#and for queen its disposability in the sense of who can claim the title to be the female x the female hero

[bibibbon]

TBHX and the disposability of man pt 4

Part 1 Nice's arc

Part 2 E-soul's arc

Part 3 Lucky Cyan's arc

(The irony of my title has just begun to dawn on me)

While I do wish the 2 episodes did give us more focus on Queen herself I do find the dynamic between Queen and Bowa to be really interesting and a major part to the 'disposability' theme that the show presents.

Bowa and Queen are two capable heroes who have achieved fantastic goals within their own right. However, society and those around them, such as Micky, keep pairing and diminishing their achievements. Bowa becoming X is seen as something that only happend because of Queen's speech and Queen getting the chance to take the X title is seen as Bowa giving it to her by the public and Micky planning exactly that for Bowa to give up the title to Queen.

Micky has made it clear that he simply views his employees as decorated chess pieces that play the game he tells them to play and this is exactly that. Yes Bowa fought for the spotlight and she earned the title of X fairly but the world isn't fair and she is going to be replaced forcibly by someone whose younger than her (interesting connotations)

While this interpretation may seem somewhat farfetched. There can be something to be said about the hero industry and the similarities it shares with the fashion industry. Heroes have to always keep in shape, be on top, be perfect, be young, and get replaced when they're old or when they lose. This isn't something new that TBHX hints at in Queen's arc but we get mentions of this in Nice's arc through lin ling's of own words " You're not going to be perfect forever as soon as you get old and ugly they'll find a new you."

Bowa and Queen two overachievers. Bowa is the youngest Commission agent, while Queen is the youngest and smartest university graduate. Queen and Bowa both have their own speeches and interviews being deemed as career aspiring and perfect. Both of them actively hold the belief to believe in yourself and to work hard to achieve your goals. Bowa the women that came from nothing. No power, no connections, just strength, stubbornness, and pure determination, getting her through what she deems necessary to achieve her goals. On the other hand, Queen a hero born to a father with connections, a power to make rules and an incredibly naturally talented individual yet she also worked hard to achieve her goals just to be beaten in a blink by a "nobody".

Even with all the similarities that Bowa and Queen share, they are pitted against one another for an absolutely unsignificant reason : the title of X. A title and role that neither get but the public officially views and actively pushes the narrative that Queen has replaced Bowa driving Bowa to insanity for a way for her to get back and reach for the role that was once rightfully hers. In this context, the title they are now fighting for isn't truly the title of X, but it is the title of the female hero. Who can be the female hero, the spot that society wants filled and only wants one person to be THE female hero, the one who can have it all in an industry that lacks diversity.

This ultimately causes a huge conflict between Bowa and Queen. Bowa who wants to cling and hold the title naturally for as along as she can considering the fact that she spent her whole life trying to achieve the perfect mix of perfection by being 50/50 power and beauty. Due to this, Bowa easily consumes the narrative that society and the industry itself have been spewing out and plans to eliminate the next threat even though at this point in time Queen doesn't have the title of X (but a man does) and Queen is only in the top 10. Public perception and view alongside Bowa's own research send her into her own downward spiral, leading her to the only solution she deems viable : kill your 'replacement.'

Bowa and Yang cheng parallels, I see!

Alongside all of this, Bowa's abilities have constantly been undermined by Micky, who literally tells her that the only reason she is a hero is because he chose her and he invested in her and now its time for him to invest into someone else : Queen.

Essentially, the people have been waiting to see someone else ever since Bowa managed to become the number one hero, and when the queen doesn't live up to that expectation, they immediately find a way to continue the cycle by trying to pit cyan and Queen against one another with the only reason a fight like that not occurring is due to Queen actively taking actions for Cyan to clear her name and for her to personally support cyan instead. Even their own public relation cyan and Queen aren't afraid to show that they are close.

While Queen and Bowa's relationship focuses on dispoabaility through the lens of who can be THE female hero, it also focuses on the idea of disposbaility through nepotism.

While the public isn't aware of it, Bowa becomes aware that Queen has connections, and she has abilities that Bowa lacks and that's one of the reasons why she gets all the support to become X while Bowa has to fight and gain connections herself. This is one of the things that drives Bowa to try to kill Queen, to fully eliminate the threat that Queen poses through her connections because at the end of the day, Bowa is a self built chess piece while Queen was given the chess board in the first place.

Within an already such a competitive industry, nepotism is actively looked down upon due to the unfair advantages it gives individuals and the reputation it has for robbing those more competent of the role they deserve and this is an aspect of Queen and Bowa's story.

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 13

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escaped Ethan Hunt with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. Brooding as he is, August is unwilling to back down on his murderous agenda he plots to continue where he was stopped.

Series Completed: Previous Chapter | | Chapters Masterlist | Next Chapter

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) 🖤

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Mentions of sexual encounters, child neglect, betrayal, hinted physical abuse,  foul language and lots of angst.   

A/N: I thought chapter 13 will be the last one, but I didn’t want to rush the ending or have a chapter too long. So for those of you still waiting, hang in tight! Many thanks to @agniavateira​ who’s my muse and my editor, to @raspberrydreamclouds​ for this amazing cover and to those who’s been asking me about the chapter, means a lot to me. I am going into my usual Way to Hell posting panic attack. So bye for now.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Please comment, review and reblog.  💖

Title: Paradise lost

There cannot be peace before first a great suffering.  There cannot be love without first a great tragedy.

~*~

Opaline droplets of sweat form on his forehead. In his ears, a constant buzzing rings wretchedly as if an angry hornet is caged inside his skull. What was long buried abruptly awakens, stabbing at the back of his head. Red flashes sear through his eyes while images of Ingvild dissolving to ashes play in his mind, her bloodsoaked feathers crumbling to the ground.

“Why did you go?” August mutters under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He crumples the little yellow note with sheer frustration before throwing it on the bed. 

‘I told her not to go, I commanded her!’

The air in the room grows thick like the pit of a stygian forest. Tentacle-like branches appear behind his eyes creeping closer, clutching his limbs. Even though lost and abandoned in the thicket of his mind, her angelic scent still lingers on his skin, impossible to wash off. Sniffing at his biceps, he inhales the mixture of their union on his flesh;  what begins as euphoric mirth quickly meets the sharp edge of rage and hatred.

She’s gone and it gnaws at the dark matter of his brain. 

He hates it. 

Hates her for being absent.

Frowning deeply, August reaches a rigid hand for his clothes, forcing himself to get dressed. The very first memory of her hinges on his mind: An icy woman with silver-moon eyes who refused his pursuit. 

‘Did you think the two of you are going to ride toward the sunset together? That’s not you.’

Letting out heavy gasps, he shakes his head. “She’ll be fine,” he whispers dismissively, pulling on his trousers and hastily buckling his belt. 

The new world order awaits, so close he can feel the fresh sun sitting on his open palm. It is his vision, his legacy: bigger than whatever it is Ingvild and him have together. 

There was no her in his plan, to begin with. 

The Devil never had a queen. 

‘You know what they’ll do to her…’

Another ray of daytime terror cuts through his thoughts: her wings plucked from her back, threads of flesh tearing from her naked body. Her screams die in silence.  

“She chose to leave, I asked her not to!” August yells into the empty room, frowning at no one but himself as he grabs the used shirt which hangs from the tall mirror. Turning to his reflection, he tenses at the sight of his body. Crimson valleys lead down his back, courtesy of her claws branding deep into soft tissue and toned muscles.

‘Do you know what is the probability of finding someone like her? A woman who wants to see the world burn with you? Who believes in your cause of building a new one?’

August swallows hard and combs his fingers through his hair with haste, attempting to act normal through the intensifying drumming in his ears. Being completely methodical, he pulls his long trench coat over his shoulders and collects his belongings into his black duffle bag on the bed. With a heavy painful breath, he forces his thoughts away, zipping the bag with urgency and reciting in his mind everything necessary for his trip. Time is scarce, the end and the new beginning are nigh; the smart thing to do is to forget her, erase her existence from the chambers of his heart. 

He doesn’t have one anyway. 

His hand secures the gun in its holster and harsh fingers lace around the black straps of his bag as he stretches himself straight, ready to leave this bedroom. That’s when his eyes fall again to the crumpled yellow note. 

‘You’ll never see her in Kashmir, you’ll never see her again.’ 

~*~

‘Amazing,’ the silver-haired wolf muses while scratching his bristly jaw. For 13 years the evil spawn’s eyes remained exactly as they were the day he picked her from the orphanage. Grey crystal orbs so naive, clueless, and oh so hungry for validation. A child desperate to prove herself worthy to someone, anyone. 

It was her single flaw and his greatest advantage.

Even now in the bloom of adulthood, the pale, scrawny thing standing before him is nothing but a lost little girl who wants someone to hold her bony hand. 

‘How can someone be so smart yet at the same time so blind?’

The cheap motel room smells like mildew and rotten wood. Speckles of dust float between the handler and his prodigy, cascading over his glance that seems rather alien and naked as glass. It pierces through her muscles - this sudden sense of peculiarity and estrangement.     

She chews the inside of her cheeks and sways slightly on her spot, arms hanging loose at her side. Ingvild lifts her chin to look at Liam, her eyes round with what can only be guilt. It makes her look like a child who broke an antique vase. 

“Thank you for answering my call,” she begins, wrapping her fist around a disposable phone before throwing it on the tidy bed.

Liam scoffs and shakes his head, ridicule spreading on his face. “You’ve gotten yourself into trouble over a boy, child?” He stares up and down the young woman, noticing the obvious change in her posture.

‘So, she truly is a woman now; how did I not see this one coming with her constant chatter about how handsome he is when I handed her the dossier?’

“Please don’t tell me you need money to get an abortion.” 

Ingvild frowns with disgust and shakes her head right away. “Never. No, it’s not what I’m here for.”

Displeased as always, Liam emits his usual grunt. He slowly shakes his head at his asset while running his fingers through his lanky grey hair. This is not how he imagined this mission to end. Her lack of emotions was a key element; Ingvild could have had a few good years running several missions for him, but what tipped the scale was for her to run into the wrong psychopath.

“Then tell me Ingvild, why should I listen to a failed assassin such as yourself? You’ve been weird about this mission since day one. Acting discreet, irresponsible, and reckless,” the old man’s Adam's apple bobs up and down in his throat as he speaks. Taking a small stride, he moves closer to get a better look of her diamond irises. So sharp and so strange, they’ve always irked him. As a child she downright looked like something out of a horror movie. 

“You’ve had 445 successful missions, not even 30 years old. Yet here you are a failure, and for what? For a boy?”

Shame traps her tongue and her glance drops to the floor. Failure stings like a rod of hot iron piercing her beating heart. Yet her mind races to the night at the pit where August finally claimed her, the memory of his lips sets glowing embers through her veins. On her skin remains the evidence of his embrace. Microscopic cells, tinted by his DNA. 

She doesn’t want this feeling to go away. 

Liam clears his throat, tearing her away from memories that turn from tar to honey the longer she dwells on them.

“You know why your mother gave you away, Ingi?” Liam asks, giving her a ghastly sardonic smile while cocking one eyebrow.

‘Liam never smiles.’ 

A small frown sets creases above her freckled nose. “I asked you many times before and you always said you don’t know.”

The Dane scoffs at her, his smile widening, exposing cigarette-and-coffee-stained teeth. The rot around his gums makes her curl her nose slightly and flinch as he leans closer. 

“You were a rape baby.”

The words send a pang through her muscles, like stepping on glass. She shakes her head with protest and steps back, yet Liam nods knowingly, standing in front of her.

“You’re lying.”

His small hazel eyes burn holes through her skull, his smile sinister and impish. “Your father was a savage, a rapist. He left your poor mother half-dead and impregnated in the forest you love so much. Who knows, maybe that’s why you kept going there as a child, reconnecting with your true nature.” 

Refusing to listen, she shies from his piercing glare. Liam reaches a coarse hand to cup her jaw, forcing her face back to his. “Your mother hated you. Your very existence reminds her of the most terrible thing that ever happened to her.”

For a child with such a limited emotional range, Liam finds that the muscles of her face are capable of stretching thoughtfully with spite. Pent up hatred creases her brow, her silver eyes turning to hot, molten gold. She bites on her tongue, keeping a vow of silence but he can read her face just the way an assassin would. 

