#the same with every survivor. I see them all as human and complex and driven by different needs

[sayidsjarrah]

there's two types of people who watch lost. people who fall in love with the characters flaws and people who fall in love with the characters humanity despite their flaws.

[sha-lyuzar]

Loghain Mac Tir is my comfort character. It is not often a pleasant thing to admit, and my reasons are complex, and personal, but fundamentally what makes me so attached to him is how human he is. That kind of depth and complexity is what made me fall in love with Dragon Age in the first place. He’s not just a “noble hero” or an “evil villain,” but a fully realized person who embodies good and evil, and everything inbetween, who is shaped by his past and his deeply personal convictions, his flaws, his fears, his fierce love for Ferelden, and, most importantly his tragic mistakes, that lost him everything, and that is what makes him feel so real to me.

He doesn’t have an easy narrative arc. He’s not driven by simple greed, cruelty, or even by misguided idealism. He’s a survivor with wounds that never fully healed, and those wounds shape the way he sees the world and interprets threats. Every heinous decision and tragic mistake is a direct consequence of his loyalty to Ferelden and Maric, and his willingness to bear the burden of horrific choice. He has been bleeding for his cause since he was a child, and it has turned him into the same kind of cruel and cold tyrant He fought against in the first place, and watching him struggle to hold true to his values, and eventually abandon them, as his path grows darker and more isolating, is this profoundly tragic thing that to me is infinitely more compelling than a classic Hero's Journey.

What Loghain did in the Alienage is deeply disturbing and inexcusable. Using Tevinter slavers to control and exploit the elves is one of the darkest points in his character arc. It’s a choice that reveals just how far he’s willing to go to maintain control and secure his idea of Ferelden’s “independence,” even at the cost of his own morality, so He lets in a foreign power to abduct and subjugate the citizens he claims to be protecting. It unveils the extremes of his desperation and paranoia, because in his mind, he’s protecting Ferelden, but in reality, he’s perpetrating the very kind of oppression he once fought against. It is dark, it is horrific, it is unforgiveable, and that is the whole point.

He has to confront the devastation he’s caused, and he can’t simply brush it aside as a “necessary evil.”. If he joins the Grey Wardens, his path involves acknowledging these grave mistakes, taking responsibility, and finding a way to live with the guilt. There is no reconciliation for his actions, his fear and trauma may explain but never excuse what he did. There is no easy way out. Loghain is stained with the blood he shed forever. He has to live with having failed, with the compounded weight of his actions and regrets, and, if he joins the Wardens, he isn't even granted the mercy of a quick and clean death, and instead is exiled from the country he poured everything he had into.

And doesn't this resonate? Does this not perfectly reflect the difficult reality of being human? How people can be fiercely protective, deeply flawed, and driven by complicated motivations, and that these qualities make them more worthy of understanding, not less? Loghain’s arc speaks to me on such a deep and personal level, especially as someone who has been battling the demons of trauma. His story is a vivid reminder that trauma doesn’t always make us better people, but exacerbates our struggles and can lead us down dark paths. i see parts of my own struggles in Loghain, i understand his pain, his fear, the choices his past self would loathe him for, and the gnawing self-hate, regret and grief.

Trauma twists our intentions like that. Instead of guiding us toward empathy and understanding, it clouds our judgment, and pushes us to make decisions we later regret, and become versions of ourselves we hate. My reality of trauma has not been this character building experience, the way it is often depicted in media, but something harrowing and life-altering, that still poisons me, even years later. But seeing a character lose all tether to himself and get lost in his demons is a tale worth telling, and an experience that still grips me, even 15 years after playing DA:O for the first time. Seeing Loghain live through rock bottom in DA:O, and then, ten years later in DA:I find purpose and whatever semblance of peace is possible in his circumstance, is something that gives me comfort. It is deeply personal, and i keep this unforgiveable and irredeemable, this grief-stricken and regret-filled man, this complicated and multifaceted character deep in my heart.

There are spoilers for datv under the cut. Major spoilers about the end of the game. If you have not played through yet, please don't be tempted to look. i thought i would be fine with spoilers, but i am not. You have been warned.

All of this is rendered moot by the ending of datv. By a throwaway line. i have been spoilered by this online, and have not reached this point in the game myself, yet, but it leaves me feeling a lot of ways, and it hits me hard. It feels like everything i found relatable in his struggle, everything that made him so human, is suddenly taken away. If his actions weren’t truly his own, and he was being puppeteered by old gods magic, then what does that mean for the weight of his choices? It feels like a betrayal of everything that made up his character, a character who has grappled with his trauma and made terrible choices, yes, but ones that were driven by his own will and conviction, always.

The complexity of his journey, the depth of his remorse, and the struggle for a new purpose, all become overshadowed by this new twist. It threatens to erase the beautiful, painful, and human truth of what it means to confront one’s demons and seek understanding in the aftermath of suffering, what it means to reassess and take accountability for your actions and do the hard, dirty, and thankless work of bettering the irredeemable, bit by bit, piece by piece, so that one day you may draw a breath and feel just a bit of that weight eased.

But no, he was just a victim all along. He has no agency, his self-actualisation is lost on him, he was never responsible for himself. It feels like one of Dragon Age's most complex characters has been flattened down into cardboard.

[aronarchy]

https://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/william-gillis-one-giant-red-flag-folded-into-a-book

So much abuse is about trapping and monopolizing the target’s attention, feeling entitled to claim a chunk of their brain. The experience of being abused is often one of being forced into thinking about the abuser constantly, from trying to predict their acts to trying to follow the latest tangle in their proclamations. Abuse strips away agency by stripping away the capacity for the abused to think for yourself, to think about anything else or think at all. If the abuser controls critical needs then everything is devoted to trying to turn yourself into a complex key that can unlock those needs. If the abuser besieges and terrorizes you randomly, you form your brain into a vast prediction net, trying to preempt as best you can every single avenue by which they might strike. Or you huddle up and turn yourself off, turn your brain off, to try and weather through things like an inert object. All of these are about losing your capacity for agency in a way that extends beyond any physical constraints directly imposed upon you. Abuse takes over your brain.

Sometimes the abuser acts so as to not have to think about you, to terrorize you into smallness and confined predictability, but sometimes the abuser is themselves driven by their own ravenous attention on you and the need to make you dedicate that same level of attention to them. This sort of abuser is never more happy than when their provocations force you into direct immediate raw unthought emotional tangles with them. They yell and yell until you finally yell back, and then they grin in glee because they have you. Neither abuser can stand your escape to any degree, which they read as a direct assault on them.

There are many aspects of abuse, but abusers feel entitled to your attention.

I can’t emphasize this enough. Demanding that an ex listen to you, mobilizing The Community to force that ex to give you a monopoly over their brain is an abuser’s wet dream. It’s how thousands of accountability processes have derailed into an abuser continuously retraumatizing their survivor.

Schulman, it must be emphasized, has no argument for why we should be obligated to give away our attention to anyone who wants it. What she has instead is 1) a fixation on pain and suffering of those denied control over the attention of their targets, and 2) the repeated assertion that having no boundaries is “adult” whereas saying no is “childish.” Mature adults talk things out in person, only immature children—or those so traumatized and broken as to be infantile children—would draw a line around their attention and enforce it.

“In another example from other people’s lives, sometimes angry, supremacist, or traumatized people send emails commanding, ‘Do not contact me.’ I want to state here, for the record, that no one is obligated to obey a unidirectional order that has not been discussed. Negotiation is a human responsibility. Little children order their parents around: ‘Mommy, sit there!’ When adults give orders while hiding behind technology, they are behaving illegitimately. These unilateral orders do not have to be obeyed. They need to be discussed.”

It would be trivial to compose a little passage reversing the associations, casting knowing how to draw boundaries and assert one’s independence and agency as the “mature adult” position whereas being caught under the boot of others’ demands to the point where you can’t own your own associations or attention as the “child” experience. But I want to reject the entire adult supremacist frame she’s appealing to.

If the child often stomps their feet and declares “no”—no, I refuse to give uncle a kiss, no, I refuse to get dressed to be your marionette at an event, no, I refuse to listen to your lecturing—perhaps we should see that as an inspiring site of resistance by those most oppressed before they are ground down. Perhaps we should endeavor to be more like children desperately trying to assert their autonomy and consent as agents who get to choose. Certainly the world “adults” have built and perpetuated by beating each new generation into surrender is a clearly sickening and grotesque one.

Even though I personally have made choices to maintain some level of contact, I vehemently support every abused child who walked away from their parents and never answered their calls ever again. Hell, I support children who killed their abusers. You do not owe everyone a path for reconciliation and negotiation. From abusers to even just wingnuts and inane time burglars, the best option is sometimes to just walk away forever. We have limited time on this planet, why spend it trying to repair every single relationship you have so far happened into?

Schulman somehow cannot even fathom goals other than the maintenance of existing relationships.

“Refusing to speak to someone without terms for repair is a strange, childish act of destruction in which nothing can be won.”

Liberation can be won. There’s a world of possibility beyond the confines of one given relationship. Opportunity cost is a real thing that is worth considering. That nothing is gained in one specific relationship by walking away doesn’t mean that a world of possibilities can’t be gained through the absence and negation of that relationship.

[oswinsdolma]

Yes, it's nearly 2.00am (because that's apparently the only time I have inspiration to write essays) but I've been thinking a lot about this lately and wanted to get it off my chest, so here you go:

The main goal of Merlin becomes disturbingly fractured along the way, which opens up the gaps for the prophecy to seep through instead of following the expected channels, but it can essentially be boiled down to three key elements 1) build albion; 2) decriminalise magic and 3) save Arthur, but when all is said and done, we never really see any of those objectives achieved.

Now, there are a few reasons for this, both from a writing perspective and a plot perspective. The first, and one of the most obvious, is that this show loves irony. I won't go into a lot of detail here because I've already written a whole ass essay in this very subject, but in a nutshell, you can look at this from two perspectives: firstly, it's important to establish that this technique is purely about the angst: it's the writers' way of provoking a reaction from an anguished audience, but it's foreshadowed just enough to make it more painful than it is shocking. Alternatively, there is the more plot motivated irony in that it genuinely makes a good story. Irony is a technique that has been used for thousands of years, not just because it provokes a reaction from the audience, but because it allows you to explore your characters in greater detail than before, riddling them with hidden juxtapositions and internal conflicts that are never resolved quite in the way you expect. The irony in Merlin is the epitome of this, with the whole motif of Arthur needing to die for his reign to begin. It is a classic example of the simultaneous despair and hope that mocks you from the shadows.

Following this, there is another force at play that deals with half truths and seemingly imperfect contradictions, and that's prophecy. It's not really a secret that I have very strong feelings about prophecy and its effects on all the characters, Merlin in particular, and the fact that fate and destiny are such key themes in Merlin both makes perfect sense and wants me to smash my head into a brick wall. Prophecies are another common trope that often go hand in hand with irony (think Oedipus Rex, Macbeth, The Iliad, all that doomed hero shit that I inexplicably adore), the key to their influence over the plot often lying in how they usually come true in the most unexpected of ways. This links back to that initial theme of irony, but this isn't what makes me angry: what is infuriating is that prophecies tend to come true, no matter what, and most of the characters seem not only to know this, but to let it take their autonomy over their respective fates, driving them to disaster.

Let me elaborate: especially in season five (I'm assuming just for the added fall at the end), Merlin talks a lot about how "one day, things will be different". He tells sorcerers that one day they won't have to hide. That one day, they won't have to live in fear of who they are and what others think of them. And Merlin is right: while it is not explicitly stated, it's generally established that this is one of the things Merlin should actively be working towards. But here's the kick: except for a few specific circumstances, when has Merlin ever actively tried to change Arthur's mind about magic? Yes, he has taken a few opportunities, like with Dragoon saving Uther's life, or with the Dolma's final request, where he has encouraged Arthur to rethink his choices, but otherwise, his support has been lukewarm at best. Instead, his primary concern was always saving Arthur, so he can become the king the magical world hoped he'd be, but he left out a crucial part, trusting in the prophecy to fill in the gaps. He knew it would come true, but it was, almost predictably, in the one way he never dared to expect.

And in a twisted way, there's that thread of irony again: Merlin thought he was saving Arthur so he could one day become the king who would see magic as a force for good, but instead, he created someone who was merely a survivor. It was Kilgharrah who said it first, and he who would mention it last: they are two sides of the same coin. But as willing as Merlin was to give his life for Arthur, and vice versa, he was never really ready to give him his mind.

Another interesting thing to note is Merlin's fixation on the "Saving Arthur" lens of the prophecy over the "Restoring Magic" part. Now, there are a ton of ways you can look at this, depending on how far along the scale of Queer Analysis you are, so I'm going to try and address a couple. At one end of the scale, you have the fairly simple and very believable "merthur" take. This basically boils down to the fact that Merlin and Arthur may or may not be deeply in love with one another, and that drowns out any voice of reason that may unfold. This is actually fairly canon compliant, particularly looking at incidents such as the Disir, when Merlin chooses Arthur over his and his people's freedom, though that choice was clearly, in hindsight, misadvised.

At the other end of the spectrum, there is the idea that it is the work of Kilgharrah, Gaius and other responsible figures in Merlin's life when he was new to his role in destiny, who reiterated at every occasion that Arthur must be protected at all costs. This may have ingrained into Merlin's thoughts and influenced his decisions from here on out.

Between those two points, there is a grey area, and I am of the personal opinion that neither extreme entirely satisfies the situation. For me, I think the characters in question are far too complex to have such simple motivations, and that the true reason lies somewhere between the two: Merlin undoubtedly cares for Arthur, and while at the start, his actions in protacting Arthur may have been driven by other (largely superficial) motives, over time, their mutual affection blossomed to the point where certainly the more personal quests were motivated not by need, but by love. However, there is a divide here, and while the line in the sand smudges from time to time, it never really disappears: a lot of instances in which Merlin is trying to help Arthur are entirely overshadowed by destiny, and in time, Merlin comes to accept that Arthur and Destiny are, in fact, one and the same, and this is where that ever-present tragedy lies. For all he truth in here, Merlin doesn't get everything quite right: he sees Arthur as a balance that needs to be protected, without fully realising that he doesn't just have to keep the sides of his equation in equilibrium, but he actually has to start solving them if he wants them to endure.

Having just said all that, sometimes I decide to fuck over complexity for a few hours purely because I am a shameless merthur hoe.

Also, can you take a moment to please note that this last section is highly subjective and it is completely up to you as to what you decide!! This is just my opinion and you're welcome to agree or disagree at any point.

So, aside from the Angst Factor™ and twisted character development, why was the main goal never fulfilled? Unfortunately, that is a question far cleverer people than me can only speculate, as the writers alone know the answers, but I'm going to give my opinion a shot. Honestly, there is something beautifullly poetic about something that never ends, or ends when there could be something more. Humanity has struggled with endings-and beginnings- since it learned truly how to think, because that kind of finality, that inkling that there might have been nothing before and after something else is incomprehensible. In leaving Merlin in a place where the next point was uncertain, the writers left the story open for us. In depriving us of that catharsis, they effectively made sure that the story would never be over, not until we want it to be. And yes, it was painful. I can't think of an ending that was more heartbreaking than that curious mixture of closures and openings all at the same time (hell, I could write a whole essay based on this concept alone!), but it was also a gift, ironically like that of the prophecy itself in that we can choose what we want to do with it, safe in the knowledge that there will be a happy ending again, one day.

In summary, we might not be left with catharsis in the way we wanted. We might not have got the happy ending that could also have stretched on and on indefinitely. But we were left with something else, something equally beautiful as closure, but in the complete opposite way. Amongst the remains of allwe had hoped to build, Merlin left us hope.

[clockworkarchives]

Conscience of Constantine: The Suicide School

Orders came and the Industry has given me full responsibility in confirming whether or not if my theory about the two entities presenting themselves to us is true. And for me to continue and see if all our projects funnel down to our main goal. During my wait for the Industry’s orders, I've discovered that the last major test for Project Hello before it malfunctioned was at the same moment when the portal that the Warden’s soldiers go through opened. This occurrence may have been the cause of the second entity’s arrival. Though the portal is in a whole different room far away from where Project Hello is, it is still possible... It may also mean it is weaker than entity #1, because it needed the assistance of a portal and a machine before it can control one of our scientists. It also appears that entity #2’s powers are proximity based. The Warden’s soldiers were all victims of it and they may have all been in proximity of its presence. But until the Warden brings back any reports relating to the second entity, I will be focusing here and make sure to keep in track of the progress of various projects in the industry and of course make sure that I keep an eye of any activity that may relate to the first entity. Coincidently, about an hour after I received the Industry’s orders, I was sent a report from one of the handlers of Project Inspire, people from the North-West section of the building. Project Inspire works on a chemical substance that interacts with the human mind keeping them productive for a long amount of time. They came to me giving a report that they said I may be interested in. Their head scientist and his 16-year-old son is now dead while his 20-year-old daughter is missing and to top it all off, there was a report of mass suicide at the school where his children studied. It does sound a whole lot like what entity #2 would do, but there were so many things that did not add up. So with haste, I went to the school with 6 armed personnel from the Warden’s stockpile of soldiers, but once we got there the mass suicide was still ongoing. Parts of the school were on fire, screams and windows breaking can be heard from afar, students and teachers jumping off roofs and there were people standing on flames staring at me straight in the eyes... there was nothing but pure chaos in every corner of the facility. Firemen and the police were in the scene but even they were traumatized and confused as to what’s happening, so I told them to make sure no one gets in and out and that we will handle the situation from the inside. It’ll be a huge mess if the public knew that this situation was caused by us and that this school with a student population of fifteen thousand is affected severely. The soldiers surrounded me with guns up and senses on high alert, but no one was after us, people ran and screamed hysterically pass by us every minute and they’re all either bleeding or on fire. Once we’ve finally reached the school’s main lobby, I noticed one door with a dead body covered in blood leaning on it. The body had multiple scratches on his chest and face with his belly split wide open, the door too had scratches and broken parts, I tried to push it open but it was barricaded from the inside. A woman’s voice then shouted asking who was at the door, so I answered and told them that I was here to help. At first, they hesitated but eventually opened the door revealing a woman in a teacher’s uniform alongside three other students with bloody uniforms. I told the soldiers to guard the door while I talk to the teacher... and this, is what I found out.

CONSTANTINE: “I am here to help, can you tell what you know?”

TEACHER: “Sir... I honestly don’t know. I was just at the teacher’s lounge when suddenly one of our students barged in grabbing pens and pencils and then started stabbing it in her head and face...”

CONSTANTINE: “Calm down ma’am, can you tell me anything that you can recall?”

TEACHER: “There were many other teachers who grabbed Montero to keep her from stabbing herself and then... the other teachers that grabbed her started doing the same thing. I was so scared and when I ran out the whole school was... all the students and teachers... they were all killing themselves...”

CONSTANTINE: “That’s all I needed to know, thank you ma’am... Soldiers! You four! Escort these survivors to safety and make sure no one touches their skin and yours at all cost!”

SOLDIER: “Understood, but what about you sir?”

CONSTANTINE: “These are four people and I'm just one, you’ll need all the helping hands you can get. Now go.”

It was all clear to me then, these people that were driven by the urge to commit suicide were getting infected by each other through direct contact by touching one person’s skin. The teachers that the woman described started killing themselves after grabbing the student. This also explains why she and other students are still sane. The mere fact that she was in the same room with multiple infected people proves that it is not airborne nor it is transmitted telepathically. This also means that this event may not be caused by neither of the two entities. And also, Montero, that is the surname of the head scientist of Project Inspire. His daughter is already dead but long after her brother and father died. I wondered as to why, so I headed straight to the teacher’s lounge to look for her dead body. As I walk the halls of the lifeless while being accompanied by death as he reaps the lives of the people around me made me feel so... angry. The soldiers beside me were practically invisible to me while my thoughts are filled with nothing but anguish. On my way to the lounge, I heard a voice in my head whispering “I will end this, fix this.” I looked around and asked the soldiers if they heard that... but they didn’t.

Eventually, we reached the lounge. Fire crackles on the side while blood drips from hanging bodies and screams behind us can be heard from inside the small enclosed room. I stared straight into the eye of the dead Montero daughter, her body was on the floor with only one eye visible from all the pens and pencil piercing her face. I was trained hard by the Industry to a point that I can tell the difference between a jogger’s and a liar’s sweat... and those screams outside... they were all screams of pain, fear and agony. These people never wanted this, they were suffering... they all were.

CONSTANINE: “You! Hack this computer for me and look for the surname Montero with a female first name. And you, take her bag and look around her notebooks, papers and laptop and check if you can find complex math equations. I’ll be checking her phone.”

SOLDIER #1 and #2: “Yes sir!”

If my theory is correct, the reason she was near the lounge and that the teacher knew her is because she was a frequent visitor there, an honor student. A daughter of a very successful scientist may give her an advantage if her course was closely related to her father’s occupancy.

SOLDIER #1: “Sir I found a match, Angelica Montero. 4th year college student on Chemical engineering, she’s got straight A’s and is top of her class.”

SOLDIER #2: “Sir, I found the equations you were looking for in this notebook. It has twelve pages worth of it.”

CONSTANTINE: “I knew it, she knows about her father’s Project Inspire and tried to help. (Beep) This is Leonard Constantine, authorization level 9. Shut Project Inspire down immediately, I will be sending over a chemical equation and make those people who worked on that project to prioritize this equation and make an antidote as soon as possible! (Beep) You two, talk the police men and fire fighters outside and tell them to capture and tie down anyone left alive in this school and cover themselves up with no exposed skin. Tell them that in no circumstances ever get touched bare skin with the infected and put the entire school on lockdown.”

The situation was later contained and an antidote was made. Hundreds of people were saved while countless others perished by their own hands. I later then confirmed my theory that the daughter had a sure spot in the Industry after she graduates and that she’s been helping her father out on his project. She discovered that the substance her father was creating was highly unstable and she started running the numbers on her notebook to revert the effects. It was too late though, her father came home from work after getting mildly exposed by their experiment. The father and son were the first to get infected and the daughter left immediately just before the effects kicked in, and she most likely had skin contact with either her father or brother before she left. She went to school, hi-fived a few friends while she’s walking towards the teacher’s lounge and the rest is history. Countless lives were lost from such a small mistake... those people that were burning, bleeding, dying, helpless as their bodies moved for them towards death and all they can do is... scream. I’m guessing death will be around me more often, I thought I was already done hearing those screams... 

  Leonard Constantine, logging out.

[kendrixtermina]

It is me or are ppl really sleeping on Dedue?

To the point that ppl seem to shoehorn other characters into that same role/ space while he’s right there. 

