it to be about Thomas’s journey, what he has to endure, and about the fact that he’s endured it in the past. It’s part of his backstory, that he survived that whole experience in Peking and came out the other end, and part of that backstory is to tell the audience, “This is what he’s capable of enduring.” It kind of informs what we can expect him to go through while he’s on this island, and what he’d be willing to put his body through, so to speak.

Based on that reading of Quinn—which is specifically what I was responding to—I wonder if it’s fair to say that you think that the violence that he and the other characters commit (and maybe even in the “Raid” films and “Merantau”) as an extension of toxic masculinity, as you put it?

It’s a combination of those things. To be honest, when it came to writing this film, what I wanted to do is make something that was an adventure-thriller-horror hybrid. I wanted to create this story, but there had to be a subtext to it. There had to be more going on than just, “Guy arrives to save someone and then here’s the roller coaster ride of it.” And at the time of writing it, it’s more like a reflective thing. I didn’t want it to be seen as a social or political message. I’m not using this film to jump on a soapbox and tell the world how I feel. It’s more just that the things that … the layers of fear and violence, whether it’s toxic masculinity and whether it’s man’s ability to corrupt and purge religion in order to further a political game: all of those things were drawn from the headlines, from newspapers, from news items, from what was going on globally, whether it was issues of toxic masculinity or these very public displays of violence and vulgarity. When you saw ISIS orchestrating these horrendous, ritualistic murders in public—it was reflective of that. It was all those things feeding into my fears, insecurities and anxieties that was feeding into the story that I was telling. So it’s kind of more on a subconscious level as opposed to it being, “Here’s what I want to say to the world,” so to speak.

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