#the three cases i went into are somehow all from the early 00s... curious...

[jewishcissiekj]

everyone in the x-men is 19 when it comes to age differences (I know this reads weirdly I just mean someone in the age difference relationship tends to be 19)

[musecharm-writes]

Bad Influence, Pt 2 (Steve Harrington X Reader)

Summary: Jonathan, Robin, Steve, and Nancy find out more about what happened at Melvald’s; you have your first shift at the general store.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

When Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, and Robin head to the Byers’ later that night, Joyce is there, making herself a sandwich and smoking a cigarette in the kitchen.

“Jonathan, sweetie? That you?”

“Yeah, Mom,” Jonathan replies. “Nancy, Steve, and Robin are here, too.”

Joyce appears around the corner, a look of surprise on her face. “Oh! Hey, guys! Sorry, if I had known you were coming I would’ve cooked dinner, or--or gotten take-out, or something. Will is over at Dustin’s tonight so I was expecting it to just be me and Jonathan--” She cuts herself off to take a pull from her cigarette.

“That’s okay, Ms Byers, me and Robin were gonna get pizza later,” Steve says politely. He’s always been good with parents, moms especially, and for whatever reason Joyce seems to like him. 

He assumes that Jonathan has never breathed a word to her about all the shit Steve used to put her son through, otherwise he’d probably be eating all his meals through a straw to this very day.

“Hey, Mom,” Jonathan begins, in a characteristically unsubtle fashion, “we were wondering if we could ask you about something.”

Joyce smiles, somewhat unsurely. “Okay,” she says, with a nervous little laugh, “ask away.”

Jonathan and Nancy share a look before Nancy says, “We were wondering if you knew anything about what happened at Melvald’s earlier today?”

Joyce’s eyebrows draw together, a furrow appearing like magic on a face that Steve privately thought looked too young for all the stress Joyce Byers carries with her. “How do you all know about that?”

“Steve and Robin saw it,” Jonathan says.

“Uh, technically only I saw it,” Steve corrected. “I’m still not quite sure what it was all about, though, we were too far away.”

Joyce nods slowly, her lips pursed thoughtfully. “Well… I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to tell you. Technically, I’m supposed to keep it kind of a secret.”

“We won’t tell anyone,” Nancy says, and Steve can tell she’s trying her absolute best to look innocent and wide-eyed. “We’re very curious, is all. And, honestly, a little worried that something bad is happening again.”

Clever play, Nance. They weren’t worried there was another impending apocalypse -- not really. She’s just trying to appeal to Joyce’s instinct to comfort.

Sure enough, it works; that furrow in Joyce’s brow deepens as her conflicted expression melts into a look of concern. “Oh, honey, no. It’s nothing like that.” She bites her lip, mulling it over for a moment, before she says, “Okay, if I tell you, you all have to promise you’ll keep it quiet, okay?”

They all give various answers in the affirmative.

“Someone -- a teenager, around your age -- tried to steal a carton of cigarettes from Melvald’s. I spotted them right as they slipped it into their pocket and started to walk away. Powell and Callahan happened to be there, stopping by on their way to the station, so they took the kid in.”

“Seriously? They tried to steal cigarettes?” Nancy asks, her nose wrinkling with her distaste. “God, that’s so stupid. I’m glad you caught them.”

Joyce sighs. “I feel a little bad for getting them in trouble. It seems like it’s just a case of a good kid making bad choices. I mean, I remember myself at that age…” She shakes her head, taking another drag from her cigarette. She walks over to the coffee table and flicks ash into the ashtray.

“I mean, you did the right thing though, right? Just because they’re some mixed up kid doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have to learn from their mistakes just like anyone else,” Steve says.

Everyone, save for Joyce, turns to look at him.

“...Why are you all staring at me like that?”

Robin puts a hand on his shoulder. “Probably because that’s the most intelligent thing that’s ever come out of your mouth,” she says, giving his shoulder a little pat.

“Hey!” Steve exclaims, but everyone else is laughing, and he can’t help but smile.

Even though he knows it can’t possibly be true, because he says intelligent stuff all the time.

--

The morning of your first shift at Melvald’s begins with your alarm clock, which you set the night before to go off at five. Unfortunately, it never actually went off; unbeknownst to you, one of the breakers had tripped in the middle of the night, which reset your alarm clock.

You wake up from a blissful sleep and roll over to see the blinking red 12:00 . For a second, you don’t comprehend what you’re looking at, and then when it sinks in, you scramble out of bed so frantically that you go tumbling to the ground, tangled in the sheets, yelling, “SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!”

You get ready faster than you ever have in your life, skipping breakfast and brushing your teeth in the kitchen sink while tugging on your clothes. As soon as you’re ready, you’re flying out the door, grabbing your bike, and peeling down the road that will bring you to Downtown Hawkins. You count your lucky stars that the only drivers out this early are the people driving to work.

When you get to Melvald’s, you chain your bike up at the bike rack and blow through the door like a hurricane, your cheeks bright red with exertion and your blood rushing in your ears. The tinkling of the bell over the door is almost mocking in its gentleness.

The store is almost completely empty except for a single woman in a uniform vest who appears to be pricing items. She looks over at you; you recognise her as Joyce Byers, the woman who caught you stealing the cigarettes.

“Oh! Hey,” she says, sounding surprised to see you.

“I’m so-- so sorry,” you pant, walking forward a bit to lean on the counter. “My… My alarm... didn’t go off, and I--”

She waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. You’re actually early.”

You pause, your chest heaving, looking at her in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yep. By about…” She looks at a clock behind the counter. “Fifteen minutes, give or take.”

You let your head loll against your back. “So I skipped breakfast for nothing.”

Joyce smiled sympathetically. “‘Fraid so. Sorry. If it makes you feel better, Hop’ll definitely be happy about it.”

And, embarrassingly enough, it does make you feel a little better.

You’d like to say your first day on the job goes pretty well.

You’d like to say that, but if you did, it would be a lie.

It starts with the pricing gun, which miraculously stops working moments after Joyce leaves you to your task. She assures you that it’s just because the damn thing is so old and Gary refuses to replace it because of how expensive they are, which makes you feel a little better, but part of you still feels as though you broke it despite her reassurance.

Then, when Joyce offers you a break to go and grab lunch for the two of you from the diner, you almost lose the money she gives you thanks to a hole in your pocket that you hadn’t even realised was there. Thankfully, you’re able to make it with the cash still in hand, but the incident makes you so nervous that on the way back to the store you almost drop everything multiple times.

When you finally make it back, the store is unusually busy, so you’re forced to stow the paper take-out bags under the counter as Joyce attempts to teach you how to use the register. You frantically memorise as much as you can, and are somehow able to make it through the rush without missing a beat, but by the time it’s over and the two of you are able to take a load off, your lunch is stone cold.

“I’m sorry,” you say to Joyce, staring dejectedly at your cold fries. “I don’t know why I’m having such a shitty day today. I’m trying so hard but it feels like everything is going wrong.”

Joyce shakes her head. “Hey, no. It’s okay. Sometimes, you just have bad luck, no matter how hard you try. It’s not your fault.” She places a hand on your shoulder and squeezes.

You wonder why she’s being so nice to you, but you can’t work up the nerve to ask. Instead, you ask if there’s a microwave you can use to heat up the food.

Toward the end of your shift at around 12:30, Joyce calls you over from where you’ve been organising a window display and says, “Hey, would you mind going into the back and grabbing the boxes that have ‘ballpoint’ and ‘pencil - yellow’ written on them? I need to restock.”

“I’ll do it for you!” You blurt out. You can feel your cheeks flushing.

“Oh,” Joyce says, raising her eyebrows at you. “Okay. Uh, I’ll show you where they go and then that’ll be the last thing you have to do before I let you go for the day. Okay?”

You nod, too flustered to speak. You need Joyce to like you for reasons you aren’t totally sure of, and you hope with every part of you that you aren’t being too obvious.

Joyce walks you through restocking the shelves and then sends you on your way to retrieve the boxes from storage. They’re bigger than you thought they would be considering they’re just boxes of pens and pencils, but you guess it makes sense, since it’s not like the boxes are full of individual pencils and pens. There are three of them, standard sized cardboard boxes; you lift each one and find that you could probably carry two at a time, if you were careful. You stack the two boxes of pencils on top of each other on the ground, squat, and lift them up with a grunt of effort.

Now that you’re holding them, you realise it’s a little hard to see around the boxes. You have to angle your head awkwardly to peer around one side, which leaves you with a pretty big blind spot. You guess you’ll just have to trust that any customers nearby will be smart enough to stay out of the way.

You’ve made it almost all the way to the correct shelf before tragedy strikes again.

You glance down at the ground to make sure that there’s nothing you could trip over or slip on, and as you’re adjusting your grip on the bottom box, you hear a voice coming near you.

“--And stop nagging me! You’re not my mother, Buckley!”

Shortly following this is a shout of, “Steve! Watch where you’re--!”

You look up right in time to slam into someone.

The boxes fly right out of your hands. Boxes of yellow Ticonderoga pencils go flying, scattering across the floor. Some of the boxes even come open and pencils go rolling every which way. You end up flat on your ass in the middle of it all.

For a moment, you stare at the boxes of pencils all over the floor, gobsmacked. Once you’re able to tear your eyes away from the mess, you look up to find Steve Harrington looking down at you with his eyes as wide as dinner plates, but not one strand of hair out of place.

The two of you just stare at each other for a moment. Then, Harrington opens his mouth.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” he babbles, dropping to his knees and starting to pick up the stray boxes and escaped pencils. “That was an accident, uh-- shit, I swear I’m not usually this much of a klutz. I’m sorry, please, lemme help--”

“It’s okay,” you sigh, somewhat dejected. You’re probably going to have to stay after your shift ends to finish picking all this up and do what you promised Joyce. You glance at the clock and find your theory is confirmed, to your dismay. “I can handle it. It’s my job.”

“No, really, I…” He pauses after a moment, squinting at you. “Wait. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

He has. The two of you went to school together for, like, your entire lives. That’s not what he means, though; he recognises you from yesterday, when he watched you get patted down and shoved in a cop car after making the dumbest mistake you’ve ever made in your life.

“We went to the same school for twelve years,” you say stiffly. Like hell are you gonna remind him if he actually forgot.

“...Oh,” he replies awkwardly. “Uh. Sorry. But, no, I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere else. Did you used to hang out at the mall? I used to work there. Oh!” He snaps his fingers. “Wait! I got it! You’re the one who got arrested yesterday, right?”

Before you can answer, a girl you vaguely recognise as being a high schooler a couple of years your junior appears at Harrington’s side, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him with surprising strength and an almost enraged expression.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She hisses at him, before turning to you with a sunny smile. “I’m so sorry about him, he’s chronically stupid. We’re going to go before he says another dumb thing, right , Steve?” She has him by the ear, now, and you have to admit it’s kind of funny; she’s a couple of inches shorter than him, so he has to bend down to keep her from tearing his ear off.

“OW! Yes , Robin, jesus! Let go of me, I’m leaving!”

As you watch them go, you can’t help but feel disappointed. You’d kind of wanted someone to help you pick up the pencils.

--

When Robin and Steve are outside of Melvald’s, Robin finally lets go of Steve’s ear, saying, “Steve, what have we talked about? About thinking before we speak?”

Steve scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m trying. It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “I know, dummy. I had to learn it, too.” She sticks her hands in her pockets and glances back into the general store through the front window. “So, what was your angle with that whole spiel back there?”

Steve blanches. “What?”

“I mean , you’re not just nice to people for no reason all the time, even if you did something to them. So why were you being such a hardcore nice guy?”

Steve opens his mouth to say something and realises he doesn’t have any clue how to respond. He crosses his arms and shrugs, flustered. “I dunno. Maybe I just felt like it. What’s it to you?”

He starts to walk away, tired of the conversation, and Robin comes trotting after him, still yapping right in his ear. (He pretends to be annoyed, but honestly, his heart feels full to the brim with love for Robin. Before her, nobody has ever chased after him before.)

“Uh, you’re my best friend, dumb-dumb! That’s what it is to me! My nose belongs stuck right in your business!” She catches up to him and runs around to plant herself in his path, grinning broadly. “So, tell me what it is that has you so riled up.”

Steve gapes at her for a moment before shrugging again. “...I don’t know.”

Robin arcs a brow at him. “Seriously? You’re still not gonna tell me?”

“Robin, c’mon, I’m telling you I have no idea ,” Steve insists. He sighs, and lowers his voice. “Look, I just felt this weird… Urge to stay and talk? And picking up the mess that I caused anyway seemed like a good excuse at the time. Until I stuck my foot in my mouth, that is,” he sighs.

Robin gasps. “Steven Janine Harrington--”

“Not my name.”

“--Do you have a CRUSH?”

Steve feels his entire body burst into flames. He looks around frantically, saying, “Will you keep your voice down?”

Robin’s face takes on an expression of pure glee. “So you do! Oh my god, I didn’t think you were capable. So, are you going to pursue anything? Or are you more the brood-from-afar type?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, will you shut up? You’re such an embarrassment. This is why I never take you anywhere,” Steve says, walking off in a huff.

Robin chases after him, laughing her ass off. He’s glad at least one of them thinks the situation is funny.

[three-drink-amy]

A Walk in Time

Thank you to @outlanderlush​ and @iamnottrisha​ for putting this fun challenge together! My beautiful moodboard was made by @gastairfad​!! I hope this story is worth your creation! 

“You can’t be serious,” Joe said to me. 

I shrugged and insisted that I was. 

“That’s insane, Claire.” 

“Lamb did it,” I reminded him. Somehow, my uncle had become the standard for both of us. 

“Lamb’s dead.” 

I rolled my eyes. “Not because of this.” I crossed my arms. “If you recall, he did the same thing when he was around my age. That’s how we know it works. I can’t believe we found it again.” 

“I can’t believe you actually want to try it. It’s crazy. You could die. You could get stuck there. What would you do if you were never able to come back?” Joe asked. 

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it’s a risk I have to take.” 

“You don’t have to take it. You could just be a normal, rational person who doesn’t try to go hopping through time for their own pleasure. You could just stay in the 21st century where you belong.” 

“I mean, you have to understand where I’m coming from,” I appealed to him. “Imagine getting to experience history firsthand!” 

“I wish Lamb had never told you it was possible,” Joe sighed. “I knew once you tracked it down again, you’d never let it go.” 

“If you weren’t so scared of the unknown, you would be doing the same thing,” I argued. 

“It’s not that I’m scared of the unknown, it’s that I don’t want to take the risk.” 

I sat down in my chair with a sigh. “Well, Lamb was the last family I had, and he’s been gone for over a year now. I guess it’s not as big a risk for me.” 

“And what if you get stuck there and you can’t get back?” 

I was silent for a long moment before I answered. “I know a considerable amount about that time period. It’s a perk of being a historian while also having been raised by one. I think I could theoretically handle it for a time.” 

Joe looked skeptical. “It’s a totally different thing to be familiar with the conditions and actually living through them.” 

“Well, obviously. But, Joe, it’s two days. I can make it through two days. The space opens between time for forty-eight hours. I’m going to go through at midnight and be back by the time it closes.” 

“And if you can’t get back in time?” 

“Then I suppose I’ll spend a year there and return the next time it opens,” I said, far too casually. 

“What if the portal moves again?” Joe asked. “If I recall correctly, your uncle went through the portal and came back in Scotland. And then it shifted and he never found it again.” 