Like whatever Rhea’s backstory is she’s been in power and privilege for the last 1000 years, she’s a fantasy creature, and everything about the distant past is subject to unreliable narration as we hear like 5 different versions of it all from biased sources (though I’d say Seteth is probably the most believable one, he was there, and he’s an honest guy)

Whereas Dedue is flat out a survivor of extreme prejudice, no ambiguity, no metaphors, no fantasy magic nor unreliable narration involved, absolutely non-debatable.

If you’re looking for a character who’s totally focussed on their social role/another person because of poor self-esteem and not sufficiently knowing that they matter themselves that’s also Dedue. 

Not Hubert. Like noo guys. Hubert states many times that he follows Edelgard out of conviction and no longer because of the tradition or because his father made him. He has his own reasons for hating corrupt nobles and the church. (Most apparent, I think, in the Byleth A and the Hanneman B support, but he mocks the church and the knights like all the time.). If anything, he’s less scrupulous than her (though I wouldn’t say that he’s completely amoral; He definitely has things that he repudiates (corruption) and outright tells Linny that he wouldn’t be friends with someone who’d abandon a person in need, or tells Byleth that he’s one of those people who can’t bring themselves to believe in a just god because of the evil in the world).

He also does pretty much whatever the fuck he wants, which is also established many, many times. Which Edelgard most certainly knows. She likes this. She listens to him (insofar as she listens to anyone), but she does so because she likes and agrees with his attitude. She chose to make this guy her right-hand advisor. She cares nothing for tradition and would’ve given him the boot and grabbed another advisor/attendant if she didn’t think he was supremely useful, and, as she put it “always right”. She kept him despite the tradition, because she likes intelligent, reason-driven people and he’s the third smartest person in all of Fodlan (numbers one and two are, of course, Claude and Lysithea). Plus he’s an accomplished mage without a crest. He isn’t even the loosest cannon in the imperial arsenal. She cares only about results, whether you’re from a peasant background like Manuela and Dorothea, unconventional/quirky like Linhardt or Bernie, or... whatever you’d call Hubert and Jeritza. So you could say that her leadership style certainly has both advantages and disadvantages. But Hubert himself seems overall pretty content with his position and doesn’t really expect anything else, because, after all, he chose it. Though we certainly have his father’s treahery as a cynism catalyst that lead him to be this super disillusioned cynical irreverent person who’s very slow to trust. 

It also can’t be because Dedue is boring. This is evident when you compare him to say Cyril, who also has the sort of effed-up past that, in RL, would deserve sympathy by default, but in the end this isn’t a charity for real people but fictional entertainment and he’s just not likeable. (likeability being subjective of course - there’s clearly SOME ppl who DO like him, and why shouldn’t they?)

 I mean boringness is subjective but Dedue has a whole load of characterization besides the fucked up backstory. there’s always that protective layer you need to get through (which is only realistic) but if you actually try to get to know him he’s got a lot of traits and hobbies and distinctive attitudes and complexities tragic plots. 

Like on the one hand he and Dimitri are as glued-together as they are because no one else can remotely understand what it means to have all your friends and family massacred in front of you, they’re both people who are naturally nice and peace-loving but wound up with the capacity for ugly desperate actions because of what they’ve been through but there’s also a contrast, they’re both sort of repressed but in different ways (though you could say that both struggle to express anger on their own behalf and thus channel it onto anger on behalf of others), Dimitri’s clumsy and emotionally volatile whereas Dedue is very careful/dexterous and calm, and that’s where the tragic part comes in. 

Because while he’ll go on with whatever Dimitri says cause he owes him his life and has nowhere else to go it’s quite clear that that’s not exactly what he wants (You get support points if you ask him what he wants even if he doesn’t give you a clear answer) - I bet he’d like nothing more than to just go live a peaceful life somewhere together without bothering with the revenge thing. (Though he’s got a better explanation/excuse than the rest of Team Kingdom, among whom no one will tell Dimitri to stop because of their culture’s overemphasis on loyalty. Even Felix doesn’t do much more than complain. It takes Byleth, a more pragmatic, cool-minded outsider to Faerghus, to put a stop to the kamikaze mission. )

He also has really sweet dynamics with Ashe and Flayn (who canonically like him even on other routes), also Mercedes and Sylvain if you did those supports. Because he’s kind of retreated completely into his social role as a vassal cause he has little else left and at this point he’s so used to being scorned that he preemptively tells ppl to keep their distance, but if you put in  the minimum effort to actually get to know him you see this sweet, chill domestic young man who’s still there underneath.  (Again contrast Hubert, whom you can’t really get much personal conversation out of, even Edelgard who’s known him all her life struggles to get him to spill what he’s really thinking, cause he’d just tell her what he thinks it would be useful for her to hear. And with Byleth he plain doesn’t trust them early on. He’s simply committed to being a consummate professional, by deliberate choice, though he definitely does have his own dephts to get to know, like being a bit self-conscious about his ‘scary’ mannerisms or ultimately being motivated by wanting to do something worthwhile and impactful with his short human life)

Ultimately, Dedue is very honorable, community-minded and reputation-conscious which means that he ironically fits in quite well with the Kingdom students, though that also probably makes it a special kind of hell to not only lose his community but to be stereotyped as a dishonorable scoundrel, because he cares quite a bit about his honor and reputation and that of his friends (see the Dimitri, Sylvain and Byleth supports) which puts him in this situation where he feels he can’t really be their friend without tarnishing their honor, there’s a complex mix of feelings where he’s of course as frustrated as any human being would be but has also partially internalized some of the crap from years of constant bombardment. 

The function of anger as an emotion is to ensure just treatment in the group, so for someone to just lie down and take crap like that it shows that they’ve totally given up on getting justice so for me at least this is really a character that I really want to see good things happen to and that makes me cheer every time someone thinks of him or when something good happens to him.

Like in a setting where nearly everyone’s backstory sucked his is quite possibly the worst. Only Jeritza and Lysithea (mostly because of the early death thing) even come remotely close. 

I feel like ppl would be all over this character if he were a bishie or cute girl, like just because of the “hides behind defense mechanisms but you can see his true self if you bother to be halfway decent” thing. Like usually ppl are all over that. 

Like to summarize we have a sad backstory, a tragic loyalty conflict, a frequently misunderstood demeanor that’s the product of a tragic past,  a basically sweet disposition that’s still not without the capacity for darkness, ample potential for wholesome Friendships (or more romantic ‘ships), what’s not to like?

Plus he’s got like one of the sweetest goddess tower events and S-supports. He gives you his jackets and looks at the starts with you etc. Bit too wholesome for my personal tastes [stuffs El, Hubert, Felix and Linhardt paraphernalia back into closet] but objectively loveable. 

tl;dr: Let’s all appreciate Supreme Chef Deddie-pie. 

[grrlinthefireplace]

Hey so I’ve been seeing you post a lot about La Casa de Papel recently. What exactly is it? It looks kinda interesting.

Thank you so much for asking!

I am delighted beyond reason to have the opportunity to tell you - and by extension the entire world - why this show has cleared my skin, watered my crops, and legitimately healed my soul after this particularly soul-crushing season of Grimdark White Man Television almost broke me as a human being.

I will attempt to keep this as spoiler-free as I possibly can, because this is a show that should be experienced in the moment, but in a nutshell, La Casa de Papel is a heist show set in present-day Madrid which follows both a found family of thieves who rob the Royal Mint of Spain, and the law enforcement officials on the outside who are chasing them.

If that is enough for you, go right to your TV or computer, fire up the ol’ Netflix, and don’t waste any more time.

If, however, you need a little more, here are the top five things I flail about to every single person in my life to convince them they need to start watching this show like immediately and then come back and tell me all about it.

For visual flair, we’ll intersperse them with some gifs of ladies, because I know my audience.

5. character driving plot > plot driving character.

You know that infuriating thing lazy TV writers do where, in order to to hurry up and get to the big explosion or battle scene or dragon attack or whatever, which is the only bit they really care about, they handwave away the whole concept of motivation and make some character do something that any halfway-attentive viewer will immediately clock that they would never actually do?

There is none of that bullshit here.

In its simplest form, the plot of La Casa de Papel is as follows: a brilliant criminal mastermind devises a heist which cannot possibly go wrong, and then we proceed to watch all the ways in which it goes wrong.

This is a fantastic setup for an action story, made even more breathlessly exciting by strategic use of my favorite heist movie plot device (as perfected by Ocean’s Eleven): namely, “scene where it looks like our crime heroes have been outsmarted and are now threatened by a completely unforeseen disaster” immediately followed by “flashback to the team prepping for the heist where we learn that of course they prepared for this exact scenario.”

But from time to time, things do actually go wrong (as they must, or else there would be no story); and, when they do, it is never because you can tell a writer just wanted to write a scene where bullets go flying, and didn’t care how he got there. These characters are so clear, their behavior so consistent, that when gasp-worthy plot twists happen, they happen because of course that character, in this exact scenario, would do that exact thing.

I’m telling you, I came to this show for a ship (more on that in a minute) and I stayed for a swooning, heart-eyes writer crush on the impeccably-designed plot structure and characterization.

4. High stakes, low gore.

Tone-wise, on a sliding scale of Heist Film Intensity where a really fluffy episode of Leverage is a 1, Reservoir Dogs is a 10, and the Ocean’s franchise is somewhere in the 3-4 range, I would place La Casa at a 5 or a 6, which is perfect for me. I love action, suspense, drama and adventure, but I hate gratuitous violence (especially when it’s pointless and masturbatory and doesn’t contribute anything to the plot) and have a very low tolerance for blood and gore. So I kept waiting for the story to eventually take a hard left turn into Tarantino Land, until eventually it was all just one huge pile of dead bodies, and was genuinely surprised when it didn’t.

This is how I learned just how badly my brain has been fucked up by lazy showrunners who think shock deaths are the only way to raise stakes. During the first season of this show, before I had figured out that it was a Flawless Gem of Television Which So Far Has Not Once Disappointed Me, there were probably a dozen moments where I was absolutely convinced that some character was about to be gruesomely killed for shock value … and I was wrong every single time.

Reader, it was fucking wild.

Every single time I was convinced that person A was going to shoot person B in the head because blah blah maximum angst over here in this part of the story and then it will motivate person C to do this other thing, the show did the hard work of finding a smarter, more unexpected direction to take that character’s story. That means that when deaths do come along - and there are a couple - they feel genuinely earned, and they matter deeply to the story and to us.

3. I would die for these women.

This show loves women. Like it truly, authentically, uncompromisingly loves women in all our fucked-up messy glorious complexity. There are no “types” or cliches here; no one is forced to be only one thing. Fuck your one-dimensional Strong Female Characters, lazy writers.

For one thing, on many shows you might be lucky if you get maybe one mom who is given a personality and a story outside of motherhood. Often, on shows written by men, the fact of her motherhood diminishes her strength or her agency. On this show, nearly every one of the central female characters is both a mom and an action hero simultaneously. Seriously. By season 3 there are four different battle moms. They’re all different, they’re not all on the same side, they have different perspectives, and their role as mother impacts the story differently, but that’s the joy of having a whole lot of different kinds of women - no one has to be everything to everyone.

These women are complicated. They laugh, they cry, they crack dirty jokes, they get laid, they have babies, they fight, they make mistakes, they fall in love, they grow. Men pull sexist shit and they shut it the fuck down. Some of them have love stories, some of them don’t, but they are never defined by or triangulated around relationships with men. They get to have relationships with each other. All of them are excellent at their jobs.

Tokyo is the kind of hot mess antihero protagonist we’ve been watching middle-aged white men play for decades.

Allison is such a realistic teenage girl it’s genuinely painful to watch.

Monica has one of the best arcs I’ve ever seen on television, this is not a drill.

Alicia is terrifying. (A pregnant black ops interrogator! ON WHAT OTHER FUCKING SHOW!?!??)

Nairobi is unlike any other character you’ve seen on TV before; she’s got a little bit of Parker from Leverage, a little bit of Raven Reyes from The 100, but she’s entirely her own creature and you will fall in love with her instantly.

And Raquel. Oh, my love, my angel, my hero, Inspector Raquel Murillo. Love of my goddamn life. A fierce, kickass hostage negotiator swimming upstream against a tide of workplace misogyny who sometimes has to make the frustrating little male-appeasing compromises we all have to make to get through the workday. A beautiful, sexy, powerful heroine over 40 whose femininity isn’t diminished based on some bullshit notion that, for example, pairing your tough-bitch suit and gun holster with red toenails and a lacy blouse detracts from your strength. A loving mom and daughter who has to juggle raising a small child and caring for an aging parent with the stress of, you know, trying to stop the biggest robbery in the history of Spain. A domestic violence survivor (TW for those who need it; nothing is ever shown onscreen, but it’s discussed several times) who is given the space to discuss the things that have happened to her and how she has worked through them with such dignity, accuracy and respect that you can tell the writers did their homework.

This is a show where you can tell there are women in the writers’ room.

2. The Professor and Raquel. I don’t want to spoil a single thing for you here except to say that I myself was lured into this show by the promise of electric sexual chemistry between a criminal mastermind and the police inspector hunting him down, and my God I was not disappointed.

1. Love.

This show came into my life at a period where I was so weary of cynicism on television - so fucking furious at showrunners who dangle hope in front of us and then crush it, who only care about building anything if they can tear it down later, who treat love and fun and joy and hope and family and happiness like they’re intellectually lesser than grimdark nihilism with no soul - that I was honestly kind of broken by it. I was just so. fucking. tired. Tired of “the way we show this heroine is strong is to kill off her love interest.” Tired of “sorry but all this rape and murder is NECESSARY because of REALISM” (particularly rich when coming from shows featuring evil A.I.’s or dragons and ice zombies). Tired of getting invested in relationships - whether ships or friends or found families - only to realize that the show I was watching was always going to sacrifice character to force plot mechanics into place, and those relationships were never going to get the kind of care and focus I wanted them to get.

But that is not this show.

The single most revolutionary thing, to me, about La Casa de Papel - the thing that sets it apart from every other rollercoaster action thrill ride on television - is that every single thread of the plot is tied to love.

Every.

Single.

One.

Love of all different shapes and sizes - parents and children, friendships, doomed crushes (straight and queer), toxic exes, blossoming romances, siblings - and over it all, a deep, deep love for humanity.

The thing I said before, about how when things go wrong they go wrong in character-driven ways? It’s this. Love is why everything on this show happens. Love is what makes children want to live up to their parents and what makes parents fight to leave a better world for their children. Love is why deaths have stakes. Love is why we spend so much screentime lingering on small moments another show might ignore, like all the thieves at heist camp sitting down every night to have dinner together and argue about paella techniques. Love is what causes chaos in the middle of the heist; when there’s one person in the room you care about more than the others, you can get distracted and take your eye off the ball. Love is how your enemies can get to you, by leveraging or blackmailing the people who matter most, knowing that you’ll crack if they’re in danger. Love, gone wrong, causes toxic men to develop possessive and controlling behavior towards women. Love is how the Professor gets the idea for the heist in the first place. The plan is flawless on paper, but it doesn’t account for the human variable, and over and over again we see that relationships and connection and sex and family and love cause people to behave in unpredictable ways and throw the whole plan into chaos, which is what makes for a dynamic and compelling story.

How refreshing to see a show simply refuse to grant the oft-repeated premise that a show cannot have both high-octane thrills, and a big soft squishy heart, at the same time.

ANYWAY, I’VE TAKEN UP ENOUGH OF YOUR VALUABLE TV-WATCHING TIME, GO JUMP ON BOARD THIS TRAIN AND COME SCREAM ABOUT IDEALISTIC SPANISH ROBIN HOODS WITH ME, AND LET THE GOOD SHIP SERQUEL INTO YOUR LIFE, YOU WON’T BE SORRY

THANKS FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK

[scripttorture]

I've gone through a couple posts, so I'm not sure if you covered this. If a person is exposed to torture from a young age, would they be desensitized to it and see it as normal and thus not bat an eye? Would their reaction be different if they were the victim instead of a bystander or perpetrator? You mentioned in another post that child soldiers tend to participate in torture as well due to their environment, however you also stated many times that humans are empathetic beings.

I think this depends on what you mean by ‘desensitised’. Because someone can see an experience as normal and still be damaged by it. A trained lack of external response does not necessarily mean a person is unmoved.

 And, based on what I’ve read so far, I’d suggest that that is the most common experience of children exposed to torture from a young age. They think it’s normal. They accept it as a part of life. And it makes them ill.

 Unlearning that takes time, social support and a healthier environment.

 We can be moved by each other’s pain and still not know how to react to the world without violence.

 And- this is part of what makes rehabilitating child survivors really hard. They’re ill, they’re traumatised. That’s difficult enough with an adult. On top of that they don’t have a lot of other life experience to look to, they don’t know what ‘healthy’ is.

 And they can be violent.

 One of the really awful things that’s come out of the lack of response to Daesh is- this sudden flood of children who are traumatised, angry, without a support structure and struggling against years of being taught violence is the ‘correct’ response to the world around them.

 Introducing these children back into a community that’s traumatised often leads to other survivors viewing these kids as aggressors. They reject them.

 I can understand why. If you’re dealing with your own trauma, your own pain, it’s hard to take on someone else’s. When that someone else echoes things torturers said, when they’re sporadically violent or seem aggressive, that can be too many complex problems to expect another survivor to ‘fix’.

 Children in these situations need intensive, professional help. Generally they don’t get it.

 Essentially all of the things you’ve mentioned can be true for child survivors at the same time.

 Recovery is possible. There are a lot of cases of child soldiers, and other children who survived torture or genocide, being reintegrated into the community. These children can grow up to live full, happy lives.

 If you’d like to read about someone who survived that kind of childhood then I recommend looking up Aki Ra, who did his level best to remove all of the land mines he was forced to lay as a child.

 As with other survivors recovery does not mean the absence of symptoms. It means learning to manage and live with symptoms in a way that doesn’t interfere with what the survivor wants out of their life.

 Most of the positive outcomes I’m aware of for child soldiers involve kids who didn’t have access to professional help. What they had was constant, consistent community support. They were welcomed into a pre-prepared support network, often a religious one. And after years of hard work, support and good parenting they improved.

 Now- when it comes to a character’s reaction to being a victim, witness or torturer, well the answer depends on what you mean.

 The symptom set is the same across these categories regardless of age. There are behavioural differences in children, ie they tend to express their symptoms in different ways to adults. But I don’t know much about childhood development so I don’t feel confident speaking about differences based on age.

 A character in any of these categories could be traumatised. For a torture victim or a torturer trauma is guaranteed*, however when it comes to witnessing some individuals may be traumatised and others may not be. If a character has witnessed torture once and has experienced no other traumatic events a lack of symptoms is within the realm of possibility. But the more traumatic events like torture they’ve witnessed the more likely it is that they’d develop symptoms.

 But symptoms alone don’t really tell you much about a character’s emotional reaction and how they process or justify things.

 You asked about resistance specifically and given the context of the question I’m interpreting that as meaning opposition to torturers.

 This is a common response in both torture victims and people who witness torture. In political struggles it’s a powerful recruitment tool for the opposing side. I’ve not seen anything to suggest that changes with age. In fact a few of the survivor accounts from children kidnapped to be soldiers talk about witnessing torture as- the thing that made them decide to risk their lives and attempt escape.

 But torturers don’t express this. They don’t talk about having sympathy for their victims and they don’t seem to feel driven to oppose each other. Even though they’re clearly effected in the same ways, because they manifest the same symptoms.

 I’m not a psychologist so I’m not sure how well founded my suggestions here will be.

 That said- Based on a combination of what torturers say and what they do I think torturers spend a lot of energy denying their instinctive emotional and physical responses to torture.

 They re-frame brutality as proof of their strength, ‘toughness’ and dedication. They deny the fact they’re experiencing symptoms up until the point they collapse.

 This is exacerbated by the social structures they build up. Torturers don’t function alone. They work in groups. The toxic hyper-masculine subculture these groups build up means any sign of ‘weakness’ is dangerous.

 Torturers have a marked tendency to turn on each other because they see themselves as locked in competition with each other. This means they egg each other on to more and more brutality. It also means that any sign of sympathy or illness could be met with violence at worst and being thrown out of the social circle at best.

 Given the way they behave towards each other, well I suppose you could argue that torturers do act in opposition to each other. Not in ways that stop other members of the group from torturing or in ways that oppose torture. But they are competing, the comradery they display towards each other is understood to be fragile.

 They know that the group could turn on them at any point.

 And this makes any admission of the effect torture has on them a big risk.

 Ex-torturers do sometimes talk about the effect torture had on them in a way that is- almost sympathetic to the victim. They talk about things like recurrent nightmares and particular events or images becoming intrusive memories. They talk about finding particular things grotesque.

 But they tend to talk about these things in a way that’s at a slight remove. They acknowledge that what happened was awful but in a way that almost makes it sound as if they played no part in it.

 They talk about torture in a way that focuses on their pain, or regret or symptoms with no real consideration for the victims or reflection on the fact that they caused this.

 And like I said, I’m not a mental health professional. I don’t really know the underlying reasons why they do this.

 Perhaps it’s the only way they can keep themselves going.

 With child soldiers in particular we’re talking about a group of extremely vulnerable people who are coerced into participating in torture.

 I don’t have enough data to reach definite conclusions about their responses because they are often both victims and perpetrators.

 That said, from a few anecdotal accounts, there may be a difference between individuals who embrace the ideology/group that kidnapped them and those who don’t. The former group tends to survive longer in the group and that may also be a factor.

 But the older individuals who have participated in a lot of atrocities and appear to embrace the armed group they’re part of- my judgement of the interviews is that they sound more like torturers when they express their views on events.

 Younger individuals who escape (and I have access to more interviews of this type) tend to express regret, revulsion and a deeper understanding of the harm they inflicted. They also tend to emphasise that it wasn’t ‘their fault’ and that they were forced to act the way they did.

 There’s a sense in which both responses can be seen as a survival strategy: the former for life within the armed group and the latter for life in a group of survivors. That- is not a suggestion that either response is a conscious choice. Just an observation that both responses make survival more likely in one group and less likely in the other.

 I hope that answers your questions. It’s not a simple answer, or a short one. These are complicated scenarios.

 The question of when a child stops becoming a victim and starts becoming a collaborator has been plaguing us for- well since the advent of warfare. And the ‘correct’ ethical response is not a one-size-fits-all stamp-

 Perhaps if we had worked out a better way to deal with torturers we would have a better answer for these children, one that acknowledges both the harm done to them and the harm they caused.

 *We think that the mechanism that leads to torturers becoming traumatised is the same as the one that leads to witnesses being traumatised. But the intensity of the violence someone is exposed to makes a difference. Torturers do not generally see torture only once; they see multiple incidences a day, every day for months or years at a time.

Availableon Wordpress.

