#//@ always to the people mentioned; if you would rather be unmentioned or if you do not wish to be tagged pls let me know | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

katsukisday · 2 years

Text

Sparks- Xiao

Pairings: soldier!Xiao x Princess!reader

Au: royal(?)!Au

Genre: fluff, angst if you squint

Summary: in which Xiao thought he’s not cut for happiness, until a certain stubborn princess proves him wrong

Warnings: Mentions of war, potential social isolation, unexpected pregnancy, bombs, intoxicating gases, unmentioned nudity if you squint

W.C: 2.6k

A/n: I’ve had this idea setting on my desk since last DECEMBER so I thought I’d share <33 also not proof read please lmk abt any mistakes

Likes and reblogs are appreciated.

The smoke was alerting.

Unlike the carbon disulfide, which he loathed more than one should, it was clear of any color and had a rather pleasant odor to it.

The green haired male was so, so close to making a sprint for safety, to save himself from yet another week of no sleep, illness, and migraines. But soon he recalls what the head general, the kind brunette known as Zhongli, fed his ears a million times before they sent him into this place: “friend, not foe.”

The male took a deep breath; friend, not foe.

The process went agonizingly slow. They told Xiao they’ll get him ready for what they referred to as a ‘ball’. He wasn’t really sure what it was but his best guess was that some ball shaped food was awaiting him, although he could not process why he need to get dressed to meet food.

The male was well aware he wasn’t exactly in the best state before he came in, but why was rubbing his feet necessary if they were going to throw a pair of boots on them anyway? He couldn’t make since of the use of all the powders and sticky liquids they were rubbing on his skin only to wash off a few moments later? It was a waste of the sweet-scented material in Xiao’s opinion. But he wasn’t here to imply his thoughts on these foreign items, that’s not his role and he will not be the man who meddles in other people’s jobs. Even on the rare occasions when he was asked which smell he preferred or if it was ‘too much’ Xiao remained silent; he will not speak unless his head general demands it. It’s always been this way.

After a tantrum of colors, the women dressing the male seemed pleased with the uncomfortable clothing they put him in.

Soon, he’s put in front of the reflective glass and he could barely contain his excitement over the sight before him. Xiao could not believe his eyes as a giddy grin made its way into the muscles of his cheeks. Sure, he’s seen himself in mirrors before, but he wouldn’t have recognized himself right now if it weren’t for the purple mark on his forehead and the peculiar shade of his hair.

Before he could express his gratitude towards the women who dressed him a few knocks came from the door, causing on of them to rush to it and open it with a few graceful moves.

The head general’s outfit was in fact very different from what Xiao was wearing, catching the latter’s interest; they’ve always worn similar uniforms with very few and specific design dissimilarities, so seeing Zhongli and himself dressed so differently is quite something.

Although Xiao would never bring it up, he was sure that the older man was plenty easier to recognize than himself, that with Zhongli always seeming to invest a lot of care into his appearance – to set a good example, Xiao presumed.

“Look at you,” the brunette started, his deep stern voice filling the room, “You look so clean and nice.” “Thank you, General Lapis,” the younger male acquires, dipping his head gratefully. “So do you, sir.”

The young women couldn’t help their expressions, either amused or surprised at Xiao’s ignorance and blatancy, as Zhongli let out a light chuckle.

“Thank you, Xiao, I’m glad you think so,” he smiled at the now confused boy. “Shall we get going?” “At your command, sir,” the forehead tatted male brushed the confusion off rather quickly. If not spoken about it does not matter, as he should not question the head general’s actions.

---

On their way to the grand hall the amber eyed general explained what a ball actually is, previously presuming Xiao would’ve been confused of it. He also Explained to him why it was held and how special he is, which was the reason he was invited to an event of such.

To be quite fair, Zhongli great respect towards the younger male, formerly known as Atlaus. He was born on the battlefield, given birth to by a female soldier who was foolish enough to never inform the heads about her pregnancy. She was supposed to be discharged with her baby but they were on foreign land and cargo wasn’t rare but impossible. And so, the green haired male, now referred to as Xiao, was raised on the frontline of battle, survived up till now by some miracle, and hadn’t known anything but it.

Before long, they stood by the hall’s enormous entrance. The door was flung by soldiers left and right. But of course it was, the life-sized hall behind the giant gates possibly holds the most important lives to grace the land of the living.

General Lapis didn’t have to ask, as the guards immediately recognized him and two of them gracefully walked to the door and pushed it open in practiced motion. If he didn’t know better, Xiao would’ve thought these men were automated just like the bombs he’s seen and used on the battlefield.

The sight before him was so beyond fascinating he could swear his jaw hit the floor. It was – his limited vocabulary could never form a sentence that described it fairly. Is this what they called heaven? Xiao doesn’t really recall dying but maybe this was his ‘oasis’ after walking in the desert for days on end.

He loved metaphors.

His nose tickled with mixed scents, not a single one unpleasant. The rainbow of colors, be it people, clothing, or visuals, was all sight pleasing; as if his eyes were getting cleansed after all the gruesome things he’s seen in the war.

“Enjoy this,” Zhongli pats the arm-tatted male. “It’s to celebrate you.”

Xiao’s train of thought gets cut off, glancing at Rex Lapis and back at the heaven, hesitant and distracted, stiffly nodding.

“Wh-what’re your commands, sir?” The shorter asks, unable to take his eyes off the colors that he couldn’t understand. The brunette by his side chuckles lightly; even though Xiao no longer works under him, he can’t change his habit. “I command you to do anything you please tonight; enjoy everything to the fullest.”

The words General Lapis said were more fascinating and foreign to Xiao then the ball itself. He turns to the older male, golden eyes staring at him in awe with a smile tugging at his lips, “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”

He smiles contently as he pats Xiao’s back. “You earned it.”

Only then does the male in the brown suit, meant to cover up his burnt arms, leave Xiao's side; the absence of his worth present to take his place.

The short man tries to wander, glaring daggers at every mortal soul the dares glance his way. Xiao has always been left out, because he grew up among only adults and once he became a unit captain he wasn’t approached thanks to the scary aura that was him. He never had to socialize and so the amount of people staring and whispering was not but a bother to him, making him wish they’d go back to their business and not notice him like when he was staring at them from the entrance, little toys who had no idea of any but their own existence.

The male with the forehead mark successfully made his way through the gatherings, careful to avoid any uncalled-for contact whatsoever. Sooner than later, he finds himself standing by a long, long table covered with a thin, white cloth and all sorts of edible goods.

To Xiao this valued more than the whole of the ball, starting by the grand hall it was held in down to the people celebrating something they were utterly ignorant of. Food wouldn’t bother him. No, it won’t judge or whisper about him, plaguing his mind with self-doubt and other dark, implacable thoughts in the process. This –the mercy and silence of food – was all he could ask for at the moment.

“I personally recommend Almond Tofu.”

He practically jumps. One second, he was staring at the food and the next a female was right next to him, her warmth evidence of her assault of his personal space.

“Oh- sorry- was that too close?” the female before him chuckles, rubbing the back of her neck in an awkward manner. “It’s a habit, I apologize.”

Xiao does not speak to her, instead opting for ignoring her and turning back to the food. He may seem collected and calm, but the male was genuinely terrified of the girl.

He had no idea how his defense got walked through. He, the Xiao of unit 1, the man who led four units at the age of thirteen, who would sense if a person was fake sleeping by their shoulders, had this girl barge into his personal space without him noticing.

He wanted to blame it on the loud ball where anything, down to the thoughts in his own head, was muffled and almost inaudible, but Xiao knew he couldn’t. He killed seven men sneaking up on him not only during an active battle but also in a bomb zone. How could an average, clearly spoiled to the core female trick his guard and get so, so close? She could’ve killed him and he wouldn’t know until the blade was out his chest.

“Hey- don’t ignore me!” the latter grumbles, leaning a fist on the table to support herself. “I’m trying to converse with you, okay?”