“We aren’t going to have to worry about that, because I’ll make it back in forty-eight hours,” I retorted. I had secretly wondered about that possibility, but I couldn’t let Joe know I was concerned. From the other stories I’d heard of people who used the portal for short time jumps and came back, it took years before it shifted again. But when it did, there was no telling where it would be. I’d used all of my luck tracking it down in Venice. After hearing Lamb’s stories, I was desperate to have my own chance with such a phenomenon. 

The idea of going back to another time was far too enticing to let it go. 

“So, you think you can steer yourself back to a specific time?” Joe asked, seemingly finally accepting that I’d made my decision. 

I nodded. “Yes, that’s what Lamb told me.” 

“And you have the proper clothing for the time you’re attempting to get to?” 

“I do.” 

“When is it open again?” 

“Tomorrow at midnight,” I said, the excitement building up in me. 

Joe sighed. “I don’t approve, but I’ll be there.” 

“I know you don’t, and I appreciate your physical support,” I told him with a smile. As my colleague, Joe and I had been through a lot together. I knew how crazy he thought I was — because he told me constantly — but he was still there, ready to help me. 

Once I’d tracked down the portal, I’d had a single-minded focus of how to get through it, how to dress, how to survive in a time so different from my own. I’d made preparations for the two magical days where I was going to walk through time and be a part of history for forty-eight hours. It would be a short sample of time, but it would be extraordinary no matter what. I could barely contain my excitement about this upcoming trip through time. Joe was the only person I could share my giddiness with and he was less than excited for me. 

It didn’t matter though, I was doing this and I couldn’t wait. I had a mere thirty-six hours left before I got to go through. Joe, ever the practical pessimist, insisted that I make sure things were square in this century in case, somehow, I couldn’t return. I hated his cynicism, but he did make a good point. I didn’t have much and I decided to leave it all to him just in case. There wasn’t any family left for me in the world. Joe was the closest thing. So he gets it all if I get stuck. But I won’t, so it would all have been for nothing, anyway. 

I started to feel jittery as I put on layer after layer of traditional dress in the eighteenth century. I took in as deep a breath as I could, given the tight corset I was wearing. My hands started to shake as I finished tying laces and fixing skirts. I was excited, but I was also nervous. This wasn’t just an ordinary research trip. I’d been on plenty of those throughout my entire life. This was certainly riskier. I could understand why Joe was nervous for me. But I’d made up my mind and I was doing this. It was the chance of a lifetime and I was about to embrace it. 

Joe knocked on my door at 11:00. He knew I wanted to get to the portal early so I didn’t miss a minute of my time in the past. Joe, of course, kept insisting that I go through at a normal hour so (theoretically) I wouldn’t end up in the past at night, in a time and city I was less than familiar with. I wouldn’t risk losing any time I had to explore the past, so I ignored him. 

I opened the door, smiling faintly, and gestured down to my attire. “Think I’ll do?” 

Joe returned my smile, though he looked a bit sad. “I think you will. You look stunning.” 

I brought him in for a hug before he could protest. “Thank you.” 

“I may be escorting you to the actual site where you’re going to do this, but don’t mistake this for support,” Joe said as we walked down the empty streets of Venice. I was sure I stood out like a sore thumb. It was a good thing there were very few people out and about. 

We’d tracked down the portal to a random alley off the Lagoon. It was early, yet, but we paced nearby, unable to sit still until the time came. Joe had an alarm set on his phone that went off five minutes before midnight. Our eyes locked, both of us growing increasingly nervous. Joe pulled me in for a long hug. 

“You’re smart and you know what you’re doing,” he reminded me. I nodded against his shoulder. “So keep being smart and keep your head up. Don’t be caught off guard.” 

“I won’t.” 

“And I better see you in two days time,” he said. Pulling back, he shot me a significant look. 

“You will,” I promised him. 

We hugged one more time and I turned toward the portal. It was a small fountain that hung on the wall. By all accounts, it looked old and rusty, dirty and unimportant. But for me, it was so important. Joe watched the clock on his phone, counting down for me as we got closer and closer to midnight. 

“Good luck, Beauchamp,” he said, flashing me an encouraging smile. 

“I’ll see you in a couple of days, Joe,” I replied. “And even so, I love you.” 

He rolled his eyes, a smile following after. “Love you, too. Five, four, three, two, one.” He took a deep breath. “Be on your way, Claire. And be careful.” 

“I will!” I gave him one last look before reaching my hand out and laying it against the fountain. 

It started to glow as my hand made contact. I could hear Joe gasp behind me, but I couldn’t pay any attention. My mind flashed to the time period I hoped to go to. I said the year over and over again in my mind, willing the portal to steer me there. The glowing became stronger and stronger til I was surrounded by it. I could see nothing behind me but light and the only thing I could see in front of me was the fountain. My body felt like it was starting to constrict. Everything felt tight around me and inside me. I started to fight for my breath and then it was over. The light was gone and I was standing in the same place I’d been standing before. I took a deep breath, feeling sad that the portal must not have worked. I turned to Joe to lament, but he was gone. It was my turn to gasp. I looked around and noticed that any modern touches of the 21st century had disappeared as well. 

With a laugh and a gasp, I turned back to the fountain. “It worked,” I sighed. I walked back toward the canals, looking up and down the road. I couldn’t believe that it had actually worked. I started walking off in the direction that Joe and I had come from in the 21st century. Joe had been insisting that I shouldn’t be out at night. My main goal was to find a tavern to grant me a room. It would still count as experiencing history, even if I wasn’t out on the streets. 

I knew I wouldn’t sleep, but I could plan. 

I wandered down the streets, keeping my eyes roving for both historical significance and potential dangers. Following the same path I’d walked before, I came across a tavern in a very special place. It was the same place my hotel had been standing 275 years in the future. I stared up at it in awe for a moment before a sound down the road grabbed my attention. It sounded like a scuffle breaking out. Half of me was curious and wanted to go investigate. The other half of me — my sense of self-preservation — told me to go inside. Somehow, my inner protective voice sounded a lot like Joe. Listening to the clearly wiser voice, I went inside. 

A kind older woman looked up at me as I walked in. There was a taproom off to one side and a desk where she sat off to the other side. “You wouldn’t by chance have a room for a traveler,” I asked. The woman seemed surprised by my British accent. 

“Why, you’re no’ Venetian,” she remarked. 

I picked up her Scottish accent. “Why, neither are you,” I replied, a smile growing on my face. 

She shook her head. “My husband moved me here years ago. There are but a few of us Scots here in Venice. And they find us an odd bunch.” 

“I’m sure they’ll find a solitary English woman just as odd.” 

“Likely so,” she said with a knowing smile. “So ye’re needing a room?” 

“Yes, I am.” 

“Well, luckily, we do have one available. Let me show ye the way.” She stepped out from behind the desk, grabbing a key, and leading me up a set of stairs. I marveled at the building and it’s antique (though not at this time) structure. It was incredible to be experiencing such a place. 

The kind woman opened the door for me and showed me what I needed. I nodded with a smile to her. “Thank you so much, uh…” I trailed off, not knowing what to call her. 

“Ye can call me Mrs. Fitz,” she said. 

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Fitz.” 

I spent a few hours writing down things in the journal I’d smuggled in my skirts. Things I’d observed, things I planned to find once it was daytime. I noted the kindly Mrs. Fitz and the fact that I’d found a Scot in Venice. My jitters had been keeping me awake for the past few days. Even though I didn’t want to, I succumbed to sleep, hoping it would only be for a few hours. Without an alarm clock, I was risking a lot. 

The tolling of a bell tower woke me hours later. I sat up, breathing hard, unsure of what time it actually was. The lack of clocks was my first frustration. The sun did not seem to be very high in the sky as I peered out my window. I assumed it was still early enough in the morning and I hadn’t missed prime exploring hours. 

I straightened my skirts and ran down the stairs, eager to go outside again. Mrs. Fitz stopped me at the bottom of the stairs. “I thought ye’d be hungry,” she said, pointing me to a small breakfast ready on one of the tables in the taproom. 

Her kindness was astounding to me. I knew most Scots in this time hated the British. I couldn’t really understand why she was being so generous to me. Perhaps she missed her home, even with the British creeping into it. I thanked her profusely and sat down to eat quickly. Eating at my usual, far too fast pace, I threw back the breakfast, taking note of the eighteenth century meal, while also trying not to taste it.

I left right after my breakfast, telling Mrs. Fitz I was off to see some people. She didn’t ask more than that and I was relieved. Wandering around the city was breathtaking. While some buildings looked familiar, others did not. The mixture of architecture that would stand the test of time and buildings that looked like they were already in disrepair was astounding. Its citizens were already bustling about their days. I tried to keep pace with the people walking around me, instead of stopping every few steps to take it all in. Even if that was what I wanted to do. 

After walking for an undetermined amount of time, I found myself in front of St. Mark’s. I breathed out in awe. It looked the same, and somehow different. In this time, it had already been standing for hundreds of years. Another couple hundred must not have altered it all too much. I’d spent weeks in Venice in the 21st century, tracking down the portal. Standing at St. Mark’s felt like finding a friend in a crowd of strangers. It was comfortingly familiar. 

I turned around to the square behind me, looking at daily life unfolding before me. My hand was itching to take out my journal and note my findings. Of course, I couldn’t. 

Turning from the basilica and the square at large, I tried to rejoin the bustle. Everyone had somewhere to be. Well, everyone except me. 

As I kept walking, my foot caught on a cobblestone and I pitched forward. My hands flew out in front of me, preparing to catch myself. Instead, a strong set of arms grabbed around my abdomen, keeping me from hitting the ground. I looked up in shock, meeting a pair of striking blue eyes. A gasp escaped from me before I could stop it. My hands gripped his arms as he continued to hold me. 

“Are ye alright?” he asked me. 

Another Scot. How was this possible? 

“Yes, thanks to you,” I replied, trying to catch my breath. I wasn’t so sure if it was the fall or the stranger that had made me lose it in the first place. 

“But of course, lass. Happy to help,” he said, his tricorn tipping slightly. He removed his hands from around me. I realized my hands were still on his arms and I slowly removed them. I could almost feel the loss. 

“You saved me from marking up my face, so I greatly appreciate it,” I added, unsure of what to say. All I knew was that I didn’t really want to part ways. 

He smiled, glancing at my face before meeting my eyes again. “It would be a real shame to let a face such as yers be marked.” 

I felt my cheeks grow warm and knew a (likely embarrassing) blush was spreading. “Well, thank you.” 

“Ye’re a sassenach,” he remarked. 

I looked up at him, recognizing the word he used. I’d spent time enough in Scotland with Uncle Lamb to know the insult. “Excuse me?” 

“I dinna mean it as an insult,” he quickly covered. “Just surprising to find an English woman in Italy.” 

One brow raised in reply. “Imagine my surprise to find a Scot.” 

There was a long silence between us, neither quite knowing what to say. Finally, he cleared his throat, bowing his head slightly. “Weel, I’m afraid I must be going. I’ve business to attend to.” 

I almost felt disappointed. It was silly. He tipped his hat to me and started to walk past me. “Wait!” I called impulsively. He turned around and gave me a confused look. “You haven’t even given me your name.” 

He almost looked amused as he took the few steps back toward me. “Of course. Where are my manners?” He nodded toward me. “The name’s James Fraser.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, James Fraser,” I replied. “And thank you, once again.” He shot me an expectant look. I laughed when I realized I hadn’t given my name in return. “I’m Claire. Claire Beauchamp.” 

“Pleasure to meet ye as well, Mistress Beauchamp.” He smiled at me, though it held a hint of sadness. “I really must be off.” 

“Of course. Until next time,” I said, knowing regretfully that there wouldn’t be a next time. 

I watched him leave, his tall figure just visible over the crowd. Never in my life had such a simple interaction left me feeling so many things in such a short time. Perhaps it was the past that was messing with me. Or perhaps James Fraser was just a captivating man. 

Or perhaps it was both. 

I spent the rest of my day wandering around the city, taking breaks here and there to rest. My mission was to absorb as much history as I could in the short stay I had in the past. Somehow, no matter where I went, my eyes locked on any particularly tall person, wondering if it was Mr. Fraser. His blue eyes and striking smile had been stuck in my mind all day. 

When I returned to the tavern late in the evening, Mrs. Fitz was ready for me. She quickly began interrogating me about my day, making sure I’d eaten and had taken care to avoid bad parts of the city. I regaled her with my explorations, happily telling her about the things I’d seen and experienced. I left out the part about meeting James Fraser. For whatever reason, I wanted to keep it to myself. I half-wondered if she’d know the fellow Scot. 

“Now, did ye hear anything about the ball tomorrow?” she asked, pushing a bowl of some sort of soup at me.

“A ball?” I asked. 

“Well, a masquerade, really,” she corrected. “It’s to be a large to do. Ye should go.” 

I watched her, trying to make up my mind. It would be quite an experience to attend an eighteenth century masquerade. I would need to be quite aware of the time though, so I didn’t miss the portal before it closed. Joe would kill me if I had to spend a whole year here. 

“It sounds intriguing, but I wouldn’t have anything to wear,” I told her. 

Mrs. Fitz smiled mischievously. “Not to worry. I’ll find something perfect. I know people.” 

Her comment worried me slightly, but not enough to ask her not to try. A thrum of excitement passed over me as I thought of what could happen at an event like this. 

The next day started in almost the exact way. I wandered through the city again. My travels ended earlier as I needed to return to the tavern so Mrs. Fitz could help me get ready for the masquerade. She seemed all too giddy to dress me up in a big, elaborate, and beautiful gown. I glanced down at the black dress with gold accents and was mesmerized by it. I’d never worn something so ornate in my life. Giving me a once over, she seemed to deem me masquerade-ready. With a proud smile, she handed me a mask. 

“Ye’ll need that for the party,” she said, nodding to it. I held it in my hand, noting the white mask with the gold trim. It would work well with my dress for sure. 

I’d never been to a masquerade party in the 21st century. I remembered that a friend in college had gone to one and said she’d found it creepy. It would be an interesting function, no doubt. I didn’t know a soul in Venice except for Mrs. Fitz. My brain was all too fast to supply the image of Mr. Fraser as well. I rolled my eyes at myself and picked up my skirts, ready to head to the masquerade.

My plan was to be as aware of the time as possible so I could get back to the tavern and grab my original dress before heading to the portal. Theoretically, it would all work out. 

Mrs. Fitz and I walked through the streets of Venice til we reached a beautiful, palatial building. We both stared up at it for a moment before looking back at each other. With a nod, we started climbing the steps and following the procession of people entering the building. 

It was an incredible sight. The ballroom was breathtaking, outfitted in marble and sprinkled with gold statues. I was in historian’s heaven. I looked around at the other people there. The dresses were all as elaborate as mine, all faces covered with intricate masks. The skirts swirled as the ladies danced, fabric flowing around them in a dizzying array of colors. 

I watched the dancing from afar. The steps were foreign to me and I did not want to stick out. I held my mask dutifully in front of my face. I’d lost Mrs. Fitz a while ago when she found people she knew. Every now and then, I peered around, trying to see if I recognized the dress or mask she was wearing. Most people’s masks were tied around their heads. Mine was a handheld mask. I was grateful for the ability to remove it when I was growing overheated. 

I was standing near the door to the courtyard when a man walked past me, bumping into me slightly. “My apologies, Madam,” he said quickly. 

“Not to worry,” I replied immediately. My brain was focused on his voice. I knew that voice. “Mr. Fraser?” I asked, hoping I was right. 

He’d stopped as I spoke and watched me. Slowly, he reached up and removed his mask. With a heartstopping smile, he greeted me. “Mistress Beauchamp.” 