Disclaimer

[txladyj-blog]

Chapter 8 - This Time Around

a Daryl Dixon x OFC collaboration written by @xmistressmistrustx​

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: Daryl Dixon/Original Female Character

Tags: Friendship, Friends to Lovers, Awkwardness, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Crush, Fluff and Humor, Angst and Humor, Mild Smut, Strong Language, Eventual Sex, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence, Some Canon Scenes and Dialogue

Chapters 23/?

Human nature. With all its complexities and flaws, was now the one thing that presided over a land filled with the dead. True human nature, in its most naked, exposed and unapologetic form was now both the best and worst of the world. Jess had seen the best and worst of it from her spot in the city and had managed to live, unnoticed by any survivors passing through. She’d witnessed grown men put themselves in harms way, sacrificing themselves to save children too slow and small to keep up the running pace of the adults in their group as she’d watched from her perch on the corner of the roof. In contrast, she’d stared in horror as another group simply tossed a woman out of a truck like last night’s burger wrapper, onto the street in order to slow down a small herd. She’d been bitten before Jess could grab her bow and race down the stairs. In an act of mercy that allowed her to prove to herself that she was still on the good side of human nature, she’d shot the woman in the head from the roof with a well-placed arrow and spent all night replaying the look of pure terror etched onto the stranger’s face.

Yes, human nature was complicated and destructive, inspiring and devastating. A double-edged sword. Jess was better off on her own, that much was true, but she did miss the conversation, the debate, the ideas swapping over hot chocolates and the late-night hilarity that came from a few glasses of beer and games of pool in a bar. Those days were gone and now all she had in the way of company was a reanimated dead body at the bottom of the elevator shaft and a huge stuffed bear wearing an army jacket that now took up it’s place opposite her on the roof, a stale birthday cake waited to be devoured between them on an upturned, wooden box.

“Well, Sgt Pepper. Looks like it’s just you and I celebrating another trip around the sun.” she commented as she held her glass aloft.

Merle had finished off all the whiskey and she knew better than to go scrounging for more. It wasn’t a necessity and she wasn’t about to get herself killed for a bout of nausea and a fuzzy head the next day.

The bear was tatty, threads pulled from his ears and his jacket splattered with dried blood. Jess found him in the next apartment block where he’d been positioned proudly on the pillow of a perfectly made bed in a room decorated for that of a young adult. On the floor were three bodies, two adults and a girl around 13 years old. Jess carefully nudged each one with her foot as she passed. The bullet holes in their heads told her that they hadn’t turned and like many of the people that chose to remain in the city, they thought suicide to be a better prospect than the exhausting slog to survive day by day. It hurt Jess’s heart to think that some souls felt there was no other way, but it wasn’t an option she could say she hadn’t considered at least once while she resided in her fortress of loneliness.

It was a no brainer to her. She had to leave with that bear. He reminded her so much of her own childhood companion, jacket and all. Her father had gifted it to her and during every tour and every training exercise, she found comfort in the military bear that she had dubbed ‘Sgt Pepper’. Aware that if any other survivors were passing through and saw her, she would look positively ridiculous, scurrying across the rooftops with a huge stuffed animal under her arm. But just as before the turn, she wasn’t going to change who she was to suit anyone else. Especially not in the apocalypse.

“You say it's your birthday” She sang at the bears pinned and permanent smile. She sipped the soda in the glass and slapped her other hand on her thigh to create a beat. “It's my birthday too, yeah”. She paused, looking up at Sgt Pepper as if his plastic eyes would change their expression and for a fleeting second, she was disappointed when they remained exactly the same. She raised the glass to him for a second time. “They say it's your birthday, we’re gonna have a good time” She thudded the glass on the box and began to pluck at imaginary guitar strings, closing her eyes and leaning to one side. “I'm glad it's your birthday, Happy birthday to you!” The Beatles were her favourite band ever since she was a child and that was not something that was going to change just because they and their audience weren't around anymore. Jess was still there and as long as she was, so was her love of their music. She'd found headphones while scavenging, even and old portable CD player, but her rule of keeping a clear head and always being aware of her surroundings meant that the headphones went untouched and she was reduced to singing to herself to stave off the boredom and silence. It wasn't a problem to her, she knew all of the lyrics anyway and there was no one but Ben and Sgt Pepper to complain about it.

Her eyes lowered to the dried birthday cake. Three, colored, marzipan Balloons floated across the top and the rim was adorned with cracked and discolored frosting. The chances of a strong bout of stomach cramps after consuming it were high, but it was her birthday and she was going to have a damn cake if she wanted to. A single candle flame flickered in the center of the off-white frosting and as she blew it out, she wished that she would survive long enough to see mother nature take back the earth. To reclaim what was hers and what was destroyed by the arrogance of human nature. She wanted to see vines and branches seep into the cracks of buildings, pulling them apart and turning them into a ghostly mirage of what once was. But through it all, she wanted to be around, content and safe and able to live into her old age while still being the survivor she had realized she really was.

She also wished for something else; that one day, Daryl would know how much he inspired her. If nothing else, she wanted that for him. Without his guidance, his training and his words, she was certain she would be dead. He may have broken her heart, but at one point, somewhere in between all the angst and anger, he believed in her. She regretted not writing it in the note she left pinned to the tree but time was of the essence and she had to think quickly. Now, when she thought back to the good times spent tracking and hunting in the woods, putting Walkers down and making fun of one another, it made her smile. A smile that was not through genuine happiness. Far from it. It was a smile of sadness for times that she desperately missed. But they were times of blissful ignorance of how he really felt, times based on a lie. She pressed her eyes shut and quickly shook the thoughts from her head. She watched the thin, sliver of smoke drift up from the wick. Picking up a plastic fork, she stabbed the cake and shoveled a large piece of the sponge into her mouth. Wincing at the dryness, she chewed and swallowed hard. It was like eating sand.

“Happy fuckin’ birthday to me.” She sighed.

She had resorted to guessing the time of day by using a sundial or her hands against the horizon from the roof. Her knowledge of such historical practices had proved to be invaluable and she now appreciated her interests much more than she ever did before the turn. The night was creeping in, dulling the view from the roof and creating a cold sting in the air. There was just enough time for some target practice.

The streets below the apartment were far from clear. Walkers milled in and our of side streets and alleys, some amassed in the middle of the road and if it wasn’t for Jess’s diversion tactics from time to time, she was sure the street she lived on would be clogged with festering corpses by now. Fireworks were usually the best, she’d found. They seemed to like fireworks. The dreamer in her liked to think that maybe the noise and the colors stirred something deep inside their mainly inoperative brains, some kind of distant memory of 4th July firework shows or new year celebrations. But the realist side of her knew differently. Now, they were even lower than most animals, driven to move by sounds but completely devoid of thought or any type of feeling. Just shells.

She picked up her bow and slid on her bracers as she approached the small wall that lined the edge of the roof. The faint murmur of the odd, swaying Walker was the only sound that rose from the scene below. Taking a peek over the edge, she nodded in approval at the numbers.

“That’ll do.” She said to herself before picking up a small, children’s chalkboard that rested against the inside of the wall. Her eyes flickered over the names on the list, selecting the first one and shuffling forwards to get into position.

“OK, Madonna. Are you out tonight?”

With one foot placed in front of the other, her body turned and her stance strong, she raised the bow and nocked an arrow. She smiled when she noticed her. A blonde woman with wavy, hair wearing what appeared to be a thin, satin nightgown. She wasn’t as designer clad as the real thing, but she would suffice as a target. She drew the bow string back and exhaled slowly as she took aim. The Arrow embedded in the side of the Walkers head as if it was nothing but a bag of sand and she hit the floor, causing the others around her to start shuffling towards her.

“Oof!” She exclaimed with a fist pumped in the air. “That one was a ten pointer. Sorry, Madonna.” She marked her score on the chalkboard next to the name and checked her next target.

Sarah.

It was now a habit, each time she re-filled the board with names, Sarah and Jodie’s would always be mixed in somewhere. Jess was never one to remain bitter or hold grudges, too many so-called friends had come and gone over the years to make sure she’d got used to it. But she was also never one to not make an exception for some things. When she was feeling low and having a bad day, the list of names on the board changed and she wondered at one point if she should indulge in an ‘abhorrent people target practice day’ once a week, where Sarah and Jodie’s names could mingle with the likes of Hitler, Robert Mugabe and Vlad the Impaler. But it was yet to happen because she wasn’t bitter. Not at all. Or, so she told herself as she chose a doppelganger of Sarah and took aim.  

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Ben was hanging on the bars of the elevator gate when she descended the stairs, his arms were loosely draped through the gaps and his face was pushed against the cold metal. She lifted a hand in acknowledgement before sitting down on the bottom step in front of him and seeing him try to reach out to her. She held her hand out, gently tickling his grasping, blackened fingertips in what could have been seen as a gesture of affection.

“Hey dude. So, my birthday cake tasted like feet but it was one hell of a pity party you missed.”

The sound of her voice was like fuel for Ben. He instantly began to clamber up from his spot, hanging through the gate and started to snarl at her, his mouth hanging open and his teeth bared.

“Not that I know what feet taste like.” She added, her eyes locking on his now cloudy, pale and blinded orbs. “I guess you might though. Depending on how long you’ve been locked in there.”

Stepping back, Ben’s arms dropped from the grate and he stumbled backwards, his body hitting the back of the elevator and causing it to shake. A slight jingle caught her attention and she froze, straining her ears. As he moved back towards her, his pocket gave off a tinkling sound and Jess quickly put the pieces of the puzzle together. Many a week had passed when she’d been sitting on that same step engrossed in a one-way conversation with the dead man trapped inside his cell. Sometimes she even contemplated if he really would try to hurt her if she managed to somehow release him from the confined space he occupied. But then she reminded herself of her own naivety and how that kind of thinking could get her killed. Ben was a Walker. A mindless, stinking, lump of useless flesh but still a predator in his own right.  

“You have the goddamn keys to the elevator in your pocket, don’t you?” She asked him.

He stilled and her eyebrows raised. She knew better than to think he could understand her, but it was strange nonetheless. The keys would change everything. She could get him out of there and actually make use of him. She sprang up from her spot.

“I have an idea. Wait here.” She told him. After striding up two steps she rolled her eyes and sighed at her own stupidity.

Like he’s going to go anywhere.

When she returned, she placed her supplies in front of her; a cylindrical block of wood with a dish cloth tightly wound around it, attached at either end to a string of thick, rubber bands, a hockey mask and a length of rope tied into a slipknot. Another one of her skills acquired from the thousands of books she had now amassed in her apartment. She paced back and forth for a few moments, observing how Ben followed her every move from behind the barrier like a magnet. Although she was almost certain he was blind, he was completely obsessed with her and she huffed with amusement when she figured that he was only guy that had ever been obsessed with her…and he was dead.

She picked up the block of wood and tilted her head to the side, it would fit through the gaps perfectly but her task was not going to be easy. Her left arm was covered with three, thick layers of tape, strapped over a Kevlar sleeve and glove in case Ben fancied a snack halfway through his rescue mission. She was now glad of her forethought. She threaded her arm through the grid, silently and without rattling the metal. Ben, who could detect no sound whatsoever, merely peered around through his useless eyes as she used her armor covered hand to quickly grasp the back of his head. He jolted and began to gnash at her, the sounds bubbling up from his throat as his lips parted provoking a rush of bile from her own stomach. She couldn’t have prepared for the smell or the sound of liquidated, rotting human organs no matter how much she knew about Walkers. She snapped his head back as he grabbed a hold of her police issue vest and dragged her forwards, slamming her body against the gate. With her other hand, she managed to wedge the piece of wood so far between his jaws that they became locked in position. She quickly stretched the string of bands over his head, creating a most macabre and brutal gag but an effective one regardless.

He thrashed and growled, throwing himself at the gate over and over until Jess was able to shove a hand into his pocket and pulled out the biggest bunch of keys she had ever seen. Her heart dropped as she stepped back and sat down, the racket of Ben desperately trying to get to her now drowned out by just how many keys she had to contend with.

“Guys got the keys to every lock in the city on here.” She mumbled.

She began sorting through them, checking the branding on the lock and looking for a match. She must have gone through at least twenty keys before she stopped and pinched one particular one between her fingers. She looked up at the lock again.

“Nova” She whispered.

The key boasted the exact same branding. She stood up, moved closer to the lock and slid the key into the chamber. Holding onto the gate as tightly as she could, she gently and quietly turned the key, a subtle click made her smile. She’d found it. The whole time he’d been locked inside, Ben possessed the key to his freedom all along. At first, she didn’t know if someone else had thrown him in there but now it was evident; he’d been bitten and locked himself in.

“That was noble of you. But this is my apartment complex now and you’re going to earn your keep.” She quipped, swiping up the hockey mask and rope from the floor. She shoved the mask under her arm and released the lock, slowly sliding the gate back. The rattling noise sent Ben into a frenzy and he collided with the gap she’d created in the gate with such force that she doubted her ability to follow through with her plan for a moment. She took a deep breath, reached into the gap and snapped the mask over his gagged face. Next, she threw the rope around his neck and pulled it tight before throwing the gate open.

He threw himself at her, knocking the mask against the side of her face while she tried to tighten her grip on the rope enough to keep his head away from hers.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m pleased to see you too buddy.” She remarked.

Ben couldn’t have been more than 30 years old when he was alive and Jess gathered that even thought he was now deceased and extremely dangerous, he was once a good-looking guy. She felt a pang of sympathy for such a wasted life. But what else was left to hang around for? The experience of wresting the undead from elevators and up the stairs to a roof wasn’t one she’d wish on anyone else. By the time she’d maneuvered him to the top of the steps and shoved open the heavy, metal door to the roof, he’d quieted considerably. Jess knew Walkers didn’t get tired; they no longer possessed the brain capacity to register fatigue. Nor were they able to come to the conclusion that something wasn’t worth the trouble. She didn’t know why he became more compliant, but she certainly wasn’t about to complain.

Tying him to a pipe inside a ramshackle, wooden shed. She stood back and looked him over, pleased with her efforts and feeling triumphant at the result. She now had a moving target, a sparring partner and little did Ben know; he was about to become her Sensei.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

She’d lost track of time. It had been months, she knew that to be a fact, but just how many had escaped her. Her need to journal would have helped keep tabs on just how long she’d been housed in the apartment block in the city, but she had Sgt Pepper and Ben and she chattered away to them without a care in the world, dispelling her darkest fears and her inner most private thoughts. There wasn’t a need to write everything down anymore, not in a world where no one and everyone was listening all at once. If she tried to guess, she looked at her crops which filled the balcony and most of the rooftop, they were huge, prospering in the summertime and struggling during the winter. But they still existed she thought it had maybe been close to a year that she’d lived alone.

People below had come and gone. Rarely was it that anyone would try her apartment. If they did, they found it to be locked up tighter than a secret military camp and soon moved on when they realized the noise and time it would take to enter such a building while surrounded by Walkers just wasn’t worth it. In so many months she had uttered hardly a word to anyone but Merle, who’s absence was felt much greater than she ever would have expected or would care to admit.

Training with Ben was one of life’s perks, she enjoyed experiencing the change in not only her body, but her mind as she jabbed and kicked her way into a full, self-defense skill set using a dead guy as her fake attacker. She goaded him, riled him up until he would lunge at her and swipe with his arms and kick out with his legs. His hands constantly grabbed for her, the need to taste human flesh far too great for him to ignore. But Ben could only go as far as his leash allowed and his hockey mask was eventually replaced each evening before he was led back to his shack.

Gunfire interrupted one sparring session during a hot, summers evening and Jess’s head snapped around while the rest of her body completely froze. Ben also stilled and started to jolt and snarl at the source of the bangs. It was close, much too close for comfort. She wiped the sweat from her brow and eyes and crept to the edge of the roof, her heart almost stopped at the view below.

Is that a…a TANK?!

Driving towards her corner apartment block with a speed that couldn’t be easily stopped, was an M1 Abrams Tank. Jess had seen them many times before, a sight that Army brats tended to get used to. It was flanked by a dozen, heavily armed men with their weapons pointed at the door to her block. Her chest constricted when she heard them start to jeer and her eyes clocked another vehicle turn a corner at the top of the street. A large, black truck that was equipped with an animal cage on the flatbed. Inside the cage, was a screaming woman. She scanned each face as quickly as she could. Blackened teeth. Then, she observed their hands and movements. Tremors. Poor coordination. She’d read about the depths some humans would reach on the moral scale in a post-apocalyptic situation. Fear raged through her body and she stumbled back when the tank collided with the door on the ground floor.

I have to get out of here.

The building shook and she whirled around, her mind racing and her heart hammering. Adrenaline began to surge through her veins, urging her to remove herself from the threat. She grabbed Ben’s rope and sprinted to the roof door. Dragging him down the steps, sweat trickled into her eyes and she cursed the timing of the attack above all things.

Could have waited until training was over. Jesus.

Crashing through the door to her apartment, she fastened Ben’s rope to the radiator and he thrashed and clawed at her as she dashed around the living space, filling her bag with handguns and supplies. She quickly slipped on anything Kevlar or armored she could find and collected what seemed like millions of arrows from almost every room. Now, there was shouting ringing out from the floors below.

“Place is cleared. Someone lives here, keep searching!” ordered a man’s voice that she could just about make out as a muffled sound through the floorboards. They were on the floor below. She had to be fast. Now wasn’t the time for sentiment, now, she had to be practical, smart and stealthy. She threw the backpack she’d lifted from yet another dead policeman onto her back, the barrels of the guns inside poked at her back but she paid it no mind as she collected her primary weapon, her bow from the hook on the back of the front door. A machete nudged against her leg as she walked, pinned there by the loop on its handle around the belt loop on her pants. She quickly freed it, clutching it in her hand as she adjusted her backpack. She stopped and looked at Ben.

He was glaring at her with his white eyes in the middle of the room, his rope was pulled taut and his neck tendons protruded. His hands were locked out in front of him with his fingers fanned out. She could hear the men clearly now, they were on the other side of the door and with every harsh bang of the wood in the frame, her heart jumped. She closed the gap between her and the corpse. Taking hold of one of his hands but not allowing him to pull her any closer. She gradually shifted his position in the room and gently squeezed his fingers.

“Don’t let me down” She whispered.

She raised the machete, sliced through his rope and ripped the wooden gag from his mouth. Then, she turned on her heels, taking hold of the window frame and diving through the gap. Outside, she slammed the window shut and watched as Ben’s hands slapped against the glass.

“Slow ‘em down, buddy. Thanks for the lessons.” She smiled.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Daryl chewed his bottom lip as he adjusted his position on the rickety, prison mattress. His back was pressed against the wall and no matter how hard he tried, she couldn’t shake the thought that of all the places the group could have ended up, a prison had to be one of them. He hated being forced to sleep in a cage and live behind heavy, clanking doors. Even the sound of Rick’s keys irritated him. Rick, the leader. Rick the prison guard.

He wasn’t a regular at the Georgia Department of Corrections like his brother. But he’d been on the wrong side of the law just enough to know what staring at the same four walls, sitting at the same metal table and taking a dump in the same room that you sleep in was like. Charges for drug possession and fighting were hardly the kind of things he wanted to share with the rest of the group and so, he kept himself to himself, merely stating that he’d rather sleep outside of the cells. That was when he slept at all.

In his hands, he held a newly carved bolt for his crossbow. His ability to make them had improved some over the months and it was now second nature to him to create as many as possible while sat around, babysitting his brother who was locked in the cell opposite him.

Merle hadn’t managed to track Daryl down since leaving the city. Instead, he’d come across another group of survivors led by a callous psychopath and had slotted perfectly into his role as the main foot soldier. Everything had been fine and dandy for Merle at first, he was given a metal prosthetic arm with a removable bayonet attachment which meant he was never short of a weapon against the undead. He had a roof over his head, food in his belly and medicine at his disposal. Above all else, he had a purpose, a job that he did well and with gusto. That was, until Daryl appeared in front of him. The Atlanta groups run in with the Governor and his community has resulted in a lot of pain, injuries, fear and grudges, some of it at the hands of Merle, who was at the center of it all, but he was Daryl’s blood and he had made it clear that now they were together again, he would not be parted from Merle again. Initially, the two of them left the group and headed into the woods, but things were not as they used to be. Daryl had changed and with it, Merle felt outcast, even from the lifelong bond the two of them had shared since Daryl had entered the world as a sensitive and observant child. Merle quickly realized that Daryl had a code that he stuck by no matter what. A code that meant others were put before himself which infuriated and baffled Merle. A fight in the woods revealed a childhood trauma that they both shared, much to Merle’s surprise. He was aware that Daryl was a witness to violence in their household, but the extent of which was only evident upon a scuffle in which Daryl’s shirt was ripped, revealing deep, scarred lacerations to his skin. Then, everything changed.

Daryl made it clear that he was going back to the prison. Back to the group he belonged with and Merle had the choice to either walk away or try to make nice with the others. Being parted from his little brother for a second time was the less favorable option and so, Merle decided to tag along with Daryl. Upon their arrival at the fences, they found the place under attack from Walkers and although Merle helped to save lives, he was still bundled into a cell and scowled at by every other member of the group. No one had forgotten the things he had done and no one was about to forgive and forget.

“The hell were ya doin, running with that psycho?” Daryl asked.

Merle was leaning on the bars, his good hand smoothing a thumb around the edging of his prosthetic stump. His hooded, weathered eyes fixed on his brother. He found it difficult to believe that someone could change as much as Daryl had. He saw him, carrying out orders for Rick, going out on runs alone, doing as he was told. It was unlike the Daryl he’d grown up with, yet he’d always known that his baby brother was more emotionally driven than he had ever been.

“Everybody’s a psycho now, little brother. Everybody’s got a gun, a kill number and a big ol’ chip on their shoulder. Hell, I’d be more worried if some sommbitch walked up to me with his mitts in his pockets.” He reasoned with a small shrug.

Daryl shook his head in disbelief at his brother’s casual attitude to his actions. Merle was never one to take responsibility for anything, least of all his misgivings. Apparently, the end of the world hadn’t changed that in him.

“They ain’t never gonna trust ya, ya know that, right?” Daryl confirmed.

“Yeah, I know.” Merle agreed with a hint of exasperation in his voice. Daryl went back to carving his bolts, slicing through thin pieces of wood with his sharp hunting knife. “I don’t know why I do the things I do. I’m a damn mystery to me.” Merle added.

Daryl scoffed and glanced up from his task.

“You’re a dumb ass, man.” He mumbled.

They both huffed in amusement and Merle couldn’t help but revisit the last few months and how he’d come to be locked up in a cell, even after everyone died and started eating one another. Was this really where he was meant to be? Maybe he was bad through and through, just like their daddy used to say. Maybe he didn’t deserve any more chances after the one he’d been given in the city. Then, he remembered her. Jess.  