“Which one’s the Almond Tofun?” He raises one of his oddly shaped eyebrows, not sparing the female in a sparkling dress a glance. He wasn’t interested in the food she mentioned all that much, but he thought that maybe having a conversation where the other side isn’t tense and scared of him isn’t a bad idea.

“Tofu,” she corrected with a slight snicker, grinning at the pale boy. “It’s this one.” Her jeweled finger pointed at a certain plate with white cubes on it. He would’ve thought it to be ice if it wasn’t for the temperature. “Hold up, I’ll serve you some.”

Xiao watches carefully as the female reaches for a round empty plate and serves a few pieces of the gelatinous cubes, adding what he assumes is a fork on the plate and then directs it toward him. He observed every switch of her fingers for any sign of threat but returned empty-handed. He does not know this strange female and couldn’t assume her intentions.

Then it occurred to him.

Friend, not foe.

General Lapis’s words crossed the arm-tatted male’s mind. He had complete faith in him and knew full well he wouldn’t bring Xiao somewhere threatening both unarmed and without any instructions whatsoever.

“Yo, forehead tattoo, my hand is starting to hurt,” Y/n grunts, pushing the plate further until it almost came into contact with his chest.

Xiao looked at the insistent female once in distrust, then at the peculiar dessert.

Friend, not foe.

Reluctantly, he pulls the plate out of her fingers, taking a step back to maintain a safe distance between the two.

“Enjoy! Everything the cook here makes is delicious. Don’t eat too much, though, so you get to try as much of it as you could.”

(a few hours later)

“And then he was like- ‘I don't know you’-” the female mimics with a funny face, earning herself a chuckle from the male. “Like hello? Do you think I’m that stupid?” “How bright of him,” Xiao chuckled. “If I were you, I’d just leave.”

For a very long while, Xiao watched the other soldiers talking and laughing together. He admits he hasn’t made any sort of effort in becoming close with any of them, he didn’t know what he was missing out on and so he didn’t long for it. But in reality, sometimes he wished they’d invite hi, when they all sat long at nights. He didn’t know what about him made them not want to approach him, seeing they never interacted with him to judge. It was like that for so long he got to the point of accepting the doom he lived in, convincing himself he wasn’t made for such.

But the pleasant warmth that filled his chest proved his theory wrong, and the girl sitting beside him telling him tales he wouldn’t’ve believed about his previous head generals proved every person that whispered ‘unapproachable’ and ‘scary’ loud enough so he could hear wrong.

“Tell me about yourself, Xiao,” the female suddenly suggests, looking at the male expectantly. “I only heard rumors but honestly none of it seemed to match what I saw of you today.”

Xiao looked at her, some of her features inaccessible to eyesight because the moon wasn’t bright and they chose to sit outside, away from the hustle of the ball. Her interest in knowing more about him and approaching him despite what she’s heard of him in rumors gave him a weird feeling.

He doesn’t recall if there were any other symptoms, but his heart slightly sped up and he felt his face heat up, too. According to what little he read it’s a case called being ‘flustered’.

He then feels weird sparks in his stomach. Like little, ticklish explosions in his guts. He had to go see a doctor because he doesn’t know how to cure this flustered illness thing by himself. So, just in case it’s contagious, he lays a hand over his mouth and nose, not wanting to infect the girl he has grown fond of.

Xiao thought he wasn’t cut for happiness and would never have the sort of connection even the old generals seemed to have, but the sparks lighting his stomach tonight proved it different.

#Genshin #genshin impact #xiao #xiao genshin #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin fluff #genshin impact fluff #genshin impact x reader fluff #genshin x reader fluff #genshin impact xiao #xiao genshin x reader

92 notes · View notes

taergalive · 2 years

Text

(I’m writing these thoughts as a white woman. If any POC and especially women of color can add to this or even correct me where I’m wrong, please do so. But honestly I was trying to sleep and these thoughts were keeping me up)

Also beware vague spoilers

I saw Nope yesterday, and it’s been on my mind ever since. I read a lot of posts that make the connection of how animals are treated and how poc are treated in media (and in general let’s be honest). Part of me hates this comparison because it feels dehumanizing toward poc, but then I realize that’s the point. How they’ve always been a spectacle to white media. Even before movies, we had minstrel shows where white people in black face would depict black people as silly and happy-go-lucky. We had circuses that would take wild animals and not only put them on display but also train them to perform tricks. I also think of people like Thomas "Blind Tom" Wiggins, a black man who is believed to have had autism. He was born a slave, and because he was blind, he didn’t do work outside. When he was 4 years old, he learned how to play the piano by listening to his master’s daughters playing. By the age of 5, he composed his first song. His owners put on shows and toured him around, making a ton of money off of him. They even compared him to a trained animal.

So obiviously there’s a lot there. But I also noticed the movie deals with women, and especially women of color, and how they are portrayed in media. Though there’s only one prominent woman in the movie, Em, the movie highlights this with two other women as well. First, we have the unnamed, unmentioned Haywood mother. Maybe it was just me, but I never once questioned where OJ and Em’s mother was. I grew up on Disney movies; dead mothers are a dime a dozen. In fact, the only time I ever thought about their mother was the one scene where Em looks at the picture of who we can assume is her mother. It was then I realize we never spoke about her, never gave a reason for her absence. And like I said, dead mothers are a dime a dozen. How often does a movie start with a dead woman? You have the whole trope of “fridging”, where a woman is killed or harmed in some way, usually to give the male character a reason to fight. Maybe it’s just me, but when the camera focused on that photo, it really hit me just how accepting of the fact the mother was gone.

The other woman, who also isn’t in the movie but at least is named, is Oprah. At first I kind of just took it as a joke. The Oprah shot. Even Em makes fun of OJ for mentioning her. “Why do you love Oprah so much?” But the reference makes sense to me. As a white girl who grew up in the 90s, Oprah was THE black woman. She was constantly taught about during black history month. Born in poverty, able to raise herself up to not only a prominent and influential talk show host but also philanthropist who creates schools in Africa for young girls and has her own movie production company, television company, books, you name it. In the 90s, she’s who you thought about when you thought of successful black women. In the 2000s, it was Michelle Obama.

But let me talk about Em now. Poor Em. Even in my analysis, you were put last. Like I said earlier, she’s the only prominent female character in the movie. OJ is set up to be our main character, and for most of the movie, he is. Em is set up to be the supporting role. She even acts as comic relief next to the stoic OJ. In a weird, nonromantic way, she sort of reminds me of a manic pixie dream girl, trying to help OJ get out of his shell. But throughout the movie, Em turns the table on the supporting female role. She doesn’t dress for the male gaze, mostly wearing sports wear or baggy clothes. She’s flashy. She’s loud. She stands out in scenes rather than hanging on the sidelines or in the background. And as the movie progresses, she becomes more in focus. She talks about how her dad went all cowboy on her and wouldn’t let her train the horses, how she watched from the sides as OJ trained what was supposed to be *her* horse. Throughout most of the film, the focus is on OJ, but what happens when we get to the climax of the film? He names the creature after the horse Em was supposed to tame. During the climax, she starts off in the supporting role again, not out in the field with the guys but in the house monitoring the cameras. But when things start turning south and OJ isn’t able to do it on his own, she jumps into the fray. OJ hands the battle off to her, and in the end, she’s the one to get the Oprah shot. She’s the one who brings Jean Jacket down.

Sorry, this made much more sense in my head at 3am so I apologize if it doesn’t make much sense. I just couldn’t sleep anymore until I got these thoughts out.