“Nothing but a mistake, disowned by your own mother. So why would this man, this... mass murdering psychopath love you?” Liam shifts her head from side to side, inspecting the healing cuts and bruises that decorates her pale skin. “He saw an opportunity and seized it, used you…”

He pauses, moving away from a stare colder than icy lake water, “just like they will.”

Ingvild parts her lips with wonder, glaring at the person she knew all her life with disbelief. In the glossy reflection of Liam’s honey-brown eyes, she sees several black, long rifles pointed at her head.

Liam curls his thin lips with an utter lack of remorse and shrugs indifferently.

“She’s yours.”

*~*~

If colours had sound then the pale blinding white would be a continuous high-frequency hum. The tunes and shades of death. Like angry flies feasting on a corpse. 

‘Is this Valhalla?’

A small groan escapes her mouth, her eyes hurting from the sickly radiance of the narrow fluorescent lamps hanging from the ceiling. Her wrists feel numb as they’re pulled behind her back in restraints. 

“No,” she opens her mouth to speak, her throat burning, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Definitely not Valhalla...” 

‘You need to be a hero to enter Valhalla, stupid girl.’

Stupid didn’t even begin to describe it. August would never let her hear the end of it.

Loud, angry steps tap on the white marble floor, growing louder as the person approaching enters the room. Ingvild blinks, peering at the silhouette when a smile of comfort paints her drowsy face. Like a god, her lover strides toward her with his usual confidence. His ocean-blue eyes beam at her sight, his palm spread open to embrace his tiny Valkyrie. She chuckles at the mischievous, charming grin on his face as it reminds her the day they first met. 

Oh, she wishes to nibble his stupid chin right now and brush her fingers along his thick moustache.

But as she blinks again, large brown almond-shaped eyes replace the ocean-blue. A panther of a woman stands before her: confident, strong, and impossibly beautiful. Her dark, succulent lips are pressed together and concern shines through as she observes the small woman who has her arms cuffed behind her back and her feet shackled to the metal legs of the chair. 

With her head still heavy, the assassin turns her face from side to side. She quickly observes the armed guards at the entrance, the tall, greying agent standing nonchalantly against the wall awaiting orders, and lastly the sickly-looking, lean man who is positioned at the fore of a metal desk with his fingers laced together. Anticipation is written all over his line-riddled face. 

“Erica Sloane,” Ingvild calls knowingly, the ghost of a wicked smile dancing on her chapped lips as she turns her head to face the CIA director. Dressed in a black power suit and crimson pumps, the director is drenched with big dick energy.

“August told me so much about you, but he didn’t mention how fuckable you are.” Ingvild drawls, fluttering her lashes as she scans her from head to toe. 

Tilting her head, Erica grabs a white plastic chair and places it in front of Ingvild. She then takes a seat, crossing her long smooth legs together. Kindness and motherly concern pours from her dark eyes, expressions Ingvild never received from anyone in her life.

“Poor child, I imagine August Walker filled your head with many stories.”

“No…” Ingvild swallows, trying to dampen her sore throat. Noticing her struggle, Erica snaps her fingers and the greying agent rushes to bring her a plastic cup of water like a loyal dog. Focusing on the translucent beads around the cup, Ingvild flicks her tongue over her lips. “August was too busy filling other parts of me.”

The intrepid woman begins to laugh at her own joke, her voice dragging groggily while Erica rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“I imagine so.” She answers and then carefully tilts the cup to Ingvild’s lips, offering the drink to the girl who sips with desperation as if she walked the desert. “August was my best agent,” she explains, watching the stream of water that rolls down Ingvild’s chin as she gulps with an incredible thirst, “a really proficient assassin, ranked high in every mission I sent him to. My golden boy. Even though that shit-eating attitude of him was something else...”

Withdrawing the cup, she looks into Ingvild’s cold silvery stare. “Those snarky, arrogant remarks and him going through the whole department like a fox in a hen coop I could overlook. But that fucker had us all fooled, Ingvild, as he fooled you.”

Ingvild flutters her dark lashes and tips her chin up. Her defined cheekbones sharpen even more as a snake-like arrogance poisons her face. “August told me what you did,” she utters sincerely, while Erica commands the agent to refill the plastic cup. Loathing melts her beautiful sullen glaciers as she focuses on Erica. 

The CIA director narrows her eyes at her in return, and curls her lips downward as disdain fills her mouth. “I am not the one who made Walker murder Agent Hartmann, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“You deceived him,” Ingvild retorts calmly and sucks in her bottom lip, collecting the remaining droplets of water onto her tongue. “That’s what you and your little agencies do to people like us. Set up traps for predators and pretend to act surprised as they eat the bait.”

Holding the cup, Erica stares at the young woman thoughtfully, the burning hatred in her eyes reminding her so much of Agent Walker: An entitled spoiled brat, thinking he can wind the world to the direction only he sought to be right. 

“You can’t blame a predator for following its nature, and you can’t expect him to behave otherwise.” 

“Is that how you see yourself?” Erica asks, moving the cup away, though she can see the thirst on Ingvild’s gaping bottom lip. “August poisoned your mind but I assure you, you are not the monster he is. You never had the choice that he did.”

Erica’s voice suddenly becomes soft, and her big brown eyes become round with care that only a parent can express. But the only form of parent Ingvild ever had was Liam, and he was never much of a father, was he? It took less than a few hours for him to give her away. 

She wonders how long it took for her real mother.

Her gaze drops, peering at Erica’s shiny crimson shoes as they counter the lifelessness of the floor like blood in the snow. Memories whisk her away again, a man in pursuit of a woman deep in an icy forest. She should have died that night and yet here she is, shackled to a chair. The voice of the man who saved her echoes through her head with a fair warning: ‘Liam never gave a flying fuck about you.’

Sharp as a needle, it pricks her heart.

“I know what Icarus did. Moulding you into the perfect assassin, depriving you of the childhood and the life you deserved.” Erica’s voice cuts into her trail of thoughts, making her raise her gaze back to the beautiful woman. “Now, I don’t know what twisted fantasies August may have offered but I can assure you, they are empty just like him. You read his file, you know what he’s capable of. Looking at your scars and bruises I assume he hurts you for his own sick pleasure, taking advantage of a woman who only wants to be loved.”

‘She doesn’t know him like I do, the way he drank my lips and called me his angel, the way his fingertips beat the warm blood in my arteries.’ Ingvild shuts her eyes, soaking in the remnants of his touch as it still ghosts across her body.

Erica’s kind, tepid hand wraps around the young woman’s jaw, lifting her pale face with the cautiousness of a human tending a wild creature. Grey and dark-brown collide at the seams as they share a silent stare.    

“If you’ll give us his location, we can arrange for your freedom and protection.”  

Ingvild breaks away from Erica’s grip, pushing herself back in the chair as much as she can. The screech of metal against marble makes the guards cringe. Slow and cold, a sardonic chuckle begins to burst from Ingvild’s lungs. The laughter echoes off the walls while she shakes her head with disbelief. 

“Do I look like a dumb bitch to you? Even if this was true, do you think I’m willing to be a slave to another government? Kept ignorant and tabbed? I’d rather rot in this cell while my beautiful monster dismantles your old world order.”

Drops of water splash at her face as Erica squashes the plastic cup in front of her, sulking with fury. Her eyebrows knit together and she purses her lips as if this young woman is something sour on her tongue. 

Evidently, Liam was right; the girl is far too gone, living in the little fantasy world August built for her. 

“If you think he ever cared about you for a split second, then you are a dumb bitch. No matter how this plays out, you and August are never going to end up happily ever after.” Erica spits, holding her finger at Ingvild’s childlike frown. “He’s never going to come for you. You were nothing but a toy, a plaything for him to pass the time.”

Ingvild scoffs and rolls her eyes, refusing to let these words cut into the beating muscle in her chest. 

`Stick and stones may break my bones...’

Solid, slender fingers wrap around her jaw, squeezing around her cheeks like a big spider. She is met with Erica’s long lashes, while those deep brown eyes slice into her soul. 

“You might think you know him, but I’ve worked with August long enough to know that he never loved anything other than his precious ego. So I would consider this as your final chance little girl, because if you don’t talk right now - this nice fellow here...” Erica pauses and gestures her head to the scrawny man who begins to hum a blissful tune while cracking his knuckles. Twisted excitement shines through his beady eyes as he glances at the set of sharp surgical tools lying on the desk.

“He’s going to make you sing like the precious bird you are.”

Fear shies from Ingvild’s stoic, icy face. The well-lubricated gears in the labyrinth of her head begin to work, observing the possible escape options and scanning every cavity, crease, and man in Erica’s lovely torture chamber.  

The door suddenly bursts open. A man in his mid thirties with bright red hair and a freckle-covered face rushes in, huffing heavily. His pink skin glistens with sweat, the strands of his fiery hair sticking on his large forehead while his hand holds onto his chest with distress. 

“Sloane, there is something you need to see…” he opens his mouth breathlessly.

“Not now!” Sloane snaps at him, looking at Ingvild with contempt. There is nothing she wishes more than to avoid torturing a young woman, especially someone as misguided as this poor porcelain doll. All she needs is to make her see the truth, that August never cared for her, that she was just another pawn in his grand scheme. 

“Director, I am sorry, but you really need to come and see this.” 

Agitated, Erica snaps in her chair to look at him. “What is it, Agent Louis?”

“It’s John Lark’s manifesto, ma’am…” he sighs, shoulders slumping, “it’s… it’s everywhere.”

A shivering hiss escapes her mouth. The shiver that graces the rail of her spine is like a shower of icy water, making her slowly rise from her chair. August’s harmful “poetry” is released into the air like toxic gas, contaminating every fragile little mind in an already unstable world.  

“Do you like my little surprise?” Ingvild asks, making the baffled woman turn to gaze at her. There’s a malicious little smile dancing across her eyes, her brows lifting with an arrogance that strongly resembles Agent Walker. 

Swallowing hard, the CIA woman takes a step back, tugging her jacket straight and looking at the torturer who lifts a small hammer between his pliable fingers. 

“Break her, until she talks.” 

The harsh tapping of her heels dies down and her silhouette becomes smaller until it disappears behind the shutting door. 

“Pretty girl...” The man’s voice is brittle and thin as he is, every word ending with a slight snake-like hiss. He moves to scrutinise her from head to toe, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip with a prying nature. 

“You know August used to mock me…”

“I can see why,” she spits out, looking back at him with both fearlessness and utter disrespect. She killed men bigger than him, hell, August’s kneaded her to submission and his torture was nothing but sweet. 

She can take him on, she can take all of them on.

The lean man beams at her, holding up the small shiny hammer and running his finger over the rim pervertedly. The dead skin around his nails rouses disgust in her gut, yet she rolls her eyes and fakes a yawn.

He chuckles at her theatrics and kneels in front of her with one unstable hand pressing onto her thigh. His revolting fingers scratch gently at her denim, making her shiver. If August knew another man was laying his finger on her… 

But August is not here.

“Well… shall we begin, little bird?”

***

‘When this world ends and the new one begins, what will be of your little Valkyrie? Merely bones and rotting flesh laid in an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere and mourned by no one. Won’t you be jealous of the insects feasting on her narcotic tissue?’

Cold air seeps through his nose as sharp bullets of hail hit the ground with the fury of angry gods, shattering onto the ruins of an old bridge with a loud, clattering noise. Sheltered from the rage of the heavens, August stands beneath the wreckage, facing the men who came to make the final exchange. 

Blue and green ferns have grown over the decaying surroundings, climbing over rusted metal. Nature reclaiming its place over man’s occupied space. Justice and beauty in decadence and rot. 

‘Memento mori.’

“The plutonium,”  August demands, his thick brows shadowing his eyes in a battle to remain composed. Those same parasitic visions of sheer terror burden him like a daytime nightmare: pale as porcelain, she sinks to the bottom of a lake thick with blood. His hand reaches out for her, fingers trying to grasp whatever he can but she slips away. 

‘How far do you think Erica will go this time?’ 

A rogue droplet of sweat glides languidly down his temple, crossing over a bulging tendon. Unfortunately quite apparent to the three men who scrutinise him with wonder: two well-paid bodyguards and a slimy-looking slug, wearing a dark business suit that does nothing but emphasize his fragile masculinity. 

“The money first!” The businessman whines, attempting to make a tough face.