“Remember the little, fat chick from the quarry?” He asked.

Daryl's body tensed and his eyes slowly worked back up from his bolt. He remembered her. Of course, he did. He thought about her every single day, especially when he closed his eyes at night. He wished he could wake up one day and she’d just be there, having never ran away. He remembered her because she was the only person he’d managed to connect with in his entire, sorry life.

“What ‘bout her?” he rasped.

“I seen her” Merle stated, his expression becoming smug as he straightened up and tilted his head back, looking down his nose at Daryl.

“She’s alive?!” Daryl exclaimed as he sat up to gain a better view of his brother’s expression. It was not lost on him that this could all be a lie to get him out of the cell.

“Was a few months back, mind. But yeah, all in one piece.” Merle told him.

Daryl stood up, dropping his knife and bolt and slowly approaching the cell door.

“Where is she?” he wanted to know.

Merle grunted and rubbed his face as he watched Daryl’s entire demeanor change. He was becoming irritated at the lack of information and it was apparent to Merle that Jess meant something to him, after all.

“Asked me to keep my mouth shut about that part.”

With his teeth locked together and his breathing increasing, Daryl began to stalk back and forth in front of the cell door, his boots scuffing on the smooth surface of the floor. He no longer thought it was a lie. He knew well enough that Jess would have made herself known if she wanted to, especially by then. After all, he found a note to prove it.

“She don’t wanna be found, kid. Let it go.” Merle added.

He stopped his pacing and let out a loud sigh. This kind of discussion was rare for the Dixons, it involved a degree of emotion and honestly which was something Merle didn’t seem to possess and Daryl managed to hide extremely well. Until the mention of her name.

“She doin OK?” He questioned “Least tell me that much. Please”

“She’s good. She’s real smart.” Merle nodded.

Picking up a pile of previously carved arrows from a table, Daryl began to sift through them with his fingertips. It looked to Merle like he was counting them, but he knew Daryl better than he knew himself. He was using them as a distraction. Merle didn’t even flinch when Daryl angrily threw the handful of wood onto the floor, the sound was like a million pencils falling from a table and rolling across the ground.

“Just tell me where she is!” Daryl raged.

Merle couldn’t help it when the corners of his mouth lifted into a small smile.

“Ooof! You got it bad, huh, boy?”

“Shut up.” Daryl hissed, turning his back and trying to calm himself. His shoulders heaved as he breathed. “I’m your fuckin’ brother” He muttered, hearing a rasped growl from behind him. A glance over his shoulder told him that Merle did really want to tell him as he witnessed him lean his head on the bars and close his eyes.

“I owe her, OK? She did right by me. Mans only as good as his word.” Merle explained.

Daryl spun around, his face now enraged and reddening fast, his eyes were filled with the kind of anger that Merle had usually only seen when the two of them fought and it was never the same kind of rage that presented itself in a fight with anyone else. It was different. It was real.

“Word?! WORD?! You can’t be fuckin’ serious! Your word counts for shit, Merle! You tortured Glenn and Maggie so don’t start pretendin’ you’re some good guy, ya ain’t!” Daryl yelled.

“I ain’t no good guy but I got a code. Just like you.” Merle retorted.

Stooping down to collect his arrows, Daryl knew he had to remove himself from the building or he would end up strangling the truth out of his own brother. With all of the arrows gripped in his hand, he pointed them at Merle and narrowed his gaze.

“If they wanna starve ya, I’mma let ‘em. If they wanna torture ya, I’mma walk away. I ain’t doin’ nothin’ for ya until ya tell me where Jess is. They can keep ya in that damn cage for all I care.”

Before he could think of an answer, Merle was left alone in the room with nothing but the fading echo of the door slamming for company.

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Jess was running for so long that her feet were starting to burn and her knees were seizing up. She needed to stop somewhere and rest but being snared by the group of men with the black teeth and the woman in the cage was a thought that struck pure terror into her soul. She was sure she’d rather be eaten by Walkers than trapped with such a group. She’d stayed away from any roads, trekking through woodland and climbing over fences to remain undetected. Her clothing had helped keep her under the radar; a tight, black Kevlar top covered with her police vest and a black, hooded jacket. Dark camouflage cargo pants, black hand gun holsters and a mask that covered her mouth with a plastic outer shell that she had found on a dead biker as she fled the city.

Her bag was starting to feel heavier with every step as she approached a small town filled with abandoned cars. It looked as though people may have tried to settle there after the outbreak and the vehicles were left in a panic. She surged forwards, trying each car, looking for keys and gas. If she could just find one with enough to get her further away from the city, she could take some time to rest up. Darkness enveloped the town and birds and crickets sang a chorus as she wound her way through the cars, pleading with whatever deity would listen to just give her a break.

Then, her prayers were answered. A station wagon filled with boxes of clothes roared to life and to Jess’s delight, the tank was almost full. She set to work removing all the boxes, lightening the load so the gas wouldn’t be consumed as quickly and settled in the front seat. She pulled the door closed and drove off. Her destination was unknown but as far away from the city as she could get would be a start.

It was days before the truck ran out of gas and Jess had managed to put many, many miles in between her and the group that had almost captured her. On her journey, she’d swept through houses and collected anything she could carry on foot. She slept in buildings where they could be secured and had more than one exit, consumed any food she found in strict intervals, ensuring it lasted as long as possible and continued in the same direction she’d been travelling in for two weeks. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for in a settlement, just that it had to be safe, away from other people and walkers and with the capacity to be self-sustainable. Then, she found the boat.

Situated in the middle of a lake, accessible only by a large, fortified gate at the end of a dirt track that was well hidden from any passersby, Jess thought it might have been an old quarry due to its similarities to the old camp. The top of the gate was covered with razor wire and she narrowly avoided being sliced to ribbons when she caught her backpack on the barbs. But a rigorous wiggle and some quick thinking had literally saved her skin. The boat was so far away from the shoreline that Jess accepted that she had to use a canoe that was moored by a jetty. The water appeared to be untouched and there wasn’t a walker in sight. But chances weren’t to be taken when the dead roam the earth and she had to be sure. A collection of rocks of all sizes ended up in the lake, she threw them out as far as she could, trying to cause a stir and encourage any swimming walkers to rise to the surface. But nothing came to pass. By the evening, she’d hunted a rabbit and cooked it over a small fire on the beach. Using the skin attached to a tree branch, she dangled it in the water as the sun was going down and pondered how relaxing the place seemed.

“Huh. Walker fishing.” She mumbled to herself.

When nothing happened and the rabbit skin floated off the branch and out into the body of water, she decided to risk rowing out to the boat. Much to her surprise, the water was crystal clear and she spotted fish swimming below. Her stomach growled, the stringy, fatty meat of a rabbit hardly sufficing when such plump, and apparently disease-free fish were swimming all around her.

I need a fishing rod.

Climbing aboard, it was clear that she was not stood on a regular boat. This was luxurious, spacious and well looked after. The deck was starting to show signs of disrepair but it was a far cry from the dilapidated state of some of the houses she’d stayed in. She crept inside, sweeping the rooms one by one and eventually finding the inhabitants of the vessel. A middle-aged couple on the double bed in the largest bedroom of three. Both wrapped in an embrace in the middle of a mass of bottles of pills. She moved into the room, draping a sheet over them and resting her hand on the man’s arm.

“I hope you’re at peace. The world sure isn’t”

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Merle stared at the dangerous, powerful and very angry black woman in the passenger seat of his car. She was not one to be messed with and that explained why he needed to knock her out before bundling her into the car and driving her to the Governor. It was all the man wanted. Michonne was responsible for his life changing injury after taking one of his eyes out with her samurai sword. Now, he wanted revenge and Merle was more than aware that if the Governor didn’t get what he wanted; he would obliterate the entire group. The group his brother was a part of.

“So, he takes you in, cleans you up and feeds you a load of bullshit. Why would you kill someone else for him?” She asked.

Merle didn’t answer, his eyes were on the road but his attention was elsewhere, with the safety of his brother back at the prison. He didn’t want to be there, handing Michonne over to the man that would ultimately torture and kill her was most definitely not something he wanted to do. But there were little options that he could see. Only he knew the true wrath of the Governor.

“We could go back. You and me. We could just go back.” She suggested.

“Ain’t gonna happen.” He commented.

“Why?”

Her eyes were bearing into his soul and wished he could put into words the things that were circulating in his mind. He had killed sixteen people since he’d been with the governor. Before that, he’d killed none. It dawned on him that Michonne was right, why would he kill any more people when he did have another way out? The alternative was less appealing and altogether more permanent. But it was an alternative nevertheless. He stopped the car and raised his prosthetic hand, the bayonet was fixed to the end. Michonne leaned back slightly in her seat, wondering if he might slit her throat there and then and cut out all the talking. Instead, Merle hooked the blade through her wire handcuffs and cut her free.

“You go back. I got somethin’ I gotta do on my own.” He told her, nodding towards the door. “But you’re gonna tell my brother somethin’ for me.”

NEXT CHAPTER

[perfectly-balanced]

I promise you, on my oath as a doctor, that this is not an attempt at an argument. I merely wish to help humanity stabilize. I figure it would be best to take each question one at a time because I suspect each has a complex answer. My first is about a medical supply chain. As you can imagine, the loss of so many people disrupted the flow and production of medical devices, medications, etc. Do you have advice on stabilizing that in the short and long term?

Yes, that is a wise way to go about asking because your question is complicated and will require an equally complicated answer. I will start with the long term, because it is much simpler to discuss as it is a much more easily digestible and pleasant answer for you.

First of all, we have similar goals, as my intention was not simply to wipe out half of all life, but also to gradually rebuild what remains into a better, more efficient society, namely by ensuring it is under my control. That includes the medical system.

As things were before, the ones responsible for producing said medications and such were not altruistic people such as yourself, and in many cases they weren’t even professionals. 

They were companies, looking to profit off of vulnerable people by lying to them and taking advantage and feeding them what basically amounts to poison. Highly addictive poison. There was little regulation, and little understanding of just what they were pushing out into the public. It was entirely irresponsible and manipulative.

And obviously, with no other solution, the masses had no choice but to rely on these corrupt businessmen to provide what they needed to survive and function just because they had a monopoly on the industry. Like the food industry, the medical industry was highly flawed and unsustainable, because it was solely driven by a desire for income and abundance.

Devices and medications were made to minimal possible standards, and doled out to people who didn’t even need them, for insane prices, all so the elite could keep building their revenue and power while the people were kept under control and drugged up. 

Like food, medication and equipment were hoarded by the wealthy and sitting away on shelves in warehouses or being taken by people who didn’t even need them but simply could afford them, while people all over the world who actually did need them went without. The balance was nonexistent, and I won’t allow this system to stand. 

Instead, like food and other necessities, the medical industry will no longer be an independent ‘industry’ as such, but a section of my government. That way, it eliminates the incentive and opportunity for the people making and dispensing it to have ulterior motives for doing so and ensures fair and equal access.

You and other medical personnel will not be paid to provide or endorse the medication and equipment, it will be provided to the patients for free under the discretion and monitoring of a medical professional to make sure it is actually needed and properly used.

This is the end game, to have a system that is controlled by my administration with as little complications and middle men as possible. Not only that, but all of your equipment and medications will gradually be tested and phased out to make room for new ones that have been created by me, since your Earth is relatively primitive in terms of technology.

The tools you use to heal and save lives will be as up to date as I can possibly make them, and standards for training among doctors will be exceptionally high. There is no room for error in anything I do, unlike the old system.

So to make a long story short, you won’t need to worry about the long term, because it is out of your control for now and much above your level, and you likely will not even live long enough to see it come to fruition as this generation is practically a lost cause in terms of converting to my ways.

I can only focus on damage control and preparing for the future generations to evolve. This brings me to the short term, which I think is what you wanted to know most of all, what you can do to help now. I understand it is frustrating to feel powerless, so I will give you some advice.

In short, unify and prioritize. Your current situation is this: there are many, many medications and devices already made and in circulation that are not even being used, because of the high prices that alienate most clients from getting access. This needs to be eliminated.

Contrary to what you think, there is enough medical resources in existence at this moment to go around to keep everyone left on this planet alive. You would not even need to worry about producing more for at least a few years. Organize with your fellow medical workers on as big of a scale as you can and gather all resources together so that you may keep track of it and take careful inventory.

That way, you will know in advance when you are about to run out, and by then you’ll have had proper time to create more. Use your time and resources responsibly, and you will never run out. Keep in mind that with less people alive, the need for such things will have also halved, so it will even out as far as supply and demand. Less people around to make it, but less to need it in turn.

Within a few years time span, if you are wise and learn to work together to solve problems, you will have gotten the production back up and running, and will always have a surplus in stock just in case because you will have prepared before you ran completely out.

As for prioritizing, you may not like to do this, but you will have to decide who is most in need using logic and your best judgment as a physician. Treat them first. It’s the same thing you doctors do every day, only on a larger scale.

For instance, in your past system, managing someone who is having a stroke would take priority over helping someone with a broken ankle, even if the patient with the broken ankle is in more pain  and suffering more objectively. Take that same principle and apply it to more severe circumstances.

Now, instead of choosing between immediately helping someone having a stroke and someone with a broken bone which is a fairly obvious choice, you may have to choose between someone having a stroke, and someone having a heart attack. There will be more factors to consider to make the right choice.

You will have to get better at making informed decisions in a short amount of time, taking as much information as you need to make a good call without taking so long that you lose both patients. 

I would highly advise you to practice this to prepare for real life scenarios, because it is a skill that can be bettered with patience in people who already possess quick thinking to begin with, which I assume you do as you are already a doctor.

I know it sounds less than ideal, but it’s the only thing you can do for now, and it’s only temporary. 

As I said, this generation is somewhat of a lost cause anyway, so I am more focused on keeping it functioning at a base level to build new beginnings upon than I am about seeing them thrive. They are survivors, but they are not the ones who will benefit most from what I have done. 

Change takes time and persistence, and no small amount of faith. So have faith in my designs, do your best to contribute what you can, be open to evolving to adapt to the new way of life, and you will make a difference for the better, I promise.

[iamliberalartsgt]

Ivan Allen College Professors Discuss 'Game of Thrones'

Twenty years ago, Janet Murray, Ivan Allen College Dean's Professor in the School of Literature, Media, and Communications, predicted many of the narrative shifts depicting in sprawling stories like Game of Thrones. (Photo Credit: Rob Felt/Georgia Tech Institute Communcations)

The Game of Thrones may be nearing an end for viewers of the hit HBO series, but it is sure to live on in the classrooms of Janet Murray and Richard Utz, Ivan Allen College of Liberal Arts professors who find the show an ideal platform to help students learn to untangle a complicated world.

Murray, Ivan Allen College Dean’s Professor and director of the Prototyping eNarrative Lab, sees evidence in the series' sprawling plots of the very changes in narrative structure she predicted more than 20 years ago in her seminal book, Hamlet on the Holodeck.

“The confusion we feel in viewing programs like Game of Thrones, and the immersion that draws us to them, are signals to me that these stories are outgrowing the classic television format,” Murray said.

Utz, professor and chair in the School of Literature, Media, and Communications, sees in the show "rich opportunities to examine our current interplay of cultures, politics, and social mores," and plans to use it as part of an upcoming class in the new Global Media and Cultures program.

Read more about what these professors have to say about Game of Thrones below, then visit the Georgia Tech feature A Science of Ice and Fire to see a video featuring Mariel Borowtiz, a Sam Nunn School of International Affairs associate professor, and two Georgia Institute of Technology graduate students and their simulation of what might have happened had the legendary Carthaginian general Hannibal had a dragon like Daenerys Targaryen's.

Merging Media: Breaker of (Narrative) Chains

More than 20 years ago, in her seminal book Hamlet on the Holodeck, Janet Murray, the Ivan Allen College Dean’s Professor, predicted the rise of a new genre of deeply complex narrative driven by the marriage of television and computer.

It would be what she called the “hyperserial.” Plot, backstory, and detail too fine to showcase in an hour-long drama would pass back and forth between television screen and computer screen, high-speed digital transmission of content would enable new ways of accessing stories, and narrative would, as a consequence, grow richer and more complex.

Nowhere has the promise of complex narrative storytelling been so fully realized as HBO’s adaptation of George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire novels. So it is no surprise that Murray and her students in the college’s Digital Media program have used those stories to test her hypothesis.

“The confusion we feel in viewing programs like Game of Thrones, and the immersion that draws us to them, are signals to me that these stories are outgrowing the classic television format,” Murray said.

In recent years, Murray’s students in the Prototyping eNarrative Lab (PeN Lab) have prototyped a companion app meant to help fans keep track of the dozens of characters, backstories, alliances, and antipathies that make up the dizzyingly complex world of Westeros. Working with Murray, they also have built an application to help viewers track the many plots of Game of Thrones, and the fates of its characters.

The companion tablet app provides a moment-by-moment window into a Game of Thrones episode, automatically serving information about onscreen characters and their relationships without user intervention.

The Digital Story Structure Project graphed the fall and rise of characters, showing, for instance, the opposite fates of Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow early in the series, followed by the merger of their fates in season 7.

“I am interested in prototyping the future of narrative,” Murray said. “Computers give us a new vocabulary of representation, and I believe this will lead to ever more complex storytelling. We need more complex storytelling to understand the world and share our understanding of complex systems and multiple chains of causation, multiple points of view, and multiple possible outcomes.”

Maester of Humanities

Richard Utz, professor and chair in the School of Literature, Media, and Communications sees in Game of Thrones "rich opportunities to examine our current interplay of cultures, politics, and social mores.” (Photo credit: Rob Felt/Georgia Tech Insitute Communications; Game of Thrones image courtesy HBO)

To a medievalist like Richard Utz, professor and chair in the School of Literature, Media, and Communication, Game of Thrones is engrossing, if unsettling, fantasy, one of the most complex narrative structures ever attempted, and a “highly valuable admission ticket to the study of contemporary media.”

One thing it is not, he said, is “medieval.”

“None of the reasons for Game of Thrones’ popularity — attractive world building, thriller-fiction pacing, complex characters, sexposition, bait-and-switch plot, escapist fantasy, intricate power play, clever play with archetypes, diverse female characters, guilt-free barbarism and violence, Sopranos-like family drams — is intrinsically ‘medieval,’” Utz said.

While the global fascination with Game of Thrones is sometimes seen as a recruitment opportunity by scholars of the Middle Ages, focusing on the books and HBO show from a traditional medievalist’s perspective is too limiting and self-serving.

“It is a global phenomenon. It is the most widely watched television show in the world ever,” he said. “While it is set in a fictional past, it raises a host of issues about our past, present, and future, and provides rich opportunities to examine our current interplay of cultures, politics, and social mores.”

Utz has written about his aversion to the use of novelist Martin’s world as way to lure students into studying the Middle Ages.

“Classes on the Middle Ages rarely need advertising because of the general cultural love affair students have with medievalist topics,” he said. “Game of Thrones needs to be studied as a contemporary media phenomenon that uses a vague ‘medieval feel’ as one of its attractions.”

In fact, he finds it notable that one of the main characters, Sansa Stark, began the series seeking the trappings of the romantic ideal of the Middle Ages — princesses, knights, and all — only to see that fairy tale viciously taken from her at every turn.

“Watch out for Sansa Stark in season 8,” he predicted. “She will play a major role in how the story unfolds, as will some of the other women whose paths have been transformed throughout the series. Like in classical drama, it’s the survivors who, having learned many difficult lessons, are the real heroines of this story.”

But he does see Martin’s stories and especially the HBO adaptation as an excellent place to meet students where they already are — invested in stories that are indelibly shaped by our current experiences, while retaining the enduring fascination with all things premodern.

“The premodern is an eternal mirror. On the one hand, we like to shudder at the otherness of it to reassure ourselves that we have long overcome its negative features,” he said. “On the other hand, we get to go back, fictionally, to a life that seems so much easier and unburdened by the complicated rules of contemporary civilization. Both responses are illusions, but that doesn’t mean we won’t entertain them.”

Utz plans to use the series as a case study in an upcoming class in comparative media cultures, as part of the new Master of Science in Global Media and Cultures program in LMC and the School of Modern Languages. The program is designed to prepare students to pursue professional careers that require advanced training in communication, media, language, and intercultural competency.

Utz believes that the narrative complexity of Game of Thrones is exactly the right realm within which to model the kinds of practices his students need to succeed and find fulfillment in their future jobs.

“The global city of Atlanta is in dire need of a workforce educated to be skilled communicators across cultural and linguistic divides,” he said. “I am planning on an approach that will confront my students with a wickedly complex scenario that allows for a deep understanding of multiple governmental structures, leadership styles, gender and race relations, linguistic and cultural traditions, and human behavior, a scenario just as complex as the ones increasingly common in future work environments.”

Dancing with Dragons

It isn’t a particularly bold supposition that dragons are a formidable weapon. Still, we wondered: exactly how much of an impact would a dragon have on a battlefield? Chandler Thornhill, a graduate student in economics, and Matthew Redington, a graduate student in computer science, offered to devise a few simulations.

Both are currently enrolled in the course Modeling, Simulation, and Military Gaming, an interdisciplinary, project-based class requiring collaboration across a range of backgrounds and skills. Groups of students spend a semester researching and dissecting historical battles, using this deep understanding to adjust variables and outcomes through computational modeling.

Introducing fantastical elements may seem an inconsequential exercise, but to one of its instructors, School of International Affairs Assistant Professor Mariel Borowtiz, introducing pop culture elements allows students to connect with modeling simulations in a different way.

“One of the things I like about bringing dragons into a simulation is that you really have to go through the same research process,” she said. “You have to be rigorous in how you find data and how you make assumptions. Obviously, there’s not a lot of data available on a dragon’s efficiency but you can look at the information sources available as a basis to formulate and justify assumptions. It shows the process can be applied in all sorts of areas.”

So how much of a difference did the dragon have? By their calculations, roughly 70 percent of opposing forces were turned to ash.

IAC Link

GT Link

[thedcdunce]

Martian Manhunter

“I am Mars' sole survivor. There is a reason for that.” - Martian Manhunter

Real Name: J’onn J’onzz

Aliases:

Fernus

John Jones

Bronze Wraith

Bloodwynd

El Hombre Verdad

Charley Dimes

Isobel de la Rosa

Jade Warrior

Joan J'onnz

Marco Xavier

Secretary of State Kakalios

William Dyer

Yuchiro Takata

Hino Rei

Goldie Johnson

Josh Johnstone

Mrs. Klingman

a cat

Nathaniel Mackelvany

Paris Jackson

Officer Mike Sherman

Officer Perez

Lora Denton

Gender: Male

Height: 6′ 7″

Weight: 300 lbs (136 kg)

Eyes: Red

Hair: Bald

Skin: Green

Race: Martian

Powers:

Martian Physiology

Abilities:

Genius Level Intellect

Investigation

Multilingualism

Meditation

Weaknesses:

Vulnerability to Fire

Chocoholism

Equipment:

Kuru pendant

Base of Operations:

Mobile

The Astral Plane

Mars

Middleton, Colorado

Denver, Colorado

Detroit, Michigan

Z'Onn Z'Orr

JLA Watchtower

Universe:

Earth-One

New Earth

Origin: Martian survivor living on Earth as a superhero.