#Nope 2022 #nope spoilers #Spoilers

14 notes · View notes

shotorozu · 3 years

Text

you like their hands

character(s) : shinsou hitoshi, kirishima eijirou, monoma neito (2/?)

legend : [Y/N = your name] they/them pronouns, quirk left unmentioned

post type : headcanons + small scenario [fluff, the mildest of spice] not even nsfw

note(s) : i was gonna put denki in this but i had a hard time thinking about what kinda hands he’d have, so i’m putting him in the next post

»»————-　♡　————-««

shinsou hitoshi

his hands are big, and his fingers are quite thick.

really likes wearing rings and bracelets, but he usually doesn’t wear them when he’s working (i’d say that bc wearing jewelry while doing physical activity HURTS)

regarding texture, his hands were initially soft— but due to transferring in the hero course, they roughened up over time

he’ll use hand cream if you want, but he doesn’t go the extra mile. and his nails are trimmed at all times. painting his nails a black color would be great once in a while.

lol i forgot to mention nails in the last post

he notices right away that you like his hands when he catches you staring at them when he’s cracking his knuckles

like.. people have said that his hands are nice, but he doesn’t really say much about them bc they’re not you

scenario

a crack sound is briefly heard in the rather silent room. the scrolling on your phone halts, and your eyes follow the sound of the crack.

ah, he’s cracking his knuckles. you think to yourself, and you’re left just simply admiring the way he applies pressure on a knuckle. who knew that his rather— large hand would look appealing, even while cracking his knuckles.

you snap out of your observation, but instead of just simply going back to whatever you were doing, you’re met with lilac eyes. “you were staring again.”

your cheeks heat up, and you opt to just turn your head to the opposite direction. “sorry,” you apologize. however— that’s not what hitoshi was looking for apparantly.

“if you like my hands alot,” he scoots next to you, hands sliding up and down your arms— his firm grip practically making the pre existing butterflies in your stomach act up again. “then you should’ve said so, kitty.”

is he conscious of his actions? hm. you could say that

he’ll purposely play with his capture tool right in front of you— the material wrapping around his hand. and he can only laugh when you immediately get absorbed into it

the back of his hand will brush against your cheek. then, when he comes in to kiss you, he’ll cup your cheek— kissing you with his other hand resting at your nape

under the table, his hand will start to slide against yours, interlocking hands with you. he’ll act like nothing is happening, but on the inside— he’s taking in your reaction

a little spicy, but when he wants you to look at him— he’ll do that thing where his thumb brushed against your bottom lip, as it almost dips right into your mouth

if he feels a little extra, his hand will also be tugging on your hair (if you’re fine with that. otherwise, he’s sticking to the one above)

oh and he also does that thing where he rests his hand on your neck, thick fingers squeezing your throat lightly.

overall— THIS MAN omg, he’ll entertain your interest in his hand nicely, just for you. and every single thing he does is memorable

kirishima eijirou

his hands are quite normal regarding size, they are almost always veiny, a lot more than bakugou’s actually. i think at some point he was concerned about them

his hands are rather flushed in color, but that’s because of his quirk. his fingers have a few tiny scars here and there,

he occasionally has pen marks on his wrists due to bad penmanship, and his nails.. don’t look the best, but they’re not the worst it’s bc of his quirk

the palms of his hands are ridden with callouses. but he wears them with pride because it’s the pure evidence of his hard work with his training.

but he starts to get worried about them when he goes to hold your hand.

you always had a thing for kirishima’s hands, but you just never had the chance to tell him that. i guess asking you did it for him

scenario

did you even realize how hard you were staring at his hands right now? it happened every single time he enlaced his arms around you, his hands resting at the sides of your arms

at first, he thought it might’ve been because his hands are too rough, or you might’ve been in discomfort— because maybe, just maybe, he accidentally activated his quirk?

the fact that he can’t exactly tell what it is worried him, maybe he should just ask you.

but his worry washed off when you told him upfront that you ‘liked his hands’

“wait so.. you’re staring at my hands because you like them?” kirishima wants to confirm your words, and— so casually, by the way— nod in agreement.

tracing the veins on his hands, you elaborate “your hands are really nice, i can tell how hard you must’ve worked.” pressing your smaller hand against his, you smile.

eijirou takes a moment to process it, but it’s surprisingly quick. “oh t-thanks!” he sheepishly took the compliment, a small blush sporting on his cheeks. “i’m glad it wasn’t because you thought they were weird.”

kirishima unintentionally feeds your interest with his hands. like sometimes.. he’s just not aware of it, but yes— he is feeding your interest well

will always make you compare hand sizes with him, chuckling softly at the dazed look on your face when your palms touch

if you allow him, he’ll fix your hair for you. doesn’t matter what hair type you have, he’ll do LOTS of research to know how to style it

those hands are magical

if you get a papercut, or a wound from cooking— he’ll patch you up, then he’ll press a kiss on the bandaid.

he’ll do this thing where he’ll squeeze your sides when you pull in for a hug. but if you’re not okay with that, he’ll opt to just rubbing your back with his hand— rocking you softly as he hugs you

a little spicy, but his hands do wander a lot. you might need to even hold them in place to make sure they don’t go too wild

in addition to that, he’ll just SLIGHTLY, activate his quirk to make sure you’re conscious of his touch. his finger tips gliding against your back, sending shivers down your spine.

but of course, he’s careful. he doesn’t activate it to the point it causes scratch marks, nor will his actions draw blood. he doesn’t wanna do that

in short— kirishima’s a little clueless at first. he wouldn’t really tease you in public, but he’s surprisingly attentive to your interest.

monoma neito

his hands are on the tipping edge of slightly above average. he doesn’t have a lot of veins on his hands, but they do pop out depending on what quirk he’s using

monoma’s hands are pretty spotless of any scars (from cuts, abrasions, etc.) because he gets REALLY annoyed with wounds pretty easily

to the point he’d want to attend to the wound immediately, he doesn’t let them sit— it’s just a personal preference

his nails are at the perfect length. not too long and not too short to the point it hurts, you don’t know how he does it.

wears watches on his wrists, and not the digital type— he sorta acts like he can read it easily, but it takes him a few seconds to even get to know the time

you know this because kendo snitched on him and told you LOL

you secretly hate yourself for this, but you really like his hands because of how he takes care of them. you’d never tell monoma even though you’re dating him

scenario

you’re unsure of yourself on how your boyfriend— monoma, found out about your fascination with his hands. it was supposed to be a secret for the rest of your life, and you only remember talking about it once out loud

which you assumed was a close call, considering that you thought he didn’t hear it at all— but he did.

“so i heard you like my hands, huh Y/N?” monoma’s teasing tone does not aid the situation. your cheeks heat up with embarassment, and you can’t get yourself to answer his question— without sounding like a fool anyway.

you fake annoyance, “where’d that come from?” you ask, and monoma doesn’t seem to want to switch the topic

“i’m asking you a question, dear Y/N— i heard you like my hands,” his tone would’ve sounded condescending to any other person, but you can tell that he’s either genuinely curious

or just teasing you, because that’s how he is.

to aid his question, he brushes his fingers along your neck— near your pulse. you jolt, stunned by the sudden action— heart beating rapidly against your chest.

“see,” monoma presses his hand against your chest, where your heart is palpitating, grinning in a way that’s teasing you “it’s true, isn’t it? sweet Y/N has a thing for my hands, hm?”

you furrow your eyebrows, and flick his forehead— and he hisses in reaction, “fine then, i do like your hands.” you finally give in, admitting final defeat.

ever since then, you haven’t heard the end of it

definitely that person that’ll just randomly bring it up to you, no matter what hour of the day it is.

“oh Y/N, you were totally fawning over my hands earlier—”

“i will castrate you.”

you know he means well most of the time, but sometimes he just loves teasing the heck out of you.

but that doesn’t mean he neglects your obvious interest in his hands.

he’ll compliment you, he’s a snarky person in general— but to you, he’s totally smooth with it.

slides his hand from your forearm to your hands, only to bring them up to his lips, pressing a kiss against your hand

squeezes your hand everytime he sees you, it’s kind of a nonverbal greeting at this point

similar to kirishima, he likes comparing hand sizes— teasing you about the size difference (even if it’s not even a big of a difference, he’ll take that chance.)

does this thing where he rubs his thumb against his palm. does it a lot when he’s concentrated about something, or just out of the blue

a little spicy, but he’ll make you tell him what you like about his hands, and what you like about the things he does with those hands of his. if that makes sense

he wants all of the details, doesn’t care if it’s mundane, or things he does when he’s feeling a certain way.

he wants to know, because as soon as you’re done with your spewl, he’ll do exactly what you like, teasing you while he’s at it. and so he can start incorporating those habits whenever he’s around you.

totally someone that’ll make you suck on those fingers. oh, but he’ll purposely get some dessert on them— asking you to suck them off

“good grief, i got some dessert on my fingers again. Y/N, come suck them off”

sometimes he’s serious, sometimes he’s just teasing.

overall— it’s pretty adventurous. he starts to act on it as soon as the revelation is revealed to him.

but i’d say he does just fine.