“Pleasure to see you again,” I said. 

He grabbed my hand, placing a kiss on the back of it. “And ye.” His eyes looked over my shoulder, to the room at large. “I was just stepping away from the…merriment for a moment. Would you care to join me?” 

I felt a smile overtake my face. I nodded. “Of course. Unless of course you have other business to attend to,” I teased. 

He rewarded me with a laugh. “None tonight. Thankfully.” 

His hand was still around mine as he started out the door and I followed him. He walked into the courtyard, the moon beaming down at us. Looking almost regretful, he released my hand. 

“It’s a beautiful evening,” I remarked, looking up at the stars. 

“Aye.” 

My gaze turned to him. “So, what is a Scot doing in Venice?” I asked. 

He cleared his throat, looking back at me. “I have an uncle in France who runs a wine business. He wanted to expand it to Italy and asked me if I would run it for him. I would have been a fool to say no.” 

“That sounds like a wonderful opportunity.” 

“Indeed,” he agreed. “I came here after I left the university in France.” 

“Do you miss Scotland?” I asked. 

“Every day,” he told me. “But this is where I need to be right now.” I nodded in understanding. “And what about ye? What brings a sassenach to Venice?” 

I laughed at his term this time, hoping a plausible answer would present itself as I laughed. “I don’t have much of a home. I was raised by my uncle and he traveled everywhere and took me right along with him. It was unusual, of course, but I enjoyed it. I suppose I’ve tried to carry on some of the same life.” 

“Ye dinna wish to settle down?” he asked. 

“Maybe someday.” I shrugged, my arms crossing at my abdomen. “But not just now.” 

His eyes lingered on me. “That’s mighty brave for a lass to travel the world by herself,” he remarked. 

“Some might call it dangerous.” 

He stepped closer to me. “That they might.” 

I felt drawn to him, just as I had yesterday. My suspicion had been correct — he was just a captivating man. “But you think it’s brave, James?” I asked. 

He nodded to me. “Aye.” Taking a breath, his hand found mine again. “And ye can call me Jamie.” 

A smile spread across my face again. “Okay then, Jamie.” 

Jamie led me over to a bench in the courtyard and we continued talking. He told me of his upbringing in Scotland and how proud his father had been when he’d gone to school in France. His father had encouraged him to take the job his cousin had offered him. In turn, I talked as much as I could about my life. The places I’d gone with Lamb, the life we’d lived on the road. 

I had no way of knowing how long we’d been talking. It had felt like minutes and hours at the same time. Looking up at the surrounding buildings, I found a clocktower. I still had a few blessed hours before I had to leave. 

“Where is the most fascinating place ye’ve been?” he asked me. 

Looking up at him, I couldn’t help but stare. We were sitting close, his beautiful eyes boring into me. Under his gaze, I felt my breath grow short. I shrugged in reply. “I don’t know. This might be it.” 

A hushed silence fell over us as he stared back at me. I knew what my body was telling me to do. Instead, I sat still. Jamie, on the other hand, leaned slowly toward me. He was giving me the chance to move away. But I wouldn’t. We inched closer to each other. His eyes flickered down to my lips seconds before his pressed against mine. 

Our kiss was tentative at first. With a sigh, I leaned in, pressing my lips more firmly to his. I felt his hand cup my cheek as he deepened the kiss. My lips parted and his tongue found mine, dancing together delightfully. We were wrapped up in each other, in a passionate, wonderful kiss. While I was with Jamie, I seemed to forget that I was from another century, that I was due to return in a few hours. With him, I was just there, happy and alight. We broke apart slowly, just as we’d started. His eyes opened and looked at me almost nervously. When I smiled at him, his thumb began to stroke my cheek where his hand still lingered. 

The sound from the ballroom grew louder as the door to the courtyard opened again. Jamie and I scooted further apart, though his hand grabbed mine. We weren’t alone in the courtyard any longer. He squeezed my hand, standing up and staring down at me. “Would ye like to dance with me?” he asked. His head inclined back toward the ballroom. 

“I don’t know how to,” I confessed. I stared down at my lap. 

He squeezed my hand again, pulling me to my feet this time. I looked up at him in surprise as he drew me close. “Dinna worry. I willna let ye fall,” he said with a knowing grin. Both of us were clearly thinking of our first meeting.  I nodded to him in agreement and he led us back to the ballroom. 

Our masks had been forgotten in the courtyard, leaving us as the only two dancing without covered faces. He could see my nerves as he drew me close, closer than the other couples. I didn’t mind the proximity. His hand was at my waist, guiding me and keeping me close. Instead of looking around me, I stared only at him, utterly transfixed. Jamie Fraser was a marvel to me. I knew when I returned to the future, nothing would leave such a mark on me as he would. 

My eyes closed as I remembered how soon I had to give him up. It was the first time I’d looked from him since we’d started dancing. His hand at my back pressed more firmly, encouraging me to look up at him. I did, noting the question in his eyes. I shot him a small smile and shook my head. He didn’t look convinced. Still, he continued dancing and never actually asked me what had been wrong. 

Eventually, we retreated back by the door where we’d met the second time. I didn’t want to part from him. The sound of the clock tower caught my ears. I counted the chimes. My time was running out and I desperately didn’t want it to. I wanted more time with Jamie. 

He led us back out to the once again empty courtyard. We reconvened on our bench. My eyes flitted to the clock far too often. I wasn’t as present as I had been before. That was, until Jamie started telling me an impossible story. 

“Twas when I was a lad,” he said. “I was in Scotland. I’d journeyed to Inverness with my father. While I waited outside a shop for him to take care of some business, I met a man dressed very peculiarly. He fit in enough, but his clothes still looked odd.” I stared at him, wondering where he was going with this story. 

“I asked the man why he was dressed so strangely. Ye ken how wee bairns are. No manners to speak of.” I laughed with him and encouraged him to keep going. “The man bent down and knelt in front of me. He asked me if I could keep a secret. I promised the man I could. So he told me that he was from the future. That he’d traveled from two hundred years from now just to come see Scotland in all its beauty.” 

I gaped at him. “How long ago was this?” I asked. I’m sure it wasn’t quite the question he was expecting. 

He looked a bit surprised, but answered anyway. “It would have been about twenty years, I think.” 

I gasped softly. Lamb, I thought to myself. Could it have been possible that Lamb and I had met the same person in our travels — him meeting a boy in Scotland and me meeting a man in Italy? It seemed impossible. But time travel is seemingly impossible too. 

“Ye must think I’m mad,” he said, pulling me from my thoughts. 

I shook my head at him, my hand cupping his cheek. “No, actually, I don’t.” 

Jamie smiled at me. He leaned back toward me, bringing me in closer. His lips were back on mine, kissing me soundly. I clutched to him, knowing this would be my last chance. 

When we broke apart, I glanced at the clock tower. If I didn’t go back to the tavern for my things, I could spend a bit more time with Jamie. My journal would be abandoned there. It could alter history, but at the moment I didn’t really care. I knew that when I got back, my memories would be sharp enough to write it all back down. 

I could feel it all slipping away and I felt desperate. My hands held onto Jamie’s tighter. My eyes tried to drink in every detail of him. I didn’t want to lose him, but I had to. 

The time came when I knew I had to part with him. He stood up, reaching out to me. “Should we go back inside? We could dance again.” 

I wanted nothing more than to dance with him again. I stood up and stepped into his arms. I kissed him with all the desperation coursing through me. His arms came around me and held me. He returned the kiss with an equal amount of fervor. It almost seemed like he knew the end was coming as well. As we pulled apart, we were both panting. I felt tears building in my eyes. 

“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” I told him. He looked confused. I took advantage of his confusion and gave him one more kiss before I ran from him, the courtyard, and the palace at large. 

I tore through the city as fast as I could. Tears spilled over my eyes, running down my cheeks. In all the times I’d imagined coming back to the past, I never imagined meeting someone like Jamie. He’d taken my breath away. I knew when I returned to the future, a small part of my heart would be here. 

The clock hadn’t chimed over the city yet. I still had time. And there it was — the alley, the fountain, the way back to my home. I held my hand out to the fountain, but I hesitated. It was stupid, really. There was nothing for me here and if I didn’t catch the portal now, there was a chance it would be gone by next year. But still, my hand wouldn’t touch it. Seconds ticked by as I wasted my precious time. 

The sound of footsteps caught my attention. He threw himself into the alley, moving so fast he almost fell. I looked over, shocked to see Jamie righting himself and staring at me. “This is where ye had to go?” I nodded. His eyes narrowed in my direction. “Ye’re like him. The man from my past.” 

“I am.” 

Jamie walked slowly closer to me. “What would happen if ye didna go?” 

I shook my head at him. “I don’t know.” 

He closed the space between us and held my face in his hands, staring at me, imploring me. “Would ye risk it?” 

“What?” I couldn’t believe what he was asking. 

“I ken I’m no’ much,” he said, “but I’ve ne’er met anyone like ye, Claire Beauchamp. And I canna imagine letting ye go just now.” 

I opened my mouth to reply, but he cut me off. His mouth crashed against mine, kissing me deeply. My body responded as it had every time this evening. Without really meaning to, my arms came up and wrapped around his waist. He held me tighter, turning me slightly so I wasn’t right next to the portal. 

Breaking apart with a gasp, he urged me, “Dinna go. Stay here. Wi’ me.” He was pleading and I didn’t know what to do. Any moment the clock tower would chime and my window would close. My eyes tore from him to the fountain behind him. They bounced back to him, noting the desperation on his face. His arms tightened around me. “Please,” he begged. His forehead touched mine as he stared at me. 

I felt his touch at my back. I looked into his eyes. I could feel his heart racing underneath my hand on his chest. His body surrounded mine and somehow, my body knew I was safe. 

And in that moment, there was no doubt in my mind. 

My hand moved from his chest to wrap around his neck. “Okay,” I whispered. He gaped at me for a split second before I pressed my lips back to his. He held me impossibly tight. We were tangled together, kissing each other with abandon. I felt my back hit the bricks of the wall behind me at the same time his tongue found mine again. 

The sound of the clock chiming pulled me from our embrace. I looked toward the sky for a moment, listening to the number of hours chime in the distance. My eyes found the fountain, noting for the first time that it wasn’t quite as dingy in this time. Now, it was surely back to being just a fountain. 

I looked at Jamie, realizing the gravity of the decision I’d made. He looked just as nervous as I felt. His hand reached up and stroked my face, his thumb moving against my cheek. We stared at each other, both of us at a loss for words. A huge, life changing decision had been made and we both knew it. 

Jamie leaned his forehead back to mine with a small sigh. “Thank ye,” he breathed. I gave him a soft kiss in reply. 

Suddenly, he stepped back from me. “I still remember how he said it worked,” he told me. I must have looked confused. “The man I met from — well, from yer time. He said it opened once a year.” 

“That’s right.” 

“There’s this tradition in Scotland,” he told me, still staying away from me. I nodded for him to continue. “Tis called handfasting. The couple is marrit for a year and a day and at the end of that time, they can either separate or get marrit officially.” 

I smiled at him, taking a step closer to him. I reached out and grabbed onto his coat. “Are you suggesting we handfast?” 

He shrugged, a shadow of a grin on his face. “The timeline would be right. Live wi’ me, be wi’ me. And if at the end of a year, when yer magic door opens back up again, ye wish to part from me, I’ll bring ye back here myself.” 

My arms wrapped around him. I paused with my lips a breath away from his. “I accept,” I whispered. I could feel his smile against my mouth as his arms wrapped back around me. 

There was so much uncertainty, so much we didn’t know about each other — so much I didn’t know about living in this century. But as I felt the solidness of his arms around me, the surety of his kiss, I knew I would be alright. 

One Year Later

Joe paced in front of the fountain as he’d done the year before. He’d cursed Claire for going and worse, for getting stuck there. Watching her disappear in a beam of light had been terrifying. And for two days, he’d worried about her constantly, even though she’d assured him she’d be back. But she wasn’t. 

For a year, he tried to carry on with his life. He went back to Boston, back to his family. So many times, though, he found his mind on Claire, wondering what she was up to or how she was faring in a different century. More than anything, what he wanted was answers. Even history hadn’t been able to provide that. 

So he was back in front of the fountain, praying that it was still where the portal would be. For the better part of a day, he camped out by the fountain. He ate there, accidentally slept there, and read a book as he waited for her return. 

A flash of light caught his attention, drawing him from his book. He shot out of his chair and raced to the fountain. Just as the light was starting to flourish, it went out. Joe was about to yell when he spotted something sitting in the empty fountain. It was an old piece of paper with his name on it, wrapped in a ribbon. He couldn’t open it fast enough. 

My dear friend, Joe, 

I’m sure you’re camped out in front of the fountain, ready to tell me off for missing the portal closing last year. I’m hoping this letter will actually make it through and can tell you my story. 

The eighteenth century was (well, is) brilliant. It truly is a historian’s dream to be here. I find myself marveling at ordinary things. Those in my life (particularly those who know the truth of me) keep shaking their heads at me. 

I should tell you why I didn’t come back last year, and more than that, why I won’t be coming back at all. The night I should have returned, there was a masquerade. I was encouraged to attend by a kind scotswoman I met upon my arrival in the eighteenth century. While there, I (re)met the most wonderful man. His name is Jamie Fraser. He is a Scot, running his uncle’s wine business in Venice. He was so captivating to me and as I watched the hours tick away at our time together, I dreaded leaving him. I know how unlike me it must all sound — giving up my life for a perfect stranger in a different century. But more than anything, I wanted a chance to be with him and a chance to see what we could be. 

He knows the truth of me. Actually, when he was a child, he met Uncle Lamb in Scotland. I still cannot wrap my mind around that fact. Jamie found me at the portal and begged me to stay and somehow, I couldn’t say no. He promised me if after a year, I wanted to return, he’d bring me to the portal himself. 

It’s now a year later and I’m afraid I won’t be coming back. I’m writing this letter next to the fountain. Jamie brought me here so I could try to send word of my life to you. 

So here it is. Jamie and I are so very happy together. Our lives have been wonderful for the past year. Life is so different in the 18th century than it was in the 21st, but with him, I can’t seem to mind the differences. I love him so completely that life without him would feel meaningless. We discovered just last week that I am with child. It was faster than I would have planned in the 21st century, but I find myself absolutely thrilled. He talks of taking me back to Scotland someday, but I’ve assured him that for now, we’re safer in Italy. I won’t tell him why, but he seems to heed my warning well enough. 

I shall miss you, Joe. I have treasured our friendship. Your voice is the one in the back of my head telling me to be careful. And I hope it always will be. Thank you for your silent support, even if you didn’t actually support me. I have found a life here that I never could have imagined, but wouldn’t trade for the world (or even a toilet). I hope you are well and happy. I promise you I am.

With all my love,

Claire Beauchamp Fraser

[sol1056]

hey! i noticed that you’ve written a lot about how voltron fails as a mecha series, and it got me curious about what a GOOD mecha series looks like. do you have any recs for someone whose only experience with the genre, quite literally, is voltron?

note: that is NOT where I wanted the cut. who knows what the devs are doing over there at tumblr hq.

-----

Welp, there’s more than one kind of mecha. There’s super robots -- where (in general) the robots are ultra-powered and relatively indestructible. Then there’s real robots, which will break down and/or run out of ammunition at the most dramatically critical moments. And then there’s a category that at best might be nearly-sentient robots, which have minds and motivations of their own -- but I wouldn’t say that’s a true category (in terms of the genre) so much as a distinction I've noted.