Parents:

M’yrnn J’onzz; father

Sha’sheen J’onzz; mother

Marital Status: Widowed (M’yri’ah; wife)

Citizenship: American

Occupation:

Adventurer

Detective

First Appearance: Detective Comics #225 (November, 1955)

Powers

Martian Physiology: Martian Manhunter has been described as "the Swiss Army knife of superheroes." His powers come from his alien physiology. Born on Mars over a millennium ago, from a super advanced civilization, boasting advanced technology and genetic modifications over its people, the Martian Manhunter would appear to be a genetically modified being with incredible powers stemming from the changes made in his body. Whether this is their natural state or an advanced state given to only a few individuals is unknown. The Martian's physiology would seem to be composed of a complex molecular chain that resembles polymer bonds but with the ability to be altered at will. The Martian Manhunter can change his mass, color, relative shape, imitating even clothing if desired. The biopolymer is extremely flexible, durable, incredibly strong for a biological material and apparently self-sustaining. It is unknown if the Martian Manhunter actually needs to eat or not but he has been seen consuming food, particularly "Chocos," a brand of cookies.

Shape-Shifting, Malleability, Plasticity, Elongation: Arguably one of the most incredible powers possessed by the Manhunter is the ability to shape-shift. He is able to literally control the molecular structure of his body's biopolymers and manipulate them into any construct he desires, in addition to and including his own body. He can form clothing and weapons with non-moving or non-functioning parts. There does not seem to be any limit to the number of people the Manhunter can imitate and has stood in as a double for many famous people. His ability to imitate people and their mannerisms has stood him in good stead for his disguises. He has recently been seen to shape-shift into the size and shape of a common house fly and to enormous sizes comparable to skyscrapers. He is also able to change colors and turn himself into objects.

Invisibility: The Manhunter can cause the biopolymers in his body to lose their ability to reflect light, rendering the Manhunter invisible to normal light and human sight. With more increased concentration, he can render himself completely invisible along the electromagnetic spectrum, including the infrared and the ultraviolet ranges of the spectrum. This invisibility does not affect every other sense and he could still be detected by touch.

Phasing: The Manhunter can phase through solid matter. No explanation of this power has been given, but it might possibly be an aspect of his psionic powers, perhaps shifting his mass into another dimension or out of vibrational phase with other objects in this dimension. Since it is known that he can alter the density of his biopolymers, it may be that he can simply become less substantial than solid matter, thereby decreasing the molecular density of his body by loosening the bonds within the biopolymers, due to - and further demonstrating - the absolute control he has over them.

Superhuman Durability: The biomorphic structure of the Manhunter's body allows him to absorb almost all kinetic energies such as high caliber bullets, shrapnel, or flying debris easily. He can harden his biopolymers by rebinding them and increase his durability. Along with his nigh-invulnerability, his shape shifting makes him even more difficult to harm. Hazardous environments practically do not affect the Martian Manhunter. In addition, Martian Manhunter's immune system protects him from all toxins and diseases.

Superhuman Strength: The Martian Manhunter is one of the strongest beings on the planet. The Martian's superhuman strength comes from his Biomorphic structure formed from immensely long and complex molecular chains, augmented with his psionic and telekinetic abilities allowing him to lift incredible weights without these weights crumbling under the stress. By modifying the density of these biopolymers, the Manhunter can make himself stronger by forcing them into tighter bundles. While at a resting state the limits of his strength are unknown, the Manhunter can lift 100 tons without much effort.

Superhuman Stamina: J'onn's endurance is just as formidable as his strength and invulnerability. He can operate under extreme conditions for an indeterminate period of time without showing signs of fatigue. The exact range of this power is unknown.

Regeneration: The Martian Manhunter has shown amazing regenerative capabilities. So great are they that he has been able to completely regenerate from nothing but his severed hand, regenerate in moments from nothing more than a puddle of green liquid, and in another instance, survived beheading.

Flight: The Martian Manhunter flies by manipulation of gravitons, manipulation of magnetic fields and control of his absolute molecular movement. These combine to give him the ability to fly great distances with little fatigue and at great speed. The Manhunter has also been seen flying in space with no difficulty. J'onn can therefore fly at speeds exceeding the escape velocity of earth under his own power.

Superhuman Speed: Either through flight or natural movement, the Martian Manhunter can maintain speed and demonstrates reflexes far in excess to that of most metahumans, and for far longer. Like the power of flight, this is accomplished by manipulating the magnetic fields of energy surrounding his body, as well as ambient gravitational particles. Traditionally, J'onn only uses his superhuman speed while flying. He can process thoughts, move, and react at super speed as well. J'onn has also demonstrated that he is fast enough to comfortably catch bullets and other exceedingly fast projectiles.

Extrasensory Input: J'onn possesses nine different senses. One of these senses could account for instances of the Manhunter's perceived precognitive abilities.

Longevity

Super Hearing

Super-Breath: The inner valves and chambers inside the Martian Manhunter's air canals are very dense and greatly enhanced, allowing him to create strong hurricane force winds just by exhaling pressurized air from his lungs in an incredibly strong burst.

Enhanced Senses

Martian Vision: The actual nature of this power seems to vary depending on the reports. It has been seen to be a bolt of force, directed by the Manhunter's eyes causing considerable damage. It has also been seen to cause flammable objects to catch fire. It also grants J'onn the ability to see into other spectrums of light. J'onn can use his Martian vision to see people and objects that are invisible to others.

Electro-Magnetic Spectrum Vision

Telescopic Vision

Microscopic Vision

Heat Vision

Telepathy: The Martian Manhunter is the most powerful telepath on the planet, and is one of the strongest telepathic beings in the Universe. He is able to read the mind of any human with no difficulties, and the only minds that can cause him trouble are insane minds. He can even read the subconscious mind as well. He is able to read minds over great distances and has been known to scan the mind of every person on Earth within a matter of moments. This telepathy extends to distances as far away as the moon, since it is known that the Martian Manhunter can telepathically communicate with someone on Earth while on the moon. It is not known whether there is any limit to the number of people he can be attuned to or whether there are any special requirements to being attuned to him. In addition to reading minds, the Martian Manhunter has a multitude of other telepathic capabilities, one of which allows him to literally reprogram the mind of a subject into believing whatever he wants them to. He can use this ability to help subjects forget things that he does not want them to remember as well as set up post-hypnotic suggestions.

Illusions

Possession

Astral Projection

Mind Control: The Martian Manhunter can also control other beings mind's. Insane minds seem to be the only minds he has some trouble controlling.

Telepathic Relay: Otherwise known as a telepathic link. The Manhunter is able to use his telepathic prowess as a relay station for a group of minds, who can then "speak" to each other through him. This relaying ability seems to be limited to the same range as the Manhunter's normal telepathic range.

Telepathic Assault: The Martian Manhunter can also use his telepathic abilities in an offensive manner. He has the ability to cause mental shutdown in a target using his psionic powers. The Manhunter does not use this power often due to the invasive nature and harshness of such a telepathic attack.

Thought Sensing: The Manhunter can use the mental signature of a being to track it, and can detect life forms by their empathic as well as telepathic signatures. He can detect whether a being is intelligent or not, and can communicate with it empathically if it does not have a communication-driven frame of reference with which normal telepathy may function. He can also detect various states of mind from anywhere in the world.

Mayavana: One of the most prized abilities of the Martians is Mayavana. It is the ability to reach into another mind and create a mental reality as real as any normal reality. The strain of Mayavana is such that it can only be used once in a lifetime, and so is normally used on the one that a Martian loves the most.

Telekinesis: J'onn possesses the ability to move objects with his mind, which he described as ""molecular hypnosis" and "Martian mind-over-matter".

Abilities

Genius Level Intellect: The Martian Manhunter possesses highly advanced reasoning and logic capabilities, and uses them to great effect. The Martian Manhunter's particularly astute reasoning capabilities and long-term association with Earth's global population gives him an edge in dealing with humans of diverse governments, cultures and religions.

Investigation

Multilingualism

Meditation: Martians enter a meditative state as a form of sleep.

Weaknesses

Vulnerability to Fire: The Martian Manhunter has a psychosomatic fear of fire. The Guardians of the Universe have built in a fear of fire when they first confronted the Burned. Exposure to fire, causes him to lose his powers, and in the case of extreme fire, to lose his control over his biomorphic form. The Manhunter is more vulnerable in this form and can take damage in this vulnerable state.

Chocoholism: It has also been suggested that something within J'onn's physiology makes him addicted to the chemicals used in the Earth snack, Chocos. Withdrawal symptoms include violent bursts of rage and loss of intellect. However, these claims have never been accurately substantiated, and may even be false.

Equipment

Kuru pendant: The Martian Manhunter owns one of two Kuru pendants. The pendant acts as a repository of ancient Martian lore and knowledge. The second pendant belonged to the late Martian, Roh'kar.

Personality

Like all Martians, J'onn has a somewhat cold and stoic demeanor. He has very restricted emotional expressions. J'onn typically acts as the voice of reason in the Justice League and is one of the wisest leaders within the hero community, along with Batman and Superman.

Despite his cold exterior, J'onn is one of the kindest and most noble heroes operating on earth. The Manhunter has demonstrated enormous willpower, as evidenced by his ability to retain his sanity after the death of his race. He has a subtle sense of humor and an affinity for the chocolate cookie sandwiches called Chocos. The Martian Manhunter is considered by many to be the heart and soul of the Justice League.

Origin

Centuries ago on the planet Ma'aleca'andra, the Green Martians known as M'yrnn and Sha'sheen gave birth to twin sons. The bearing of twins was uncommon among the Martian culture, and as such, the first of the twins was named J'onn J'onzz, whose name means "Light to the Light." J'onn's brother, however, was born a mutant, bereft of a Martian's innate ability to communicate telepathically. He was named Ma'alefa'ak, whose name means "Darkness in the Heart."

As an adult, J'onn became a Manhunter and married a Martian woman named M'yri'ah. The two established a modest home for themselves beneath the windswept Martian plains and gave birth to a daughter named K'hym.

Years passed, and J'onn's brother Ma'alefa'ak grew to despise everything about Martian culture. In an ambitious endeavor to commit full-scale genocide against his own people, he engineered a contagious virus known as H'ronmeer's Curse. The virus reacted to telepathic energy and carried from one Martian to the next whenever they elected to use their psionic powers. The plague responded to a Martian's innate fear of fire, causing them psychosomatic stress so intense, that their bodies and minds would literally burst into flame. J'onn desperately tried to keep his wife and daughter from using their mental gifts, but they were unable to do so, and thus ultimately contracted the virus. K'hym was the first to experience the symptoms, and M'yri'ah followed soon after. J'onn was anguished as he watched his family burning to death before his very eyes. The trauma of the event shattered his psyche, and nearly drove him mad.

Welcome to Earth

Meanwhile, on the planet Earth, a would-be scientist named Dr. Saul Erdel developed a transmitter machine based upon ancient Martian technology. Seeking to make contact with extraterrestrial life, he aimed his device towards the vicinity of Mars and activated it. The transmitter beam streaked across both space and time, striking the Martian Manhunter at a point in time several centuries before Erdel would even be born. The beam brought J'onn back to Erdel's natural time era, where he collapsed on the ground outside of the doctor's Colorado laboratory.

Erdel brought the distraught Martian inside and attempted to nurse him back to health. The anguish of J'onn's mental state created a psychic bond between the two, and Erdel became aware of the events that took place on Mars. In an effort to heal J'onn's mind, Erdel used the mental link to fabricate a new history for the Martian. He created a back-story inspired by the writings of famous science fiction novelists such as Ray Bradbury and Edgar Rice Burroughs. Eventually, J'onn's sanity was restored, and he was prepared to function in this strange, new world. Erdel put the idea into his head that he should become a great champion, and thus J'onn adopted the heroic guise of the Martian Manhunter.

When J'onn shapeshifted into a human-like form, Erdel was shocked and suffered a heart attack that killed him.  As he was dying, Erdel asked J'onn for forgiveness for making him a prisoner of Earth.

It was later revealed that Mars was dead when J'onn was taken, killed by a mental plague deliberately started by his brother Ma'alefa'ak. He took the identity of the Bronze Wraith, and fought crime with the Justice Experience.

John Jones, Police Detective

J'onn was able to use his powers to fit into human society.  He adopted a human appearance and called himself "John Jones."  He became a police detective in the city of Middleton. For a long time, he worked as a policeman while secretly using his alien powers to solve cases and help people.

Some time later, the existence of the Martian Manhunter was accidentally revealed. From this point on, J'onn stopped hiding his superhero feats from the world, but he kept his double-identity as John Jones secret.  It was at this time that he began to publicly appear in his green-skinned humanoid form.

He subsequently acquired policewoman Diane Meade as his partner, and an pet Zook who helped him solve cases.

J'onn J'onzz was one of the founding members of the Justice League of America.

J'onn's career as a police detective was ended by the Idol Head of Diabolu. This evil statue expelled a deadly cloud.  John Jones saved a child from the cloud, but in doing so he was engulfed by it.  His fellow policemen believed he must have died. J'onn took this as an opportunity to abandon his double life. He allowed the police department to believe he had died, and as the Martian Manhunter he even attended his own funeral.

Martian Manhunter Without John Jones; Justice League of America

After this, J'onn J'onzz and Zook began a quest to combat the Idol Head of Diabolu, which they finally managed to destroy.

J'onn then briefly assumed the alias "Marco Xavier" in order to infiltrate the international crime cartel known as VULTURE.

J'onn served as a regular member of the Justice League of America. However, when a group of evil Martians led by General Blanx destroyed the surface of Mars, forcing all the good Martians to flee in a rocket, J'onn accompanied them into space, leaving the Justice League.

Over the next few years J'onn was rarely seen, but he occasionally showed up to help the JLA.  Eventually he returned to the JLA full-time.

When the original Justice League of America disbanded, J'onn became the leader of the new "Justice League Detroit". He remained with that team until it, too, disbanded.

Justice League International

J'onn was one of the founding members of the Justice League International.

J'onzz revealed that his familiar appearance is not his true Martian form but a "compromise" between his true form and a human appearance - explaining that his real form is private and that, even on Mars, his "public" appearance was the familiar version.

In addition to serving in the League under his own identity, he also joined as "Bloodwynd."

JLA

The Martian Manhunter is the most recognized hero in the Southern Hemisphere, and he maintains a number of different secret identities, many of them outside the United States. However, following two incidents, he decides to focus on his original human identity and retire the others.

Later, the Martian Manhunter attempts to conquer his fear of fire and makes a deal with a flame-wielding villainess named Scorch, who wants J'onzz' telepathic help in dealing with her own mental issues. 20,000 years before, an extremely dangerous race of beings called "the Burning" caused large fires to help themselves reproduce asexually. In order to prevent the Burning from destroying much of the universe, the Guardians of the Universe split the species into the Green Martians and the White Martians, changed their reproductive behavior, and instilled in them a fear of fire. When the Martian Manhunter confronts his fear of fire, he reverts into one of the ancient creatures and changes his name to Fernus. His genetic memory identifies threats such as Vandal Savage, who killed one of the Burning on ancient Earth. This same genetic memory also makes Fernus hate the Green Lantern, due to his association with the Oans.

Fernus increases the strength of the powers he inherits from J'onn: For example, he can phase other beings rather than just himself, and he has access to pyrokinesis. He can breathe fire of such intensity that it harms Scorch, who had previously been thought immune to damage from fire. Fernus' tremendous strength also allows him to dominate the Justice League in combat even without his Martian telepathic powers. He can also heal himself from almost total destruction within seconds.

The Justice League eventually defeats Fernus by re-enlisting Plastic Man, who is immune to Fernus' psychic powers and has superior shape-changing abilities. It is implied that Batman recruited Plastic Man to the Justice League as a balance in case the Martian Manhunter ever got out of control.

After destroying Fernus, J'onn grieves for Scorch, who had fallen into a coma, and with whom he had fallen in love. J'onn later tells Superman that his aversion to fire has changed: he is now invulnerable to flames unless they are "flames of passion" or of some other "psychic significance."

Infinite Crisis and "One Year Later"

Although J'onzz is initially thought killed in the explosion of the Justice League Watchtower, Justice League member Manitou Dawn receives a telepathic vision of J'onzz assuring her that he "will reveal himself in time," but needs her help to keep an eye on a mysterious, newly-powerful telepath - the mind-controlling villain, Key - whose abilities he had always managed to dampen before.

J'onzz resurfaces during Infinite Crisis, unconscious and connected to Alexander Luthor, Jr.'s vibrational tower, along with Lady Quark, the Ray, Black Adam, Power Girl, Nightshade, and Breach. Wonder Girl, Superboy, and Nightwing free J'onzz and the others from Alexander's tower.

Oracle asks J'onzz to telepathically coordinate the heroes' response to the Society's global jailbreak. He joins the assembled heroes in the defense of Metropolis from the combined might of the world's super-villains and in the battle against Superboy-Prime.

In the following months, J'onn masqueraded as U.S. Secretary of State Kakalios in an attempt to bring down Checkmate. He was successful in eliminating it as a U.S. government-controlled agency. However, it soon reorganized under the United Nations.

One of the most dramatic changes in J'onn's life occurred a short time later. While operating under the guise of William Dyer, he discovered that several Green Martians had crash-landed on Earth, and were being held by high-ranking members of the Defense Department. One of the Martians, Roh'kar, broke free of his confinement and made contact with the Martian Manhunter. The union was bittersweet, however, as a brainwashed assassin ended Roh'kar's life with a weapon designed to target Martians. J'onn found five of Roh'kar's colleagues and rescued them from the bowels of a government think tank. He established a safe house for them and pledged to do everything in his power to keep them safe from government scrutiny.

Salvation Run and Final Crisis

When Checkmate decided to capture a number of super-villains and exile them on a "prison planet" in an event known as Salvation Run, J'onn volunteered to disguise himself as Blockbuster and infiltrate the planet to keep an eye on things, making periodic reports to Batman. Catwoman finds out his true identity and, to save her own skin, outs him to the other villains, who torture him. When the villains escape the planet, teleporting back to Earth, they leave J'onn in his cage to die.

He is "rescued" by Libra and the new Secret Society of Super-Villains who open a Boom Tube between the planet and Earth. Libra brings him back to Earth with the express purpose of killing him, doing so with his spear tipped scale staff, for the Human Flame to show the Society members that he can give them their hearts desire--Human Flame having wanted J'onn dead for foiling a crime of his years ago. In his final moments J'onn broadcast a telepathic message to fellow heroes Batman, Superman, Green Lantern  Hal Jordan, Gypsy, and Black Canary prompting them to say his name and, hours after his death had been discovered, simultaneously record part of his life story in their sleep.

His remains were interred in a pyramid removed from Egypt and placed back in its original location on Mars in a ceremony attended by many heroes. He was eulogized by Superman.

The Blackest Night

During the events of the Blackest Night, the dead rose across the universe and J'onn was one of them. After his resurrection and admission to the Black Lantern Corps, he went to confront Barry Allen and Hal Jordan, who were talking over Batman's grave being robbed. He approaches them saying that they should be dead and begins to fight the two, and is soon joined by Black Lanterns Elongated Man, Sue Dibny, Firestorm, Hawkman, and Hawkgirl. When the Atom arrives, Barry and Hal create a fire tornado to destroy J'onn. This fails to stop him, and the heroes are cornered until Indigo-1 and another Indigo Lantern arrive to drive them off. At the end of the Blackest Night, J'onn is revived by the Entity along with other heroes and a few villains. When Superman asks if J'onn is truly alive, J'onn responds, "It appears so."

Brightest Day

J'onn is a very prominent member, finding a water source on Mars and seen talking with the daughter of Doctor Erdel. J'onn was seen last tucking her into bed in a retirement home, in the form of her father. J'onn then visited the doctor's laboratory, but plant life around him starts to die every time he gets near. He later went to see M'gann M'orzz in Australia during her mediation search, but found her beaten and tied up. While tending to her, he is contacted by the Entity, who instructs him to burn down the newly-formed forest. When J'onn's asks M'gann who did this to her, M'gann says she was attacked by a female green Martian. J'onn presumes the forest he is to burn down is in Star City but is questioned by Green Arrow. He attempts to burn down the forest before being telepathically attacked by the Entity. The Entity reveals to him that the newly-formed forest he is to burn down is on Mars. After J'onn lashed out the Star City's forest, he starts to return home.

When J'onn enters his home, he is confronted by a female green Martian named D'Kay D'Razz, who is the one responsible for M'gann's attack. D'kay explains her origins and wants to be his mate. J'onn refuses, learning she is a psychopath when D'kay angrily lashes out to attack and enters his mind. J'onn tries to resist influence from D'kay's mind, but her control over his mind tempts him with visions of a fantasy world where all the Martians and J'onn's family are resurrected by the Entity. While reunited with his lost family, J'onn discovers that they are false and realizes that they are a ruse and the death corpse is carved of Martian symbols of love and hate from D'kay's influence. J'onn arrives vengeful and wrings D'kay's neck in disgust. J'onn defeats D'kay by forcing her into the sun but is saved from the same fate by the White Lantern Entity, who informs him that his mission has been accomplished, and returns his life to him. The Entity then told J'onn to choose between Mars and Earth. J'onn chose Earth and returned only to be absorbed into the Earth by the Entity and Deadman as "part of the plan."

When the "Dark Avatar," made his presence known, Martian Manhunter is revealed to be one of the four Elementals, the others being Aquaman, Firestorm, Hawkman and Hawkgirl. He becomes the element of Earth to protect the Star City forest from the "Dark Avatar," which appears to be the Black Lantern version of Swamp Thing. The Elementals are then fused with the body of Alec Holland in order for him to be transformed by the Entity into the new Swamp Thing and battle against the Dark Avatar. After the Dark Avatar is defeated, Swamp Thing brought Martian Manhunter and the other Elementals back to normal. Afterward, J'onn helps Melissa Erdel and removes the piece of machinery from her head that made her lose her mind.

Fun Facts

Although obviously alien in appearance, the form that most Earthlings associated with the Martian Manhunter is not actually his true form. In his natural state of being, J'onn has a slender body, with sharp, angular features and a tapered cranium. The more muscular "beetle-brow" appearance was inspired by Saul Erdel, who convinced J'onn to assume a form derived from the literary works of science fiction authors such as Edgar Rice Burroughs and Ray Bradbury.