»»————-　♡　————-««

likes and reblogs are appreciated, thanks for reading!

i do not own bnha/mha and it’s characters. boku no hero academia/my hero academia belongs to horikoshi kohei. i only own the writing, and i do not profit off of my hobby

do not plagiarize, translate, repost, or use my work for audio readings without my consent :))

3K notes · View notes

scullydubois · 3 years

Text

Only the Light Ch. 14

As the new year beckons Scully to put her life back together, she and Mulder share a Valentine's 'anti-date' on the Hoover Building rooftop.

TW for brief discussion of disordered eating.

--------------

The new year struck Scully with a particular melancholy. 1994 was, to put it plainly, one of the worst--if not the worst--year of her life. Even without her disappearance, it would earn that title. Her father’s untimely passing and the brief but brutal closure of the X-Files wrenched the few good things left from her fingers. Factor in the four weeks in late summer that she has no memory nor knowledge of, and you’ll understand why Scully has taken to calling it her year on the dark side of the moon.

Of course, the aftershocks of her abduction are still felt every day. Flipping the calendar does nothing to remedy that. At her last appointment, Dr. Zapolsky noticed that Scully’s weight had decreased rather sharply from previous visits and made the point that “rapid weight loss can stop ovulation,” which Scully interpreted as kicking her while she was down. That’s not exactly fair, after all. Technically, her period stopped well before she decided to restrict herself.

It’s odd how it happened. Her weight was fine before her abduction; slender but within the healthy range for her height. Even when she was returned, it had only dropped a couple pounds, as if they fed her...as if they cared. She found that hard to believe. In the months afterward, she sought a physical representation of her mental anguish, and since she and food were never on the best terms to begin with, the choice was simple.

The other day, she had to punch an extra hole in all her belts to hold them steady on her hips. She knows the consequences of this; she’ll live them and accept it.

There has been some beneficial progress. Dr. Zapolsky started Scully on low-dose birth control around Thanksgiving, hoping that it would balance her hormones and regulate her periods. It has, in fact, brought back her cycle, something that Scully did not expect. She gave Melissa her leftover tampons in October. Now Melissa buys enough for the two of them and insists that Scully doesn’t owe her a dime. Scully is too grateful for this to speak about it.

Her downward spiral reached a snag when she realized that smoking would make her birth control ineffective, shortly after her and Mulder’s Christmas Eve smoke break. She ditched the cigarettes, mad at herself for taking a month to read the disclaimer (she’s a doctor for god’s sake, she should know better!), yet glad to have an out. Smoking was a habit she exercised because she could. It won’t hurt her anytime soon, and millions of others do it, so where’s the harm? That was her thinking. As soon as she had a reason to stop, she did, and it felt a bit like jumping from a runaway train just before it skids off the tracks.

So she is better, and she is worse. Which really means she is the same as she was. That is the conclusion she carries into 1995’s frosts and thaws.

There is one thing she is certain of, something that she hadn’t given much thought to until the one year anniversary of her father’s death. She needs her faith back. She’s always practiced in a cyclical pattern, her devoutness orbiting in and out like the moon around the Earth. Sometimes closer and brighter, sometimes farther away, sometimes nowhere to be found.

She has to believe it will come back; it always does. She was made in God’s image, and her father’s. This is both a blessing and a curse.

But no one can be God, and she can’t be her father either. His faith never wavered. If hers was the moon--fickle and subject to doubt--his was the sun, steady and warming everything around it. This was a quality she was envious of, and then guilty in her blasphemy. She has never managed to feel completely content inside the bounds of piety like he could. She’s constantly shaking the devil off her back, then repenting for it, then wondering if it were all worth it. What if...what if...what if...she isn’t fully persuaded in her beliefs, and she knows that this is the worst sin of all. Like Mulder though, she wants to believe, and shouldn’t that count for something?

Imperfection is allowed. Understood, even. Doubt is not as permissible. “He who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind,” the Bible says. Sometimes Scully takes that to mean she should walk into the ocean. Then she realizes that would be blasphemous too.

Some people believe without trying. Her father was one of those. Mulder too, in a different way. She used to think that she was too. Now she’s not so sure. “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” How many times has she read that line? Has she ever lived up to it? She’s seen and still not believed. Certainly that means she’s going to Hell.

Or is she already there?...She wonders that sometimes. Maybe she didn’t make it back from the other side. Maybe the devil just wanted her to believe that she had, and so he’d constructed some kind of diorama of Scully’s life that would go wrong bit by bit, boiling her like a gradually heated bathtub. No resting in peace for the unbeliever.

She can’t imagine a worse punishment than all the potentially good things in her life getting dismantled beyond her control. She’d rather never experience them at all than know their joy then watch them fall apart. Missy would kill her if she heard this, but you can’t please everybody.

It is at this point that Scully embarks on her chosen method of religious self-flagellation: going through the Ten Commandments and determining whether she’s violated them. Count up your sins and God won’t have to; practically the tagline of the Catholic faith.

She thinks she does okay with the first few. She has no idols, she honors her mother and father, and Mulder knows not to call her on Sunday mornings. Of course, the part about not taking the Lord’s name in vain can be tricky, but she’s working on it.

Number five is where it gets dicey. Thou shalt not kill. She imagines that she wouldn’t, not on purpose, but the circumstances of her job worry her. God makes no exceptions for self-defense. And what if she were ever to be a true doctor? If she couldn’t save a patient, does that mean she killed them?

Her father was in the Navy. He never killed anyone.

Number six...well, she doesn’t mention that often. Few people know about Daniel. Missy is one. Scully harbors a genuine shame regarding that time in her life, not so much because of Daniel, but because she was complicit in hurting his wife and daughter. It was a young, foolish mistake that she never wants to make again.

She feels pretty good about number seven. The only thing she has ever stolen is one of Charlie’s matchbox cars when they were kids. She was uninterested in Missy’s hand-me-down Barbies and Raggedy Ann dolls. The boys’ toys were much cooler. She trusted the Lord enough to know that He wouldn’t hold something she did when she was seven against her. Besides, she gave it back when Charlie figured out it was missing. She just wishes he had let her play with him after that.

Number eight: thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. She considers honesty one of her best qualities. She sure hopes God does too. She’s not the most open person, but that’s different from lying…

Nine is a lost cause, considering six had been broken. This was her least favorite part of her family’s religion: the power it had to cause her shame about her own body, her own desires. She had her first crisis of faith over this at age 14. Missy comforted her with something she has never forgotten: “The original sin was the serpent’s deception, not Eve’s desire. Even God pins it on the woman.” She knew her sister could only say that because she didn’t truly believe and wasn’t trying to, but it had stuck with Scully through many moments when she needed it.

And finally, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods. She supposes she did this with the matchbox cars when she was seven, but in literal terms that’s about it. Metaphorically, she does this all the time and struggles with why she feels so inadequate. Her sister’s confidence, Mulder’s tenacity, her father’s faith...The ideal Dana Scully would have all of these. The real one is a work in progress.

--------------------

So it goes that she finds herself prepping a case in the office on Valentine’s Day. Mulder’s scheduled to fly to Florida the next morning to investigate attacks in a community of circus performers. He’s convinced it’s the Fiji Mermaid, she’s convinced he needs to get his head checked; the usual. This is one comfort Scully can always rely on. No matter how utterly twisted her life gets, she will always think Mulder is crazy, and he will always go along with it.