I’ve never been big into the super robot series (with a few exceptions), and I mostly find the combining robot genre to be frustrating. Former mechanic and engineer who currently works with AI, so a lot of the hand-wavey aspects are frustrating for me, especially in super robots where things mysteriously repair themselves and there’s never a struggle to upgrade/repair. (And don’t even get me started on the idea of controlling a bipedal reactive machine with only two foot pedals and a damn joystick.)

Which is all to say, I suppose I should recommend that you watch the classics, except I’m not really sure what they are because I’ve forgotten most of them. And frankly a lot of them are really shoddy animation by today’s standards, and life is too short to waste time on that. I’ll need to refer you along to other mecha fans to add their recommendations, instead.

Well, I can at least recommend Gundam and Macross, but that’s kind of like saying I recommend Doc Martens and Aididas -- that barely narrows it down, since there’s so many options within each brand. Everyone’s got their favorites in each, as do I, but any mecha series that’s stayed with me is one that found a way to either twist the core trope, or explored implications that other series glossed over.

Note: I’ve never seen any version of Eva, and never felt the urge to, either. Sorry. Ask someone else for input on that. Plus there’s also ones I’ll leave off here ‘cause they’re veering over into AI/robots/tech and less what would usually be called mecha, but they’re still worthwhile: Battle Fairy Yukikaze, Ghost in the Shell: Standalone Complex, Broken Blade, Last Exile, and Voices of a Distant Star all come to mind.

Gundam

For me, I adore the technical geeky touches in Gundam F91, but the story is total spaghetti, so you might want to skip that until you’re more familiar with the gundam tropes. (It was meant to be a series, iirc, got shut down, and they took the pieces and made a movie from it, so it’s... kind of compressed, to put it mildly). 

Gundam Wing and Gundam 00 are considerably less geeky on the technical (though they do satisfy the mechanic itch, with a bit more real robot, at least on the technicalities). I like the international core cast, and the way each series explores geopolitical dynamics. (That said, skip the second season of Gundam 00. It just goes totally off the rails into some really wild and wacky directions.)

A long-running concept like Gundam is recognizable across the series thanks to core concepts, and in Gundam’s case it’s the conflicts between imperialism and colonialism, war versus justified rebellion, and pacifism versus a first-strike as self-defense. What I liked with Wing and 00, in particular, was its central pilots felt more tied to (and aware of) the political ramifications of their actions.

I did watch about half of Iron-Blooded Orphans, which struck out in a new direction by having Mars as the colony instead of the lagrange points, but didn’t bother finishing. From what I hear, watch it with a box of tissues, as it’s a return to the classic kill-em-all perspective of the original Gundam series.

Macross

I’m sure someone else will tell you to watch the original Macross (the american version being Robotech, albeit highly edited). I know lots of people adore the first Macross series, but it’s just too late-80s for me. (The hair, my god, the hair.)

Personally, I prefer Macross Frontier -- the amination is much improved, though the fact is I also adore the voices of Yuuichi Nakamura and Aya Endō. Macross has some politics, but it’s mostly internal -- that is, the opponents aren’t human, so whatever debate there is about who’s right or wrong is mostly one-sided, since we only ever see humans doing the talking.

I tried to watch Macross Delta but it just didn’t do it for me -- and therein lies some of the issues (for me) with both Gundam and Macross. Because both have some core elements that they tackle in every series, it can start to feel a bit repetitive.

For Macross it’s always music, Valkyries (the mecha type for Macross), and a love triangle -- which sometimes isn’t even resolved. (I’ve read all kinds of debates about whether Alto ends up with Sheryl or with Ranka, but the series leaves it open.)

A good writer can explore these themes over and over, but between the two, I personally think Gundam has done a bit better of pivoting to take a new angle with each series. But at the same time, Gundam is pretty consistent about not building on a previous series -- with a few notable exceptions, most of its series are alternate-universe stories to each other. In Macross, they’re all continuations of the previous -- so if you’re not into its setup about aliens and weird diseases and whatnot, you’re only going to get more of the same in the next series.

Everything else

So here’s the series I like, but I’m not sure all of these would be counted as ‘true’ mecha by other fans (a debate I mostly ignore, so I’ll leave it to others to argue about that).

Escaflowne -- one of the rare breed of fantasy-styled mecha (Broken Blade being another one that comes to mind). The animation is strongly 80s, but the voice acting is superb, the story (originally meant to be longer, then budget cuts forced a much longer story to squeeze into half the episodes it really deserved).

[It’s also a series I’d call a harbinger, similar to tripping over little-known movies from twenty years ago and realizing every single actor including walk-on parts went on to be massive names. Escaflowne’s got that, but that also extends to its animation team, its director, its composer, on and on. All of them went onto work on some of the greatest hits of anime. That makes Escaflowne immensely (if quietly and somewhat subtly) influential, both for the genre and animation overall.]

Eureka Seven -- another not-on-Earth story. At first the mecha movement -- almost like surfing in the sky -- was odd, but they took some interesting physics concepts and made them not just worldbuilding, but integral parts of the story. Okay, I’m not keen on how the female lead gets successively down-graded as the hero ramps up, but there are some emotional implications of Massive Destructive Machines where Eureka Seven lingers that a lot of other series gloss over.

Fafner in the Azure -- another aliens-against-humans, but first off, I’m gonna say it: you either love Hisashi Hirai‘s character designs or you want to torch them with total prejudice. If you can get past that, Fafner is brutal to its characters well beyond most other series, excepting the earliest Gundams. Although (of course) the pilots are all kids, there are in-story reasons, and there are still adults running the show. And there are consequences, small and large.

Code Geass: Lelouch of the Rebellion -- because what would life be if we didn’t have at least one mecha series with character designs from CLAMP. (Which, admittedly, I loathe, but somehow it worked here.) Can’t speak for the second season, but the first season played up something a lot of mecha bypass for just plain banging on each other, which is strategy. It caught me at the time, at least.

Full Metal Panic -- watch this after watching Gundam Wing and/or Gundam 00, to get the tropes they’re playing on with Sousuke Sagara (the ostensible protagonist who just cannot seem to relate to real human beings). I saw one description of him as “about as well-adjusted as a feral child” and that kinda fits. It’s more real robots, and of course parts require some hardcore suspension of disbelief (the commanding officer who looks 14, sounds like she’s 12, and has boobs that never occur in nature on a frame that teeny). But all told, a lot of fun and plenty of explosions.

RahXephon -- this is another oddball one, because the mecha aren’t mecha, they’re golems (as in, creatures made from clay). For all that, there’s a lot of significant mecha influence and tropes at work. It’s held up pretty well, animation-wise, considering its age (from 2002). and while it’s the same ‘strange aliens attack earth’ plotline, it spins all that off in a completely different direction.

Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann (aka Gurren Lagann) -- don’t watch this one until you’ve seen plenty of others, though, because it’s a fondly affectionate send-up of nearly every possible trope from combining to super to real robots. Cranked up to eleven.

Knights of Sidonia -- of all the ones on this list, KoS is possibly my most favorite. It was an early all-CGI series, and a lot of people were turned off by that, but once you get used to it, the story can carry you along. Like Macross Frontier, it takes place in deep space, where a colony of humans fight for survival with an incomprehensible (and nearly unstoppable) alien foe. But KoS is true science fiction, with a lot of solid science driving its dramatic points. Also--unlike most of the others series--although the characters are technically human, they’ve also evolved as a result of their time in space. For one, they have three genders, for another, they don’t eat; they photosynthesize.

[gatsbyjwilson]

The Highlight Reel (A Cautionary Tale)

“Uh huh. And you say you went to Parnidge University and studied film?”

“P-Partridge, Sir.”

“Huh.”

Two gleaming black eyes stared back across the cluttered, coffee-stained desk to examine the short, spindly, and overdressed specimen opposite them. 

“T- Technically I studied accounting with a minor in film- my Mom told me to do that in case ‘The whole Hollywood Thing doesn’t work out.’”

It was remarkable how the beady little man sitting nervously in front of the heavy-set producer was able to keep his armpits dry. It was the hottest day in June, and the sun had only just begun to creep towards the West over the hills. Donny had already removed his jacket and loosened his tie, and even with the rickety old fan spinning precariously over the desk, Don was sweating up a storm. The pencil-neck opposite him, on the other hand, seemed acclimated to the hotter-than normal weather. “Kid’s so thin, maybe they can’t wring no sweat outta him no more.”

The fat man allowed himself the shadow of a chuckle at the thought.

“So uh, why aren’t you applying to be an accountant?”

“That’s not what I want to be, Sir.”

“So why the hell’ve you majored in accounting?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself.”

Those beady, tight-knit eyes wandered across the room. Maybe they were searching for a way out, maybe they were just admiring the torn and faded posters on the wall of an ancient age forgotten long ago- the early eighties.

“So-”, The past-his-prime producer started, wiping his brow with a stained Roy Rogers napkin, “You wanna be a comedian.”

“Well, I’m already a comedian, I want to host my own late night show.” Cracking his first non-forced smile, the eager young man continued- “It’s been my dream since I was a little boy watching Letterman on my little rinky-dink TV.”

At this, Donny was now thoroughly amused.

“Heh. You wanna know what my dream was as a kid?” He said, as his fat lips curved into a long, unnerving grin, “A Janitor. Always had my eyes set on a spiffy blue uniform- cleaning up, lending a helping hand- then I realized how much of a shit job that is.” His coffee-stained teeth once again receded past his swollen jowls, resuming his exhausted, resting face. Dropping the paper clearly in the already resume-stuffed wastebasket, he once again drew his discouraging grin and spat- “I’ll think about it.”

***

Leaning back into the well-worn seats of his Camaro, the previously well-postured man dropped any hint of optimism and sank into the seat, loosening a cheap coffee labelled ‘BENJAMEN’ from its holder. The sun was well-set by now, and pounding rain had settled nicely into the area, draining remorselessly over the Hollywood Hills. A hole in the roof above the passenger seat had begun to drip into the car, but at this point Ben didn’t care. Wrenching himself into an upright posture, he drew a small notebook from his pinstriped breast-pocket. He crossed out Happy Times Studios from the list, marking the end of the page. Two straight months of interviews and cheerful schmoozing had left him with nothing. No money, no job, and no prospects. The drive from Ohio was a long one, but the beat-up, sickly orange 90’ Camero had made it, with some minor repairs. Ben was preparing to make the drive back in the morning. After 30 minutes of traffic and unconsciously turning to the empty slot where a radio should be, he pulled up to a tan apartment complex and turned the car off. He turned melancholically to the window. Still rain. 

***

He unlocked the door to his apartment, soaking wet. At least he was home, he thought, stepping into a strategically placed land mine of cat dung. A long, drawn-out sigh emanated from his gaunt visage. Not bothering to wipe them, he kicked his shoes off and went instinctively towards the TV remote. He slumped into the leather couch, resting his feet on the broken ottoman he had propped up on a stack of books. He flipped the TV on just in time to see Tom Hanks laugh uproariously at a witticism Conan O'Brien had uttered. Ben leaned over to a half-empty Coors gathering dust on the floor by the couch. He picked it up, sniffed it, and began to sip. His eyes began to glaze over, resting unfocused on the technicolor tube TV. His cat walked steadily over to sip from the pool forming on the floor from the Coors that had leaned out of his hand as he fell asleep, drifting off into peaceful, dark, unconsciousness. 

“ARE YOU A SKILLED WRITER, DIRECTOR, OR COMEDIAN???? DO YOU WANT TO BE RICH, SUCCESSFUL, AND FAMOUS???? THEN COME VISIT HIM AT 304-”

Ben shot up, knocking the ottoman off of its improvised leg. He breathed heavily, drenched in sweat. He looked around for the source of the blaring job offer. The TV played only static. He looked over at his clock radio. 3:00 AM. Silent as a mouse. Was it possible he dreamed it? More than likely, he supposed. His fatigue, momentarily lost, returned to him. “3 AM,” he thought. “I haven’t had dinner.” Ben moseyed on over to the refrigerator, drenched in the harsh fluorescent glow of his nearby lamp. He opened the door and leaned down into it, taking a pause and closing his eyes to enjoy the stream of cold air that trickled from the machine. Ben looked down into the crisper drawer, pulling out the bottom ra-

“AVENUE!!! HE’S WAITING TO SEE YOU!!! AND HE KNOWS HOW SKILLED YOU ARE, BEN!!!”

He shot back, slamming his head against the roof of the refrigerator. He fell backwards, landing hard on the linoleum floor of his kitchen. He heard it- that time he really heard it. And it said his name. His eyes darted back to the TV, which continued its inhuman lullaby of crackling sound. Nothing. Absolutely Nothing. Ben would have thought it was a friend playing a trick on him, if Ben had any friends to play tricks on him. He had left that all back in Ohio. No, this was something different. He looked to his cat, who, obviously startled by his fall, stared intently at him. He got up, ambled over to the couch once again, and lay down. He reached over and turned on the remote. The TV shut off with a fizzle of static electricity. 

After 10 minutes of trying, the same warmth of sleep eluded him. He lazily opened his eyes again, peering across the room to the short hallway that led to his real bedroom and the bathroom. The cat, seemingly curious, meandered into the darkened hall. He came back a few moments later and came close to Ben’s face, and licked his nose. At this point, he was too tired to care, and continued to sluggishly watch his companion walk back to the hall and stop at the mouth. The cat remained at the entrance of the hall and meowed. A beckoning, perhaps, to another cat that had gotten into the building somehow. Ben remained on the couch, until the cat turned back to him, meowed again, and turned back to the hall. It was a quick movement, like a deer turned to a hunter in the forest, piercing black eyes shooting back at the predator. 

The cat stared for what seemed like hours, unblinking. Then, in a moment of eerie stillness, the cat walked forward, being swallowed up by the darkness. With his only entertainment having left him, Ben turned to face the ceiling. “I think I’ve finally lost it,” Ben thought to himself. There was no real explanation for what he heard, besides maybe his mind thinking it heard certain words in a mix of wordless sound, the same way his eyes tricked him by making him see moving shapes in the darkness. He sat upright, gazing out at the city below. “Three in the morning and still buzzing,” he thought. The rain had ended, so Ben had put his shoes back on and donned an inconspicuous, faded, bomber jacket. Being an insomniac, he had gotten used to taking nighttime walks to clear his head and spur him into sleeping. He took his keys off the counter and walked out, prepared to take his last looks at the city he had dreamed about.

He resolved not to take the Camaro, lest he fall asleep at the wheel and never see the light of day. Instead, he began to walk into the heart of the city. The opioid epidemic had stuck this part of town hard, and it was hard to find a street corner without some junkie muttering to himself or dancing off to wonderland thanks to the needle in his arm. Tonight was different, though. Perhaps some good samaritan had opened up a new homeless shelter, for tonight, the streets were clean of addicts and alcoholics. He walked through streetlight after streetlight, closed storefront after closed storefront, the scenery so decrepit and frequent it seemed the walls were simply repeating themselves every block. Coming to a four-way intersection, Ben looked up at the street signs to get his bearings and begin to head home. The chill of the night breeze had finally set into his bones.

When he looked up, the street names were unknown to him, so he had the option to either double back on Ciacco Street or turn onto Sordello. He attempted to look for the shining lights of the Sunset Strip to give him some sense of direction, but the boarded up shops and apartments stooped far too high for Ben to get a sense of his location. He turned onto Sordello, and passed by a fenced-off psychiatric hospital. What was left of the sign read ‘ST. BERN  RD A  YLUM’. A small pink sheet on the front of the wrought-iron gates read ‘CONDEMNED’. Mildly unnerved by the rotting exterior of the place, Ben pulled his jacket tighter to him and continued on. The chill still clung to him, no matter how close he pulled it.