‘A cock and two balls.’ August jests and does his best to remain indifferent while anxiety threatens to claw its ugly talons in his throat. The seller’s receding hairline is thick with dandruff, his dull green eyes attempt to mimic confidence, as a beta male would do when facing a pure alpha, trying to compensate for lost dignity.  

‘I don’t have time for this,’ August huffs, his chest puffing and the immense shoulders stretching even wider, exhuming his natural overpowering dominance. His patience runs brittle as a dry twig. A restless throb thunders between his ears like a scab, latched inside his brain. 

The slug pries his mouth open to speak, yet his voice becomes dull as if the world just went underwater.

‘Do you think she’ll go as far as to let her men touch her? You know, not just the usual torture they put interrogated suspects through, but the type of touch only you are allowed to.’

‘She doesn’t have the balls, she won’t do that to another woman.’ 

‘Won’t she? It’s personal this time. Erica knows what you are capable of. And your Ingvild, she’s an apostle too now, an enemy of the world…’

Fever burns at his sweaty forehead and his lungs gradually collapse. Visions he can’t even bring himself to imagine attempt force their way into his mind. The yapping of the man who stands in front of him goes on and on; while August can feel himself speak in response, the words spouting from his lips are on autopilot. 

All he can think of is her, stripped naked, torn to shreds by dark shadows.   

‘She holds back a lot, but when she slips, aren’t her screams so beautiful? Her pleasant little voice, stretching so melodically, like skin over bone, thin and light.’

“Shut up!”

All eyes lift to August in silent bewilderment. His fists tighten, nails digging into his coarse palms as the will to rip someone to shreds beats through his blood. These men will be no more than a casualty. 

“Do you know who I am?” He asks in a deep, menacing tone, his hand but a second from reaching his holster. By measured calculation, he already anticipates how quickly he would shoot them one by one without so much of a scratch on his cheek.

“I’m John, fucking, Lark. My apostles are awaiting orders this very instance,” he reaches for his phone, ignoring the flinch in their posture as he draws it from his pocket and shakes it in his hand on display, “and you want to stand here in this shit weather and measure dicks? Spoiler alert,” he takes a stride in front of the little man, careless of his bodyguards who reach for their weapons, “mine is far bigger.”   

The seller peers at him silently, noticing the icy crust of rage in August’s glare. His pale eyes cut like diamonds while the shadow of his brooding figure falls upon the small man’s face. 

“You will get your money once I get to see the plutonium and confirm it’s authenticity,” August calls out assertively, each word distinguished, each syllable emphasised and sharp as a blade. Death is no longer an enemy to August Walker but an old friend, and those trolls under the bridge are a mere joke to the inferno he’s been basking at his entire life.

‘Limb by limb, feather by feather, while you waste your time...’

‘She wanted me here, she wanted me to secure the plutonium. If I don’t do this, it will all be for nothing.’

‘So now you are doing this for her?’

Not saying another word, the seller nods and snaps his fingers. Agitation is evident on his face yet the violence emanating from August forces him to bite down his pride. One of his henchmen approaches with a suitcase and opens it up to show August the orbs.

Thunder rips through the sky and the hail turns into a symphony of wrath. Icicles break across the construction site above, splashing water everywhere around them. Staring at the platinum spheres, August sees his own reflection dulled by the dirty silver curve. 

A dormant thing. But when set into motion, ever so deadly. 

He presses the beryllium rod to test the authenticity of the material and a sigh of relief pipes itself through his nose at the sound of the radioactive note on his testing device. Celebration blooms in his weary heart but the festivity is deemed achingly empty and dies out right away. 

‘Stop thinking about her, she’s gone. Focus on the cause, you’re almost there, just keep pushing through the doors.’ 

~*~

The blizzard melted into shy rain. The soft little drops dampen his hair, perming his large curls with the assistance of the cool winter breeze. Standing with the suitcase on the side of the rural road, August awaits his ride taking him to the helipad to proceed to Kashmir. It has been so long since he last met his true colleagues, since his departure from Lane in Norway. Avoiding any risks, contact was kept only necessary for the last stages of their tasks.

Doom’s day.

Securing the plutonium should have brought him relief, yet his chest continues to sink into his spine as if it’s being filled with coals. August Walker threaded through life alone, yet this sudden solitude is suddenly harrowing, making him feel like a gutted fish. Looking to his empty side he the ghost of her appears, giving him a bratty smirk. 

��Go away,” he chides, refusing to think of her. Of that stupid mouth talking back, tormenting him with sweet saccharine and cinnamon-like kisses. In his reminiscences, the softness of her lips still hinges. Tenderness meeting the bristle of his neck as she lay gentle wet markings up his coarse jaw. 

His fingers press to his mouth trying to harness the memory. 

A large car drives into the side of the road, speeding up and braking right next to his legs, missing August’s foot by an inch. Frowning at the careless driver, he grunts and brushes his hair before opening the passenger door.

“Took you awhile,” he grunts as he slips into the seat and peers at the driver. A bulky man in his early 40s with dark short cropped curls and thin lips. He shoots August a glance and turns back to the steering wheel.  

“Not my bad, you made a fucking mess, Lark.” The man answers and begins driving right away, careless of the fact that August didn’t put his seatbelt on and that he is holding radioactive material. 

Throwing the seatbelt over himself and fastening it, August growls and carefully secures the case on the side of the driver seat, his index finger remaining on the brim. He gently caresses the hard black leather. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

The driver peers at him oddly before looking down the road, driving fast and passing a large log truck. “Releasing the manifesto. MI6 and the CIA are all over the place,” he says and turns the radio on, letting August hear the news on his own. “I get why you did it now, it’s brilliant to cause another distraction but you’ve made shit a bit harder with those cunts running around. They tracked it back from London and have been surveying the entire area.”

“I didn’t release the... “ 

August stills, his muscles shriveling up as realisation quickly hits him. 

‘Oh angel, what have you done?’

Drawing out his mobile phone, August immediately begins to search the newsite, his eyes an ocean of panic, fluttering back and forth. It’s everywhere, news about an anarchist manifesto, spreading like a virus through every social media outlet, leaked by codename “Jane Lark”. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, reading his own written word as he goes through an article posted on the BBC’s newsite. But she changed the last verse, added a little piece of her own:  

“Valkyries mounted onto beasts,  We will ride eternal to the sun. The blazes will sear us but we will not back down,  United by our cause of just war, Unflinching we will scour the earth, Until humanity comes together in tranquil and harmony.”

‘She loves you, you see? The way she lets you bleed her, use her, spill all your pain inside her. The way she held onto you just a night ago, your name falling from her lips, her body pressing into yours to take all of you. She’s the only one. The only woman who did and ever will. 

And you left her to die.’

________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible and August Walker

[the-order-of-fools]

The Enchantress is Horny on Main

I really like the dynamics between the Enchantress and the "special character" of this fic and I think it can show how Love can be twisted in a completely wretched concept. The original title was supposed to be "Possession", but Mod Propeller had a better idea.

Warnings! Dubious consent, blood, alcohol (?)

The night was as cold and unwelcoming as the cut of a blade, one that was forged not inside the scorching womb of a volcano, but the freezing wastelands still untouched by man. Raindrops tore the air like a million darts, elongated and greenish, pelting the dark stones of the Tower of Fate.  

The Enchantress grinned as she imagined poor wayfarers venturing too close to the Tower, unaware of her henchmen who were ready to strike. Her slender finger traced the opaque window by which she sat, drawing a clear line on the fogged surface as the unnamed adventurer bowed before the Liquid Samurai's unforgiving sword. He spat and cried out, holding the blade as it pierced through his tender flesh.  Empty eyes followed his movements as the sword was drawn back in a swift move. The corpse fell onto a scarlet puddle. Unimpressed, the oriental warrior morphed into a small black mass and oozed back to its designated place, leaving the rain to finish the job.

The Enchantress scratched the glass with the tip of her nail as the wretched fantasy left her mind - the stones were still as clear as ever, washed by rain only and no other fluid. None of her sentinels had moved. Order and silence was all she had left.

She sighed as she leaned onto the glass. The bitter cold froze her pale skin - it had such a strange color, so different from her other self. She remained beautiful nonetheless, she mused.

Beautiful and untainted as the dark robe gently draped her curves, the same curves that her other self kept hidden under a thick armor. Her gaze loomed over the spotless hand as it brushed the thin scratch on the glass. Smooth, silky, the gentle hand of a maid.

Stronger than the calloused hand that once held a shield.

Stronger than the hand that could only hold vile weapons with no glint of magic.

Her palm glistened, a violet flame burst into existence, she clenched her fist and sparkles of destructive power shot out in every direction. The fire died within seconds, causing no harm to the surface it came in contact with.

The Enchantress hissed - the fire had torn her palm apart. Her own blood stained her sleeve.

Her body wasn't strong enough.

She wasn't strong enough.

Specter Knight was doing a fine job, she admitted fairly. Soon, her power would be stable. Soon, she would be the powerful sovereign she was meant to be. Ruler of a kingdom that was yet to meet its own demise, for no one will resist her terrible magic. She grinned again as she imagined her eight knights spreading terror and death all over the Valley, forcing its citizens into silence and obedience. The blood of her enemies would fertilize the earth for scarlet roses to grow and adorn the lands that belonged to her.

A mere fantasy was enough to send over the edge and make her luscious lips curve into a grin. She had always been fascinated by the thick, red liquid as far as she could remember.

Fantasies were all she could allow herself, as she still had to wait for the completion of her plan. All her fantasies were perversions, for her twisted mind always turned the sweetest dreams into the most wicked nightmares.

Still, she loved her nightmares.

As terrible and evil as the power that corroded her and seeped its way further into her core day after day, stronger and stronger, desirous to consume the very essence of her and destroy the reflection she always saw when she looked into the mirror. The kind-hearted warrior of the shield, the gentle smile that graced her features - the stain that ruined a being of blood and death such as herself. That image would decay, melting into nothingness as its memory died with it.

An imperfect being she would be no more.

She licked her lips and felt their dryness. A glass of wine appeared before her, clear and corporeal. She held the fine stem and let the liquid spun slowly. Soon, she was absorbed by her fantasies once again.

Her eight knights bowed before their ruler as she arose from her throne, mighty and refulgent with strength, a black star of incomparable power. Submissive and faithful, they spoke to her with fear in their voices trembling as she walked closer. She smiled, caressing the black helmet of the one she had chosen as her favorite.

She could feel how he shivered, his lips trembled beneath the metallic surface. His gaze met hers an instant before he averted it, a lump of fear and shame tugging at the insides of his marred throat. She grinned at the pitiful display, but dared not speak her mind. Instead, she commanded her knights to go and carry out her will. Her voice was loud and stern, yet the excitement of a child lived within it.

The knight she fancied bowed his horned head before her and walked away with the others, leaving her alone in the dark Tower.

The taste of alcohol intoxicated her senses as she poured it down her throat, savoring every last drop.  Her cheeks were tinted pink, her mouth agape, her eyes half lidded.

Alone.

She licked her lips again and tasted bitterness - her grip on the stem hardened.

How dare he not join her order? How dare he not bow in front of her and recognize her as his queen?

The glass shattered, the shards dug into her palm, they cut through her skin and were met with the flames that dwelt within her, the fine wine now wasted on the floor tiles.

It was his fault - she hissed between gritted teeth.

She threw herself onto the bed and stared at a spot on the ceiling. Her hand was already healing, it hurt but she couldn't care less. She closed her eyes as she let the alcohol play with her fantasies, merge with her twisted perversions and shape into the object of her desires.

The knight in black armor.

The only one who could resist her promises of tremendous power. The one that kept slipping away from her grip, every time she tried catching him. He longed for freedom, yet she could always find him roaming around the Valley, battling whoever wished to harm her. Her guard dog, more loyal than the swarm of Liquid Samurais she had as her personal soldiers, more emotional than she would ever allow a knight to be. He was a mess of pride and weakness, of strength and self-doubt. A delectable little thing she would twist and pull to her own delight, if only he let her under his skin.

Skin as sweet and tender as the lips that she would ravish, if only he let her mark him. Own him, prove him that he could find happiness in being her possession. Hands that could hold her, fists that could grip the sheets as she claimed him as hers, a broken voice that swore obedience to her and her only.

She sighed and bit her lip, rolling on her side as the image of the knight became clear in her mind.