The occasion of the day goes unmentioned until what Mulder lovingly refers to as “closing time,” which is not a specific time but rather the point that he finally gives up for the day, usually hastened by his partner’s prodding. Scully has learned the signs of his dwindling tenacity by now. She glances at the clock as he pulls his glasses off his head and tosses a sunflower seed in the wastebasket, pleasantly surprised that it reads only 5:15. He catches her checking, his eyes--amber today--meeting hers.

His lips curl in amusement. “You got a date or something?”

“No,” she blinks, feeling like a child caught taking a cookie from the jar. Her cheeks grow hot, threatening to make a scene. “I figured you did, since you’re finishing up so early.”

Mulder straightens his stack of papers, clinking them against the desk obnoxiously. “Think again, buckaroo.”

He’s taken to calling her that lately. Neither one of them is sure why, it just popped into his mind one day and stuck. It makes her feel like a heroine in some 70s Western shoot-out flick who wrangles all the bad guys and locks’em in the county jail. She’s thankful that someone can see her for what she could be rather than what she is. It helps her see that too.

He stuffs his papers in a manila folder, then rises from behind the desk and stoops toward the backpack he prefers to a briefcase. (She called him a kindergartener once because of it and he remarked that he’d ‘rather be a kindergartener than an adult.’ She couldn’t argue with that.) “Valentine’s Day isn’t really observed under the Fox Mulder calendar,” he says, unzipping the bag and putting the folder in. “Halloween and Thanksgiving, those are my holy days.”

“You worship at the shrine of the food pyramid,” Scully smirks.

“Yes indeed. Wait--” Scully’s gaze flicks to him, genuinely concerned. He dissolves her uncertainty with a boyish grin. “--does the food pyramid include candy?”

She rolls her eyes, but it’s not deeply felt. She misses these flat-lining comedic routines of his, usually at their best when they’re putzing through some tumble-weed town where the bathroom stalls at the gas station don’t lock. He loves being the funniest person in a ten-mile radius, and that’s not a satisfaction he can have in DC. She wonders if he tells these lame jokes to strangers now, or if they were just for her.

“Speaking of food,” he says, brushing a hand through his hair, “you wanna grab dinner?”

Scully’s forehead creases. “Like, in a restaurant?”

“I mean, I wasn’t gonna be that forward, but I guess we could take it to yours or mine...”

Scully laughs lightly, wrapping her arms around herself, fingers caressing her bony elbows. “We’ve already covered what day it is,” she demures. “Everyone having dinner is going to be on a date.”

“You’re right...the restaurant probably won’t let us in unless we make out in front of the hostess,” he deadpans.

“Not to mention that we don’t have any reservations…”

“Well, making out might remedy that, depending on the hostess.”

She gives him her ‘last straw’ look--crossed arms, arched eyebrow, stinging glare--and he raises his hands in surrender. “I’ll stick to slipping a twenty, then.”

Scully uncrosses her arms and slinks toward her purse rather languishly. “No restaurants, Mulder. It’s too much trouble on a holiday.”

“I sure hope you didn’t mistake my suggestion as an invitation to Mulder’s Downhome Country Kitchen, cause that place is not Michelin star rated.”

“I’m well aware. I’ve seen the menu.”

“Is Chateau de Scully open tonight?” he asks with an eyebrow raise that his partner couldn’t have missed if she tried--and she did.

“Well, the chef is celebrating Valentine’s Day with her girlfriend in Oregon, so you’d be waiting awhile for your meal.”

“There’s no back-up chef? I don’t know, someone who may need to feed herself while the chef is away?”

“Yes, but she doesn’t serve the public.”

“Ouch.”

He plucks their respective coats off the rack, folding his own over his arm and throwing his partner’s over her shoulders. She jumps just the tiniest bit--she probably thinks he didn’t notice, so he’ll pretend he didn’t--then slips her arms in the sleeves and pulls it on properly.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, avoiding eye contact.

After he’s put his own jacket on, he hoists up his backpack, fielding off his partner’s near swerve into laughter. She’s barely maintaining a straight face, and even if it’s at his expense, he loves it because unadulterated joy is something she deserves so much.

“You know what, I’ve got just the solution,” he says as he strolls out the doorway, flipping the light switch as he goes, leaving Scully scrambling in the dark.

“Hey!”

He hears her petulant voice, followed quickly by the laugh he was looking for. When she turns to him after locking the office door, her eyes are still shining from the momentary euphoria. He is so happy to know her.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this place is the Smithsonian of vending machines.”

“Mm-hm.”

“And I know a door to the rooftop that never gets locked.” He flashes her a sly look, his intentions pure despite himself.

“It’s 40 degrees outside,” she counters before he can even voice his proposal.

“Sure, but we can make some fresh coffee, and there’s gotta be blankets in that storage closet of ours.” Ours. Very few things are theirs. She wishes he would say it again.

As much as her instinct is to protest, she can’t quite muster the resolve to. I mean, it checks all the boxes. It’s not a restaurant, she’d only have to eat a snack from the vending machine, and she wouldn’t have to spend Valentine’s night alone, which is a sneaky sadness that had been pressing at the back of her mind.

“Fine,” she bluffs, as if it were a great inconvenience to her. She enjoys the cat-and-mouse game, what can she say? “You find the blankets, I’ll get the coffee.”

Mulder smiles, his lips edging over his teeth in an aesthetically pleasing way that makes Scully feel like he missed his calling as a male model. Of course, this smile isn’t posed. The constant in his life is his partner’s unpredictability. Everyone thinks she’s a stone-cold skeptic, but he knows she’s an uncertain believer, and there’s no one harder to pin down than that. Her yes to his Valentine plans may as well be an admission that Bigfoot exists.

“Let’s meet by the sixth floor stairwell, okay?” he prompts, laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

Flashes of Christmas Eve sabotage her thoughts--her mother’s kitchen, her untidy tipsiness, Mulder just trying to iron things out. He’d touched her, and she’d lashed out at him. Reaction formation, that was the term for the defense mechanism she’d used. He knew it, probably studied it extensively. Concealing an impulse by acting out its opposite.

Instead of mentioning this, she looks him in the eyes and says, “Okay, I’ll use the coffee machine on the sixth floor then,” as if his touch hadn’t brought forth both memory and desire.

“Great. See you there.” He pulls finger guns, and she thinks that maybe this is already her best Valentine’s Day yet.

----------------------

Five stories of stairs is a long way to go with two hot mugs of coffee. Scully had hoped there would be some styrofoam cups--something she could put a lid on--but the Bureau is stingy, so she had to go all the way back to the basement, grab their coffee mugs, take the elevator back to the sixth floor, brew some dark roast (to Mulder’s probable discontent), then hope that by some miracle, they could make it to the roof.

Ever the idealist, Mulder takes the challenge in stride. Though his arms are already bundled with some comforters he found tucked away in storage (he shudders to think how old they must be), he takes the handle of his mug, squeezing the blankets snug against his chest.

“Are you sure about this?” his partner asks with her usual uneven tone. “What if we get all the way up there and the door is locked?”

“We knock and get the snipers to open the door for us,” he answers matter-of-factly.

Scully’s eyebrows shoot up. “Snipers?”

“Oh yeah, did I forget to mention? There’s a longstanding rumor about snipers on the roof that I’d like to get to the bottom of.”

His demeanor is just loose enough to make Scully question whether he is in fact kidding. A conversational casualness permeates all of his sensational soliloquies because to him, the phenomena he’s discussing should be regarded as a fact of the world. If he ever launched into an indifferent lecture on the subject, she’d know he was bluffing.

Having never heard the rumor herself, she decides this is simply a figment of his overactive imagination. She’ll play along. “Well, if it’s anything like the talk of you being spooky, then it doesn’t look good for us…” she teases, her own smirk eliciting an identical one from her partner.