Batman left one Choco on his casket.

In his earliest appearances, the Martian Manhunter resembled a normal human, albeit with green skin. He was drawn with standard human eyes and eyebrows. In later years however, creators decided to give J'onn a more alien appearance and provided him with the more modernized beetle-brow look.

In some of his earliest adventures, the Martian Manhunter possessed the ability to see into the near future. However, there have been scant examples of this, and it is no longer a power that he possesses in modern continuity. By his own account, the Martian Manhunter cannot perceive the future.

[ben-j-man]

Secret War: Upon Blood Sands- Chapter 2

A sequel to my 40k fanfiction Secret War.

Link to chapter 1- http://ben-j-man.tumblr.com/post/180097372453/secret-war-chapter-1

After his organization is hired to hunt down an influential ganger on the Hive world, Omnartus. Attelus Kaltos is embroiled deeper into the complex world of the Assassin. This is the job which will change him, for better or for worse, forever more.

‘I am not a partier; I am an assassin who kills people for a living. And being the dangerous job it is and that I would quite like to live past my twenties, I spend every waking hour for training. Making sure I have the necessary skills to live to see the next day.’ -Attelus Kaltos Bursting from the seams with action, intrigue, suspense and full of twists and turns. With a character driven narrative which delves deep into the mind torn asunder by war as he tries to find purpose in the grim-dark universe of 40k where there is only war.

A Sanction for Sanity: Chapter 1 link a prequel

http://ben-j-man.tumblr.com/post/181441697383/secret-war-a-sanction-for-sanity-chapter-1

Link to Upon Blood Sands Chapter 1:

http://ben-j-man.tumblr.com/post/183400509673/secret-war-upon-blood-sands-chapter-1

"I think she's on to us," said Attelus as he paced across the sand, hands clasped behind his back. "I think she has an idea at least."

Faleaseen's large, almond-shaped eyes narrowed as she towered over him. The Farseer like most of her race was very tall, inhumanly thin and long limbed. Her features deceptively soft, beautiful, benign, but her gaze was filled with melancholic wisdom, wisdom earned through great toil and burden. Showing her surely ancient age. A long time ago, Attelus had noticed there were what seemed to be shimmering green crystals, crawling up the nape of her. He hadn't managed to gain the courage to ask why.

For this dream meeting, the Eldar had conjured up a beach Attelus had lived near to in his youth in northern Velrosia. Salteera bay was replicated in almost insane detail, the beautiful, rocky tree covered coastline, the clear blue water, the island that jutted out in the small harbour. All of it was exactly how he remembered it. Salteera bay was just one of the countless beaches which littered the coast of the huge Vandeeran river. A river which cut through the continent until it met with the Lake of Varander. A river which at points could be as wide as five kilometres and the source of thousands of runoff rivers that provided the continent with much needed, life-giving water.

Velrosia was set almost right in the continent's epicentre but may well have been an island nation, riddled with numerous lakes and set where the Vandeeran river was at its widest. Seafood was a huge export for the country along with timbre and livestock.

"I am sure she does have an idea, Attelus Kaltos," said Faleassen, her attention wandered with the pacing Attelus as she stood deathly still in her esoteric, form-fitting armour.

"We've completed missions far faster than initially thought," said Attelus. "Reaching the planets faster than warp travel would normally allow."

"Yes," said Faleaseen, patiently. "You have only done so on four separate occasions but I can see why that would arouse suspicion from the Inquisitor."

"She gave me this mission because she knew this," said Attelus. "She also knows that we can bypass the warp storm."

"Many of her kind would have you executed even for the suspicion," said Faleaseen.

Attelus sniggered and paused in his pacing, "well, that won't stop me for long, would it? Do you think she knows of the webway's existence?"

Faleaseen shook her head with what seemed almost wry amusement, "I doubt that, not many Mon..."

She trailed off in her sentence as she noticed Attelus' glare, "humans know of the webway."

"I wouldn't underestimate Inquisitor Enandra," said Attelus. "If anyone knows, it's her and she isn't even Ordo Xenos."

"So," said Faleaseen, scratching her sharp, slender chin with a thumb, an oddly human gesture. "We are at an impasse if you do use the webway it will impose more suspicion upon you. If you do not you will miss out on another lead to stop Etuarq, assuming this is not yet another trap."

"It has to be another trap," said Attelus.

"I do not know," said Faleaseen. "I do not understand why Etuarq would lay such a trap. He has a plan for you that much is certain."

"He knows I'm perpetual, that I'll come back from whatever he throws at me, perhaps he wants to kill my allies? My friends?" said Attelus while continuing with his pacing. "Perhaps they are interfering with whatever fate he has in store for me?"

Faleaseen nodded, "that does seem a logical assumption."

"Perhaps," said Attelus, but trailed off.

"Perhaps what?" said Faleaseen, although Attelus' suspected she already knew.

"Perhaps I could come clean, tell Jelcine of our alliance?"

Faleaseen pouted her full, ruby red lips and looked to the sky in thought.

"Or you know, you could, you know, zap it from her mind like you did back on the Audacious Edge three years ago," said Attelus.

Faleaseen sighed, "neither course of action is wise, Attelus Kaltos. I have already performed mind manipulation once on her from this long range, I would not risk it again, too imprecise. I may cause her irreparable damage, especially because of her strong mind block. Confessing could lead to your termination and while I will bring you back you will be separated by the allies and power of being in her employment. I would rather you complete this important mission then confess when confronted. Either way, it would set us back considerably, but one more than the other."

Attelus sighed, "so what will we do, then?"

"You will take the webway to this Sarkeath and investigate," said Faleaseen. "You must know once you have entered that system I will not be able to assist you. I have already attempted to see the planet but the warp storm is too powerful for me to pass through."

"Of course it is," Attelus sighed, stopping and stamping his foot into the sand like a petulant child. "Does Scintilla have access into the Webway?"

"Yes it does," said Faleaseen. "But would that not arouse more suspicion? You leaving for Scintilla and just disappearing from there? I have an idea, there is a small planet to galactic east which you can use and naturally you will require a guide once you enter."

Attelus fought back a frown and nodded, the last few times they'd been forced to ride in Eldar spacecraft through the webway, piloted by Eldar Rangers, or outcasts. Each time it'd been awkward, to say the least, all of their Eldar hosts were aloof, contemptuous toward them. Attelus and Adelana were forced to live off dry rations for the weeks of transit because the Eldar wouldn't share their food. But what had to be done, had to be done.

"Alright!" Attelus sighed, rapidly scratching the back of his skull. "Alright, Just give me the name and coordinates."

Faleaseens smiled a rare smile and tilted her head, her insanely long red hair tied into a top knot flowing gracefully with the movement.

"This time it will be different," she said. "I am sending someone special to meet you, someone, who has wished to meet you for quite a while now."

Attelus pouted and tilted his head. Well, that didn't sound ominous at all.

Not ominous at all.

Faleaseen, still smiling said, "the planet is what you humans call, Iocanthos."

It would be a weeks warp travel to Iocanthos and they'd decided on a day of prep before leaving Darrance didn't seem too impressed (along with everyone else, he was just the most vocal about it) That they might have to permanently transfer to the Gothic sector.

Adelana didn't mind, though. There was pretty much nothing here left for her in the Calixis sector and the mission sounded important. Also, she knew of the 'shortcut' Attelus had access to that the others didn't. She wasn't sure what the others would make of this revelation, she knew the Imperium's attitude toward Xenos and humans who work with them.

Incredible importance.

Adelana sat in the large brightly lit, white-walled mess hall, poking absently at her food with a fork. She was so lost in her thoughts she almost missed her friend's approach.

"Adelana?" said a familiar, friendly voice and Adelana turned to her friend, well there was one thing.

Seleen Gorret was another survivor of the Omnartus but not a native, in fact, she was from the very same world as Attelus Kaltos, Elbyra.

'Unattractive' would be a word to describe her if one was being polite, very polite. But Seleen was one of the kindest, sweetest people Adelana had ever met. She'd helped her more than anyone else during the dark days. They'd once worked together in the mail delivery room in Taryst's tower and had for two years before the incident. During that time they'd become friends as well as colleagues. After Adelana had lost her parents she'd been like a surrogate mother to her.

Seleen was once quite fat but had lost a lot of weight over the past three years, and due to some rejuvenant treatment looked younger. But even at her peak Adelana doubted men would look at her often.

"You wanted to talk?" said Seleen as she sat at the table across from Adelana, placing her food in front of her.

Adelana nodded, "how's things going at the library?"

Seleen smiled and shuffled in her seat, "same old boring same. My job isn't quite so exciting and interesting as yours. The place is stuffy, cramped and my colleagues old, boring once-administratum clerks and all male. I really miss you when you leave with him on your many...excursions."

Seleen emphasised 'him' and 'excursions' pointedly, causing Adelana to frown she knew where this conversation was going to go, so she quickly, deftly changed the subject.

"Speaking of my 'excursions' I have bad news..."

"You're on yet another, right?" said Seleen as she stuffed fork full of food into her mouth. "How long will you be away for this time?"

Adelana pursed her lips and swallowed, glancing at the ceiling, "I don't know," she croaked. "It could be months, it could be..."

"Years?" said Seleen after Adelana trailed off, her eyes wide.

Adelana bit her lip or centuries.

"Oh honey," said Seleen looking at Adelana with tears in her eyes. "I'm guessing you can't tell me where you're going?"

"Nope," said Adelana with a shake of her head, causing her ponytail to weave with the movement. "I'm sorry."

It was Seleen's turn to shake her head, "no need to apologise, honey. It's all part of the job, isn't it? You're in the service of...No, the highest service to the Emperor if I were younger."

She paused and smiled, "and even a little bit physically capable I'd be there with you, fighting mankind's enemies. I must say I do envy you at times, Adelana."

Adelana bit her lip as she fought to contain the anger suddenly flaring through her.

"You know one other reason why I envy you," said on Seleen.

"Don't start this again," said Adelana, shaking her head.

Seleen shrugged, "he obviously likes you and you like him so I don't understand..."

"We're colleagues, Seleen," Adelana sighed. "Besides he's my master..."

"But he respects you enough to insist you never call him that, and he never calls you apprentice," Seleen interrupted. "Most men would kill to have a woman call them master constantly."

"Maybe it's because he isn't that much older than me," said Adelana with a shrug. "Besides if we become more it might get in the way of our work and..."

"Oh don't give me that!" snapped Seleen, but with good humour and a dismissive wave. "It won't make a lick of difference, you two have feelings for each other whether or not you get together. It's going to get in the way, anyway. In fact, I think it'll help and not to mention bring you and him much needed happiness."

"But the other girls..."

"Who cares what the other girls will do," said Seleen. "Besides, you and he are leaving for years aren't you?"

"Yeah, but..."

"Yeah, but what?" said Seleen.

"He scares me, Seleen," said Adelana, this was the first time she'd told anyone this and it felt like she was getting a weight off her chest. "He really freaks me out, he's got a dark side. I've fought with him for years and when he fights, I see his dark side. He enjoys it, he enjoys it way too much. He has issues, Seleen and I fear with one push..."

Seleen nodded but didn't say anything.

"I think I want to," Adelana paused and shook her head. "I think I need to ask for a transfer and..."

"And if you start up a relationship with him, you fear it will be too hard," Seleen finished.

"And also, Karmen..."

Seleen nodded yet again, "I understand, what are you going to do?"

"After this mission, I'll talk to with him," said Adelana.

"That might be the 'push' you had mentioned," warned Seleen.

"I have to," said Adelana.

Seleen sighed and leaned back in her chair, "it has been three years. It's weird he hasn't made a move yet."

"And thank the Emperor he hasn't," said Adelana. "It'd be, awkward. I think he has issues with women, he's very quiet shy about that sort of thing. Maybe he knows deep down that he'll be rejected."

"I still think you should reconsider," said Seleen, but Adelana silenced her with an outreached hand.

"Seleen, can we please talk about something else?" she said. "I might never see you ever again. I've only got one day before we're scheduled to leave."

"Don't say that," said Seleen. "Just have faith in the God-Emperor and he will see you through."

Adelana bit her lip, "yes, of course."

Seleen smiled, "alright let's talk about something else. We could talk about yet another of your many suitors. How about Jharn Omis, the crewman he's quite handsome..."

Adelana's furrowed brow and pursed lips caused Seleen to trail off in her sentence. Then a huge grin split the older woman's face.

"I'm joking! Joking! God-Emperor, if looks could kill not even the Emperor himself could have saved me then!"

Adelana couldn't help but laugh, laugh the hardest and longest she'd laughed in a long time.

"How's the sword training going?" asked Seleen. "How's Helma? You two getting on?"

With Arlathan and Kollath at her flanks. Inquisitor Jelcine Enandra stood in the large, bustling hangar bay. Waiting at the base of the boarding ramp of Attelus and company's assigned Guncutter. It was a Salvani class VIII Guncutter, the very same Salvani class VIII Guncutter they'd escaped Omnartus three years ago. It'd proven a reliable and capable void-class ship over the years.

Arlathan, on her left, eyed the inquisitor side-long, she wore her master worked, black lined with gold power armour and she just seemed to radiate authority and charisma with such strength it was almost palpable. Her piercing blue eyes fixed forwards, her attractive features, unreadable.

Jelcine's healthy, chocolate brown skin shown in the bright light and her very long, thin white hair was tied up in a top knot and a pointed, wide-brimmed hat customary for the Ordo Hereticus, tucked into her armpit.

To say the symbolism was obvious would've been the biggest understatement of the millennia, as Attelus would say.

Kollath stood on her right, his helmet was held under his arm, revealing his ridiculous to the point of being cartoonish, masculine, handsome features, the tip of his ceremonial power sword on the floor

Arlathan grimaced slightly and turned to young Vex Carpompter.

The slightly built young hacker stood straight as an arrow, trying his hardest to look tough and failing miserably.

"Relax, kid," said Arlathan and he couldn't help but smile, "you look like someone's stuck a Lascannon up your proverbial rectum."

After Jeurat Garrakson had died on Omnartus, Arlathan had taken up teaching Vex how to fight, in the very rare times, they could both get the time. Arlathan over the past three years had grown to think of Vex as a little brother of sorts. He reminded Arlathan of himself when he was young, arrogant, talented and about as coordinated as a drunken Grox.

Arlathan though had worked through that and became the top hand to hand combatant in his Magistratum precinct. It'd taken him a few years of constant training but he got there, Vex still had a while yet, even after so long.

Or maybe Arlathan was just a terrible teacher? He quickly dismissed the thought, as a low life Marshall he'd taught his fair share of recruits and they'd all done pretty well.

Vex visibly relaxed, "sorry," the kid stammered.

Arlathan smiled and shook his head.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" asked Kollath gruffly. "Shouldn't you be at your little Cogitator typing away, with your skinny, girly little fingers? That's where you belong, isn't it?"

Arlathan glared at the Stormtrooper sergeant, "shut it, Kollath," he growled.

"Or you'll what, pube face?" said Kollath. "Shoot me? My arse has a better beard than you by the way."

"I outrank you, remember, sergeant," said Arlathan. "So shut up."

"Well, I outrank the both of you," said Enandra, her voice was soft but cut over the din like a powered blade through paper. "So both of you shut up. Oh, and Kollath. Vex has every right to be here, he might not be seeing his friends for a long time, so of course, he'll see them off."

Kollath grimaced and muttered, "he even has friends? News to me."

This elicited another glare from Arlathan and he wondered for the thousandth time what Inquisitor saw in him.

Jelcine placed the wide-brimmed hat on her head and asked, "Arlathan, how do I look?"

Arlathan opened his mouth to answer but quickly stopped himself, knowing he'd just gush. To Enandra it'd just come off as arse kissing and if the Inquisitor truly hated anything it was sycophants. Them and Amalathians and the Ecclesiarchy and Chaos and mindless fanatics, the list was long.

"You look like the embodiment of all the Ordo Hereticus stands for, ma'am," said Arlathan, after some thought, and it was the truth.

A small smile slowly crossed her full lips, "I hope you are aware of the irony of your words, Arlathan."

"I am," said Arlathan. "But it doesn't make it any less true, ma'am."

It was then that Attelus and his team walked into the hanger

In the lead was the young man himself, he walked with his usual confident, casual graceful gait, indicative of his status as an extremely skilled swordsman and martial artist. This despite carrying three big, bulky equipment bags. One on his back and one in each hand. It was very easy to forget just how strong Attelus was due to his slight height and slender build. He was the only one smiling.

Next was Adelana and Halsin. The young, very attractive red head's face was as unreadable as always. She wore a grey syn-skin bodyglove, and a pack on her back almost as large as one of the three Attelus carried. Slung on her left shoulder was her signature weapon, a silenced bolter with a wire stock attachment, she too was far stronger than she looked being of similar height and build to Attelus. The irony wasn't lost on Arlathan that an agent with a more subtle skill set would use such an unsubtle weapon.

Halsin looked not quite as calm, he carried not just one pack but many pouches of medical equipment that hung awkwardly from his webbing. They would've added a lot more weight on the poor young man's thin frame, this on top of an auto gun. Even many hardened Imperial guard veterans would suffer under such weight, which made the young medicae's level of physical fitness all the more impressive.

After them was Karmen Kons and Vark. Karmen carried just as much as Attelus and just as easily, but this was because she was wearing power armour of similar form-fitting design to the Inquisitor. It was coloured a dull grey and withheld much of the more fanciful decoration of the Inquisitor's but that didn't detract from the aura of power and intimidation the armour gave off. A psychic hood hung over her head. Karmen Kons was easily the most powerful and skilled psyker the organisation possessed. There was a rivalry between her and Enandra's personal psyker, Helva but it was mostly one-sided. She'd been gifted the power armour because of that extreme power and strength, it would also to protect her during the many times Karmen would leave her body in her incorporeal form.

Vark was in full Stormtrooper carapace, his rebreather mask hung from his helmet, He carried his Hell gun with the casual calm only the truly professional was capable of, his small blue eyes darting anywhere and everywhere, soaking every detail. He was already in full on bodyguard mode despite still being on a ship full of friendlies. As much as Arlathan had his misgivings of the ex-mercenary's personality and believes he couldn't deny he was skilled and experienced beyond belief.

Following was Hayden and Jelket. The reason why Jelket had been assigned as Hayden's guard and spotter instead of the sniper's apprentice was that Serlia had been called back by their cult. She had been deemed, at Hayden's and Enandra's recommendation, good enough to have finished her apprenticeship. Once she'd completed her trials she would be re-assigned under Enandra again.

That was if she completed the trials, apparently, they were as hard as hell. Just after the destruction of Omnartus, Attelus had to take them too and even he had struggled to pass. Although he'd never supplied Arlathan with any detailed summary.

Hayden was weighed down even more than Attelus and Karmen, although he was struggling noticeably. The huge man wore a black bodyglove, equipment bristled off his webbing and he carried two bags in each hand and had his Long-las and a knapsack slung on his broad back.

Jelket, like Vark, wore his full Stormtrooper carapace but carried a Long Las, yet on top of that, he also carried a Hell gun and charge pack. To anyone else carrying both weapons without power armour would've been awkward, to say the least, but the ex-guardsman somehow could manage it, easily in fact, being able to change from one weapon to the other in the blink of an eye. It made him a very adaptable soldier, perhaps even more so than Hayden. But this also made him incapable of carrying much else. (hence why Hayden was carrying five bags)

Just after was Torris and Verenth. Torris had stubbornly refused to wear Inquisitorial carapace, foregoing it for the lighter but not as strong, dark blue Arbites carapace. He carried his Melta gun and had his shotgun slung under his left arm. On his back was surely the largest backpack of all one that contained the drums of igniter fluid for the high powered tank killing weapon he carried. Torris, as usual, looked angry, his brow furrowed, brown eyes fixed forward. His lantern jaw so strong that he rivalled Kollath in manliness.

Verenth was a complete contrast to Torris, both had opposite backgrounds and he wore no armour at all. Still electing to wear the leathers of his gang back on Omnartus, the insignia on his back. The tall, lanky young man was also laden with equipment, her face a mask of intense concentration.

Last it was Delathasi and Helma.

Delathasi wore a black bodyglove, like Hayden. Her twin mono-blades sheathed on her back. The tall, long-limbed apprentice walked with an easy grace belying her lankiness despite carrying another large bag and struggling to keep it from dragging on the floor. Delathasi's attention was set downward, her soft features contorted with strain. It was a shame to Arlathan, she would've been truly attractive if it wasn't for her pugilist's nose and very noticeable acne.

With that thought, Arlathan glanced at Vex, who stood entranced by the girl. Arlathan didn't know if the young assassin felt the same but he couldn't help feel sorry for Vex.

Helma, again, wore full Stormtrooper carapace and walked with so much confidence it almost became haughtiness, she easily carried two very large bags and had her Hell gun slung casually over her left shoulder. She was strong, easily one of the strongest women in the organisation, Arlathan had decided a long time ago to never mess with her.

Following them were seven servitors, carrying the bulk of their equipment.

The crewmen and other servitors moving throughout the hanger stopped and stepped aside, allowing them a way through. Such was the respect they commanded.

Attelus approached and stopped, not even having to drop his huge bags to bring his hands together and make the sign of the Aquila at his chest. Behind him, everyone else halted and there was a collective sigh as Delathasi, Halsin, Verenth and Jelket dropped their bags.

"Mamzel Enandra, Interrogator Arlathan, Sergeant Kollath, Vex," he said. "It's good to see you."

Enandra smiled, "you do know we have more Servitors to carry your equipment right, Attelus?

Attelus shrugged, "a bit of strength training has never hurt anyone," he said.

"Yes it has," said Helma.

Attelus just pouted and furrowed his brow.

"Well," said Enandra. "This will be your first mission leading such a large team, you nervous?"

He shrugged, "well if you hadn't assigned me so many people who hated me, I'd be a bit less nervous."

"That's understandable," said Enandra. "Just don't let that nervousness overtake you and you'll do fine. I have great faith in you, Attelus. I wouldn't have made you mission leader if I did not."

"I won't," he said with admirable conviction. "There's too much as stake here, mamzel, and thank you."

"Good," said Enandra with a nod, "good to hear that."

She pulled her gaze away from the assassin and looked over his compatriots, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. Arlathan followed her gaze as did Attelus.

What she saw caused Enandra to sigh, "I can see that many of you are not happy to be assigned this mission and I'll be honest, I sympathise. There are surely varying reasons why you feel like this, and again, I'm sure they are good reasons."

She paused and began to pace, Arlathan watched her, enraptured, her skill as an orator wasn't rivalled. Well, except for one, Inquisitor Brutis Bones, also of the Ordo Hereticus, was almost as good.