She did not know what color his eyes bore, yet she knew she would love gazing into them as they filled up with tears. Weary and gentle, he caressed her cheek as he prayed for another kiss. She smiled and stirred towards him, gracing his dry lips with the sweet taste of hers. Her eyes were devoid of the usual coldness, they were filled with gentle affection instead. The right prize for making her struggle so much, for denying her the taste of him for so long. The sweet image of her undressing herself before his longing eyes - for she knew, she could feel his desire whenever he turned down her scrumptious offer - urged her to take off her clothes for real. Her bare skin met the freezing air right as the knight's hands were placed on her soft hips.

Oh, how much he yearned for her!

She commanded him to swear eternal love to her; to never run away from her and let her dispose of him him as she wished, as she slowly lowered herself onto him. His voice came out faint and hurried, to her utter amusement.

A hand slid to the basin between her legs - she took him in as she watched him lose himself among a maze of scattered feelings, offended pride and burning desire. His grip was strong, tears flowed from his eyes as he started thrusting into her. He gave in, at last. He was so beautiful with his face all hot and flustered, his eyes that bore the consistence of the sea and the cracks of the earth, his lips twisted and his teeth gritted. So broken, so beautiful.

She moaned as she spread her legs, welcoming the coldness - he rolled, pulling her beneath him and holding her in his desperate embrace. He shook like a leaf during a storm, his arms - fit and muscular, used to harshness and fatigue - were weak and gentle. He held her like she was made of glass. She was ready to shatter him instead, and take pleasure in doing so.

She chuckled and bit her lip, soaking the sheets - as he thrusted into her, hiding his grimace in the crook of her neck. She smiled, triumphant, trapping him between her arms and listening to the faint voice that kept calling her name. Her name, at last. For the warrior of the shield was no more.

And she ravished his lips once again, forcing him to accept that now he was hers, only hers. She had captured him at last, a stubborn crow that she had finally lured into the cage. Her sweet black knight, her favorite knight - she would let him make love to her as he desired, corrupting and corroding the freedom he loved so dearly, leaving but an empty shell at last.

He gasped as he reached his limit, then burst in a wretched cry. She cried out as well and tried to hold onto him. But he had faded away.

Dazed, she opened her eyes.

She was alone.

Only the bitter taste of wine on her lips, and a small pond between her legs.

In the blink of an eye, she made the latter disappear and the robe embraced her form again.

She sat by the window, the sweet sound of raindrops cradling her. She avoided looking at the glass shards and the crimson stain - instead, she let her gaze escape the confinements of her room. She went back to watching the motionless world outside, waiting, sighing as the image that had caused so much fuss faded into nothingness.

Again, her lips curved into a smile.

He would become hers, at last.

-Mod Tinker

[thegnosticdread]

The Witch & Their Tools

Originally posted on: https://thegnosticdread.com/the-witch-their-tools/

"Witch". A word that to many is frightening, to others is offensive, and yet still to a few, empowering. What is a witch? In the most broadest sense, a witch is a practitioner of magick or witchcraft, though what actually constitutes being "witchcraft" can vary depending on context and cultural/societal views. Some other names that can be used are Alchemy and Alchemist, Shamanism and Shaman, Healers, and High Priest/Priestess. In all, these titles describe a person who practices "the Science and Art of causing Change to occur in conformity with Will" as Crowley so eloquently defines magick. Looking at witchcraft and magick from this perspective gives a more positive and realistic point of view of the Craft rather than the stereotypical stories and images that are often seen in society and pop culture.

Being a witch is a lifestyle, not a trend. I want to avoid sounding dogmatic, but in the same way doing yoga and being vegan doesn't make you spiritual, burning a sage stick while holding a crystal in your hand doesn't make you a witch. There's a true mentality to living this lifestyle. The witch sees themselves as being the sole Master and Controller of their reality. Because of this, you'll rarely see them being self-victims or having a victim mentality, blaming scenarios in their life on some external factor or stroke of chance. The witch doesn't believe in coincidences. Divination whether it is in the form of astrology, tarot, ifa, or some other system makes up a large part of the witch's daily life and doesn't allow for coincidences. The Sixth Hermetic Principle of Cause & Effect says "Chance is but a name for Law not recognized."

The witch may help and heal others with their spellwork, though this is not their obligation to do so. The witch may indeed hex and curse others as well, though myself and none of the witches I know would go out of their way to inflict harm on undeserving people. Not every witch holds the same morals and ethics. Many witches are solitary practitioners while at the same time there are many who choose to join covens. There are also many different magical traditions and religions as well. Wicca is a modern magical religion, but not everyone who claims to be a witch practices Wicca. Thelema is another magical religion created by Aleister Crowley. It is from Thelema the saying "Do what thou wilt" originates, and it's philosophy in part inspired Wicca and the many different modern Paganism and New Age religions that exist today.

Vodun in it's original West African form as well as in the Haitian and New Orleans branches is a magical religion, yet its practitioners are rarely if ever referred to as witches, the appropriate names being Houngans (Male Vodou Priest) and Mambos (Female Vodou Priest). In Louisiana specifically, practitioners were historically referred to as Voodoo Queens and Kings. Hoodoo is often confused with Voodoo, but it is also its own magical tradition though without the religious aspects of the former. Other names for Hoodoo are Rootworking, Conjure, and Juju. Santería, also known as Regla de Ocha is a religion that venerates the Orisha in ritual. Though the worship of the Orisha has its origins stemming back to the Yoruba of West Africa, Santería is heavily practiced in Cuba and throughout Latin America and the Caribbean. Other similar religions include Candomblé, Kélé, and Obeah. Brujería is the Spanish word for witchcraft, its practitioners being referred to as brujas or brujos respectively, and they may take practices and rituals from multiple traditions and religions to incorporate into their Craft. Other popular magick traditions that aren't necessarily religions are Chaos Magic, Candle Magic, Goetia, Tantra, and Sex Magic.

The workings and the rituals the witch chooses to incorporate into their Craft will be based on the individual's chosen school of thought, religion, and personal taste, but there are tools the witch uses that are near universal in all magical traditions.

The Mind & Body

The most important tool the witch has at their disposal is their own Mind. Every other tool is but an extension. Spellwork requires intense meditation, concentration, libido, and Willpower. Therefore the witch should have a healthy and sharp mentality which can be maintained through study, introspection, mental exercises, and most importantly being aware of the things that they allow to influence their thoughts, consciously and subconsciously. The Body itself is the ultimate talisman and altar. It must be remembered that magick doesn't originate from any object or some external source, rather magick flows from within the practitioner. It is very possible to do magick and see results using the Mind and Body alone if the witch's Mind is well developed. Even still the witch may desire and choose to use other tools as extensions for any particular working.

The Wand

The Wand has been one of the witch's main tools since prehistoric times. The priesthood of the ancient Zoroastrian religion used what is called a barsom. This is a bundle of slender twigs which they believed established a link between the material world and the spiritual realm and acted as the conduit through which the archetypal principles and powers manifest their presence and receive the offerings. The Wand is also seen to have been used by the ancient Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans and is described as being used in many of the grimoires of the Middle Ages and Renaissance. The Wand is a Masculine tool in function representing the Phallus and is used for directing the practitioner's Will, desire, and energy during ritual. Of the elements, it represents Fire (though in Wicca it represents Air). The Wand is traditionally made from either laurel or hazel (mine above is hazel), however wands can be made from all types of different wood and even formed out of crystals, all having their own specific traits and different uses.

The Athame

The Athame is the witch's ritual blade. Attested to within the grimoire The Key of Solomon, the Athame is also a Masculine tool that usually has a black handle and is used in banishing rituals. Those who practice Wicca use the Athame in place of the Wand as their main tool for directing Will and energy and to them it represents the element Fire. Wiccans usually use a double edged Athame with the edges dulled as their use of it is purely symbolic. Any cutting of herbs or cords are done with a different ritual knife referred to as a boline.

Outside of Wicca, the Athame represents the element Air and it is encouraged that it be used for cutting or carving. This is because the more it is used, the more powerful the tool becomes. For me personally it was important to find a single edged, sharpened Athame to use so that I can cut herbs, carve names or sigils into candles, and for bloodletting. When I couldn't find one that was satisfactory, I decided to find someone to forge me an Athame out of a used railroad spike. In Hoodoo, railroad spikes are used for securing one's home and property. Being that my personal use of the Athame is also for banishing rituals, slicing through hexes, and severing unwanted energetic ties, having my Athame forged from a railroad spike served a personal symbolic significance. Note also that while the witch may primarily use the Wand when divining, working with the elementals, or directing energy, they may choose to use the Athame when working with spirits and demons. Where the Wand is seen as more welcoming, the Athame is seen as more commanding.

The Chalice

The Chalice is the witch's cup that holds the water, wine, or a different liquor that is used in ritual. The Chalice is a Feminine tool in function representing the Womb and the element of Water. When used in combination with the Wand in ritual by dipping the tip of the Wand into the Chalice, a symbolic act of sexual intercourse is performed, merging the Divine Masculine with the Divine Feminine to bring about Divine Creative Energy to manifest. This act is known as "hieros gamos" or the "holy marriage" and can be performed symbolically with the Wand and Chalice or literally between a man and a woman in a sex rite. Within Wicca, this is known as the Great Rite and the Athame is used in place of the Wand. At the end of certain rituals, the liquid inside the Chalice is drank by the practitioner so that they will embody the energy that was evoked during the ritual, and if it's a group ritual the Chalice will be passed around so that everyone gets a sip. The most famous Chalice in history is none other than the Holy Grail, which is said to be the Chalice Christ used during the Last Supper and which according to legend, was used by Joseph of Arimathea to collect and store the blood of Christ at the Crucifixion.

The Pentacle

The Pentacle is the witch's personal talisman which in function is also Feminine and represents the element Earth. Though a popular modern Pentacle design is the pentagram within a circle, traditionally a Pentacle can be a magical talisman inscribed with any symbol or character, the hexagram historically being used more often than the pentagram whenever the symbol used in the Pentacle was star shaped. When worn around the neck, the Pentacle is serving the witch as a form of protection. It is recommended that a Pentacle be worn during all spellwork and ritual as a spiritual shield. In ritual, Pentacles are used to summon and command different energies and spirits. Many of the Pentacles used are made out of silver or a different type of metal but Pentacles can also be made out of parchment and clay as well.

Some Honorable Mentions

Though not as universally used as much as the main tools I've already presented here, there are still a few more tools many witches use regularly. Crystals are one such tool. Crystal Quartz is the most popular and readily available crystal and you'll see that most witches at least have one of these as they can be used in the place of any other crystal due to its universal energy. I'll have a separate, in-depth post about crystals and my collection shortly. As I mentioned earlier, divination is a large part of the witch's daily life and their divination tools will vary. Tarot and oracle cards are among the most popular divination tools a witch will have. Runes are another popular divination tool. A Book of Shadows is a common tool the witch will have which is their personal grimoire and record of spellwork, rituals, recipes, and information relevant to their Craft. Candles, cauldrons, incense burners, bells, and many other different altar items are useful tools for the witch, but these will all vary greatly as some magical traditions don't use these items at all.

Conclusion

The witch is one who has come into realization of the Divine spark that lays within them, and uses their power along with their tools to manifest their Will. Keep in mind that though I feel this is an accurate treatise on what a witch is and the tools they use, this is only MY PERSPECTIVE that I feel many will agree with me on, but some may disagree as well. That's fine as every witch is different and there are so many different schools of thought and magical traditions. I consider myself a Left-Hand Path following Gnostic Witch/Mage with Hermeticism being my preferred tradition, but I truly borrow from all different traditions. With this you can see that while there are key things all witches will have in common, witches are not a monolith. A final note - though I personally find it empowering, not all magick practitioners like to be called a witch, so be mindful before putting that title on someone. Also don't call male witches warlocks. Warlock doesn't mean male witch, rather it means "oathbreaker" and usually refers to one who has betrayed their coven.

Peace, Love, & Balance

[higuchimon]

[fanfic] Rebirth of Kaiser:  Chapter 25

Cyber End Dragon would have cheerfully wound themselves all around their new Paladin if the situation allowed for it. They suspected that Cyberdark Dragon would as well. Cyberdark refused to admit that, of course. Cyberdark wasn’t the expressive type. Cyberdark far more preferred to blow things up than to admit to anything that might well have been an emotion.