Masking his impatience by embodying the role of the gentleman, Mulder uses his free hand to prop open the stairwell door, ushering his partner through. The landing of each story has one stray light bulb, there for show more than anything. Most of them are either flickering or burned out, the agents discover as they inch their way up, one slowly taken step at a time. Step, pause for the coffee to settle, hope it doesn’t breach its container, step: that’s the process they adopt for approximately 100 steps in the cold Hoover stairwell. There are many ways to show love; Mulder bets that you wouldn’t find this in any lame self-help book.

“Do you think Romeo would have done this for Juliet?” he muses.

“Depends on what he was expecting once they made it to the top,” Scully quips, the edges of her lips turning up slightly.

Mulder nods, perpetually amused by her (too) infrequent jaunts into suggestive territory. “My man really got ahead of himself with the whole ‘dying for her’ schtick.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Mulder eyes her. “Actually, I think it was you who was going to die for me.”

“Not for you, because of you.” Her statement is neither packed with malice nor free of blame. “There’s a difference.”

She may as well have shot him at point blank range; then at least she could see the bleeding. She didn’t mean to be so blunt, but he gave her the perfect setup. Mulder cauterizes his own wound, disguising his pain as a joke. “Damn, I was finally moving past that!”

“At least one of us was,” she says, her voice fluttering, and he knows she’s just teasing, but god, what if she’s cauterizing her own hidden wounds?

They reach the door labelled ‘roof,’ and Mulder can’t decipher what happens first, him putting his hand on the door handle or her placing a chilly hand on his cheek. Playing it back in his head later on he won’t even be able to figure it out-- it cut time loose from its axes in such a way.

“Are you okay, Scully?” He’s not sure why this is the first question out of his mouth, but it is.

“I need a hand warmer,” she murmurs. “The coffee’s already cooling off.”

All the while, Mulder is acutely aware that her hand’s still on his cheek and she’s got him propped against the door, and what does she want him to do with that information?

Her thumb grazes his mole, and it becomes clear to him that there are two ways this scenario could go, and if she doesn’t want the second one it’s imperative that she stop rubbing rhythmic circles into his skin.

He clears his throat. “Do you want to...do you want me to check for snipers?” Her touch continues, uninterrupted.

“Is the door unlocked?” Her voice sounds airy and far away. She probably didn’t even hear his question.

He pushes on the handle, confirming their freedom. “Yes ma’am,” he answers, fear of a sort edging him into total politeness. He is twelve tiptoeing through the too empty halls of his house, again.

“Let’s have a picnic,” she says, still light and airy, as if that weren’t the plan the entire time. Then, she breaks into sudden laughter, pulling her hand away from Mulder’s cheek in her fit. “We forgot the food!”

She is back to normal now, his steadfast Scully with a side of joy.

Half of him mourning for the otherworldly Scully and the moment that could have been, he laughs too. “There may have been some lapses in planning.”

“We can make do, can’t we?” There’s a glimmer in her eyes that suggests the moment is not as far gone as he believed.

“Cold coffee sounds like an enduring Valentine’s tradition,” he affirms.

They choose not to dwell on words like “enduring” and “tradition,” entering the chill of the Hoover Building rooftop on Valentine’s night.

------------------

They’re not that far above the city really--the Hoover’s no NYC skyscraper--but their heads are in the clouds, that’s for sure. It’s not the typical dinner date complete with melted candles and overpriced dessert and overly attentive waiters, but as it turns out, they would both hate that. After all, this is not a date, it’s a casual hangout between two coworkers who don’t have dates on Valentine’s Day. If anything, it’s an anti-date. That’s what they tell themselves.

February’s unrelenting chill swirls around them, catching Scully’s hair in playful tantrums and turning the two of them into life-size paperweights atop the blankets. More sensible people may call the night a bust, but not the Prince of Halloweentown and his esteemed guest. This unconventional adventure is exactly what they bargained for.

Scully looks to Mulder, who’s holding his coffee like it’s a beer. She smiles. That is so him.

She exhales, and her breath spells itself out on the air. She tilts her face to the sky, as if the sun might suddenly rise and bask her in its heat. Mulder notices and fixes his attention there too, happy to have an excuse to look skyward. It’s his outlet, like hers is the sea her father dedicated his life to. His preferred escape method is to fly away; hers is to drift off.

He forces himself back into the moment, here, with her, and the expanse of the sky. “I once spent fifty bucks on one of those ‘name a star’ certificates, and I can’t even see it because of the goddamn light pollution.”

“I think that’s really more about the gesture than anything else,” Scully replies, trying to soothe him as if this were actually a pressing problem. “Unless you bought it for yourself...?”

Mulder chuckles. “No, no. It was for an old girlfriend.”

Scully raises her eyebrows in amusement. “Did you name it after her?”

“No, we named it the Rhine star.”

A puzzled look passes between them. It gives him a twinge of joy that his partner is not the encyclopedia she seems to be.

“After Joseph Banks Rhine, the founder of parapsychology,” he clarifies. “We were both fascinated by the field.”

“Oh.” She turns her face back toward the sky with the feeling of a kid who missed the winning word of the spelling bee. There are times when she is grateful she does not know everything, and times when she is not. Somehow, this is both.

“I’ve thought about buying another one and naming it after Samantha,” Mulder continues, “but it feels too much like a grave marker.”

“I’d consider it a lovely tribute,” Scully counters, used to doing so. “But I’m thirty and I own my own gravestone, so take that with a grain of salt.”

It’s true--once Dana was returned, her mother couldn’t bear to look at the gravestone she’d had engraved in memory of her missing daughter, so she gave it to Mulder, who saw no logical place for it to go except the woman whose name it bore. Margaret hadn’t wanted her to know that it existed, that they’d gotten so far as considering her gone. While it brought Mulder no joy to present it to his partner, it served as a reminder of the miracle her survival was, and in such bleak times, they had both needed that.

“It doesn’t scare me--the thought of dying,” Scully says to the stars. Mulder wonders if she meant for him to hear it. He wishes he hadn’t, but he’s met with the realization that she is trying to start a conversation when her eyes look into his.

He doesn’t know where to go with this, so he toes the line between deep and sarcastic. “I thought Catholics were all about that heaven and hell stuff.”

“Yes, but…” where is the line between truth and blasphemy, she wonders? Settling herself, she starts over. “I’ve lived both on Earth, so what have I got to fear?” She turns her glance to the blanket, as if shrinking out of the Lord’s sight. “Besides, sometimes I think I’m already there.”

“Heaven?”

“No, Hell.”

He should have known. He grips the edge of his blanket, wondering why his parents had prioritized the sex talk but never explained what to do in a situation like this. He has a psychology degree, sure, but he’s as much a psychologist as she’s a physicist.

“There are periods of life, I think, where everyone feels like that,” he says in the most earnest voice he can conjure. “It’s just that nobody ever talks about it.”

“Did you feel like that with Samantha?”

Leave it to Scully to turn a personal conversation back on him.

He bites his lip. “Yeah, yeah, I did. Still do, if I think about it too long.”

“How did you...move past it?” The lights of nearby buildings reflect off her blue eyes, galaxies to his black holes. He’d give anything to sluice the pain right from her heart.

He’ll rely on his words instead, despite knowing there are depths they cannot touch. “I, uh, I didn’t really move past it, I just moved. Kept moving, I guess. I found a place where I could make progress out of my pain. Here--the X-Files.”

Scully swallows hard, knocking back tears. "That’s the issue. I feel stuck. Just completely unable to go forward. There’s a current in my brain that keeps pushing me backward.”

Mulder lets out a deep breath, trying to take both their pain with it. “Have you considered seeing a therapist?” he asks delicately. “It sounds like you may have PTSD.”

“Over what?” she practically snaps. “I don’t remember a thing.”

“That doesn’t mean you have no memories. Regression hypnosis could help recover repressed or unconscious memories, so you could understand exactly what’s bothering you.”

“You think I haven’t heard this spiel from Melissa?”

“I bet Melissa doesn’t have first-hand experience with it.”

“No, she doesn’t,” she murmurs in the tone of an apology. She knew that he had it, she had listened to the tapes. How could she let it slip her mind? It is uncouth of her to look down on his chosen method of healing.