Rounding another corner past the asylum, he walked onto a long, dark, and eerily quiet street. He stepped out onto the road and looked down. Cobblestone paving. He was in a far older part of town. He looked back to the corner he had just rounded and saw only darkness at the cutoff. The last streetlight he had passed had gone out. The new street was oddly clean. The chill had left his bones, he remarked. He still had no idea where he was. He decided to find some 24 hour bodega and borrow their phone. None of the lights in the shop were on, except for a small decorated lantern that hung over a wooden sign.

Ben walked closer to the sign, peering up at the faded paint. ‘FOUST’S APOTHECARY’, it read, and he pushed open the wooden door with the same name written on it in gold lettering. There was the brief chime of the door’s petite silver bell.  It was a small shop with a counter and hardwood flooring, all neatly polished. He looked beyond the counter and saw a shelf with columns and rows of bottles marked with tiny labels that were impossible to read without a magnifying glass. He sat down in a leather bar seat and ran his hands over the wooden counter. Was it open? Would he have to-

“I wasn’t under the impression that we would receive customers tonight,” Remarked a thin old man dressed in scarlet from the corner of the shop. “Not many people show up here at all, so I’d hardly expect someone, especially at this hour.”

“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that- you see my car is at my apartment and I got lost while walking, and-” 

“Oh, slow down a bit, young man, I know exactly why you’re here.”

Ben’s brow furrowed slightly, and the man in the corner put down his dense manuscript and stood up to shake his hand.

“Well you need medicine! Why else would you have wandered into an apothecary at this time of night. You’re in your hour of need, and no one else will help you. Well, as it so happens I am just the man you seek. Doctor Johann Faust- at your service.”

He walked around the counter with long strides, removing some bottles from the shelf and placing them on the counter with a swiftness Ben hadn’t expected from such an old man. 

“That’s very kind of you Sir, but really I just need to borrow your pho-”

The scarlet man cut him off- “Yes, yes, just a minute, I’ll get to that. You happen to have some more pressing matters, I believe.”

At this point Ben was too tired to interject, and elected to simply lean on the counter and let the scarlet-clad doctor rattle off his sales pitch.

“Benjamin, I am a man who solves problems. And many times they aren’t simply illnesses of the mind or of the body. They’re illnesses of the soul. Have you ever felt like you were simply meant to do something, but you are impaired somehow? This is an illness of the soul, you see. You were always meant for the silver screen, but the cruel and ignorant men above you simply wish to stop you from rising to the top.”

At this, Ben sat up. He had never told this man his name, much less his plight of reaching his dream as a host. He wanted to get up and leave, but everything around him told him to not move and stay exactly where he was. He could leave, but the back of his mind kept him in his chair. The impending, screaming sensation that if he left now, he would lose out on a once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity. 

“H-How do you know that?” Ben sputtered out. “I never told you any of that.”

The old man stopped what he was doing and stood up straight. He turned around and peered into Ben’s eyes. It was only now that he realized that the Doctor was quite a bit taller than him. The velvety voice began again:

 “You didn’t need to. It was all written there on your face. You see, all throughout my life I have seen poor, innocent people suffer because of the actions of those above them. How is it that the people who should never lead become the mightiest of the mighty? It’s just so... unfair. So I make it my business to help those less fortunate people achieve their goals. All pro bono, of course.”

Ben looked back at the eyes of the frail man in front of him. He seemed so kind, so purely helpful, like an innocent child who simply wants to help another reclaim the swing set he was pushed from. But his eyes… They spoke of something deeper, something darker and more purely maleficent than anything Ben had seen before. The Doctor turned and returned to his task. The pillowy baritone of the pharmacist resumed:

“I can help you, Ben. You and I both simply want the same thing. To bring joy to everyone. To dethrone the ignorant simpletons who have made themselves the kings of kings.”

The man turned to face him once again, and placed a small vial of a dark, glittering liquid before him. “Fallacem Argentum- a very rare and specialty concoction. It has the rather helpful  effect of making anyone seem hilarious and confident- the two most important qualities of a show host, don’t you agree?” Ben instinctively reached for it, but his hands were guided away from the vial by the Doctor. “I’m afraid, Benjamin, that you need a prescription for this, and that’s something you simply don't have. However,” The Doctor started, holding the bottle up to the light, “I can write you one- in exchange for a small favor.” Ben was fixed on the vial. Everything was leading up to this. This is what he needed. This is who he was. Ben had already disturbed the pharmacist by intruding at this late hour, so if he could repay him with whatever favor he needed, it would be only fair.

“Anything.”

A thin smile crept up the sides of Foust’s face, contorting his features to reveal a deep eagerness at Ben’s agreement.

“There will come a time when I require your service. At a time least expected, I will be there to claim what is rightfully mine. That’s all there is- I’ve already collected the down payment before you left.”

With this, the Doctor placed the bottle in front of him once more, and Ben grabbed it unimpeded.

“How does it work?” He asked, eyes still locked intently on the bottle. 

“Simply take one drop for confidence and humor, two drops for fame and fortune, and three drops…” The Doctor’s face fell a bit. He looked from the bottle to Ben’s eyes, which had momentarily broken their gaze from the bottle. 

“Three drops for what?”

“Three drops, my boy, will lead you down a path you may never want to walk. Three drops and your fame and fortune will be… eternal. But all who have tried have regretted it. They were simply too weak-willed for it, I suppose. They just didn’t have the Passion. Best to just stick with two, then.”

The pharmacist produced a small red-leather ledger and placed it in front of Ben.

“Simply sign here, a good hearty handshake, and then you’re off.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

The eager smile returned to the Doctor’s gaunt face. Ben suddenly found himself holding an ornate fountain pen. The handle was made of what seemed to be polished obsidian, and the deeper Ben peered into the side of it, the more he wondered if he would lose his mind in the endless, spiraling darkness. Ben was so tired. If he just signed, he could go back to sleep and be left alone. All he needed to do was-

A short, clear tap on the ledger indicating where he was to write his name brought him back to reality. He paused, reading over the names. So many people… Who was this guy? Wait a second- what was he doing here? He needed to get home, to feed his cat, to-

Before he knew it, Ben had signed the paper quickly, and the pen, suddenly wielding an immense weight, dropped from his hand. The scarlet man closed the book and placed both it and the pen in his breast pocket. He offered a bony hand.

Ben shook it.

The face of the pharmacist was whipped into utter delight. He let loose a deep, hearty chuckle. All previous refinement lost, he said-

“You can go.”

***

Ben started up in his bed. It was dawn, and the rays of the California sun had finally broken through the blinds to wake him. Everything that had happened the night before seemed fuzzy. Ethereal. Unreal. He walked over to the large bag of cat food and filled a bowl marked ‘EMBERS’. He looked around for the cat, who usually came running at the slightest hint of food. The soft pitter-patter of his feet never came.

Ben didn’t think much of it. After all, cats were lazier than most humans. He rose from the food bowl and suddenly stopped. His eyes were locked with an inky black vial on the counter.

He paused for a while, the memories of the previous night flooding back to him. The Asylum, the empty streets, the unnatural chill of the nocturnal air settling into his bones- it all came back. The eyes of the Doctor. Even now, he felt the endless abyss behind them boring holes into the most secluded parts of his being.

He put one hand on the bottle, and sloshed the liquid inside around. It was dense, like mercury. He debated simply tossing it out and considering the events of the past night a ‘stress-induced psychotic break’. “I would, but I paid for this-” He paused for a moment to briefly recall the events of the previous night once more. How much did he pay for this? Faust had said he wrote the prescription as a favor, but he had no memory of what he had given him in return.

He momentarily shook himself back to reality and looked around for Embers. He walked toward the hall where he had watched the cat slowly enter the previous night, but stopped at the entrance. 

“I’ve already collected the down payment.”

The Doctor’s words echoed back to him now. He stared into the hall, which even now in pure daylight was held in a subtle darkness, with the door to the bathroom being closed and the windows in the bedroom covered by the curtains, which had been drawn shut. He lingered for a moment, and turned to face the bottle once again. 

It felt like days, staring into the inky liquid in the bottle. Considering what he would do with it now that he had it. “How bad could it be? Two drops of anything can’t kill me,” He thought to himself. He went to the cupboard above the counter and removed a small coffee cup, placing it down next to the bottle. He put it under the faucet and filled it. Then, carefully unscrewing the lid of the bottle, he drew some of the liquid into the dropper and held it for a moment, careful not to release any of the pressure from his fingertips.

He kept the dropper suspended above the water.

“One drop for confidence and humor, two drops for fame and fortune, and three drops-”

Two drops of the onyx liquid fell into the cup. Ben’s hand held still over the cup for a moment, as if to tempt fate for another drop to fall from it. None did. He downed the cup. The liquid was bitter at first, but his tongue quickly acclimated to the taste. He recognised it from somewhere, but couldn’t put his finger on it. It was like a childhood dish with a main element removed- enough to offer the memory, but merely a shadow of what it truly was.

He stepped out into the air, which had changed rapidly from a blazing heat yesterday to a room-temperature atmosphere. Perhaps it was a few degrees too cold. The sudden focus on the sensation of the air on his skin reminded him of how fervently his sneakers chafed. It seemed completely normal, and yet, a creeping uneasiness stayed with Ben no matter where he went.

He began to walk toward his favorite cafe, a small, unambitious little shop owned by an immigrant family from Japan. Nice folk, yet the mother had the unappealing tendency to stare with intense scrutiny at anyone who entered. As a consequence, it was always empty. This was a bonus to Ben. 

He walked in, and offered a slight wave to the mother’s 10-year-old boy, who sat in the back corner of the sun-bleached shop playing something on his GameBoy. The wave, to Ben’s dismay, went unnoticed. The mother, Pauline, emerged from the backroom and gave a warm smile, which was quickly snuffed at the sight of Ben’s wrinkled flannel. 

“The usual?”

Actually, I was thinking a rum and coke this morning.

“Actually, I was thinking a rum and coke this morning.”

A brief, yet hearty chuckle emanated from Pauline. Where had that come from? He didn’t know, but he was proud of it. “A nice way to start my last day here.” Ben thought to himself.

“If you find one, get one for me too.” 

Pauline began making a double-shot espresso, Ben’s favorite, and he left the cash on the counter and sat down. He looked out the large glass windows to gaze lazily across the street. The sun was in the first third of the sky, and the smell of the coffee had brightened his mood. Today was going to be a good day.

He went up to the counter and took the espresso. He resumed sitting, and took a long sigh. In that moment, Ben seemed to be held in a peculiar stillness, as if his entire life had been slightly blurred, and only now came into focus. He noticed every little thing. The pallid creak of the plastic chair he was sitting in that accompanied every slight movement. The furious, yet practiced clicking of the GameBoy. The dull hiss of steam from the coffee makers. It all seemed so real, so present, and yet- so disconnected. Despite the lucidity in which he viewed his surroundings, Ben couldn’t find himself immersed in it. He felt held within his own interior stillness, quiet and unnoticed by the outside world.

He stepped out of the shop and began to walk back to his apartment. Just then, a neon-swept teenager on a skateboard shoved a flyer into his hands. The teen sped past and absentmindedly shouted “Come to open mike night at The Hooligan House!” Ben looked down at the dry pink paper in his hands. “Why not?” He postulated, “What the Hell?”

***

The atmosphere of the comedy club was tipsy and jovial, with silver-tongued crooners smooth-talking to well-dressed ladies scattered throughout the club. People of all sorts were here, and the only one who felt out of place was Ben. He slipped into one of the front-row booths and sat down. A waitress came up to him and he asked for a beer. He sipped the foamy liquid courage and turned towards the stage.

“Uh, welcome to open mike night here at California’s own HH.”

The dull announcement was met with thunderous applause and cheers from across the club. The obviously stoned, flannel-clad man continued.

“Basically the rules are you have a max of five minutes, no racist or sexist shit, y’all know the drill.”

A man dressed in a loose polo went up. He flashed a cheesy smile, grabbed the mike with familiar confidence, and began:

“You know, I recently had to put my mom in a nursing home.”

The audience met this with sympathetic sighs.

“Yeah, her house parties were loud as hell- I couldn’t get any sleep. This bitch had to go.”

Uproarious laughter showered the comedian. His routine consisted of the same type of jokes. He presented his eighty-year old mother as a virile teen going through the angst that puberty brings on. A couple other people went up, and something deep inside Ben said:

Get up there. Show em’ what you’ve got.

Ben scooted out of his seat and briskly walked up to the microphone. There were scattered claps throughout the establishment. In an effort to hide his shaky hands he gripped it with both hands and began. He peered into the black faceless mass that was the crowd. He paused for a moment, trying to remember his jokes. He cursed under his breath. He’d left his book at home. I suppose he’d have to improvise. His mind was blank- he frantically racked his brain for anything resembling a joke when he heard a voice, perhaps his own, begin to speak.

“So the other day I was walking home, and I saw this homeless guy sweeping the streets with a branch.”

Small chuckles came from the crowd. The voice continued, and Ben was in a trance- was the voice his own? He’d never know. All he knew was that he was talking and it was working.

“First of all- good for him for keeping his community clean.”

A hearty laugh came from the crowd. Ben relaxed his grip.

“It’s not every day you see someone like that. I was honestly so surprised I just kinda watched him do it. At least he’s trying, right? Just look at him go- sweeping in two directions so the dirt stays in the same place. By far the most responsible crackhead I’ve seen in a while. He compares only to good ol’ Stabby Power-washes-the-street. Both upstanding men in the community.”

Ben continued on, caught in a stupor of the limelight- The words flowed effortlessly out of him- he didn’t need to think and they were already there, sent out to the crowd for them to devour. He finished his set and sat down. The audience cheered. The stoned manager from before came out and wished everyone a good night. People got up to leave, and as Ben was putting on his coat, a hand gripped his shoulder. Ben spun around and was face to face with a well-dressed little man in his forties, who stood a good foot shorter than him.

“Rick Barnaby- Talent Agent.”

He flicked a sleek black business card out to him and thrust it into his hands.

“And you got talent, kid. Real talent. The way you had that crowd busting their guts? Beautiful. Listen, gimme a call if you’re interested in working as a writer or something. There are tons of small studios in the hills that would love a guy like you!”

The balding man clapped him on the shoulder and walked away. Ben couldn’t help a smile from flooding over his face. He turned to the bar and asked to settle his tab.

The cheeky comedian from earlier sat at the bar, staring at him.

“You know, you’ve got chops, I’ll give you that. Guys like Barnaby are small fry- He goes after every wide-eyed comedian who can get a chuckle out of these idiots.��

Any previous levity was gone from the comedian’s face. He emptied his glass and got up.

“You want my advice? Wait until the big names go for you- but for that you need a club a lot bigger than this one.” He turned to the barkeep and gestured to his empty glass. “That one’s on him.” The now-sullen comedian quickly departed.

Ben begrudgingly paid his tab, along the extra charge for the other comedian’s drink. He stepped out into the sweet Hollywood air. The city glistened across the darkness. It was like the whole place was stuck in a haze of limelight. Before, He was nothing. Now, the city was his. He stepped off into the darkness.

***

  Ben awoke yet again into a day he thought wouldn’t happen. He once again stared into the inky black liquid. He strode past the untouched food bowl, eyes locked in place with the vial. He outstretched his hand to it, but quickly withdrew it. He got another mug and placed it near the coffee maker.

All who have tried it have regretted it. They just didn’t have the Passion.