Eminently suitable for the leader of the dark side of the Cyber deck, of course. Cyber End Dragon approved of it. At least now; it hadn’t always been so. But over the long years they’d been together, they’d both learned to accept one another.

But now a third came to rest in the deck. One single head, but a glorious waterfall of silver and green scales, coiled up and watching all the events that occurred with avid interest.

Cyber End settled beside the newcomer. They said nothing, but watched alongside, while Cyberdark coiled on the other side, darting occasional glances over there.

They weren’t the only monsters watching. All of the new crafted Cyber deck observed the actions of their new Paladin, their kinsman and liege. But Cyber End suspected that Cyber Eternity had far more on his mind than could be told merely from watching.

Cyber Eternity raised his head and stared down at Cyber End. “Was there something?”

Cyber End twitched the end of their tail. “What makes you say that?” Cyber End turned one head to look into the distance, while a second observed the Paladin in more detail. The third kept attention all on Cyber Eternity.

“You and you -” Cyber Eternity darted his head swiftly between Cyber End and Cyberdark, “you keep watching me. Why?”

“Because you’re new. Because you don’t trust our Paladin.” Cyberdark replied without hesitation. “Because we don’t know why you chose to join us.”

Cyber Eternity flicked his tail even harder. “Because I knew he’d be coming. Because he will need me but I fail to trust anyone, even Cyber Hell Paladin, until I have seen him in battle.”

Cyberdark and Cyber End raised their heads to stare at one another over Cyber Eternity. It wasn’t the worst reasoning that they’d ever heard. Cyberdark coiled up a bit tighter, chewing on air for a few breaths.

“You know there’s battle coming,” Cyberdark said at last. Their gaze all flicked forward to where the new angelic allies, Cyber Hell Paladin, and the other Cybers discussed what would be going on with their upcoming fight. “A true battle, not just a duel.”

Cyber Eternity stretched forward, winding invisibly around Cyber Hell Paladin. “I’m quite aware. I look forward to it, in fact.”

Cyber End and Cyberdark both chuckled at that. “As do we,” Cyber End agreed. Cyberdark ducked his head downward, tongue lapping at his jaws.

“More than you can imagine. Those Knights and their allies will taste delicious.”

Everyone snorted at that. One and all they knew that Cyberdark drew his power from those who’d perished – some in more direct ways than others. There would be a difference between those who fell on a true battlefield and those who fell in a duel and no one knew yet how that difference would affect Cyberdark. Without a doubt, Cyberdark anticipated finding out.

Cyber Eternity turned back to the planning before them. Most of that none of them cared for; they trusted their Paladin to call them in the right place and the right time. Whatever went on behind Cyber Eternity’s eyes could not be deciphered. Cyber End and Cyberdark could only tell that he thought something.

“Why did the angels come to help?” Cyber Eternity murmured, the very tip of his tail twitching ever so carefully. “Their liege won’t assist, nor will the Herald. We know this.”

“Good question,” Cyberdark agreed. He turned his dark gaze onto the two brother angels, who spoke of what their people could accomplish in this. “But I don’t think we’re going to get much of an answer beyond what we already have.”

Cyber End chose not to disagree. Whatever the reasons were, they would find out later. At the moment it remained enough that they did help, and they were help that could be counted on not to betray them.

What that help entailed remained to be seen.

Ruin escorted Chaos Hunter through their headquarters, each movement graceful and firm and that of a warrior queen. Chaos Hunter, on the other hand, moved with every step that of a hunter, one who had prey and would not let it out of their sights until it had been brought down. The heels of her boots clicked on the marble floor and she tapped her fingers on the heel of her whip as they walked along.

Ruin smiled ever so softly, thoroughly amused by Chaos Hunter and her clearly telegraphed annoyance.

What a pleasure this will be. And so it would be on so many different levels.

The corridor led into a wide chamber, filled by a large table with two others seated at it. Ruin nodded towards them both.

“I’ve discovered the final one to join our efforts,” she said, gesturing Chaos Hunter towards one of the empty seats. “This is Chaos Hunter, the one who searches for Marufuji Ryou – whom it seems has become a spirit, Cyber Hell Paladin.”

A low sort of growl issued from both of the others. Chaos Hunter glanced at one of them – Law Guardian – with a bit of disinterest, then turned her attention to the other one.

“I would have thought you were dead. So all I was told said.”

Skull Bishop snorted at her. “I am and I am not. You don’t need to know anything else.”

Chaos Hunter didn’t look especially convinced of that. Ruin wasn’t going to let them get distracted, however. She cleared her throat.

“The Cyber army – such as it is – will be on its way towards us quite soon.”

Laughter bubbled up from all of them. Skull Bishop reached for a steaming goblet set in front of him. “How long do you wager it will take us to destroy them all? And will he be there?”

Ruin shook her head. “No. And we haven’t yet been able to find the right bait to lure him.” She drummed her fingers for a few seconds. “But rest assured, dear partner, that we will find a way to bring the two of you together.”

Chaos Hunter leaned forward. “I would like more answers than I’ve gotten so far. Ones that make sense. I have my own plans I would like to get back to.”

“I’m certain that you do,” Ruin agreed. “And we have no objections to that. But this is as I told you – we seek to avenge the deaths of our kin and companions. Skull Bishop longs for the blood of Austin O’Brien. I will end Edo Phoenix with my own hands. You seek after Marufuji Ryou.”

Law Guardian leaned forward, claws scraping across the edge of his blade. “And I will take this impostor who claims to be Haou and end his life, for the honor of Guardian Baou!”

From the looks on their faces, Ruin suspected that neither Skull Bishop nor Chaos Hunter believed that Guardian Baou had ever had honor to begin with. But that wasn’t a point to be brought up now.

“I know all that. What do you plan to do?” Chaos Hunter’s gaze flicked from one to the other of them in plain annoyance. Ruin admired that.

“Just what we said. Regardless of how this battle resolves, our own goals remain clear. You may have the chance to avenge yourself first against Cyber Hell Paladin. If not, we have other methods to discuss.” Ruin leaned forward. “What remains vital for the moment is that all of those do not know that all of us exist. They know of me. They don’t know of you.” She waved one hand at the others. “And they will not face me now.”

Chaos Hunter threw herself back in the chair, arms crossed over her chest, and stared at each of them in turn. “And just how do I get this chance?”

“By combat, of a sort.” Ruin raised one hand as she spoke, then snapped her fingers. A few moments later, a tall creature entered the chamber, dropping down to one knee before her as he did. “A pleasure to see you again, Gaap.” She glanced at Chaos Hunter. “This is War God Gaap. He’s been seeing to it that the Knights are even better trained than before – among other things.” She smiled a silken smile. “Now, what is your plan, Gaap?”

“To challenge whomsoever the champion of the Cyber army is to a one on one match to the death. Be it by dueling or by combat.” Gaap’s wings spread out wide as he spoke, his voice rich and trained, that of a bard, though his body far more resembled that of a demon. “To the victor goes all the spoils: the forces of both armies, all their fortresses, and any treasure that they have, of whatever type.”

Chaos Hunter turned what had to be her most suspicious look on him. Ruin knew well that she didn’t trust easily or often.

Of course, trust wasn’t required in this situation.

“And who do you think this champion will be?” And what does that have to do with me fighting Cyber Hell Paladin? She may not have uttered the question, but Ruin saw it clearly in every tense of her muscle and twitch of her fingers.

“Either Tesni or Cyber Hell Paladin.” Ruin raised one hand and twisted it, summoning two spheres with the faces of the respective warriors reflected within. “I rather hope it’s Tesni myself. I’ve quite looked forward to disposing of her. Even if I have to use Gaap to do it. And if he can’t, then I’ll take of her myself.” The history between her and Tesni wasn’t one that Chaos Hunter needed to know at the moment. In point of fact, in Ruin’s opinion, Chaos Hunter needed to know only what was necessary to bring her properly into the fold.

Chaos Hunter’s lips pressed together but Ruin spoke before she could say anything, clarifying the rest of the situation. “If it’s Tesni, then you’ll face Cyber Hell Paladin at a later point. I believe you seek a specific card before you duel again?” She raised one eyebrow a precise fraction of an inch, waiting until Chaos Hunter delivered a reluctant nod. “If it’s Cyber Hell Paladin and he survives the duel, then you will face him regardless. But in either case, you won’t face him until we’ve refined your deck to be capable of taking him down.” She leaned back in her chair. “Not only that, but I think we’ll need a particular form of bait to lure him into facing you. I know what that bait is and how to get hold of it.”

“Care to inform me?”

“Not at the moment, no. But rest assured you will know when the time comes. You may have to wait, but unless Cyber Hell Paladin falls to Gaap – which I rather doubt he will – you will have the vengeance that you desire. Does that give you what you want?”

Chaos Hunter’s fingers tightened on the whip’s haft. She breathed in a silent, long breath before she nodded. “At least for now it does.”

“Do apprise me when your little assistant – Dark Familiar, wasn’t it? - returns with that card you want. And if you don’t get it from him, I’ll have my servants search for it. It won’t give you an instant victory over him, not if he’s half the duelist he was in his mortal life, but it will give you a much better chance.”

“I understand.” Chaos Hunter still didn’t look thrilled about this, but Ruin hadn’t expected her to. She didn’t care about how thrilled those who allied with her were or weren’t, so long as they did what she needed them to do.

And at this moment, everyone prepared to do exactly what she needed them to do.

To Be Continued

Notes: So, who wants a duel and who wants a battle? Our options are Ryou vs Gaap in a duel, Ryou vs Gaap in a battle, and the same options for Tesni vs Gaap. Ryou vs Chaos Hunter won’t be, I fear, until the sequel – one of the sequels.

[foreignersgod-rp]

Arcturus stood before the hand-drawn map that had adorned the wall of the study within his family’s estate for nearly three centuries. The aged parchment was impressively massive, despite being rather tattered and rough around the edges, and it never failed to lure the gawking of guests who stood before it with intentions of addressing the Earl of County Nuada.

It had taken ancient Fotian cartographers some years to define the character of their country onto paper. From its infamous, densely packed forest ranges to its many lakes that freckled the land, each trait of the country was lovingly detailed and highlighted with artists’s own  additions, such as renditions of folkloric creatures and quotes from historical rulers and literary masterminds.

A single gloved finger trailed from the County of Nuada, through the neighboring County Neit, and over the Eriu Sea, which hugged Fotia’s borders like a protective mother to shield Fotia’s more frigid and stormy nature from Amestris and its balmy climate. Steadily, Arcturus’s hand followed paths through the Amestrian north, scanning towns along the way with little interest, until finally his gray eyes rested upon the capital of Amestris: Central City.

And then, with a small, tepid sigh, he drove a thin silver pin through the very heart of it.

Today, Earl Arcturus Od Nua had his feet firmly planted on Fotian soil, but by the next morning, he’d be sailing toward their allies to the north. “Allies” wasn’t necessarily a descriptor most common folk here would use for Amestrians. But Arcturus was a diplomatic man, and “allies” sounded more pleasant than the usual “heretical bastards across the sea”. It rolled from the tongue easier as well.

He hovered over the pin before finally turning away from the map, and with it, the nagging soreness in his upper back that had developed from slouching over his paperwork all day seemed to grow, as well as the pulsing of his temple. Normally, one would press themselves to take a break, but after acquiring his position of power (small as it may be, in the grand scheme of things) Arcturus had learned it was far easier to press through the exhaustion. There was much to prepare, and he didn’t want to leave his providence with even the slightest chance of a hiccup in his absence.

The emissary duties were an add-on to his title that he took with honor, but his first and always foremost concern would be the safety of his people. 

“The point of travel is to relax. Explore, learn, and drink lots of local wine. At least pretend to be thrilled for the opportunity,” a familiar voice chimed. Over his shoulder, Arcturus spared a glanced to the figure of a woman draped across his leather armchair like a lazy, sunbathing lap cat. On her tanned and freckled face was an ever-present crooked smirk that she wore as her best accessory. His appointed Knight, Elio, had her nose buried in one of his historical texts she must have snagged from his shelves without his permission. She peeked over the pages of her book and tipped her head to him in some unspoken acknowledgment of his discomfort. 

He hadn’t recalled hearing a servant announce her arrival or letting the woman into his chamber himself, but after nearly two years of adjusting to her particular brand of what he could only describe as “peculiarity”, Arcturus learned to stop wasting brain power on such questions. Rather, he learned to respond with something he was more proficient at: persistence. 