Mulder isn’t bothered. He continues, “It helped me. Both in recalling the details of the experience, and in having a recorded recollection of it. It helped me feel less...insane.”

“Mmm.” If he were just a bit closer, she’d reach out and touch his hand.

“If anything, I wish I did it earlier.”

Scully’s understanding of him sharpens, like an ophthalmologist flipping the lens, making her vision clearer. Her gaze probes him, mutual souls recognizing mutual pain.

“Hey.” He uses his extended wingspan to touch her shoulder with the care an older sibling would show holding their baby brother for the first time. She turns her head, their faces mere inches away from each other. His eyes are a dopey brown, his breath scented with coffee.

“Yes?” she says with a coquettish flitting of her eyelashes.

“You should come back out on the road. I could use someone to shoot down all my wild whims.”

She can’t help but smile, though she keeps her mouth closed. “Tired of telling jokes to strangers who don’t laugh, are you?”

He smirks. “Well, yeah, that too.” He leans back a bit, putting enough distance between them to keep the sparks in check. “Of course, if you’re not ready, there’s no pressure. I just think you could use the change of scenery and--you know--companionship.”

She nods, looks out into the night. He’s got the pulse of her problems and the salve that could soothe them. “You’re right.” How often does he get to hear those beautiful words come out of her mouth? “I need to get out of my cocoon, and I think I’m okay enough to do that now.”

“Yeah?” There’s a twinkle in his eyes, something like hope.

She laughs--catharsis manifest--and it’s like a sheen of light coming through a crack in her jagged surface. “Yeah, Mulder. I’ll make the arrangements with Skinner.”

He pumps his fists in the air. “Hallelujah!”

She hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her. Any stray thoughts she had of him being lonely she chalked up to her own delusions.

“Florida is probably a lost cause,” she notes, “but after that…”

He nods, pats her shoulder. “After that.”

To have her back meant something like freedom. The X-Files had never been anything without her. He had never been anything without her.

#oh to share a morbid conversation with your partner on a rooftop on valentines day #i struggled with this part but im quite happy with how it came out <3 #only the light fic #missy and scully fic #the x-files #txf #txf fanfic #fox mulder #dana scully #mine #thank you as always for reading and supporting

26 notes · View notes

sneakydraws · 3 years

Photo

Okay, I’d like to go through this point by point because there’s a lot going on.

“You’re leaving out Akio and his intentions” - If this is about the original essay then, well. To be blunt, I left Akio out of it because it is not about him at all. If I had had the freedom to write however much I wanted, maybe I would have included him in my discussion about Anthy’s characterisation more, but with the strict word limit - which I’ve mentioned repeatedly - I had to stick to the topic on hand very narrowly.

If this is not about the essay, but rather about my reply to your initial comment, then yeah, I didn’t mention Akio’s agenda because, again, that just wasn’t the topic of discussion. You specifically took issue with my idea that Anthy took some amount of pleasure in making herself seem antagonistic to Utena, so I explained why I thought that was the case. If the topic at hand was the ways in which her relationship with Akio influences Anthy’s behaviour, I would have talked about that.

“Personally, it kind of stings to hear people act like Anthy is just ~loving~ showing off how she’s sexually involved with her brother. I personally see Anthy’s witch status as very related to the stigma and trauma of incest, but that entire angle goes unmentioned in your analysis, where witch just means “evil sexy manipulative woman.””

The angle of witch as tied to incest goes unmentioned in my analysis because I have not read enough sources that connect the two together to be able to confidently say there’s a connection. Of course, in RGU incest is a major theme and it influences Anthy’s “witch” status, and in the “I’m your little sister; you could not make me a princess” stage play the two are tied together, but in my essay I talked more about the preconceived notion of “witch” that the audience would bring with them to the show and then connect to Anthy, and less about the notion of “witch” created by the show itself. If the essay was more generally about the roles of Princess and Witch as portrayed in RGU, then I probably would have contrasted the Witch in RGU - where it is explicitly related to incest - with the Witch as seen in (pop)culture more widely. Again, this is a case where I don’t mention something not because I don’t think it exists, but simply because I did not talk about every single angle the topic could be discussed from.

“I think Anthy’s possessiveness over Akio is massively overstated and the idea that she’s “showing off” her relationship with him to Utena makes me sick to my stomach. when I was first watching the show, I definitely thought they were meaning to paint Anthy as possessive over him, but if you pay attention, who actually acts out possessively over their sibling? isn’t it Akio? that’s not to say that Anthy doesn’t have any possessiveness (I have an essay I’ve been working on about that), but I think that even the framing of Anthy as the ultra possessive one is another example of scapegoating--she takes the blame for all the faults of the prince.”

Maybe you’re talking about a general attitude you’ve seen in the fandom, but given that it’s a reply to my analysis specifically, I really don’t appreciate how you seem to be putting words in my mouth. “The framing of Anthy as the ultra possessive one”? When I bring up Anthy’s possessiveness, I immediately downplay it, specifically because I did not want anyone to think I was overemphasising that part of her. You yourself imply that you think Anthy has “some possessiveness”, so I don’t understand why you take my very restrained mention of it as “massively overstating” the case.

I also resent the wording of “the ultra possessive one”, as if my mentioning her possessiveness carries with it the implication that Akio’s less guilty in this regard. Again, just because I didn’t talk about it doesn’t mean I don’t think it exists.

“As Anthy stares across at Utena, she is in pain. she’s telling her, here I am, I’m a witch, this is the real me--but I don’t see it as Anthy “reveling in portraying herself as a villain.” Anthy according to Enokido and Ikuhara is a “symbol of reality.” so she is showing Utena the reality of Akio, Akio’s relationship to herself, and Akio’s relationship to Utena.”

Yes, Anthy reveals to Utena the reality of her relationship with Akio, with all that implies. There is nothing actually evil about being sexually abused by one’s brother, but within the confines of the unfair princess/witch or madonna/whore dichotomy, it does bring her into the villainous witch/whore role. You know, because those roles are unfair, and condemn actions that aren’t actually wrong. I thought that was a given before, but maybe I should state it clearly.

Also, when I talked about Anthy “almost reveling” in portraying herself as the villain, I wasn’t actually referring to the reveal in ep36 itself, but rather to her behaviour afterwards (the next ep preview, breakfast, post-date scene, etc)

“What about Utena’s role in all of this? in that preview clip where Anthy says she’s always hated Utena, Utena says “I just can’t forgive what you’ve done.” well, is that what happens in episode 37?”

I don’t really see your point here? Yes, Utena’s words were untrue?

“Is Utena painting herself as a villain by saying she can’t forgive Anthy?”

No, in fact I think she’s painting herself as the victim. I guess this is a matter of subtle differences in interpretation, but I see the phrases “I can’t forgive what you’ve done” and “I’ve always hated you” as carrying very different emotional implications. The first is technically a neutral statement of one’s feelings, but the tone is accusatory, and I hear in it an implied “what you’ve done to me”. The latter would come across as antagonistic even on its own, but with the added context I do perceive it as Anthy painting herself as the villain. The fact that she’s acted friendly towards Utena until this point comes together with this statement to imply that she’s been lying to Utena, which has obvious connotation to the literary/cultural role of “villain”.

Again, it sounds to me like you misinterpret my words. I don’t think Anthy is “THE villain” in her relationship with Akio, and I don’t think I ever implied that. In fact, neither the original essay nor my initial response were actually about her relationship with Akio, and they didn’t aim to comment on who was the more possessive one, or the abusive one, or the villainous one. If they were about Anthy’s relationship to anyone, it was to Utena. Though really, that wasn’t the main topic either - the topic was the ways Anthy is characterised to the viewer through referencing fictional tropes/archetypes, and the ways in which she behaves towards Utena were part of that because Utena is the audience surrogate for a good chunk of the show.

You say that you feel as if my reply “flattens” and “waters down” the complexities of Utena and Anthy’s relationship, but it was not meant as an exploration of every single aspect of that relationship, just a very narrow and specific part of it.