He picked the mug up again and filled it with water. He placed the mug on the counter next to the vial. What was he doing? The Doctor had said that all who have done it have regretted it.

Because they didn’t have the Passion.

Ben looked at the vial again.

“I have passion.”

Yes, Benjamin, you do. The people who regretted it didn’t have the same fire you possess.

“W-what if I don’t? What if it’s really not in me?”

There are always a million reasons not to do something. All this worry is so… negative. Let go of your inhibitions.

 Ben unscrewed the cap and dropped the third drop in. He downed the cup. The taste was the same alluding flavor- but he was more passive to the subtle bitterness now. He knew that this was truly him.

He stepped out into the daylight- ready to make his way in the world. He was gripped by the strong sensation that the world was his. He had the fire. He had fought for this. Now it was time. Time to become the man he always wanted to be.

He stepped onto the crosswalk, not noticing the flatbed truck hurtling out of his peripheral vision. Ben took his last step with profound purpose. And all the world was gone.

***

“AHAHA, HOLY SHIT!”

Ben was in a leather armchair, face to face with a slender, neatly dressed man sitting across a dark mahogany desk. He was cackling and slamming the desk with laughter. Every beat against the hard wood was deafening. The true sadistic nature of the laugh made Ben fall sick to his stomach.

The fireplace burned brightly behind the still-laughing man. The eager flares mimicked the chaotic swelling of the laughter. All around the office was dark wood. He wanted to turn around, but fear kept him in his place.

“Ohh, ohh, oh my goodness-”

The man’s face rose from his desk and he wiped a tear from his eye. His skin color was an aggressive crimson. A horrible realization dawned on Ben. The truck- wait- How did he survive? Unless… The realization shot into him brutally.

“That is, without a doubt- one of the best ones I’ve seen. I mean, you took the third drop and, like, immediately get hit by a truck. I mean, hot damn. Wow. Really, really, great stuff. Okay- let’s take a little look-see at your file here.”

A bright red folder produced itself in a quick burst of flame. The man opened it and began to read, mouthing most of the words. Wild expressions darted across his face with every new sentence, most of them being jovial surprise.

“Excuse me but what am I-”

The man made a ‘Shut-your-mouth’ gesture with his hands and Ben fell silent. Ben put a hand to his mouth and felt around it. He gagged- It was sewn shut. He traced his fingers over the stitches and let loose a muffled scream. The scream was met with not even an apathetic glance from the man. He kicked his feet up onto the desk and sank back into his leather chair. He tossed the folder into the fireplace behind him. 

“So, uh, normally Paul, the demon in charge of your case, would be the one doing this, but he’s uhh, kind of busy right now, so here I am. You know, I almost turned down this overtime shift. But this… oh this is definitely worth it. Now, unless you’re a full-blown brickhead, you’ve probably figured out where you are by now.”

The demon let loose an excessive, toothy grin.

“You can talk, genius.”

Ben took in a sharp breath and felt around his lips. No stitches, no scars.

“W-wasn’t I h-h-hit by the t-t-”

“Ehh, wuh-wuh-wuh, buh-buh-buh, Speak up, moron. Yeah, you’re in the ol’ H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks all right. In here for a doozy of a sin, too. Deal with the Big Guy, huh? How’d you manage a score with the head honcho ‘round here? Ya sleep with him?”

The demon once again launched into cackling laughter.

“Naw, naw, I’m just giving you a hard time. Don’t take it personally.  I do this to everybody, it’s sort of my job. You get it.”

Ben looked around for cameras. Perhaps this was some sort of practical joke? He thought if perhaps he just waited a bit, a man with a clipboard would come out and tell him he made tonight’s news, and that California 48 would be televising his reaction to the prank.

No such relief came.

The... Demon? Man? Hapless actor? It didn’t matter. The beet-red, snappily dressed thing that sat across from him was nothing short of delighted to be looking over his file. Ben gathered the courage to look around. A ludicrous amount of mahogany. Behind him, at the back of the room, was a large aquarium with a beefy coconut crab. 

“You know, that’s the crab that ate Amelia Earhart..”

“What?”

Ben turned back around to face the demon, who was leaning far across the desk, studying every aspect of Ben’s terrified expression. The demon sank back and looked at his watch. 

“Oh, shit. We gotta get you out to hair and makeup right now.”

“W-what?”

The demon immediately grew a short beard that didn’t cover his chin, and a puffy afro.

“SAY ‘WHAT’ AGAIN! I DARE YOU, I DOUBLE-DARE YOU!”

Ben fell backwards, out of his chair. His head hit the hardwood with a bang. An intense, sharp sting immediately pulsed from the back of his head. The demon once again launched into violent laughter, and then pulled him upright in his chair again. 

“Oh, my bad, guy. I can’t have you all fuzzy for what’s about to happen. I was just kidding about hair and makeup, by the way. You go out just as ugly as you are now.”

Hair and makeup? What the hell was he on about? There wasn’t any-

A neatly dressed, presumably female, demon with her hair in a tight bun quickly opened the door and leaned in. 

“You’re on in five, Cal.”

“Thanks, Toots.”

She looked at Ben and squealed excitedly.

“Is that the guy?”

Cal responded cheerily, “Yep. In the… well, I guess you wouldn’t say flesh.”

The assistant once again squealed excitedly, and then quickly left and shut the door.

Ben, collecting his bearings, sputtered out,

“Look, I think you have the wrong guy. I-I’m not a bad person, I j-just-”

Cal looked at his watch and smiled.

“Showtime!”

He snapped his fingers, and it felt for a brief moment that a fireball had covered Ben. Not enough to burn him, but enough to flash-heat him and startle him again. This time, he was behind a dark red curtain. The neatly-dressed demon from earlier was right next to him.

“I’m Prinne. I’m an Assistant Executive. I just wanted to say, on behalf of all of us, how much your sheer stupidity means to us. Really it's… inspiring. Oop- this is you. Bad luck!”

She scurried off somewhere, and the heavy curtains swept open before Ben, momentarily blinding him from the industrial lighting. He briefly heard,

“... Ben Harding!” 

A jazz orchestra flooded out an upbeat piece, as Cal walked over and moved him to a plush suede couch. He could barely hear anything of the swarm of cheers that washed over Ben. Cal sat down at a desk next to him.

“Isn’t he great, folks?! Look at that- two arms, two legs- the works!”

This was met with guffawing laughter. The crowd quieted down, and Ben’s focus turned towards Cal. Cal was beaming, and he took a sip from a cup that Ben was positive wasn’t coffee.

“So, Ben. I always start my guests with the same question-”

The crowd finished his sentence loudly.

“WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!”

Ben stuttered, his mind blank.

“A-a TV show?” was all he managed to get out.

Cal turned to the crowd inquisitively.  “What do you think, people, did he get it?”

There was a loud mix of ‘Boos’ and cheers. It was impossible to hear what the majority thought. Cal started again- “I’ll give you a hint, pal. I told you earlier.”

Ben somehow turned paler than he was before.

“Oh, God…”

“NOPE! NOT FOR YOU!”

Deafening laughter resumed. Ben knew what it was. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t bring himself to admit the reality he was facing.

Cal answered for him:

“You know what, guy? I’m a kind fella, so I’ll take that pale, mortal face o’ yours as the correct answer! You’re in…”

Once again the crowd responded.

“HELL!”

A red, flashing marquis sign lowered, illuminating the word. The crowd burst out with laughter once more. As Ben stared directly up at it, he began to weep uncontrollably. This was simply too much to handle. He wanted to go home! He wanted to hug his mother! He wanted to see his cat again!

“What’s that? Your cat? Why would you want to see him again? HE’S THE ONE THAT BROUGHT YOU TO OUR ATTENTION!”, Cal shouted with sheer glee.

Ben was confused beyond words, beyond thought. Cal continued.

“That’s right! He did! If you still want to say ‘Hi’ to your little buddy, then good news! He’s here in the audience tonight!”

A spotlight wheeled around to shine on Embers in the front row, sitting upright, like a human, waving a paw at the cameras and smiling to the extent that a cat could smile.

Cal began again-

“You see, I don’t know if you realized this, but cats just tend to walk between Hell and the mortal plane all the time! It’s just kinda a thing they do. I think the real tug-at-your-heartstrings of it all was the fact that even though you loved him, even though you fed him, even though you cleaned up his stanley steamers all his life, he still couldn’t give a rat’s ass about YOU!”

The crowd busted a gut at this statement. Ben was speechless, staring at the dark, shapeless crowd. The spotlight returned to Cal.

“Alright, folks, It’s time for one of my favorite segments. You know the one-”

The crowd returned-

“GIVE! HIM! MORE! EYES!”

Ben, still weeping, let loose a scream of complete and utter fear  for his existence. He tried to get up, but his legs simply wouldn’t allow him to do so. He beat on his legs with his fists, seemingly endlessly, hoping to get them to work, so they could speed him out of this waking nightmare.

“Aww, I think he wants to go.” Cal made a harlequinesque frown at this comment.

The crowd boomed back more laughter. Cal continued,

“Don’t worry, stupid. This next segment isn’t about you. We just want you to watch.”

Cal gestured to a platform where a man strapped to a board rose out of the ground. His mouth was sewn shut, as Ben’s had been earlier. Cal walked over to the pot-bellied, balding man and began, placard in hand.

“Our next contestant on G.H.M.E. comes to us from Snerling, Indiana. Gabriel Mortson, welcome to Give Him More Eyes!”

He screamed a suppressed wail of terror.

“Now Gabey-boy, you sexually assaulted over fifteen minors in your time on the mortal plane! How do you plead, asswipe?!”

Gabe once again wailed a muffled cry. Cal resumed,

“Sounds like ‘guilty’ to me, folks.” The crowd cheered in agreement with the verdict.

Cal bellowed another sadistic laugh and snapped his fingers. Immediately, a thousand cuts ripped across the man’s entire body. He tried his hardest to scream, but nothing came from his tightly-shut mouth. Blood oozed out of every cut, and one by one, human eyes that looked exactly like Gabriel’s own quickly festered from each cut. The muffled scream went on endlessly. Ben’s eyes were fixed, even through the tears. No desire had ever been as strong as Ben’s was for death then. What he believed was true death, an endless, peaceful sleep. Cal’s joyous expression reminded him that his belief was not the case. Gabriel, drenched in his own blood, receded down into the floor of the stage once more.

“Benny Hill! Back to you, buddy. You are an ‘especial’ case. For you, dear friend, we have a game we rarely get to play. This one is reserved specifically for people who make deals with the Big Fella!”

The crowd erupted in applause and cheered again. A small stream of urine trickled steadily down Ben’s pant leg. Cal continued.

“The rules are simple- walk down this hallway, don’t open any of the doors, and just leave!”

Ben was confused. There must be a catch. Ben was sure of it. Nothing Cal said would ever be trustworthy. Not after what he had seen.

“Alrighty then, Ben-to box! Best of luck!”

Ben saw Cal’s hand move to snap his fingers, but he was gone before he could have heard Cal’s snap. It was odd. He looked down an average hotel hallway. It looked exceedingly calm. The carpet was a stripe of red with beige on both sides. The walls were a neutral cream. Each of the doors had a small, excellently polished door knob on them. He took a step forward. There was no sound, no creak. Ben took another, and was startled by a loud crunching behind him. 

He swiftly turned around, and was put somewhat at ease at the realization that it was simply an ice machine. He resumed his path forward. That was when he heard the first voice.

“Benji?”

A soft, frail voice came from the first door on the left.

“M-mom?” 

Ben’s hand instinctively went towards the handle. He caught himself and whipped it back, holding both of his hands tightly in his armpits.

“Benji, please… please come in. I want to see you. Where did you go, Benji? Why did you leave me?”

Ben tried his hardest to shut out the voice by clamping his hands to his ears. It did nothing. The voice continued, as Benjamin picked up the pace moving forward. The voice grew louder and louder, coming from every door that he passed.

“Benji… Benji, please!... BENJI!... BENJI!”

The farther he got from the first door, the louder and more demonic the voice became, until it was an unholy shriek, cutting deeply into his ears, punishing him, until at once it stopped. Ben fell to his knees and assumed the fetal position, crying loudly and uncontrollably. He laid there, weeping, until he heard that voice in his head once more.

“Keep moving.”

He got up and wiped the tears out of his eyes. He turned around, and he had passed about a dozen doors by then. Only six remained before the slightly open door at the end of the hall. There was a soft golden light coming from the edge, but he couldn't see what was out there. He heard an old TV turn on inside one of the rooms.

“Now, It’s The Late Show- with Ben Harding!” 

Ben continued on, passing through the doors, each one playing a variation of a late-night talk show hosted by Ben. That was, until he came to the sixth door. It was the only door with a small brass door plate in the shape of a star with ‘Benjamin Harding’ inscribed on it. Behind it, he heard:

“Where is he? He needs to be on in two minutes! We can’t have this stupid show without this stupid host!” He then heard light, but stern footsteps pace around the room. Under the door, a shadow danced accordingly. The voice behind the sixth door was the softest. Still, Ben found it the most alluring. His hand slipped out of his armpit and gently onto the knob. The handle was nice and warm. Ben was cold. Perhaps someone has opened a window. There was the same chill in his bones as there was that night. That chill that inched him forward, towards the warm, convenient shop. He felt as he did when he held the drop of the liquid above his cup. 

No turning back now.

But there was. He turned to his left, and saw the final door. It’s light was warm, but not enough to warm him the way he felt the sixth door would. Ben took one final look at the sixth door, and slipped his hand off the knob. Somehow, he could feel the crowd’s disappointment, even without hearing them. That was his victory. For the first time all night, he cracked a smile. He had won. He would fix his mistake. He left the sixth door behind and exited through the final door at the hall. It was warm, just as he thought. He was standing in a field of wild wheat. He turned around and the door was gone. “Ohio.” He thought. He saw abandoned train tracks to the East, and started walking that way. It was a serene afternoon. Not humid, but breezy. A single cloud hung in the sky, moving across the horizon. He walked toward the tracks, and with a single, intense ‘thwack’, he was greeted with the loudest laughter that the crowd had let loose.

Searing, unbelievable pain shot through his leg. Ben dropped to his knee, and tried to pry off the bear trap he had stepped in. It wouldn’t budge. He looked up, and the kind, serene sun was gone. All there was was the harsh light and the crowd. Cal knelt down with him and put a hand on his shoulder. He was tearing up with laughter.

“YOU DON’T GET TO LEAVE, YOU IDIOT! I’M AFRAID THAT SHIP HAS SAILED!”

The crowd continued its tsunami of deafening laughter. Ben’s section of the stage was being lowered into the darkness, just as Gabriel had been. All Ben heard before the darkness was the crowd’s inhuman cackling, and Cal’s voice say:

“That one’s going on the Highlight Reel for sure!”

[chisanluv]

Schadenfreude (Overhaul/Kai Chisaki x Reader) Chapter. 1

Based in the movie Saw

I will post this chapters in Wattpad too!

( Please keep in mind that this contains explicit violence and gore. Also, my native language isn't English but I do the best I can ! )

------

The three tall men walked inside of 'The Casino's Life', one of the most appreaciated casinos in Japan, full of alcohol, cigarette and strippers. Some people were on the machines, while the other part was playing cards. The Yakuza boss from the group scoffed and ajusted his mask, the toxic air was enough to make him upset.

Not so far away from them, Shimasu Damasu (also, more known by the name of 'Card's Master') was sitting on a big but plain chair, surrounded by women and some men that had their faces red thanks to anger. He was pretty known because of his high status and 'good luck' with Casinos in the 'normal' life, while in the underground he would be one of the best people to ask for 'clasificated' information. His work wasn't cheap, thought.