“It’s not a vacation, Elio,” he corrected firmly. “I’m emissary of Fotia and Amestris, and this trip is-“

“An excuse to day-drink.“

“An annual visit and opportunity to strengthen our countries’ bonds.” He became aware of the puffy, dark bags under his eyes, which had become a somewhat permanent feature over the past few years since his inauguration, as he rubbed at them slightly and waved Elio’s cheeky comment off. He stepped past her to his own armchair seated at his desk and eased himself in. “I speak with members of their ranks, usually. Sometimes I’m granted audience with the Fuhrer. But most of my time is spent being peddled around from one politician to another…” Arcturus grunted as he settled into a more comfortable position. “And... drink? I mean, truly, what is the point if you’re not going to get shitfaced with their Generals...?” Elio concluded in more of a mumbling fashion to herself. What at first had been a bit of an off-handed joke had now become a serious issue to ponder apparently. Under her pursed brows, she glanced to him suspiciously. “I feel like you’re intentionally leaving out the best perks about this whole thing, m’lord.”

Arcturus admittedly couldn’t keep himself from chuckling but immediately felt what little cheer he mustered up being downed out by the same worrisome concerns that had been dragging him down all day. Historically, this visit to Amestris was a scheduled annual event. However, a Fotian emissary hadn’t set foot in Amestris since the infamous and equally humiliating demise of Fuhrer Bradley. There hadn’t been so much as a peep between the two lands since. And, quite honestly, the further he stayed from even hearing about outrageously secular things such as Philosopher’s stones and homunculi, the more Arcturus was content. Just the idea of conversation with the Amestrians on such subjects made his skin crawl. Amestris had a tainted reputation now, one not so easily looked over. And now, Arcturus had to awkwardly pretend to not be well-informed of the skeletons stuffed in the Fuhrer’s closet.

But he was bred to be a diplomatic man and was so, through and through. He would endure just fine. But all of that, he could endure with a meek smile. There something else bothered him, even more so.

Sensing the Earl’s rapidly deteriorating mood, Elio withdrew from her book, and with wistful sigh, closed the cover. She slid her way to her full height and tossed the book behind her as she closed the space between the two of them. “Still fretting over that mysterious little letter, hm?” There was no response as Elio found herself a perch on the desk’s corner, along-side the mounds of paperwork and bound notebooks spread across the tabletop. Arcturus was too occupied sluggishly rubbing his temples to reply promptly, as if to massage the thoughts into order first.

“The plea seems… too believable.”

Elio grumbled. “’Believable’, you say, and supposedly credible enough to have you pacing a rut straight into the floor- Shepherd help the cleaning servants who’ll be tasked to get the scuffs out of the floorboards tomorrow - Yet you won’t permit me to scout ahead in Amestris. You won’t even let me read the gods-damned letter.”

“I’m clearly not a target.” Though he intended to simply make a statement, it sounded more like begging to his ears. Perhaps he was. “No lowly lord such as myself is at risk, and that’s why it was wise of someone from within the Fuhrer’s inner circle to reach out to someone like me.”

“Truly? ‘Tis a rather desperate gesture to me. They know nothing of a ‘lowly lord’, such as yourself. So why reach out to you to help aid in a kidnapped queen- who we have no evidence was actually kidnapped?”

There was a heavy pause. Elio narrowed her eyes, and briefly, her ever-present smile waned. Arcturus made no effort to avoid her questioning gaze but still preferred to direct his sight to the map on the opposite wall of him. Arcturus pensively tapped his finger upon his chin, staring at the intricate veins that made up Amestris on the map. The longer he stared, the more his sights were drawn toward another body of land further north. The channels of Amestris bled out into a blank, near-nothingness, only depicted as mostly snow-capped mountains and endlessly blank landscapes.

“… Ah… There is a reason you’re willing to stick that big nose of yours into their business. But you won’t tell me. Is it really worth dragging Fotia into a cat fight between Amestris and Drachma?” Elio’s tone was somewhat vexed. Arcturus closed his eyes against it. He could feel the exhaustion of the day seeping somehow even further into his muscles now, and an argument with Elio about boundaries wasn’t something he could muster any further energy for. He smoothed back rogue strands of his long black hair that had freed themselves from his tie. Mounting fatigue was evident in his hoarse voice. “This is just something I cannot ignore… and yet there isn’t anything I can do. They took a risk to send that plea for backup, but I can’t send an army into Drachma on the assumption of a single Drachman citizen.” A light twist in his chest crept its way to his throat as he let slip a painful sigh and fought back a wince. “Even if I wanted to and had the concrete evidence to back his claims, our King wouldn’t permit it…”

A quick snort of laughter came from Elio abruptly. Perplexed, Arcturus frowned at her, then blinked down at the warm, slender hand that had found its way onto his tightly wound shoulder to offer a few lighthearted pats.

 “Almighty Shepherd!” she laughed in a way that was unclear whether she was just feigning exasperation or if she was actually irked at the idea. “You’re so quick to ignore that you have Fotia’s most talented Knight at your disposal? I will be there with you! Mayhap I can dig up a little more intel on the situation while you smooch on some local women and sample ales, aye?” She slyly winked, and for a second Arcturus could feel the corners of his lips threaten a genuine smile. “Besides,” she continued with a roll of her eyes. “I’m willing to bet Princess just ran off because she got bored of the attention. Being a queen must be so incredibly droll.”

Before Arcturus had the chance to insecurely squirm from under her friendly gesture, Elio swept away on her heels and, before reaching the exit, twirled into an elegant bow. “I will take my leave for the evening, m’lord. Tomorrow, we can deal with the Fuhrer’s concerns face-to-face.” As she straightened, she offered another fast wink. “And then after, I say we find out how awful Amestrians whiskey truly is.”

The two both cordially offered their farewells in warm silence, and soon Elio was waltzing out the door to retire for the evening. Now the ornate balcony window of the Earl’s suite was painted a deep, dark rosy pink, softly brushed together with the violet hue of impending night. After Arcturus quietly lit the last lantern of the study, he snuffed out the flame of his match with a flick of his wrist. Though he’d love nothing more to find his way beneath the alluring sheets of his bed, Sleep was an elusive lover, and he knew full well that tonight would be one full of work rather than rest. Settling down into his desk once more, he withdrew a piece of parchment that had arrived a few days earlier. He had felt a twinge of anxiety as soon as he first laid eyes on the dark blue wax seal of the envelope, secured to a poor, bone-weary messenger eagle that arrived at his estate and insistently squawked at his window. It was days later and even still, his heart beat quickened.There was still a lump in his throat as he scanned over the loose, lackadaisical script, but he forced himself to take in the actual message itself:

Arcturus         -

I wish I could say I’m sorry I had not written sooner. You understand my predicament, I’m sure. But now it’s time to put aside any pride and address an urgent matter. I have reason to believe an Amestrian of some considerable importance is in imminent danger. Please understand that I must be light-footed in this letter when it comes to details. We can discuss this further on your future departure to my new place of residence.

 You have always been a bullheaded lad, but a smart one nonetheless. You will know where to find me, nephew. Always in a figurehead’s shadow.

 -          Anostraus

Arcturus couldn’t resist a sneer at the scribble of a signature, which would have been illegible if it weren’t for the fact that he had been well-acquainted with his uncle’s awful handwriting through years of tutoring he had received beneath him.

‘I’m sorry, Elio,’ The man thought as neatly folding up the note before tossing it to the hungering flame of his lantern. ‘No rest for the wicked...’

[hollywoodhangar]

main verse; the countess, retired.

An assassin laid an attempt on the Countess Phantomhive's life during the night of July 13th of 1866; her throat was slashed, the notch between her collarbones was shanked, and she was nearly disembowled. You can only imagine the nasty scars this left when it turns out that Claudia survived this ordeal through fierce survival instincts kicking in.

The following years were exceptionally rough, her already anemia-ridden health having taken quite the heavy decline after having lost so much blood and sustained such intense physical trauma, but the Countess kept her all until her son & successor Vincent graduated from Weston College. At that point, she stepped down from the Watchdog and Head of Phantomhive at the age of 39 to become his advisor instead, as well as to focus on her rapidly declined state. She was practically a walking wraith at this point with how white her skin became, with how much more colder it’s become to the touch.

The years from then rolled on, leading to both of her children marrying off into different families, providing grandchildren and making homes of their own. She was involved in all of it, ever the deeply interwoven family woman since birth. To be surrounded by family again was absolute bliss. She even bred a small, black borzoi from her pack of seven to be a guardian of the new generation.

Then the fire happened.

The Countess plowed through ferocious flames and took her axe to all who were not familiar, her hounds at her side as blood flew, popped and crackled in ungodly heat. Blood from both the assailants and her hounds, who were all lost in confrontation and fire. Such a hellish noise. Such a hellish, hellish noise. It's only when she hears Tanaka cry for Ciel to run that Claudia's attention, in panic, strays from the fight at hand, and she's immediately taken down. Gelert slays her attackers before they can land the final killing blows, and he, with the aid of his beaten and barely conscious master, weakly flee with Tanaka dragged unceremoniously in tow. Surviving servants who were still fleeing the manor caught sight of the noble & her butler and immediately grabbed tight, pulling them from the fire themselves with the help of the Countess's wolf.

The manor is in ruins, her son & his wife are dead, her most loyal of companions are dead, and her grandson is missing. The bloodied grandmother forces herself into some form of recovery with the aid of Madam Red and begins to extensively use all information at her disposal to comb the country for her grandbaby. This goes on for so long, and she finds dead end and after dead end. Eventually, despite her state, she attempts to use magic. This leads to blackouts, but a determination drives her to still do all that she can with it. Out of everything, magic is what's drawing her closer to finding the location of Ciel. He's out there and he is alive, she feels it. She needs to find him, she needs to bring him home. And she does. She scrys and she finds him, and she shares the information with Cedric. Together, they disappear into the countryside.

And again, they find fire.

Burning, high blazes of flame and such an awful scent of burning bodies. Cedric searches the building, but returns with no Ciel. Both a relief and a stake to the heart. He's gone again. The Countess feels the entirety of the situation she's long since put off collapse inwards on her and she begins to scream; screaming like a mad woman to the surrounding area as the fire roars with her.

Eventually, the grandparents return home .. and Claudia finds Ciel has returned, with a pitch black butler at his side. She's stunned beyond belief. Her vision gets blurry. The simplicity of the scene is overbearing. Ciel's entirety, and this pitch black butler who, for lapses of vision, almost resembles her son*. Everything clashes into Claudia all at once and she loses consciousness; understandably overwhelmed by absolutely everything that has transpired in such a time crunch.

Consciousness finds its way back to the Countess as the situation unfolds around her, feeling more like a fever dream than anything that is a simple witness to. Mentally, she's tapped out. The process of grief, the process of trauma and relief are all catching up with Claudia. There's worry for her mind having been lost, finally slipped and gone away with her old age.. but in time, she comes back, with her faithful butler Tanaka at her side and Gelert always laid over her lap. She absorbs the current situation and properly reunites with her grandson, holding him tighter than he’s ever been held by anyone - comfortably, that is - and covering him in kisses.. and then she finally lets herself take notice to his butler, who her vision no longer blurs for. 

He’s not her son. Of course he’s not her son. How could he be her son? He looks nothing like her son. He’s a hideous, black vulture. How could she have ever mistaken him for being Vincent? What a foolish mistake. What a foolish, cruel deception of her own mind. 

Life continues, as unusual as it feels. Claudia, at the age of 58, again takes up the mantle of Phantomhive Head and Watchdog until Ciel is ready. Another acidic vial taken to the back of her throat is this new situation; Ciel, at the age of 13, needing to take up the family mantle. 4 years younger than when she took claim to the title. A child who endured a living, unknown hell being plunged right into responsibility. Oh, Claudia was filled with such powerful hatred, but the blame is not hers. The nobility will being so deeply drenched in sexism allowed little choice for Ciel to enjoy his childhood and recover from who-knows-what he’s been through. He deserves his time and peace, to enjoy his childhood while he could.. but if you’re a female with a male heir, they’re putting that boy in charge as fast as they can to replace you, regardless of how well you did your job - especially when you’re an old crone. This is a miserable case for both of them.