"Some might feel that I am exiling you, getting rid of you, that is not true," she said, her armour joints whirring with every step. "Some of you might feel that I send you away because I think you incompetent or expendable, that as well is not true. In fact, that is the complete opposite reason."

Enandra paused again, meeting the eyes of everyone once more, "I send you because all of you, bar none have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are among the best. Not just the best in my organisation, but amongst the best of the Ordo Calixis. Time and time again you have proven your skill and ability and reliability and excelled in your field of expertise."

She stopped her pacing, "individually all of you have made great achievements. Attelus! You have killed Space Marines! Not just one, not just two but three! Three! I couldn't even claim such a feat! Adelana! You managed to infiltrate a Slaaneshi cult and kill their leader and slip away hours before the cultists even had a clue what happened! Verenth! You have headshot an enemy from two hundred metres on the draw! Torris! You managed to single-handedly hold off dozens and dozens of attacking cultists for hours, allowing for Imperial Guard reinforcements to drop in and finish it!"

Enandra trailed off and smiled, "if I stood here and listed all of your achievements, I would be here for hours, but I think you get my point. If you could perform such feats alone, imagine how many you could achieve together. I believe, no I know that you will take down Etuarq and do much much much more!"

"Maybe even conquer a world?" she said eventually and many laughed at such an absurdity.

She shrugged, "you never know. Now I will not hold you up any longer. I wish all of you the best of luck and may the Emperor be with you."

With that, she stepped aside and they began to file into the Guncutter saying their farewells as they went.

"Thank you for that," said Attelus as he too allowed the others to pass. "Amazing, awe-inspiring speeches like that aren't exactly my forte, in all honesty."

"Everyone has their own style of leadership," said Enandra. "You'll find yours sooner rather than later. I know it."

Attelus smiled and held out his hand which Enandra took and shook, "well, I hope we'll see you again, and sooner rather than later."

Then he started up the ramp after the others.

"Oh! And Attelus!" she called, causing him to stop and look over his shoulder at her.

"Remember, anything and everything to win, right?"

Attelus stared at her blankly before saying, "as you wish."

Then he started up the ramp again, muttering, "as you wish, indeed," with an unseen smile.

The week of warp travel to Iocanthos was uneventful.

Enandra had organised them a ride on the trading frigate The Calamandastron and needless to say the shipmaster, a haughty, aristocratic character named Durpount (who also had a moustache very much worthy of his name) Was not happy they wanted to stop off at Iocanthos. The initial plan being they would travel all the way to his destination the hive world of Canopus where they would organise another ride to, hopefully, straight to the Ixaniad sector.

Having to transition out and back into warp space at Iocanthos would delay him by an extra four days.

It'd taken Karmen and Attelus a good hour of negotiation with the very irate Durpount to come up with a solution (which meant their funds took a bit of a hit)

As much as Attelus dreaded having to travel with Eldar again and the potentially far-reaching consequences, he was frigging glad they didn't have to exit and enter the warp over and over and negotiating with shipmaster after shipmaster for transport for months on end.

Luckily, Karmen was a seasoned negotiator (even when not using her mind control powers, which Attelus insisted she didn't)

As the came closer and closer to Iocanthos, the cold, clammy feeling of anxiety in Attelus' chest became all the stronger.

How the hell was he going to explain them travelling with the Eldar? He'd asked Faleaseen in one of their dream conversations and she wasn't very helpful at all.

"I am afraid that you will have to figure out the answer to this conundrum yourself, Attelus Kaltos," she'd said. "I cannot hold your hand for everything."

Attelus had frowned at that, she'd helped him over the years without a doubt but he'd managed to achieve much by himself and out of all the times he could've truly used her help. It would've been now.

With the others, he'd wiled away the hours training, in team building exercises he'd researched on the cogitators back on The Audacious Edge. They were doing well, not as well as he hoped but not as badly as he'd expected. The one who'd proven the most stubborn toward it was Hayden. He was old, the oldest of the group but how old exactly Attelus didn't know, he looked in his late forties but that didn't mean much in the Imperium of man, with rejuvanent treatments and such. He'd worked alone or in pairs for so long now he was set in his ways, he seemed to passive-aggressively resist it at every turn, much to Attelus choler.

Two days before they were scheduled to transition into real space Attelus, Karmen and Adelana met in the Guncutter's common room to discuss how to handle having to travel with the Eldar.

Strangely it'd been Adelana who'd suggested that Karmen use her powers to influence their minds, hide it from them.

Karmen was quick to shoot that down, citing that it would be impractical, due to the length of the voyage, the complicated nature of such manipulation on so many minds and the psychic blocks protecting them had been made by Helva which would complicate it even further.

In the end, they'd decided there was no choice, they had to come clean. Then Adelana and Karmen agreed it was Attelus who was to do it.

"Why me?" Attelus had whined, despite already knowing the answer.

Karmen smiled, "you are our fearless leader, aren't you? Besides it's because of your connection with the Eldar that we're doing this, is it not?"

Attelus had glared at her and clenched his jaw, remembering that Karmen had a 'connection' to the Eldar as well, but chose to keep that quiet.

"They won't like this," Attelus had said. "They've got enough to be pissed off about and Verenth and Torris have enough reason to hate me already. And now they're going to learn I'm collaborating with Xenos?"

"I don't know if Verenth and Torris should be the people you worry about, Attelus," Adelana said. "Vark's a true believer in the Imperial Creed, he'll probably take the News the worst."

"The Emperor hates me, doesn't he?" Attelus had sighed.

"Well," said Adelana. "If he does, who could blame him? Really?"

Even Karmen laughed at that and Attelus couldn't help but smile.

So here he was, a day later, standing in the Guncutter's common room, every one of his squad (and Darrance) scattered around and staring at him intently.

He took a long inhale before starting, "thank you for coming."

Attelus paused and scratched the back of his head vigorously, public speaking had never been his forte. He couldn't help remember back at his scholam at twelve years old, having to perform a speech in front of the class and how terrified he'd been. It was funny, the bullies had long ago learnt not to mess with the quiet, pale, skinny little freak in class 11/5. He'd never been scared to face down five children twice his size and intent on beating the shit out of him, but having to tell the past of his idol the legendary prince Royd Antares of Velrosia, to an audience of twenty-four or more. Almost made him shit his pants.

Now, obviously he'd long got over such fear, but in a situation like this, not so much. A brief image popped in his head of Verenth just abruptly drawing his auto pistol and blowing his brains out the moment he finished. He imagined Vark screaming and shouting so strongly spittle sprayed all over him like torrential rain. Attelus always had an overly active imagination, which had proven to be a curse after he'd decided to join this line of work.

He looked over his audience and saw them watching on with a mixture of bemusement, impatience and annoyance. Eventually, he met the gaze of Adelana who gave him a small smile and a slight nod of encouragement.

That was all he needed.

"The reason why I have called you here today, is," he paused again, trying to figure out exactly how to carry on. "This mission comes with another twist."

There were some mumbles and glances of bemusement exchanged.

"I have arranged a shortcut," he said. "A faster way to travel to Sarkeath."

"Alright," said Helma. "That is...certainly a twist."

Torris' eyes narrowed sceptically, "I don't understand," he said.

Attelus sniggered and shrugged, "I don't quite understand, either. In all honesty."

He stopped again, expecting some sort of ridicule, but they just looked at him with almost enraptured interest.

"As all of you know, now, we're making a stop off at the agri world..." he trailed off, even calling Iocanthos an agri world was a bit of a stretch as it's first and only export was Ghost Fire pollen, the main ingredient for a combat enhancement used by the penal legions of the Imperial Guard. "Of Iocanthos, and there is a very good reason for that."

"And that reason being?" said Darrance with a raised eyebrow.

"That is where we'll be meeting...them," said Attelus.

"Them, who?" asked Torris when Attelus didn't continue.

"Them," he stopped and shuffled nervously, may as well just tell. "Them meaning, the Eldar."

There was a very long pause as everyone stared at Attelus blankly.

"The...what?" said Vark.

"The Eldar," Attelus said, straightening and placing his hands behind his back, there, the secret was finally out and it actually felt good. "They are our allies in this endeavour and they are going to help us reach Sarkeath far faster than normal."

"But, I don't understand," said Jelket. "When I was in the guard I fought against the Eldar once, they were psychotic, cruel and used horrific weapons, that caused...that caused...Oh, God-Emperor!"

He trailed off as a slow look of dawning horror crossed his ruddy face.

Attelus sighed, "please calm down, it's not that kind of Eldar, Jelket. These are a different kind. Those ones are known as the Dark Eldar, we are being helped by the Craftworld Eldar. There's a difference."

"Which means?" said Helma. "That they're just going to kill us?"

"Which means, we won't suffer horrific, horrific torment at their hands," he sighed yet again. "and no, they're not going to kill us. I hope all you have heard the saying, the enemy of my enemy is my friend?' Right?"

There were a few hesitant nods.

"Well this to the empth degree, they want to stop Etuarq almost as much as we do," Attelus said. "They have something they call the Webway, it's like a sub-dimension between the material universe and the warp. It allows for faster and safer travel than the Immaterium."

"I've never heard of this, webway, before," said Darrance.

"Of course you haven't, not many humans have," said Attelus.

"Except you," said Vark, darkly and Attelus had to fight back the urge to flinch as the cold anxiety in his chest abruptly got worse.

"Well, I," he stammered, losing his bluster that was when Adelana got to her feet and walked to his right.

"I know as well," she said. I've known for a long time now."

"As have I," said Estella then she too stood up and walked to stand on his left.

Attelus had to fight back a smile.

"So you two are Xenos collaborators as well?" growled Vark.

"We are," said Estella. "You are aware of the circumstances aren't you, Vark?"

Vark said nothing, just sneered. It was an ugly expression.

"How?" said Hayden, his deep voice reverberating through the silence and seemingly the entire ship.

"That!" said Attelus. "Is a long and sordid story, Hayden. One which I cannot and will not tell you."

There was a collective bellow of anger and frustration that caused Attelus to flinch with fright.

"I'm not telling you and that is that!" Attelus roared so strongly it caused the others to fall into silence. "I have my reasons and you will respect that!"

"We deserve to know!" snarled Vark. "This is heresy! Against all that the God-Emperor teaches! Collaboration with Xenos is an affront to mankind."

"Yes," said Attelus. "Perhaps it is."

There was a weighted moment of silence.

"If only this galaxy was actually in reality as black and white as you seem to believe, Vark," Attelus growled.

Vark was suddenly on his feet and face to face with Attelus, "and what the hell does that mean?"

Attelus smiled, "it means, Vark that your belief, your whole worldview doesn't coincide with reality."

"Oh? And what? Your's does? What the hell makes you so qualified, huh?" Vark demanded.

"I'd say I'm more qualified than you," Attelus said without a hint of hesitation. "I never let myself be brainwashed by Imperial dogma and a whole world is dead because of my actions. If that doesn't lend perspective, I don't know what does. And that's why I'm in charge of this mission, not you. So stand down before I put you down."

Vark didn't move, "is that why you can do all that shit you can do? Is it the Xenos who made you like that?"

Attelus didn't say anything, just clenched his jaw.

Vark turned away, "you hear that? He all but admits his guilt! He isn't just collaborating with the Xenos! He is one of them! How can we trust him knowing they are influencing him? Corrupting the rest of us with his role as our leader? He is their pawn-"

"I was once meant to be their pawn," Attelus interrupted. "But after everything I earned their respect and trust, I earned her respect and trust. I'd hoped I'd earned yours as well."

"You did!" Vark snapped. "But after learning this..."

"After learning this, you now know just how far I'm willing to go to stop Etuarq!" Attelus said. "I know this is hard for you to swallow, hard for all of you to swallow but please, just hear me out."

Everyone was silent, even Vark and all attention, back on Attelus.

"I am, a student of Imperial history and throughout the millennia there are countless times that humanity has corroborated with Xenos breeds, there are as we speak Rogue Traders today that are trading with Xenos on their homeworlds for important materials..."

"But that's different," said Vark.

"Yes it is," said Attelus quickly. "I'm not denying that it is different, Vark you're right. But, how many times have the Ultramarines, supposedly the exemplar of all the Imperium of Mankind and the Astartes in general stand for, corroborated with the Tau, against the Tyranid menace? How many times have the Eldar and humanity fought together to defeat the forces of the Ruinous Powers? It is pragmatism, simple pragmatism. What I have learned over the years is the Eldar, aren't that much different to us. Sure, they live a hell of a lot longer but they live and love and fight for their existence just like us. They aren't interested in destroying us, they don't want to corrupt us, they just want to be left alone and survive and Etuarq is a threat to that. He is their enemy as much as ours and thanks to them, we have a way to reach Sarkeath early enough to maybe make a difference!"

Attelus paused, close to being overwhelmed with emotion, he briefly shut his eyes and took a long breath before continuing on, "in the end, all it comes down to is this, I ask you, all of you. Do you want to have to stand by and have to watch another world burn?"

There was no answer and he didn't expect one.

"Do you want to stand by and watch it with the knowledge you could've prevented it? That you let your prejudice get in the way of saving billions more innocent souls," said Attelus. "Because that's what will happen if you abandon me now. I can't do this alone, I need you! All of you!"

"If that's true, why don't you just work with the Xenos, then?" snarked Vark.

"Believe it or not, Vark, I'm still human," said Attelus with a smile. "And In all honesty, I'd rather the twelve of you watching my back than a thousand Eldar! Once we reach Iocanthos you may leave. I will find go to Sarkeath by my myself. But once I fail, which I surely will. I'll be the only one with a clear conscience because I was the only one who at least tried, so are you with me? If you are, please raise your hand!"

Adelana and Karmen both raised their hands without a second's hesitation.

For what must've been less than half a minute, but to Attelus felt like a lifetime when the third person finally raised their hand and that person was Hayden Tresch a few seconds later it was Darrance, followed quickly by Helma, Delathasi, then Jelket, Halsin, Torris and eventually, Verenth.

Attelus had to fight back the tears welling in his eyes.

When Vark saw all of this, he let out a growl of frustration and he too reluctantly raised his hand.

"Alright! You win frig you!" he snarled. "But once we get back I'm telling the Inquisitor everything, you got that?"

"I wouldn't expect anything less," said Attelus. "And thank you, thank you...All of you."

He sniffed and rubbed his eyes with a forearm.

"Are you crying, Attelus?" said Helma.

"No," he whined. "It's just the recycled oxygen getting in my eyes, is all."

There were a few laughs at the feeble lie.

"And thank you for already agreeing to come because, I'm sorry to say it only gets worse, I'm sorry."

Then he told them the rest.

[fortey]

The Pitch for Anomaly

So, to the best of my knowledge, when you want to write a comic book that you have created, you pitch the idea to an editor/publisher and see what they think.  This is the pitch I came up with for Anomaly.  Let me know what you think...

Ongoing series written and created by Ian Fortey with art by Bob Herron.

TAGLINE

“They are the fearful but determined. They are the brutal but unknown. They are the soulless but efficient.  You are Anomaly.”

HIGH CONCEPT

Only one girl has adapted to survive What Came After.  In a world where the very air will scorch your lungs and monsters in forms both pleasant and terrifying bide their time, can she hope to save what remains of mankind?

Mad Max meets Pacific Rim in the shadow of the Pitch Black universe

STORY

Long ago, long before anyone alive could remember, we lived Above.  Then, from somewhere beyond, came the Unkind.  The Unkind were not like us.  The Unkind thrived on human emotion – our fear and rage fueled their very existence.  Their essence was influenced by the psychic energy of the beings around them.  The Fear Unkind grew malicious and diabolical, The Hate Unkind grew powerful and cunning and the Anger Unkind fought with boundless rage.  

We were strong before. We produced the great Centurions, an army of massive robotic warriors to fight off the threat of the Unkind.  But even Centurion bodies have weaknesses, and Centurion minds were corruptible.  Many fell in battle. Others were plagued by the most insidious Unkind and turned against man.  In the end man and Unkind used every weapon at their disposal.  We all lost.

Below, in the ramshackle maze of felled and buried buildings, old tunnels and reinforced bunkers, a community of survivors, lead by mankind’s unfinished weapon, The Splendid, thrive.  The humans scavenge above for scraps and food but only in short bursts, wearing their re-breather masks designed by the limitless robot brain of The Splendid to protect them from the deadly Toxic.  But one girl is different.  The Splendid calls her Anomaly.

Anomaly has evolved. Her lungs have a nearly mechanical filtration ability, her alveoli a hardened and hearty husk and a her liver has grown stronger and more complex to prevent the Toxic from poisoning her. Anomaly can stay above, perhaps indefinitely.  While the likes of Old Harlo and Qualmy One-Eye try to guide her, they have only ever been able to stay Above for mere moments compared to Anomaly, and so she must discover a terrifying world alone.  

Above is a world so unlike Below.  A world of decimated cities, of the skeletons of Centurions, and of nightmarish danger. It is home to the great Sky King Cicero, a massive raven The Splendid calls a mutation. It is home to The Word, the last Centurion, long since driven mad. It is the home of MechMen, humans merged with machine, and Fleshshaper, a human/Unkind hybrid with god-like powers.

What a world for a young girl to grow up in.  What kind of choice do you have when you can be like everyone else, and stay below, and never really experience any life beyond the stagnation of just surviving, or when you can go where no one else can go, and see what no one else can see, but you must do it all on your own?  You can never share your experiences, you can never rely on someone else who knows more, or can lend a hand.  You can be like everyone else, or like no one else.  There is no in between.  That is what The Splendid means when he says Anomaly.

CHARACTERS

Anomaly.  Both insider and outsider, someone who is always alone.  A girl trying to be a hero for her people, but who knows she’s not really like everyone else and who doesn’t have the guidance that everyone else takes for granted.  

Old Harlo, a gruff but caring old man who struggles with his inability to be the strong man he once was, who is forced to acknowledge a headstrong young girl has abilities he never could and can’t guide her to use.

The Splendid, mankind’s greatest weapon, a truly living Centurion, a mechanical and biological being.  His body was never completed and his motivations are shrouded in secrecy.

Pitch is a MechMan, from a different group of survivors who have adapted by including technology into their bodies.

Cicero is the Waste’s greatest mutation.  Intelligent, but with an inhuman brain, Cicero was created to fight the Unkind. Now he works tirelessly towards his own ends.

The Word is the last of an advanced line of Centurions. Heavily damaged in battle, destructive energy oozing from the massive wound where its face once was.  It has been driven to madness.

The Unkind are a race of physical and metaphysical beings. Their nature is determined by the energy they absorb.  Negative Unkind fought Centurions. But there were also ones influenced by positive emotion.

The Centurions were our great army – artificial intelligence in enormous warrior bodies.

The world of Anomaly is built in the ruins of our own.  It is a story of an apocalypse and the terror of the unknown.  It is also the story of growing up, of trying to find your place, and of not just feeling like you’re different, knowing you’re different.

BREAKDOWN

Part 1: In the world above we meet Anomaly.  She scavenges amidst the remnants of Centurions and the world before.  Here she can be free.  She may be alone, but this is her playground.  She explores as she hunts, cautious of the dangers that lurk in the distance – the Word at his mountain and Cicero. We become familiar with the Waste, the Toxic and how Anomaly survives here.

Anomaly remembers learning of Cicero, of seeing him as a young child with Old Harlo, of him protecting her and explaining the beast.  She recalls the first time she found the Centurion graveyard and the dead Unkind within it.  She remembers being infected by the Unkind, and the Dark Fever overcoming her.

In the present, Anomaly is surprised by The Word and Cicero coming early.  As she turns to return home, she sees living Centurions, coming in her direction.  She flees, at first afraid but then realizing she is Anomaly and she will survive.

Part 2: Anomaly brings news of what she has seen.  The Earth begins to shake and part of Below collapses as the Centurions pass.  The Splendid declares that he is able to detect the Centurions but is unable to connect with them as he should be.

The Splendid’s limited surveillance capabilities indicate The Word has left his mountain.  The Word is dangerous because the power he wields could destroy Below. The Splendid decides Anomaly must investigate.

Anomaly is afraid to leave but knows there is no one else who can do what she can do. Old Harlo tries to comfort her. She speaks with The Splendid and goes Above. She will track The Word and try to learn what he is doing.  As she leaves, the sky burns blue with the Voice of The Word.

Part 3: Anomaly is further into the Wasteland than she has ever been.  She is heading to the Mountain, a place no one has ever gone.  She finds buildings as she travels, small structures that have clearly been built after the war, like hides for hunters.  Someone else is alive, someone not from Below.

Cicero arrives. Anomaly tries to run from him but there is no cover.  She considers fighting but realizes it is hopeless.  Instead of attacking, Cicero lands and regards her curiously.  He places a foot in her way, between her and the Mountain, and uses his beak to nudge her back towards where she came from. She explains she cannot return until she knows what The Word is up to and if he can be stopped.  He is a risk for her people.

Cicero leaves.  The Word is getting closer to her and her to it. As she continues her journey, she is observed in secret.  A being in camouflage wearing a mask follows her.

Part 4: Anomaly is attacked by Pitch, a MechMan.  They are both surprised that the other is able to breathe The Toxic.  A blast from The Word nearly hits them and they flee for cover together.  Pitch explains his people revere The Word.  To them it is almost Godlike.  He explains that the tech on which they rely to survive is supplied by The Word.  Since the end of the War, the Word has been creating machines at the Mountain.  His failed machines were scavenged by MechMen.

Pitch tells Anomaly that The Word fought bravely in the war but suffered a great loss.  His face was destroyed by Unkind and every day at the same time he weeps for his loss.  Anomaly realizes this is what she knows by her Clock as when the Word speaks. He is venting energy from his reactor that overheats due to his damage and threatens to destroy him. His programming has long since been lost and The Word is attempting to build a new army of Centurions.

When they are finally able to see The Word, Pitch realizes he has transformed himself.  No longer a Centurion, The Word has made himself a mechanized Unkind, a merging of machine and monster, a walking nightmare.

Part 5: Pitch is unable to explain why The Word has done what he is doing, and why other Centurions are awake.  The Word and The Centurions are both heading in the same direction, and neither Pitch nor Anomaly know of anything that way. They agree to travel together.

Anomaly fears The Word will head too close to Below.  He frequently blasts Earth and sky with destructive energy.  Pitch explains that his people have functioning Centurion parts in their home, and they use them as energy sources.  He suspects he knows where The Word’s power source is, but when they approach, his tech will not allow him to access it.  The Word is able to link to Pitch’s tech and control parts of his brain and his ability to breathe.  Anomaly leaves to take on The Word on her own.

The Word’s Unkind parts attempt to kill Anomaly but Cicero returns.  He dives for an attack and The Word Speaks.  The blast of energy hits Cicero full bore.  And it does nothing.  The bird attacks and Anomaly uses the distraction to follow Pitch’s instructions. She scales The Word and gains access to his brain.  Inside his energy core, where Pitch said she would find a CPU, she instead finds a human attached to the machine.