He simply smiled after he had eye contact with some amber eyes.

-" You came pretty early, Overhaul. "-

-" I could say the same thing "- stated Overhaul, taking a chair in front of the table. -" So, how many information do you have about the new one ? "-

Card's just sighed, it was one of those weird occasions where he felt fear and danger about a new wanted person.

Three months ago, twenty-six people went missing in the same day; twenty were important people, both women and men. The other six were middle class people.

The problem was that all of them disappeared in the blink of an eye.

The first one that was noted was the most famous and important of all the twenty-six people, this man was described by his people as a selfish, ungrateful, cold and racist man. He would normally make racist comments and also offend many of his costumers.

The second one, was more pleasant at least. He was a layer, had good reputation and a really good life. The problem was that the infamous layer would always make his best to protest against homosexual people, and support pedophiles. Of course, he kept all of this in secret, but everything went to the light after his missing.

Most of the other missing people were alcoholic, thieves and drugs addicts. In addition of that, all the women in the list where prostitutes who worked in various casinos ( including The Casino's Life ). Obviously, this caused a huge impact, sending waves of terror in the city.

At first, the police and heroes that were working on the case thought that the kidnapping of the victims was for gaining easy money, but days after the incident there was no call or any proof that could hold the theory.

No investigator or hero had a clue, but afterwards of important searching the missing people's life, they saw a patron on it.

From star to end, all of them had done illegal things, 17 could be considered villains of low level but the most notable thing was how ungrateful and brats they were. The common sense hit the heroes like a truck.

The time was very curious, it went from exactly 7am to 6pm. It was like the kidnapper knew how many time would cost to the assistants or bosses to take note about their disappearance.

The case was extremely hard to pick parts and proofs.

After the news were spread, one man from the cell decided to speak. Normally, prisoners who want to give information would ask for a reward, but he didn't ask for anything, so it was like a plus to the police. The information given from the thief wasn't a lot, but it kind of helped.

The man who talked simply said that it was the kidnapper's fault of why his teammates were dead. Just because they tried to sneak up into their place for robbing some guns and knives.

Somehow, the base were this person keeps people had an 'air poision' that made everybody who smells it quirkless for 24 hours. Making everyone really weak, specially because many of them never went to train or cared about their strength, thinking that their quirks would 'keep them safe'.

After explaining many parts of the case, Damasu decided to make a disappointment face, it was the first time that there wasn't any explanation or description of the kidnapper.

But the worst part was when the Heroes found all the lifeless corpses of the missing people.

It was so disgusting.

Some of them didn't even have their faces or skin; You could literally see all the putrefact bones, flesh and organs that were cut and ripped apart from the bodies. Hell, one of them had all of his body intact, but his chest was stabbed 12 times and in his face, one of his eyes was out, with his mouth all wide open without any teeth.

Every single soul was disgusted. The heroes were literally speechless, frozen and scared, while the villains were quite surprised. Sure, they weren't good people but that was reallly repugnant for them. Never in their life they saw and/or heard such cruel and bloody torture. Just what kind of monster could do something so inhuman like that ?

It may be a coincidende, but half of the tortured and death people had a debt with the Yakuza. And that's why Overhaul got a little spark of interest in this new criminal.

Everyone was asking the same question:

What kind of quirk could they have ?

Because you obviously need help to do such torture.

Apart from that, the searching of this criminal was exahusting; no clues or good information were found. Obviously, many investigators left the case because there was nothing to do about but pray. Pray so this massacre wouldn't happend ever again.

━「₪」━

There you were. Sitting in your black chair, staring into the screens while you took a bite of your hamburguer.

Everything that you could see and hear throught the cameras was pathetic.

The heroes were discussing with the police about you, and how they must continue with your case.

How?

You used one of your last victims to hack into security cameras of the city and the police that was trying to investigate you. Sadly, the man didn't past your test and died in the process. Huh, he could have been a good tool but he wasn't good enough, so he getting a painful death didn't affect you. Actually, he deserved it, even if he passed the test he'd try to charge back at you with anything that he could find in your base and that would have end up with his blood everywhere, and you didn't want that.

Just the first time in a long time that you decided to open up a little and you got betrayed. Idiots. They got involved in your traps and ended up killing themselves.

Your work is pretty dangereous, thought. But you don't really need help in kidnapping other people, so it's better if you work alone.

But lord help'em

All people faces that you saw when they found the bodies were priceless. They are 'heroes', aren't they supposed to be used to see things like that?

The thought alone made you chuckle. If they can't stand that they won't be able for the next time.

You decided to select heroes in this round. The list is of only 10 people, but that doesn't matter. After all, they must experiment your traps and see if they are worh living or not. This time, you could take an assistant ! Of course, it can be impossible because they are of low level, but you'll teach them many things.

It was weird how people couldn't see from another point of view. Everyone had the same idea, that you were the one who killed them.

That was a horrible lie.

You didn't kill them. Actually, they were so deseperated to get out that they ended up killing themselves, such as stabbing, betraying each other and more things.

And it finished in their deaths.

Basically, or they get stuck/committe an error in your traps and kill themselves in the way, or they betray each other. Not even caring about listening your instructions.

Mentioning betray made you think about that guy.

He almost gets it. He scaped his first test, helped 3 other people but in his half way his teammates decided to use him. All because they didn't listen to the instructions.

You almost feel pity for him.

Almost.

What kind of trap could you use the next time? Huh, maybe the buckets are a good option.

Finishing your hamburger, you started to move with your chair that has small wheels between traps being worked on, broken dolls, and unfinished books, leading to your photo's section while you slowly hummed a sweet lullaby.

-----

I know this is short but this is just the prologue so yeah

Chapters will have between 3.000 and 9.000 word

I hope you like my story!

Started 20/July/2019

Finished 00/Month/0000

Next chapter: In progress

[revwinchester]

Fanboy

Summary: Dean likes to use Sam’s computer late into the night.  One morning, Sam stumbles upon something he never expected to see from Dean.

Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester; Becky (mentioned)

Word Count: 1454

Warnings: Some cursing, brotherly teasing, mention (but no depiction) of Wincest, bi Dean (or, at least, Dean exploring his sexuality)

A/N: I’ve been working on this for a while and what better day to finally put it out there than on Fanfic Author Appreciation Day!  No ship here and also no ship hate intended, I went with the canonical reaction to one of the fandom’s major ships.

This is dedicated to all the fangirls, fanboys, and fanpersons out there <3

Fanboy -

Sam pulled his laptop across the table from where Dean had been using it the night before.  He braced himself before he opened the computer; he’d been greeted by Dean’s porn more than once in the past.  Sam wasn’t against porn - not in the slightest - but he and his brother had very different tastes and, besides, 7:00 AM was far too early for X-rated videos, Sam thought (though he figured Dean would probably disagree).

Sam popped open the laptop and peeked at the screen.  It was, thankfully, just his mostly blank desktop wallpaper.  He still ran the daily virus check since he knew Dean had been up late using the computer.  He started the program and then made his way to the kitchen for some coffee and breakfast.

When Sam finished his cereal, he refilled his mug and went back to the library prepared to remove whatever viruses Dean had inadvertently downloaded onto Sam’s computer the night before.  Surprisingly, when he sat down at the table, his laptop had been declared clean.  Sam was shocked as he clicked the program closed and hovered the mouse over the icon for the internet.  

Just before he clicked, Sam noticed a new folder on the desktop simply labeled “Research.”  He knew that he hadn’t created it, so Dean must have.  Sam opened the folder and found that it held 2 more folders, one called “In Progress” and the other “Complete.”  It was weird for Dean to be researching, especially when they didn’t have a case, and practically unheard of him to be this organized about it.  Sam clicked on the “In Progress” folder, expecting it to be empty but was surprised once again to find three documents there.

Sam opened one of the files, frustrated that Dean was working cases not just without him but behind his back; he had thought they were beyond that.  He quickly skimmed through the document, not absorbing much, just that this case seemed to be centered in a hospital and, for some reason,some of the names sounded familiar.  Sam didn’t see anything evidence of this being their kind of thing by skimming and that made him feel better. Dean was probably just checking things out and would have shared with Sam if something had come out of it.  Probably.

Mostly mollified but still curious, Sam opened another of the files.  Again, this seemed to be set in a hospital.  Sam read a bit more carefully this time.  The case was out in Seattle but Dean seemed to have more information than he could have gleaned from the news or police reports - patient diagnosis and medications and the like.  It wasn’t until Sam came across a very familiar name that he stopped and truly read what was in the document.

‘Everyone turned when the elevator opened and watched the man step onto the floor.  Every click of Dr. Sexy’s boots rang out down the hallway as he approached the patient’s door.’

What?

What had Sam just read?  What was this?  He returned to the top of the page and began reading in earnest.  What followed was a tawdry story set in Seattle Mercy Hospital.  Dr. Sexy was making out with just about everyone - doctors, nurses, and even a male patient who was suspiciously described as having “perfectly styled sandy brown hair and shocking green eyes.”  The make and model of the patient’s car was even worked into the narrative, somehow - a 1967 Chevy Impala.

“Not a fan, my ass,” Sam muttered.

Sam had stumbled across Dean’s fanfiction.  He wasn’t sure how he’d missed it before but he was glad to have the ammunition against his brother now.  Better late than never, he thought.  And, from the looks of the “Complete” folder, Sam was finding this information quite late.

For all the crap Dean had given the Supernatural fanfiction writers, here he was doing the same thing with the characters of Dr. Sexy.  Granted, they weren’t actual people and Dean wasn’t writing any ...relations between family members.  Sam knew better than anyone that he and Dean were closer than the average brothers and they often found themselves in emotionally charged situations…

Sam steered his thoughts away from what Becky had shared was called “Wincest” and back to the information in front of him, deciding how best to use this new knowledge about how his brother spent his free time.

He didn’t have long to plan.  Sam skimmed through a few more of Dean’s stories to gather as much ammo as he could before his brother joined him in the library.  Not much later, Sam heard his brother padding towards the kitchen and making a new pot of coffee.  Soon enough, Dean was sitting across from him.

“Find any cases this morning?” the older hunter grunted.

“Uh, no.  I noticed that you were looking into some things last night, though.”  Sam replied as innocently as he could.  

Dean looked at his brother like he had two heads.  “Huh?”

Sam snorted, Dean really had a way with words in the morning.  “I saw your ‘Research’ folder on my computer.  Find anything good?” the younger hunter asked.

“My what?” Dean asked, the coffee clearly not making its way to his brain yet.  

“You’ve got a folder on my computer.  It’s labeled ‘Research.’  I found it.”

Dean’s eyes widened before he schooled his face into a neutral expression.  It was less than an instant and Sam wouldn’t have even noticed it if he didn’t know his brother so well.  “Did, uh, did you find anything interesting in there?” Dean asked, trying to cover and clearly hoping that his brother hadn’t explored the folder too deeply.

Sam shrugged.  “I skimmed a few things, nothing really jumped out as our kind of thing, though,” he replied and he watched as Dean relaxed a little in his seat.  “Should we be driving out to Seattle to check anything out though?  Something caught your eye about that hospital.”

“No, no,” Dean said, rubbing at his face.  “There’s nothing out there.  Thought there might be but I did a little research and it all seems really normal.  That’s why I didn’t tell you about it.”

Sam laughed to himself, enjoying Dean’s reactions and attempts to cover his activities.  “I mean, we’ve gone places on less, Dean,” he told his brother.  “If you think there might be something happening in Seattle, I say we make the trip.”  Sam started to get up and head toward his room, taking his computer with him.  “I’m going to throw a few things in a bag.  Seattle is, what, two days of driving? One if we take turns sleeping?”

It was clear that Dean was considering it, making a useless trip to the west coast in order to save face and not have to tell Sam about his writing.  He didn’t really want to drive all the way to Seattle for a joke so Sam pressed on.  “Even if the hospital is clean, there’s bound to be something happening out that way.  Maybe there’s a vampire family and a werewolf pack at odds with each other...”

Dean just looked confused, now.  “That’s… that’s the plot of Twilight.  What the hell, Sam?” But after a moment, realization hit him.  “You didn’t just skim the documents, did you.”  It wasn’t a question and Dean’s voice was suspicious.

Sam shrugged and finally let his laughter spill out.  “Nope!”  

Dean rolled his eyes but it only caused Sam to laugh harder.  “It’s not that big of a deal,” Dean muttered.

“Oh, but it is, Dean,” Sam gasped as he tried to compose himself.  “After the way you treated Becky and all the other Supernatural fans, it really, really is a big deal.  Oh!  Do you post on the message boards, too?  Or, what is it, Tumblr?  What’s your username?”  

Dean stood up and grabbed his mug.  “Let me know when you find a case, ass face,” he huffed.

Sam managed to control his laughter for a minute.  “Dean, no; don’t go.  I’m sorry.  You know it’s cool to be a fan of things these days, right?” he apologized, his voice as sincere as he could make it.  “Do you…” Sam knew his composure was cracking, “do you need someone to read your fanfic for you?  An editor?”

Dean looked like he didn’t trust Sam at all but he responded anyway.  “It’s called a beta, actually and…” Dean started.

The laughter erupted from Sam again.  “Of course it is… You’re such a fanboy!”

“You know what?  I don’t have to take this,” Dean commented, his lips pursed into the pout that Sam knew fangirls dreamed about.  He watched his brother storm off, muttering to himself about needing his own computer.