Ciel takes to power and becomes the Earl of Phantomhive, the Head of the Family, and the Queen’s Watchdog. Like his father before him, Claudia aids as his advisor and also his tutor in how to be family head. She continues where Vincent left off, teaching him the importance of the land and the people in it, the importance of prosperity and the well-being of those who support community - which they do oversee a great many of. 

So find Countess Claudia haunting the halls of Phantomhive Manor still, alive and cold, mysterious as ever, with her ever faithful wolf at her side. A case in which one can find her is watching over the servants from afar, often being accumpanied by her own butler Tanaka when doing so - and when it’s not that, it’s when she is at her grandson’s side, keeping an ever vigilant eye on him -- along with his revolting black butler.

---

From having lived such a life, it's understandable that when one looks upon Claudia Phantomhive's aura, they see a grand darkness of immense rage, grief and sorrow - the most intimate and most tragic familiarity of loss and death. Yet to contrast it, this vivid, unrepenting force of will and life that flickers beyond all the black like a blinding green light of neon. Her life force is dark, but there still beats remanants of life that has been torn and ripped and pierced, yet pulsing wildly still.

---

* Yana intended Sebastian to look like Vincent for reasons unknown, so it’s only natural a mother notices this similarity - and feels a complete sense of overwhelming due to fully being hit with the realization that her son is dead, and yet here a stranger is by her grandson’s side resembling him. It’s one of the faceted reasons for Claudia’s distrust and heavy distaste for Sebastian.

---

tl;dr: Claudia lives with her grandson Ciel in the manor as his advisor and one of his tutors. She’s the mischevious old grandmother who gets a kick out of the servants and is usually found hanging out with her butler Tanaka. She has a great disdain for the new young-blooded butler Sebastian for personal reasons of her own.

---

apologies for the singular “Ciel” ; the usual setting Claudia’s been played in thus far has been without the Twin Ciels plot.

[randobrandoblog-blog]

Désirée

Indifference was in many ways Brando’s defining quality, even from the start. In his initial roles, gently smudging dialogue and fixing lines on the fly, it was an indifference to the confines of the material, and to any of the silver-screen conventions his swift ascendance into the Hollywood firmament obligated him to respect. This naturally entailed an indifference to the reflex resistance of the numerous conservative guardians of those conventions, which evolved into an indifference to their subsequent expectation from him his distinct inaugural style (as with old, reliable types like Clark Gable or Humphrey Bogart, whom Brando compared to breakfast cereals – the various but artistically stationary consumer options of yesteryear’s megahits). Opting to do Viva Zapata! and Julius Caesar, Brando semi-wittingly preempted accusations of repeating himself when The Wild One and On the Waterfront drew a line from the boorish, decorum-bucking heartthrob he got famous playing. Still, you can follow a familiar passion through all of his first six roles. With Désirée, he disposes of this continuity. The indifference he brought to his seventh picture isn’t the kind which later compelled him into amusing caricature or delighted subversion. Though there’s a trace impishness the opulent Cinemascope context divulges, Désirée marks the genesis of the worst iteration of Brando’s indifference – wherein he simply cares so little, so clearly, for the film he’s in, he doesn’t even try. He’s at perfect liberty, particularly being as young and trim (though there are bourgeoning hints of his famous fluctuations) as he is here, to harness that incomparable energy with which he animates his best roles’ epiphanies, and transform it into spry fun. But Brando seems to have imprisoned himself in eccentric fashion here. Having begun with physical choices clearly concocted as a joke on his own role, he seems unable to do much with them, for fear of violating his one hard rule: breaking character. So he mostly glowers, while the massive-budget trifle around him waltzes along, and his costar sifts out a perfect exculpatory liveliness. As well as marking the beginning of his albatross boredom, Désirée was the first of Brando’s roles he didn’t specifically choose. Ever the iconoclast, he’d become one of the first actors to regularly dodge the studio system’s preference for multiple-picture indenturing. An admitted skimmer of fine print, in 1953 Brando suddenly found himself obligated to a part in The Egyptian from his work on the Fox-produced Viva Zapata!. He discovered his lack of interest in this instantaneously. Typically unconcerned with the ramifications of simply walking away, he ran into a lawsuit, and came out of it obliged to portray Napoleon. Why a part like that – humility hardly being Brando’s defining quality, and Napoleon being notorious for a certain contra-courtly loutishness – shouldn’t strike Brando as a heaven-match is a mystery. But the likelihood is that an insecure star (who’d claim expertise as a director manipulator later, but must not’ve known how here) deduced he was chained to a turkey, and checked out. Even if straight-faced, elephantine period extravaganzas weren’t especially anomalous at the time, audiences of brows both high and low had few pretenses about Désirée Brando lacked. Sourced from a bestselling novel equipped with torrid romance and a rags-to-riches hook, the film did unexceptional business and only drew Oscar nods for costume design and art direction, and in its utterly unrestrained way you can figure it deserved them. Though Désirée is patently unremarkable, no culprit is at exclusive fault for its failure. The script, by From Here to Eternity’s Daniel Taradash, is sparsely littered with amusing lines, but lacks profundity or an inspired sense of structure. The director, Henry Koster, was an apparent master at manufacturing mediocrity – his previous film, and the very first to use Cinemascope at all, was the noted bloated nothing The Robe, and his few other popular works (The Bishop’s Wife, Harvey) are thin and uninventive. Désirée’s supporting cast is for the most part banal and lackluster as well, with Michael Rennie the foremost vacant lot amid the grandeur. So you’re grateful for how deftly and immediately Jean Simmons’ work cuts through the lavishness and bombast. As the title character, you can conceive of her deciding that just a little more depended on her success than her legend-in-his-own-time costar’s. From her first cheeky moments, she conjures an addictive, irrepressible sparkle. Brando’s lost chance to match this resonates through their every exchange – as a tale about a déclassé debutante who nearly weds Napoleon and ascends by happenstance to the role of Queen of Sweden, a good deal of the script directly explores how foolish it is to value propriety at all. Indeed, Désirée and Napoleon speak of this constantly, and of the fatal restraint which ruins their own abortive courtship. Yet somehow Brando either couldn’t or wasn’t interested in locating the relevance to his own situation. And though Pauline Kael claimed to detect “a conspiratorial charm” between the stars, only Simmons seems to be doing any work to bring this plot to fruition. Most remarkable about Simmons’ portrayal, though, is how she brings it all off without seeming incongruous – except against some of the weaker support, like the awful John Hoyt (who does nothing at all to conceal his coarse American accent among the transatlantic “cahn’t stahnd him” stuff, except when he takes Désirée’s accents aigu seriously, as in “Dayzaray”). That she weaves this energy so seamlessly into the proceedings without ruffling its heavy garments exposes the sorry copout of Brando’s palpably genuine impudence. Gesturing wispily toward pseudo-British dialect, adopting a proto-Don Corleone rasp for no obvious reason, and never lifting the brow he glowers and glowers under, Brando comes off like a low-prospect theatre major. The movie really isn’t as leaden as you’d fear; you’ll titter more than once, and due to the throwaway briskness of its exposition and transitions, its two hours almost attain a kind of momentum. But Brando is just burdensome, and he drags it back down – is there anything less exciting than a sulking prankster? You do see our man begin to rise to the occasion when he detects resistance in his scene partners – not genuine resistance, of course, though one suspects Michael Rennie was among his rotating early purveyors of older-guard impatience. Sparring with Rennie (next to Klaatu, he really does look like Napoleon) finds Brando a good deal more awake, even interested – but Rennie gives him little to deploy a substantive response to. You observe the same shades of vitality when his scenes with Désirée grow fractious. Only then do we detect his sensuality manifesting itself. Yet by that time, he’s frustrated us, because she’s consistently offered flesh-and-blood playfulness and cleverness, finding vivacity in her own dialogue any way she can, while the mastermind before her is ruminating at some remote point between sleepwalking and goofing off. Vexing as you’d assume this disparity to be, the two actors had no lost love from the experience, reuniting with undeniably better results on his very next movie. The pair shared an independent spirit in an oppressively formal era. It is perhaps the film’s own oppressive formality which kept Brando’s easily wounded pride insulated from provocations into greater self-respect. He does look ridiculous in that cape and all his giant hats, though I can’t imagine he was forced into constantly adopting that painterly, leg-out pose (“why do they keep standing like that?”, asked my partner, reading my mind). Only in those few moments he has a direct opportunity to mischief is his vigor evidently restored, like when he gets to put out candles with his fingertips, or wrap his fop accent around the word “chuckleheads”. He just seems tired otherwise, the most lugubrious thing in a picture that somehow narrowly escapes the condition. He would be much savvier burlesquing dandies later on, while here he’s merrily and easily bested by Alan Napier in his silver coat and yellow pants. Unable to shake off his reasons to pout, we witness Brando’s sorriest incarnation here: he isn’t interesting. And though his aesthetic anarchism was only mounting, it would later take a lot more for Brando to completely throw a performance away. film: C+ // Brando: C

[symbianosgames]

It’s no secret that I love visual novels. Part of the reason has to do the vagueness of the term which, perhaps not surprisingly, works similarly to how “anime” describes a medium more than a genre. Visual novels take all kinds of forms, after all. Even if many of them share the same RenPy interface, little else links them; many have an anime aesthetic but not all; many have a relatively low difficulty level, but certainly not all (play Long Live the Queen for a taste of what I call a “bullet hell VN”). That diversity deserves a unified showcase where they can be compared side-by-side. 

Love Conquers All Games’ Christine Love agreed and spearheaded the creation of a new addition to the Indie Megabooth at PAX East this year: the Visual Novel Reading Room. It featured her own game, Ladykiller in a Bind, which was already a novel take on the medium with its approach to dialogue and sexuality, and last year’s successful We Know the Devil by Date Nighto. But while these served as familiar anchors of visual novel-dom, there were new up and coming releases available for play as well, one of which really demonstrates the flexibility of the medium.

Dev or Die’s Date or Die, Accidental Queens’ A Normal Lost Phone, and Lettuce Waltz’s Spirit Parade are a tour through the medium’s potential and how it can be so thoroughly realized through inclusive design that tells strange new stories. 

If there is a through-line that links visual novels it’s romance. Most VNs have branching paths through the game’s narrative called “routes” which are invariably named after the object of your character’s affections. Experiencing them all is how VN completionists satisfy themselves. VNs often as not succeed when they say or do something new with the idea, however.

Ladykiller, for instance, was an instant classic for its groundbreaking portrayal of BDSM as both achingly sexy and deeply human--and its take on relationships was starkly mature, delving into the nature of love, “fucked up fantasies,” and abusive dynamics. VNs endure when their romance is either unique (Ladykiller) or not what the game hinges on for its distinction (e.g. Black Closet).

A Normal Lost Phone eschews the route system entirely, however, instead providing a microscopic examination of relationships under the stress of a double life. Available for both computer and mobile platforms, the game is best enjoyed on your phone as its entire interface is that of a lost mobile phone you rifle through in an attempt to discover who it belongs to.

A Normal Lost Phone

Like so many excellent mobile games, Lost Phone works optimally when the device you play it on feels like an artifact of the game world itself. It presents you with a standard stylized smart phone interface with different applications you have to access in order to uncover the truth about Sam, the enigmatic owner of the phone. Sam has gone missing, apparently, and his phone holds clues as to why. Unlocking new apps requires one to solve puzzles, such as assembling different clues to get a wifi password that’ll allow you to log on to Sam’s dating profile.

There’s much that could be said about privacy and personal space here, but for now it’s enough to say that like so many games that diegetically simulate this kind of keyhole-peeping, it’s very engrossing. Our appetite for the inner lives of others is something Lost Phone unapologetically plays with, making of Sam’s phone a digital Greenbriar house that demands exploring. For the moment, who you are, and what the ethics are of you invading Sam’s life like this are for you the player to decide on.

Speaking of ethics, or a woeful lack thereof, Date or Die sees you take on the role of a nameless character dragooned into an evil reality TV show. You are “matched” with one of six other contestants by a beguiling villain who calls himself The Host. The last two people left alive after a series of challenges will--the Host promises--live happily ever after. After all, he wants to prove that some people are truly devoted to finding their one true love: devoted enough to kill. It’s delightfully twisted and seems set to be a delectable bit of horror. I could only access the intro, but Arden Ripley’s dark creativity still entices.