Part 6: The human brain of The Word is a withered, deformed husk of a person, scarred and oozing the black residue of Dark Fever.  It rants that Anomaly will never understand the world she lives in, and that the new world will be ruled by Order, the name The Word has given itself.

Order tries to fight Anomaly with Unkind tentacles. But Order is weak and frail and Cicero is keeping The Word off balance.  Anomaly tears Order from the mechanical links holding it in The Word’s brain.  The Word begins to shut down.  Order claims Anomaly is a dumb child alone in a world built to destroy her as it dies.

Outside, Pitch has vanished. Cicero pecks at The Word’s frame before leaving.  Anomaly returns Below.  The Splendid tells her she has exceeded expectations.  The others celebrate her win but she tells Old Harlo she still does not know why The Word was awake or where the other Centurions have gone. Old Harlo explains that the world is bigger than she could ever imagine and there will be many things she will never understand.

And Beyond…

 We’ll see that Cicero was bred to be an ultimate weapon – immune to Centurion energy and though not immune to Unkind, very resistant to them. He is also highly intelligent but he is not human and his brain does not function as a human brain does.  

We’ll see that The Word is not dead.  Order was merely one vessel, and Chaos will soon rise in its place.  Where Order was human with Unkind influence, Chaos will be Unkind with human influence, all wrapped in the long since fractured mind of a machine.

We’ll rediscover Pitch and his MechMen, beings who worship the Machine, who are inextricably linked to them and who have grown mistrustful of biologics.

We’ll learn more of the Splendid whose AI is advanced beyond anything before.  His protection and nurturing of the survivors is not due to emotional attachment but necessity. The Splendid requires humans only insofar as the Splendid requires tools to accomplish his own, secret goals.

We’ll learn of Old Harlo, who was the hero of the survivors before Anomaly came around, the strongest and bravest of all but who was limited by his weakness to the Toxic just like everyone else, and who tries to balance his love of a young girl he raised like a daughter with the acceptance of his own waning relevance.

We will discover The Unkind, a race of beings not so much from another time or another place but another way of being, who crossed into our world and were overwhelmed by humanity and its unrelenting ability to feel.

We’ll discover Fleshshaper, the offspring of man and Unkind, a being as close to God as has ever existed on Earth, the Mother of Cicero and a being able to create life.

We’ll learn more of Anomaly, a girl who suffered loss young, who was unwanted by a mother who thrived on simplicity, and who just wants to be like everyone else while being like no one else.  In any setting from a dull office cubicle to a far-reaching future of monsters and robots, everyone has felt outside even from the inside.  From the most popular athlete to the loneliest band kid, everyone has moments when they doubt their place and wonder just what it is friends and family expect from them, if they are truly valued or just needed for what they can provide.  That is where Anomaly will thrive and grow, as the story of someone rising to incredible challenges while never even being sure if they’re succeeding at being themselves.

[calliecat93]

ST: The Next Generation S4 Watchthrough Episodes 2-5

Family: I fully expected the episode after the whole Borg thing would just be another typical episode that maybe brought it up, but otherwise be business as usual. Thank God that they didn’t go that route. This was the follow-up needed, a calmer, more introspective episode. No aliens. No politics or social issues. No heavy action. Just a cool-down, character-driven episode to let the audience breathe and allow character development. Picard of course is the big plot, going back to France (is this a joke because Patrick Stewart is British?) to reconnect with his family and deal with the trauma of the Borg assimilation. Robert is kind of an ass… but he does care about Picard and does ultimately help him open up about the trauma. Seriously, Patrick Stewart’s acting in that scene? 100% perfect. I like his sister-in-law and nephew as well and I liked finally seeing Earth outside a Starfleet base/an area not technologically advanced. We also met Worf’s adopted parents! While they’re a little much, they clearly love Worf, did their best to adjust in properly raising a Klingon child, and I’m just glad to see some actual competent/caring parents in something. Crusher and Wesley’s plot isn’t much… but not gonna lie, if my mom hadn’t been in the room I’d have likely cried. Wesley watching the hologram of his deceased dad… while Wil Wheaton’s acting was a little underwhelming… yeah God that hit far too close. My dad died three years ago and I still get choked up about it sometimes. And when Crusher was going through Jack’s belongings and picking up his uniform? Just… damn. I’m so glad to see an episode that just… lets the characters develop and grow without having to add a whole bunch of melodrama or an over-complicated plot or anything like that. It’s about family, and it was freakin’ perfect. 5/5.

Brothers: Well… I should have seen this coming eventually. Lore is back folks. Oh but it’s not just him. After three seasons, we finally meet the infamous Dr. Soong. Guess this is why Data wasn’t in the last episode, his family issues needed one all their own. So first… Brent Spiner deserves every freakin’ acting Emmy ever because he played all three of these characters. Yep, all three at the same time in the same episode. And he plays all three with great distinction and character and… the man is freakin’ good. The whole episode was just… damn. The first half where Data essentially hijacks everything.. yeah if Data ever went evil, everyone would be screwed. That was legit horrifying… though why they left Data alone on the bridge when something was clearly wrong with him I’ll never know. As for Dr. Soong himself… I’m not sure how to feel about him. Oh as a character he’s great. Brent Spiner really put a lot into him. I’m just not sure whether to call him out or feel bad for him… but maybe that’s part of the point. And Lore? Well… while he’s certainly evil… I actually felt bad for him? I can’t blame him for being angry and resentful because… yeah him being deactivated/disassembled while Data got to live out a life and shown clear favoritism is very understandable. He truly feels like the angry older brother whole Data is the younger, more inquisitive brother not quite sure what to think. Soong does seem to regret decommissioning Lore, especially now that he’s dying (which Lore’s actual emotional reaction… it was possibly an act but IDT it was, again excellent work by Brent Spiner), and it does feel like he summoned the two (even if Lore was unintentional since he didn’t know he’d been reassembled) to make some form of amends, but IDK if it’s legit regret or some form of ego. It really feels open to interpretation or perhaps a mix of both. Despite that, Soong being killed by Lore who escapes with the emotion chip not designed for him implanted to wreak havoc again in the future… yeah him accepting that it’s over and his and Data’s goodbye with Data calling him ‘father’… again, just perfect. This whole episode was perfect, Event the subplot with the two kids was done well and served as a good parallel to the Data and Lore situation. Those two were able to forgive… but I don’t think it will be that simple for Data. I’m still hoping that Data gets happy things later (WHEN DOES HE GET HIS KITTY?! I WANT HIM TO GET HIS KITY!), but still a fantastic episode. 5/5.

Suddenly Human: So in this episode, we have a human boy who was raised by an alien culture known as the Talarians. Due to being raised among them, he acts and views himself as a Talarian moreso than he does a human. Well… that’s certainly an interesting episode topic. It’s kind of like with Worf, a Klingon, having been raised by humans, albeit they did try to keep his Klingon heritage intact as much as they could. I think that this may be the first tme we’ve had a human being raised in an alien culture? Spock may have kinda counted, but he was half-Vulcan, half-human, and still had both parents so that’s still a different situation compared to someone born and raised human until his parents died and was taken into the very group that caused their deaths. I guess the title character in Charlie X back during TOS may have also counted, which I do get similar vibes from especially the whole ‘captain super awkwardly stepping up as a father figure against his will’ part… albeit I feel more sympathetic towards Jono than Charlie who went thoroughly power-mad, plus Charlie very clearly didn’t want to go back to the aliens. Jono just wants to go home. Honestly… IDK how to feel about the situation. I get wanting to have Jono connect to his human roots and being concerned about him being among the Talarians who have a… rather ruthless, very patriarchal lifestyle. However, the man who took him in does genuinely love him and it does seem like he’s been accepted into their world and he’s content with that. It’s where I get the crew’s concerns and while a little too excessive Crusher’s concern about Stockholm Syndrome does make sense somewhat… but I’m also like ‘this is his choice, if that is what he wishes then grant it to him.” . Trying to make him get in touch with his roots as though they know what’ best for him when they absolutely don’t, no matter how well-intentioned… yeah don’t agree with that. Even if he has remaining family on Earth, then as sad as it is, he gets to make that choice for his life no matter what the consequences may be. IDK is they intended to bring up the moral complexity of these kinds of situations because there are solid arguments that you can make for all sides here, but I do think it’s there and is very much a relevant topic in today’s world. I’m very much on the ‘make the choice for yourself and allow one to make that choice’ opinion. Allow them to learn about their heritage and the truth about how they ended up where they did, and let them decide what they’d like for themselves/how they’d like to lead their lives. Ultimately that’s what Jono did. He understands what happened and he finally expresses missing his parents and the trauma he endured due to it… but he also chose to remain with his adopted father and those who raised him, but maybe now more open in getting in touch with his Earth/human heritage. IDK if it was the right or wrong choice, but it was his choice. 4/5.

Remember Me: 🎶Though I have to say goodbye. Remember me, don't let it make you cry.🎶 Sorry, the Disney/Pixar nerd in me required me to do that XD Okay in all seriousness... guys they did it! They made an episode centering on a female character (Dr. Crusher) aND IT WAS ACTUALLY GOOD! So we have huge chunks of the crew disappearing and everyone’s memories of them wiped… except for Dr. Crusher. So… I won’t go into the plot twist here. Like with The Survivors it is really something I’d rather not spoil. But damn, I already liked Dr. Crusher… but this made me love her. The poor woman keeps questioning her sanity because of all the disappearances/memory gaps. To everyone else, nothing is out of place. To her? Everything is breaking down. I do like that the crew does listen to her and take her fears seriously. No one questions her going insane, Troi even telling her that if she thinks that something is wrong, then she’s acting as she should. Even when it’s only Crusher and Picard, despite clearly getting tired of it… Picard still listens to her and trusts her word. With how in both this and TNG they sometimes have dropped in common sense, it’s just so nice to see them treat this situation seriously and carefully and not act like Crusher is just a hysterical woman. Which she is not. While she understandably is freaked out and upset, she acts competently and intelligently especially when it’s only her left. Again, without spoiling anything, the way she gets out of it shows just how freakin’ awesome she is. Just an overall really good episode and Thank God that Dr. Crusher finally got the focus that she deserved. Sorry Pulaski, but them ditching you was worth it for this~! 4.5/5.

Wow we are off to an excellent start! Brothers may be my favorite episode in the whole show thus far. Much more to go, so hopefully the quality remains consistent. We shall see~!

[topmixtrends]

CRITICAL CONSENSUS HOLDS that Wes Anderson movies are about loss. For some artists, aestheticism acts as a kind of spider’s silk: a complexly structured beauty proves best for binding and healing whatever wound. As with a play by the unloved Wilde or a mazurka by the exiled Chopin, the sheer symmetrical precision of an Anderson film knits up and covers over trauma the way that Richie Tenenbaum’s bandages knit up his slashed wrists.

But Isle of Dogs, the director’s most recent stop-motion effort, is not a movie about loss. It’s not even about losing, nor about the ethical and aesthetic miracle of sustaining a marvelously well-ordered fantasy in the face of devastation — you know, that whole Anderson thing.

By contrast, Isle of Dogs is a movie about finding: finding a dog, finding your friends and family, finding your purpose and your identity. So it is slightly difficult to integrate it into the Anderson oeuvre: its primary affect is not sorrow or melancholy but anger, its aesthetic a kind of closely controlled, roiling ickiness: packs of grimy dogs explode into fights, samurai heads fall off, planes burst into immaculate balls of cotton-fluff smoke, sushi fish are hacked up squirmingly alive. At every point in the film (and the film is surprisingly unpleasant to watch for precisely this reason), Anderson seems to ask what forms, what styles, are commensurate to rage — and not just to rage but to a double-pronged, rage-driven teen quest to defeat the patent unfairness of the world.

A first answer would appear to be taiko drumming: in a well of light, surrounded by darkness, three well-fleshed, bare-chested adolescents hammer out a theme by Oscar-winner Alexandre Desplat. We are then drawn into an epic expository sequence about a centuries-old conflict between the dogs of Japan and the cat-loving Kobayashi dynasty, which still controls the fictional Uni Prefecture, which in turns contains the fictional city of Megasaki. Cut to the issuing of a municipal decree by the mayor of Megasaki, who is also the current head of the Kobayashi dynasty, 20 years in the future, as measured from our heterodiegetic present: infected with something called “Dog Flu,” all of the city’s dogs are to be quarantined on Trash Island, now known as the Isle of Dogs. The mayor’s ward, Atari Kobayashi (Koyu Rankin), aged 12 — granted, not quite a teen, but pissed as hell, a classic Anderson pubescent — watches from the shadows as his beloved guard dog, Spots (Liev Schreiber), is sent off in a crate as proof that his guardian means business.

Revealed mostly in flashbacks, Spots’s fate furnishes one of the film’s intricate, Andersonian subplots; just as crammed with reversals, the A story details Atari’s quest to find Spots on Trash Island. He’s helped by a pack of alpha dogs voiced by regular Anderson collaborators: former house pets Rex (Edward Norton), King (Bob Balaban), Boss (Bill Murray), and Duke (Jeff Goldblum), plus Chief (Bryan Cranston), a former stray. If this sounds cute, well, it isn’t. The film’s violence is remarkably violent. Chief’s a scrapper: in his first scene he chews off another dog’s ear. It sits like a hot-sauced chicharron in the center of the screen, vaguely horrid and blood-spotted, until it’s dragged away by a rat. As they journey, the dogs pass through a series of gorgeously bleak landscapes, arguing among themselves all the while. The group’s conflicts usually center on Rex, head of the pets — who wants to help Atari — and Chief, sole gutter spawn, who’s keeping an open mind on the question of whether the dogs should just eat him. Cranston-as-Chief sometimes sounds so threateningly grumpy his performance sometimes loses its comic touch.

The B plot follows Tracy Walker (Greta Gerwig), a foreign exchange student from Ohio and the second prong of Anderson’s preteen anger force. Tracy is a cub reporter on the Megasaki Senior High newspaper; she is also very noticeably pissed. She declares she’s angry at several points. She hates the mayor, hates that he’s corrupt, hates that no one in Megasaki can see how corrupt and unfair the treatment of its dog population might be. She chews her gum so hard you can hear it — that’s how pissed she is. As she discovers that a massive conspiracy lies behind the dogs’ expulsion, she only gets madder. On the hunt for a serum to cure the dogs of Trash Island, she bursts into a bar and screams down a bereaved scientist voiced by Yoko Ono. The scene is almost unwatchably unpleasant: anger is, based on the scantiness of its representation, more unsettling than fear or grief. On the other hand, there’s a certain bravery in showing us a character’s outrage, even at the cost of showing — or trying to show us — things atrocious enough to outrage both the character and the audience.

Unlike cats, who conspire with the corrupt Kobayashis, the dogs of Megasaki are fundamentally innocent — and so, of course, people would send them to hell, misdirection of our own pain or culpability onto the nearest possible Other being the single great talent of humankind. Thus scapegoated, the dogs form their own raggedy community. And again, an ugliness, an ickiness, holds the day despite the ingenuity, the sheer (and familiar) beauty of certain of Anderson’s shots. The emaciated, dirty, insomniac creatures we see in an early montage flirt with the Burton-esque. The atrocities perpetrated on another subcommunity of Trash Island dogs — the survivors of a medical facility where they were experimented on — leaves many of them with glass eyes, tubes sticking out of their necks, or, in the case of the old, much-bereaved dog Gondo (Harvey Keitel), a face that’s half-bald and decorated with medical tattoos. (Keitel’s monologue about the loss of his own fellow canine best friend — riven by instinctive howling — is the film’s best performance.)

Anderson has never shied from medical horror, torture, arterial blood, knives, arrows, severed heads, severed fingers, small arms, pepper spray, flamethrowers, sabers, shoves out of windows and down stairs, punches to the nose, and bigtime scuffles of the squad-of-baddies-on-squad-of-hapless-heroes or bro-on-bro or even the kid-on-kid kind. In Moonrise Kingdom, Social Services threatens 12-year-old Sam Shakusky with electric shock for refusing to betray his true love, Suzy Bishop; Anderson’s previous stop-motion film, Fantastic Mr. Fox, also sports with amputations and gory gallows humor. But Isle throbs with a much darker and more disturbing intensity than any of Anderson’s other films. It flirts with the thin representational line between slapstick and cruelty. In two different instances, we are left to think that our favorite characters — sweet innocent dogs — have either starved to death or been incinerated. Audible gasps of adult discomfort accompanied both scenes both times I saw the film. Not for nothing is its PG-13 rating for “violent images.”

But that makes the film a challenge — its nearest animal-tale analogue, so far as I can tell, is Art Spiegelman’s Maus. At the very least, it helps furnish some internal answer as to what to do about movies that, like this one, seem to make people very mad.

¤

Upon the film’s release, some heralded Isle of Dogs as prescient; they celebrated it, for example, for its celebration of student protest. But the idealism of the pro-dog movement as headed by the gum-snapping, conspiracy-busting Tracy doesn’t much resemble anything that young people might find to protest. In a certain sense — although no one in the film can know this, since the humans and the dogs in Megasaki don’t speak the same language — Chief and co. are quirky but loyal old-fashioned, white-sounding dudes who want nothing more than to find masters. Counterpoised against this wholesome if utterly outdated modus vivendi is a vision of fascist evil decidedly incomplete — a vision of camps and complete dog extermination that conjures up the Holocaust but that leaves aside other ways that fascism has expressed itself in any moment closer to Tracy’s and Atari’s or our own.

Whether it is appropriate to aestheticize the Holocaust is one question (shades of Maus again — but the film has none of the comic book’s claim to history); strong views on both sides would make for a real conversation. But the film has attracted even stronger takes. Though the critical dust has mostly settled, the film’s reception was hampered by charges of cultural appropriation: Justin Chang of the Los Angeles Times wrote a scathing review of what he saw as Anderson’s failures. But as a recent piece at The New Yorker rightly points out, Anderson did not invent the commodification or appropriation of Japanese culture, and Japonism was often aided and abetted by the Japanese. Indeed, the mayor of Megasaki is a thundering Asian dictator — very close to racist stereotype — but then again, he looks not a little like the thundering dictator-to-be who runs our country. And if Anderson’s fictional Megasaki is no more than a Japanese-ish place outside of history, that’s for better and for worse, too. We learn that Trash Island was repeatedly destroyed by the natural disasters to which the Japanese archipelago is in fact susceptible — volcanoes, tidal waves — but the film’s Japan does not seem to have known the unnatural disaster that killed twice as many people as the nearest natural contender. There is something moderately disturbing about a Japan that has never known the American atomic bomb — and then again, there’s something beautiful about it, too.

To me, there is nothing (or maybe only one thing) about Isle of Dogs that seems finally vehemently unjust. In many of its aspects — perhaps especially in its complex idealization of a universal emotion — the film is a reminder that our representations can adopt a playful, inter-cultural permeability. One hopes that at the same time, though, we are still pursuing, honing, and revising a better understanding of what kinds of representations by what kinds of people are just. This knowledge — which is made and assembled and broken down and reassembled collectively, like all other forms of knowledge — involves an awareness not only of race or ethnicity or nationality but of the intersections of those constructs with gender and class and then, too, with history and with the way that historiography is shaped by power relations. And at the same time, a person has to grapple with the idea that elite internationalist culture of the kind Anderson now incarnates exploits anyone who has no access to the free movement of capital between countries.

Which is to say that that process is long and complex as hell. No one artist can be expected to manage all of these relations; no one artist ever has. Ideally, too, no critic should fly off the handle without understanding what the purpose of their flying off the handle might be.

So here I go flying right off the handle. Watch me.

Wes Anderson might or might not want to know that his film’s vision of gender struck me as frankly awful. We have Tracy and Yoko in Isle of Dogs’s human population, but there are only three “bitches” in the film. And yes, “bitch” is the word the dogs use. It’s a joke that never lands anything but awkwardly, the kind of obsolete and embarrassing joke my dad would make to utter silence at the dinner table. One, the pug, Oracle (Tilda Swinton), is sexless; the other two, Nutmeg (Scarlett Johansson) and Peppermint (Kara Hayward), function purely as love interests for alphas — or rather, and more grimly, as prospective mates. Nutmeg’s character arc consists solely of reversing her original objection that no one should bring puppies into the world of Trash Island and becoming a mother. (The change? The dogs escape from Trash Island.)

Nutmeg is a fancy show dog, and she sometimes does amazing tricks for Chief — balancing on her front paws while juggling invisible bowling balls or bowling pins — but this finally incomplete attempt to make her seem interesting only makes it too easy to imagine that with slightest story tweaks she could, er, actually do something. As it is, she exists solely to suggest to Chief that he should help Atari find Spots — that is, to use her sexual magnetism to help an emotionally stunted alpha male remember what’s important about life. And yes, Chief does eventually find a job and become a family man, a bizarrely schlocky outcome for any Anderson protagonist. Worst is that the proposition and subsequent worship of these sorts of faux-interesting female characters is an easily solvable problem, one that could have been fixed in any number of ways without altering the film’s vision.

Unless that vision is finally and most importantly the sad, worn-out vision of indomitable American masculinity. Chief can’t make a good house pet because, as he reminds us frequently, he bites. And why does he bite? He doesn’t know. He’s aggressive, he’s never known love — and even when he does, at film’s end, become a “good boy” and agree to serve as Atari’s new guard dog, he still struggles not to bite the shit out of visiting dignitaries. His ultimate virility is verified at the end of the film by Nutmeg, who assures him that she isn’t attracted to tame animals. Fine: Wildness is a virtue. But the film’s characterological structure suggests that Nutmeg only understands Chief because she is the tamest possible animal (that is, a show dog). The story of Chief and Nutmeg feels like a warmed-over Lady and the Tramp — when so much more might have been possible in terms of either character and in terms of their relationship.

Then again, their love could be read as an incarnation of the two central columns of Andersonian filmmaking and of Isle of Dogs itself: the unpredictable and chaotic in Chief, his rage and sorrow, is elaborated out into the exquisite comical expertise of Nutmeg’s tricks. And that is neither objectionable nor regrettable but rather the mark of a mature film, one that figures its own making inside itself.

The point, I think, is that any film is only ever the film that it is. But it also lives differently in each historical moment and persists or dies differently in the way that, not just each culture, but each one of us remembers or forgets it — how much we choose to argue and about what. For now, Isle of Dogs is, for me, memorable as one of the few testaments to how important it is to be pissed, how it is surprisingly possible to make and explore within a state of outrage, of conviction usually considered too much, too large, and too loud for complex and careful thought, much less for beautiful form.

¤

Marc Dragon lives and works in Los Angeles.

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