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[movietvtechgeeks]

Latest story from https://movietvtechgeeks.com/jim-beaver-supernatural-talk-jensen-ackles-jared-padalecki/

Jim Beaver 'Supernatural' talk on Jensen Ackles, Jared Padalecki

When one of our Movie TV Tech Geeks family members has something new out, we love to help promote it, especially when it's something that every Supernatural fan will want to get their hands on. Lynn Zubernis, who writes some pretty in-depth and intense Supernatural recap reviews, has her latest book hitting on May 9 Family Don’t End With Blood: Cast and Fans on How Supernatural Has Changed Lives (You can order it here), has interviewed nearly everyone from the show, and we're happy to run her 'best ofs' leading up to her book launch. If you want to attend her Los Angeles book launch check it out here. Her latest book features With contributions by Jared Padalecki, Jensen Ackles, Misha Collins, Mark Sheppard, Jim Beaver, Rob Benedict, Briana Buckmaster, Osric Chau, Matt Cohen, Ruth Connell, Gil McKinney, Rachel Miner and Kim Rhodes, and a Dozen Passionate Fans! Check out her classic interview with Misha Collins. Check out when we interviewed Lynn on her own Supernatural experiences. Check out exclusive excerpts from Lynn’s upcoming book! Next up, Jim Beaver (Bobby Singer), who wrote an incredibly powerful chapter for Family Don’t End With Blood. Here’s one of our favorite interview chats we’ve had with Jim over the years… As promised, more from our trip to the Chicago Supernatural convention – in this case, some quality time with one of our favorite guys, Jim Beaver. Jim is one of the first actors we interviewed two years ago at the start of our Supernatural road trip, and damn, he really skewed our expectations. Not only did he invite us to come over and chat in his living room, but four hours later, we were still there! That conversation took place before Jim’s very first fan convention, so we spent some of the time trying to prepare him. (Yes, fans will line up for your autograph – little did he know!). Jim asked us as many questions about the fandom as we asked him, and we weren’t surprised that he ‘got it’ in so many ways. We also managed to get in a dare before we left, but honestly, we never expected Jim to be so creative in his tee shirt design. O—o We missed sitting down with Jim at the last convention, because he was still signing autographs at 2 am and we were falling over with exhaustion. (So much for his disbelief that fans would line up for his autograph! ) Not surprisingly, his photo ops and autographs ran late in Chicago as well. Jim’s determination to give each and every fan some quality time was once again working against our chances of reconnecting with him. When 1:00 a.m. rolled around, and the other celebs had finished their turns at ‘speed dating with the stars,’ at the dessert party, we were ready to bail. (The desire for sleep does sometimes prevail!) Disappointed, we headed back to our room and walked smack into Jim who was being shepherded downstairs to make his belated appearance. So much for sleep. Jim never sleeps, as anyone who’s friended him on Facebook has probably figured out, and apparently he never eats either. After making the rounds with the die-hard fans who waited for him at the dessert party, he was handed a chicken Caesar salad by one of the Creation staff. He had every intention of eating it after he said goodnight to Richard Speight Jr and Aldis Hodge in the bar. Somehow that turned into a few rounds of pool and by 2:30 that chicken Caesar was looking less than savory. When we all finally collapsed in the corner table of the deserted lobby bar, poor Jim was starving and lacking food options. But fandom is a curious and wonderful thing. Suddenly there were fans. With meat. In fact, they appeared with an entire deli platter and asked if we wanted it. (Whoever you are out there, thank you!) Interviews with Jim tend to run the gamut from serious contemplation of the nature of fame and celebrity and fannishness to the kind of joking around that invariably makes Lynn do that embarrassing snort-when-you-laugh thing. This one took place at 3 am, so there was a lot more of the joking and less of the seriousness. Jim has mentioned before that while Bobby has evolved into a father figure for Sam and Dean, he has a different relationship with Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles. Much more a peer relationship than a fatherly one – in fact, Jim asks the boys for professional advice more often than the other way around. Lynn commented around her ham sandwich that Jim obviously wasn’t old enough to be their father in real life anyway, which earned her an eye roll and an incredulous smirk. In one of our earlier chats with Jim, he talked about Bobby’s relationship with ‘the boys,’ and his delight in playing such a character. Jim: “It’s often alot funnier to be the guy standing there looking at somebody going, ‘you moron,' than to be the guy doing the funny stuff. Somebody did a YouTube tribute to Bobby, and I was looking at it last night. I watched the clips fade, and I knew exactly what it was — it was a look I gave Jared when I was working on a gun. I was saying, ‘and it’s gonna take me as long as it takes me.’ And he asked if it was ready and I just gave this look. That kind of stuff is delicious. And a lot more fun than being the guy saying ‘Hey Bobby, is it ready?’ I can’t imagine anything more delightful than playing this guy.” Much to our amusement, Jim also brought up the power of subtext, a topic with which most Supernatural fans are quite familiar. When Jim took his turn at playing The Trickster in Season 3, he relied on the subtle nonverbal nuances that the Supernatural actors are so damn good at to give the viewer cues that Bobby is not who he appears to be. Jim: “I’ve always thought the best actors know something you don’t know. Like they’ve got a secret, and it may never get revealed. The best people I’ve seen act, I’m seeing all this stuff and there’s something underneath too, and it makes me want to watch and figure it out. Just to convey that there’s something going on other than just the words. I love to find bits of subtext that didn’t occur to me before. Subtext is great. My favorite movie in the world is John Ford’s The Searchers. The driving force is John Wayne’s love for his brother’s wife and vice versa. It’s the thing that drives virtually everything that happens to the main characters. And there is not one bit of dialogue actually relating that. You see the looks between the characters, you see his reaction when she dies, you see, but nobody says a word about it.” There followed a long conversation about Freudian interpretations of Sam and Dean and long looks and nonverbal cues, which eventually got around to a discussion of Jensen and Jared’s acting ability. Jim: “It wouldn’t work if these guys weren’t good actors. I think you could do an episode of Supernatural without a single word of dialogue with this bunch. Not for the gimmick value, but because the crew on this show is capable of doing an awful lot of expression non-verbally, and making people really think deeply about what is being conveyed with no words. I did an episode of Melrose Place, and I wouldn’t want to do an episode with no dialog with them. But on this show, we feed off each other pretty well. The fact that we all like each other is helpful, but it’s also the fact that Jared, Jensen and I must be very similar actors. We all three are the kind that can be joking around, and then they say action, and we are in it. None of us are the kind of guy that has to sit in a corner for an hour to get ready. Nothing wrong with that, but we’re just very attuned to the same kind of work. We just kind of relate to each other in ways that work well, and fit well. That the boys are good buddies and enjoy each other’s company, that too is not all that common. Sometimes magic hits. I don’t know if there is any coincidence that there are three guys whose names all start with J and are all from Texas. I feel like I’ve got a couple good friends in Jared and Jensen. And to a certain extent, you can’t fake that chemistry. I feel pretty lucky to be a part of it.” Jim did get serious at our late night (early morning?) dinner chat in Chicago when he talked about the challenge of his character being confined to a wheelchair, though, saying how tough it was to have to stay down all the time, to not be able to move around like you’re used to. (In our experience, Jim rarely stays still for long – where does the guy get all that energy??) Jim’s capacity for empathy is clearly one of the abilities that make him a kickass actor, and he went on to say that as difficult as it is playing Bobby in a wheelchair, he was always acutely aware that he could get up when they called ‘cut.’ He went on to say that Jared and Jensen delighted in ribbing him during some scenes where Bobby’s bare legs are showing as he’s sitting in the wheelchair in a hospital scene, taunting him about how pale and white his legs were. “So I explained to them,” he continued, voice growing serious, “that when I was in the POW camp, one of the things they did to us was they used bleach on our legs….and it was horrible….they’ll always be white like this because of that.” Lynn stared at him dumbfounded, mouth open in horror, trying frantically to remember whether Jim had ever spoken about being a POW before, wondering how Jim had survived, what kinds of scars – when Jim suddenly burst into laughter, slapped her on the knee and yelled “Gotcha!” Apparently, he got Jensen and Jared too. This time we’re glad we stayed up until 4 am. Totally worth it! We will continue through the launch of Lynn’s book with some of her best Supernatural interviews. Check out Misha’s chapter – along with many other cast and fan chapters – in Family Don’t End With Blood. You can pre-order it here.

Movie TV Tech Geeks News

[rememberthattime]

Chapter 37. Tasmania

Tasmania is isolated. It’s an island off of an island, way down at the edge of the world. ...If Australia is down unda, Tassie is down unda the down unda.

All of this isolation has made Tasmania a little different from other Aussie states: from climate to culture to cloud coverage, and everything in between. For a (rare) three-day trip, Chelsay and I set out to experience these unique Tassie charms.

Our road trip itinerary would bring us all around the relatively small state, but Day 1 began near Cradle Mountain, Tassie’s iconic peak.

Before our hike though, the trip began with breakfast at Christmas Hills Raspberry Farm. Not much more needs to be said here... Breakfast. Christmas in the name. Raspberry farm. Waffles. French toast. Fresh jams and mascarpone. Just a great start.

We pigged out, but it was okay because we’d need the energy for our day at Cradle Mountain. The surrounding National Park is a haven for hikers, with a surplus of trails, wildlife, and unique vegetation. In the winter, there’s also an extreme deficit in other hikers, so Chelsay and I would have the trails all to ourselves.

With the help of a park ranger (who had just returned to Tassie after 5 weeks in Seattle... what are the odds), we mapped out a 5 hour hike that would take us 10 miles and up to 12,700 feet in elevation. The terrain reminded me so much of Scotland: crisp air, overcast weather, rugged and rough heather in green, red, brown, and yellow.

Another similarity with Scotland was the heavy fog. When Chelsay and I first arrived, we had a sliver of blue sky to take in our surroundings. Within an hour of our ascent to Marion’s Peak, the visibility quickly changed.

This isn’t rare though: 9 out of 10 days at Cradle Mountain have this kind of cloud cover. That said, it had been a long time since I’d been on a cold, damp, foggy hike. I’d been dying to go in Seattle, but because we only visit in winter, no one will go with me.

For this trip though, Chelsay and I were well prepared: layers was the name of the game, and we had backup ponchos just in case. Besides, we get blue skies everyday in Sydney, and this fog actually added to the rugged mood.

One difference between Cradle Mountain and Scotland or Seattle: the wildlife. Along our 5 hour hike, Chelsay and I came across about a dozen wombats and wallabies. #Tassie

We were physically exhausted that evening, so passed out early (after watching Mission Impossible 3 in preparation for Fallout!). The next morning, I made breakfast before heading out for the day: eggs, toast, and fresh jam from our cottage’s farm.

We’d be making the 3.5 hour cross-state drive from Cradle Mountain to Bruny Island (an island, off an island, OFF AN ISLAND!), but had all the Getting Curious podcasts we’d need to fill the trip. The foggy roads kept our attention too, as we zipped through winding alpine turns.

One other thing that kept my attention: the fuel gage. Tassie is isolated, and Cradle Mountain is the MOST isolated. There is a “major” (two-lane) highway that would’ve likely had more gas stations, but Chelsay and I opted for the scenic, more rural route. There has to be a gas station somewhere though, right?

Well, Chelsay and I made our way through the winding roads and were enjoying the foggy ride. We got about 45 minutes in, still no gas stations. Hmm. Another 45 minutes. Nothing... Anxious. 2 hours in, we finally found a station (whew!) and I raced to fill up the tank. Crisis averted.

We pulled out of the extremely rural gas station in Miena, TAS (population: 87), but only got about 1 minute before the engine started to sputter. Far ouuuut (Aussie for f***). I knew exactly what I’d done... I put diesel in instead of unleaded. I was so anxious about the low fuel light, that I didn’t even check the pump label at the station.

We were in the middle of nowhere, so the rental company had to send a tow truck from Hobart to Miena to grab me, Chelsay, and the car. All in, this cost us about 8 hours (not to mention the cost of the tow truck) on an already short trip. Chelsay says it was the most mad she’d seen me since the Christmas Eve orchestra in Vienna.

In just a few hours, I exhibited all 7 stages of grief:

Shock: “What!? I just filled the tank!”

Denial: “I swear I put in the right fuel.”

Anger: “F”

Bargaining: “Is there a fuel drain? Anyone have a siphon?”

Depression: “No drain... No siphon... And the tow truck has to come all the way from Hobart... There goes the trip.”

Testing: “Well, maybe we can still fit some things in...”

Acceptance: read on

Chelsay held it together, mostly because she was entertained by the friendly locals. The gas station seemed to be the hang out spot in Miena, so all kinds of characters passed through. The most entertaining was an older man wearing all camo.

Barb, the wonderful woman running the register: “Back from a hunt?”Older man: “Saw about 200 kangaroos.”Barb: “How many you get?”Older man, sheepishly: “Oh I don’t want to say.” (Translation: none)Older man: “Look, I lost two of my dogs... You seen em?”Barb: “What are their names?”Older man: “Uh, ones name is Miley. Can’t remember the other.”Barb: “Well gonna be tough to find based on that description.”Older man: “Got 12 so hard to keep track!”Barb: “Gimme your number and I’ll let you know if I see em. What’s your number?”Older man: “Uhh, can’t remember.” *Goes to truck to pull out his massive journal, flips through several full pages of phone numbers, and gives one to Barb*#Tassie

Only Chelsay got to experience the Miena locals, but we both enjoyed our ride back to Hobart with the tow truck driver, Young George (age: 70). Swiss, but somehow a 45 year-Tassie vet, George told us about his many interesting tows across Australia. His strangest: he picked up a wrecked car... from the Gold Coast... a 31 hour non-stop trip (including ferry) up Australia’s east coast! #Tassie

Despite the entraining locals, this was a bad day. Our worst ever while on holiday. We had two options once our tow truck finally arrived in Hobart: fail fast and minimize the damage, or lean in and push on. There was more hesitation than I’d like to admit, but we ultimately leaned in. We rented another car, and were on the ferry to Bruny Island in no time.

I said earlier that Bruny is an island off an island off an island, so needless to say, it’s sparse. There’s zero light pollution though, so Chelsay and I stared up at the clear star-filled sky. The universe has a way of taking care of things, and this was a reminder to put our problems in perspective. The universe even ended its statement with an exclanation mark: a shooting star. That’s not a joke either... I thought it was a firework. Genuinely the longest, closest shooting star I’ve ever seen. Emphatically telling us to “get over it!”

Heeding the universe’s advice, we threw on some tunes and had a pasta night at our quiet AirBnB. Occasionally, we turned down the music to hear penguins chirping on a nearby beach. #Tassie

The next morning, we woke up and quickly realized what an incredible house we were staying in. It was too dark to see anything the night before, but the morning gave us two things: (1) light to take in the house’s charming design, and (2) a reason to use the Nespresso.

Now, the troubles of yesterday were behind us. I’d gone trough the 7 stages of grief and accepted the place we were in. But wait, we were literally in the same place we’d planned to be: Monday morning, Bruny Island. Granted, we’d lost quite a bit of time, but while waiting for hours at the Miena gas station, Chelsay and I actually reconfigured the itinerary. If everything went just right, we could still fit in my original plan...

First up for the day. Bruny Island Cheese Co. Breakfast. Cheese toastie. Spicy (yet subtly sweet) chili paste. Something called an Otto: a cheesy omelette wrapped in prosciutto. Red pepper relish. Condensed strawberry. Ughh.

Next up: Bruny Island Chocolates. 10:30 sweets? Gimme ‘dat orange fudge. ‘Dat chocolate covered coffee bean. Ughhhh.

Third: Tassie World of Whisky. A whisky tasting at 11 AM? Hit me. We’re talkin’ Lark, Launceston, and what’s that? The 2014 best single malt whisky in the world? Sullivan’s Cove. Bitey, but with a smooth and silky length. Ughhhhhhh.

Now, batting cleanup. Chance for a Grand Slam before 1:00 PM: Willie Smith’s Apple Shed. Apple pie, cider, and Alt-J and Hozier playing in background. Ughhhhhhh, na-na na-na!

This trip went from a 2 to a 6 in that morning alone. Three quick hits and towering, monster, goodbye baseball grand slam to save the whole trip. It will from here-on be known as The Great Tassie Turnaround.

Also, it was only 1:00, so we still had time for the final place I wanted to visit: MONA, the Museum of Old and New Art.

MONA was founded in 2011 by eccentric billionaire David Walsh, who made his money as a “professional gambler”. Let that sink in. #Tassie

This place was a bold, artistic reflection of its founder. Or was it just weird... Only time will tell. Some of the highlights:

Two live fish, in a bowl of water, with a butcher’s knife, on a chair. That’s it

The fat car

An exhibit where visitors throw glass milk jugs against a wall. One of us was better than the other at this art

A room with nothing but a blue felt pond (?) in the middle

A robot that precisely mirrored the human digestive process (both sight AND scent)

A representation of CERN’s particle accelerator, which was Chelsay and I’s favorite

Not pictured: Event Horizon, which is the seizure-inducing strobe-light colored room that Drake filmed the video for Hotline Bling in.

So that’s it. That was our trip to Tassie... After MONA, and all of the other strange experiences over the past three days, I’m not really sure how to pull this one together.

On one hand, we had our worst travel day ever, but on the other, we hit all the places we wanted to see. It certainly wasn’t the route I planned, but we still somehow managed to get everything we’d hoped for from Tasmania.

I guess the most fitting way to wrap this up would be to say we found a unique way to experience unique landscapes, unique climate, and unique culture... Is there anything more #Tassie than that.