  Once again, the game offers a sideways take on relationships, using the insight of the medium to tell a new story that goes beyond a simple anime fantasy while still hitting those buttons. As is often the case with early previews like this, much remains to be seen. But the prologue available at PAX East gave a good enough sense of the characters that I feel a cautious optimism about what’s to come later in the year when Date or Die releases. They all feel distinctive, like each could make a uniquely intoxicating brew when mixed with your character. Evidently, even the Host is romanceable, though this is explicitly written as an unhealthy relationship where ugly dynamics are fully explored.

After all, Ripley promises us a game about “the horrors of love.”

It takes me back to Hanako Games’ Magical Diary, the inaptly named tale of a young woman at a Hogwarts-style magic school, learning spells and drowning in teen drama. The story has routes that involve romancing a teacher or romancing a murderously abusive young man; neither is played up as a straight morality tale but each explores the unsettlingly ugly nature of each relationship without glamorizing or ironing over everything wrong with each situation.

This is all to the good, so far as I’m concerned; we need to be able to indulge in forbidden stories. Christine Love did this well in Ladykiller as well; not every expression of romance is safe or “unproblematic,” but then neither is love and sex in the real world. The best visual novels explore that territory without apology, instead of regurgitating the same masturbatory fantasies. The latter can be fun in their own right, but they do nothing to advance the medium.

***

The display at PAX East was charming, taking up only two booths worth of space, with economically arranged tables and screens to display every title (Lost Phone’s mobile capability was a huge boon here), while Ladykiller was discreetly tucked behind its usual elegant screen to protect the modesty of PAXgoers. 

Nearer to the crowd was the large TV displaying Spirit Parade, which was perhaps the most traditional visual novel on offer in the Reading Room. I didn’t get anywhere near as much time with this one as I wanted, but it still catches one’s attention with its premise. A polio-stricken 17 year old girl is suddenly transported to a spirit world populated by demons celebrating a weeks-long festival. You have to help her find her way home. 

Spirit Parade

The protagonist, Nara, is described as “cynical” and deeply suspicious of the intentions of others after years of being patronized and pitied for her disability. Her time in the Spirit World is meant to be a reckoning on how she approaches life: “Will [Nara] be able to get over her bitterness borne from the past, or will she be engulfed in hatred and lose sight of what's truly important?” asks the game’s ad copy. It’s an interesting hook, but I could see this going badly very quickly given longstanding stereotypes of people with disabilities as embittered complainers who are in dire need of inspiration. 

There is certainly a lot of merit to the reasons for Nara’s bitterness and mistrust, however. The empathy required to write that in a way that centers her rather than the able bodied people in her life leaves me cautiously optimistic. A lot depends on how the narrative shakes out, and how the promised “good” and “bad” endings are framed.

Spirit Parade also grabs your attention with its striking artwork, and there’s the novelty of voice acting to boot. Whatever else it may be, it is a beautiful VN whose presentation, like a traditionally staged opera, cleaves proudly to the fundaments of its medium. It may be the least avant-garde or daring of all the Reading Room offerings but it seems to do what it does quite well and has a lot to offer anyone who enjoys VNs.

***

“Spirit parade” is a pretty apt way of describing the PAX show floor, with an endless river of colorful costumes, personalities, and lost souls alike flowing past the wild, almost magical booths. To say there’s always something to catch your eye is an understatement. But every time someone asked me that standard icebreaker question at the convention, “what stood out to you the most on the show floor?” I found myself always mentioning the VR Reading Room.

It’s quite possible that I might not have noticed it so quickly if Christine Love, whose work I’ve long been well disposed to, hadn’t put her name behind it and taken the initiative to create it. But I’ve always loved visual novels, which gleefully traipse into territory most other videogames are quite shy about. They’ve been vehicles for porn, romance, narrative-emphasis, casual gaming, and female protagonists for years now. But they have also pushed boundaries in portrayals of queerness and trans life--and as I played through all of the Reading Room’s offerings I realized that this was what linked these very different games together like a necklace.

Though no literature or marketing for the Reading Room advertised the fact, all had “queer content,” all had gay and/or trans characters. There weren’t many multi-game booths or pavilions that could make that claim (although Ysbryd has been doing a commendable job with this lately on show floors). It was a lovely thing to see amid PAX’s maelstrom.

Most comforting of all is the thought that perhaps some souls who wandered into one of the Reading Room’s weird, adorable wonderlands might find themselves just a bit less lost.

Katherine Cross is a Ph.D student in sociology who researches anti-social behavior online, and a gaming critic whose work has appeared in numerous publications.

[symbianosgames]

It’s no secret that I love visual novels. Part of the reason has to do the vagueness of the term which, perhaps not surprisingly, works similarly to how “anime” describes a medium more than a genre. Visual novels take all kinds of forms, after all. Even if many of them share the same RenPy interface, little else links them; many have an anime aesthetic but not all; many have a relatively low difficulty level, but certainly not all (play Long Live the Queen for a taste of what I call a “bullet hell VN”). That diversity deserves a unified showcase where they can be compared side-by-side. 

Love Conquers All Games’ Christine Love agreed and spearheaded the creation of a new addition to the Indie Megabooth at PAX East this year: the Visual Novel Reading Room. It featured her own game, Ladykiller in a Bind, which was already a novel take on the medium with its approach to dialogue and sexuality, and last year’s successful We Know the Devil by Date Nighto. But while these served as familiar anchors of visual novel-dom, there were new up and coming releases available for play as well, one of which really demonstrates the flexibility of the medium.

Dev or Die’s Date or Die, Accidental Queens’ A Normal Lost Phone, and Lettuce Waltz’s Spirit Parade are a tour through the medium’s potential and how it can be so thoroughly realized through inclusive design that tells strange new stories. 

If there is a through-line that links visual novels it’s romance. Most VNs have branching paths through the game’s narrative called “routes” which are invariably named after the object of your character’s affections. Experiencing them all is how VN completionists satisfy themselves. VNs often as not succeed when they say or do something new with the idea, however.

Ladykiller, for instance, was an instant classic for its groundbreaking portrayal of BDSM as both achingly sexy and deeply human--and its take on relationships was starkly mature, delving into the nature of love, “fucked up fantasies,” and abusive dynamics. VNs endure when their romance is either unique (Ladykiller) or not what the game hinges on for its distinction (e.g. Black Closet).

A Normal Lost Phone eschews the route system entirely, however, instead providing a microscopic examination of relationships under the stress of a double life. Available for both computer and mobile platforms, the game is best enjoyed on your phone as its entire interface is that of a lost mobile phone you rifle through in an attempt to discover who it belongs to.

A Normal Lost Phone

Like so many excellent mobile games, Lost Phone works optimally when the device you play it on feels like an artifact of the game world itself. It presents you with a standard stylized smart phone interface with different applications you have to access in order to uncover the truth about Sam, the enigmatic owner of the phone. Sam has gone missing, apparently, and his phone holds clues as to why. Unlocking new apps requires one to solve puzzles, such as assembling different clues to get a wifi password that’ll allow you to log on to Sam’s dating profile.

There’s much that could be said about privacy and personal space here, but for now it’s enough to say that like so many games that diegetically simulate this kind of keyhole-peeping, it’s very engrossing. Our appetite for the inner lives of others is something Lost Phone unapologetically plays with, making of Sam’s phone a digital Greenbriar house that demands exploring. For the moment, who you are, and what the ethics are of you invading Sam’s life like this are for you the player to decide on.

Speaking of ethics, or a woeful lack thereof, Date or Die sees you take on the role of a nameless character dragooned into an evil reality TV show. You are “matched” with one of six other contestants by a beguiling villain who calls himself The Host. The last two people left alive after a series of challenges will--the Host promises--live happily ever after. After all, he wants to prove that some people are truly devoted to finding their one true love: devoted enough to kill. It’s delightfully twisted and seems set to be a delectable bit of horror. I could only access the intro, but Arden Ripley’s dark creativity still entices.

  Once again, the game offers a sideways take on relationships, using the insight of the medium to tell a new story that goes beyond a simple anime fantasy while still hitting those buttons. As is often the case with early previews like this, much remains to be seen. But the prologue available at PAX East gave a good enough sense of the characters that I feel a cautious optimism about what’s to come later in the year when Date or Die releases. They all feel distinctive, like each could make a uniquely intoxicating brew when mixed with your character. Evidently, even the Host is romanceable, though this is explicitly written as an unhealthy relationship where ugly dynamics are fully explored.

After all, Ripley promises us a game about “the horrors of love.”

It takes me back to Hanako Games’ Magical Diary, the inaptly named tale of a young woman at a Hogwarts-style magic school, learning spells and drowning in teen drama. The story has routes that involve romancing a teacher or romancing a murderously abusive young man; neither is played up as a straight morality tale but each explores the unsettlingly ugly nature of each relationship without glamorizing or ironing over everything wrong with each situation.

This is all to the good, so far as I’m concerned; we need to be able to indulge in forbidden stories. Christine Love did this well in Ladykiller as well; not every expression of romance is safe or “unproblematic,” but then neither is love and sex in the real world. The best visual novels explore that territory without apology, instead of regurgitating the same masturbatory fantasies. The latter can be fun in their own right, but they do nothing to advance the medium.

***

The display at PAX East was charming, taking up only two booths worth of space, with economically arranged tables and screens to display every title (Lost Phone’s mobile capability was a huge boon here), while Ladykiller was discreetly tucked behind its usual elegant screen to protect the modesty of PAXgoers. 

Nearer to the crowd was the large TV displaying Spirit Parade, which was perhaps the most traditional visual novel on offer in the Reading Room. I didn’t get anywhere near as much time with this one as I wanted, but it still catches one’s attention with its premise. A polio-stricken 17 year old girl is suddenly transported to a spirit world populated by demons celebrating a weeks-long festival. You have to help her find her way home. 

Spirit Parade

The protagonist, Nara, is described as “cynical” and deeply suspicious of the intentions of others after years of being patronized and pitied for her disability. Her time in the Spirit World is meant to be a reckoning on how she approaches life: “Will [Nara] be able to get over her bitterness borne from the past, or will she be engulfed in hatred and lose sight of what's truly important?” asks the game’s ad copy. It’s an interesting hook, but I could see this going badly very quickly given longstanding stereotypes of people with disabilities as embittered complainers who are in dire need of inspiration. 

There is certainly a lot of merit to the reasons for Nara’s bitterness and mistrust, however. The empathy required to write that in a way that centers her rather than the able bodied people in her life leaves me cautiously optimistic. A lot depends on how the narrative shakes out, and how the promised “good” and “bad” endings are framed.

Spirit Parade also grabs your attention with its striking artwork, and there’s the novelty of voice acting to boot. Whatever else it may be, it is a beautiful VN whose presentation, like a traditionally staged opera, cleaves proudly to the fundaments of its medium. It may be the least avant-garde or daring of all the Reading Room offerings but it seems to do what it does quite well and has a lot to offer anyone who enjoys VNs.

***

“Spirit parade” is a pretty apt way of describing the PAX show floor, with an endless river of colorful costumes, personalities, and lost souls alike flowing past the wild, almost magical booths. To say there’s always something to catch your eye is an understatement. But every time someone asked me that standard icebreaker question at the convention, “what stood out to you the most on the show floor?” I found myself always mentioning the VR Reading Room.

It’s quite possible that I might not have noticed it so quickly if Christine Love, whose work I’ve long been well disposed to, hadn’t put her name behind it and taken the initiative to create it. But I’ve always loved visual novels, which gleefully traipse into territory most other videogames are quite shy about. They’ve been vehicles for porn, romance, narrative-emphasis, casual gaming, and female protagonists for years now. But they have also pushed boundaries in portrayals of queerness and trans life--and as I played through all of the Reading Room’s offerings I realized that this was what linked these very different games together like a necklace.

Though no literature or marketing for the Reading Room advertised the fact, all had “queer content,” all had gay and/or trans characters. There weren’t many multi-game booths or pavilions that could make that claim (although Ysbryd has been doing a commendable job with this lately on show floors). It was a lovely thing to see amid PAX’s maelstrom.

Most comforting of all is the thought that perhaps some souls who wandered into one of the Reading Room’s weird, adorable wonderlands might find themselves just a bit less lost.

Katherine Cross is a Ph.D student in sociology who researches anti-social behavior online, and a gaming critic whose work has appeared in numerous publications.