Lastly, I hope this post wasn’t actually about me - since, like I said, I never characterised Anthy as “dominant and somehow the abuser” in her and Akio’s relationship. I didn’t write anything like that in either my essay from last year or my response to the first comment. Maybe the post is just about a general experience with the western fandom, the timing of it just makes me a bit suspicious.

#revolutionary girl utena #anthy himemiya #also like. idk maybe make up your mind on whether you want me to see those posts or not

12 notes · View notes

the-fae-folk · 4 years

Note

*Quoth* every bit of writing advice ive read talks about having a really good hook. but nothing actually explains what that means or how to do it.

(transcribed and translated from Quoth the Raven) Of course they don’t tell you how. Most people who tell you to do that have no idea how to write a good hook. They’re just parroting advice that they’ve heard. Lets start with what a hook is. A Narrative Hook is just a literary technique that “Hooks” the reader’s attention and keeps them interested enough in your writing to actually want to keep going. So many bits of advice emphasize that your hook has to be the very first sentence. In many cases they are correct. But not always. A hook can also be several paragraphs, or even the first few pages of a novel. Only academic writing needs to place so heavy an emphasis on your first sentence and paragraph because you have to make your point immediately and move on. There’s no time for dallying or dillying in Academia. But even though you have a bit more leeway in other types of writing you’ve still got to be careful. This isn’t just something you can scribble out and move on. A good narrative hook takes some planning. You have to think about WHO your audience is and WHY this particular bit of writing will hook them. What about it will intrigue or interest them enough that they’ll resist other plays for their attention in order to follow those thoughts. And of course not only does your hook need to be for your audience (or audiences if you insist on writing for more than one at a time), but it also needs to be relevant to your story or characters somehow. It should give us a reason to keep reading so that we can see more where that came from, to see how it connects and keeps giving. Even something that touches upon the themes of your book would be good if the writing is clever enough. Dialogue will give insight on the characters, setting, or even signs of the conflict. Let me give you an example. “The skies are always dark when I stop at the McDonald's on my way to work in the morning. Just a breakfast sandwich and a sprite is enough to keep me going. I always see the strangest people when I come out this early. But the strangest of all was when I saw Death herself feeding the starlings with french fries.” In this paragraph I’ve done several things. I purposefully did not put the hook at the beginning of the paragraph. Instead I’ve given you both a general setting for your story (Set in a contemporary world where such things as a McDonald’s exists and people actually want to eat there) and some insight into your character and their life (someone who is unfortunate enough to have to get up for an early morning shift and doesn’t have time for breakfast at home). It tells you about the sorts of things they’ll eat and what the general expectation for this part of their life is like (they see lots of weird people around this time of day because that’s just what happens at McDonald’s around 6am).

Then I drop the bombshell. Disguised as a casual statement that is merely continuing the previous thought I happen to mention that I saw Death doing something as ordinary as feeding starlings her french fries. This sentence, though seemingly tame is quite extraordinary for a number of reasons. It introduces the metaphysical concept of Death as a character who can move about and do person things like eat (or not eat) french fries. It tells us that Death is not just a person...but a HER! How many depictions of Death are female in our contemporary media? A few...but not that many. Even something as mundane seeming as Starlings might have significance. Besides being initially odd (Because usually one might say crows or pigeons when someone is feeding birds), you might have starlings have some greater significance later on, perhaps some kind of symbolism you hint at. Or you might just really like starlings and think that they themselves are odd enough to mention that it might help, either one works just as well. Even though Death is just feeding a bunch of birds some fries we already have so many questions that NEED answering. Why is Death there? What’s her story? Why starlings? And why McDonald’s french fries of all things? We’ve hooked the reader into wanting more. But did you know that you don’t have to begin things with a scene? A question could be a startling and interesting way to start out a piece of writing. Drop straight to the heart of the matter and question the reader themselves. “What is your third favorite reptile?” Is a fun one I’ve heard, especially since you can immediately elaborate on that with your own favorite reptile and why any of this is relevant to whatever your writing is supposed to be about. Really there are lots of ways you can start a story. A declaration that something is so! A significant quote that pulls your reader straight into the middle of a heated conversation. Perhaps an interesting fact or statistic might help you (it can even be entirely made up if your story is set in a fictional world. I once read a book that interspersed the entire story with encyclopedia style clips about places, people, things, and creatures that didn’t exist outside of the story’s world). Even just describing something in great detail is acceptable, whether an enchanted forest, a cold and empty moon, or an apartment filled with half filled cups that your protagonist keeps forgetting to finish and put in the dishwasher. You can even begin with a particularly unique or really well chosen metaphor (or simile) that will set a certain tone or idea for everything that comes after it. (I read a short story where they used a popular spiritual cliche as their first sentence and then spent the entire piece undermining the sentiment.) So many ways to make a hook, and even better, make a good hook. However... You don’t HAVE to use a hook. It’s a literary technique that has become rather popular, but it’s not set down in the rules that you must absolutely use one or your entire piece of writing will burst into flames and die. There are a lot of good stories, essays, and other pieces of writing that don’t use hooks. It does get a lot more difficult if you don’t use one though. The point of a hook is that initial attention grab. If you decide not to use one you will run the risk of many people not reading past your first few pages. It’s not the end of the world, but its a dangerous game to play. The rest of your work will have to be truly worth the read for you to get away with that sort of thing in this day and age. Well, I hope that answers your question and gives you a good place to start writing hooks for your stories! (or essays). In thanks I request that you go feed some birds (not starlings because they’re so annoying. Always like “look at me! I’m so mateable and majestic even though I’m flying in a swarm of a thousand others who look exactly like me and none of us will shut up for five minutes about who can get it on the best or who can find the best fruit and insects.” Ugh. Stupid little things. They think they’re so pretty. I agree, they’re pretty irritating.) (Notes from the Author of the Blog: One unmentioned form of Narrative Hook is called “In Media Res”. It literally means “in the middle of things” which is fairly on point because the technique is about beginning your story in the middle of the action instead of slogging through all the boring exposition. It’s a little hard to pull off well because it demands that the writer find fluid and subtle ways to introduce all that worldbuilding and essential info to the reader without giving a pages long infodump later on when the reader needs to understand something for plot reasons. Also, a Hook can be found in other types of media besides writing. In music it is a musical phrase or idea that is used to catch the listener’s attention and make the music seem appealing. In film they have something similar that is used to try and grab the viewer’s attention in the first 5-10 minutes. It is a very good tool to know how to use and use well, though it may take a bit of practice to get right. Finally, the Author of the Blog does not share Quoth’s views on Starlings; though maybe still don’t feed them (or any bird) french fries.)

#quoth the raven #writing advice #narrative hook #writing hook #writing skills #starlings #french fries #writing

14 notes · View notes

riddlesandqueries · 4 years

Text

Confrontation

Tracking down a secret admirer is no easy feat, but any reward worth having is a reward worth working for, even if it takes a few months: sometimes, you just have to gamble on it.

An interaction between Mr Edward Nygma, and Mr James Craddock, for your reading pleasure, between two scoundrels in search of life’s delights.

The Ghost was a hard man to pin down.

By his nature, he was a wanderlust. He moved where the money was; flitting between cities, countries, and continents, never content to stagnate. There were a few things he was guaranteed to materialize for, though: horse races, expensive antiques, and important news. He was a habitual horse better who had scarcely missed an important race in the continental United States, and had a mysterious fixer he’d mentioned once or twice by the name of Squire Shade.

And, as it so happened… Just a few miles south of Gotham, on a bright and unusually warm February morning, a derby was taking place. It’d been greatly publicized the past few weeks, as it was an annual and highly contested event, and would make prime bait for anyone who happened to know Craddock’s gambling habits.

And there were some quite clever men out there who would hold an interest in that sort of thing…

The air was clear, the wind was a little chilly this early in the morning, and the sun cheerfully shone, promising to warm up the stands; the crowd of a few thousand tramped through the dirt, milling around with one another whilst the racers readied themselves and the stands were slowly opened to spectators. It seemed almost like a festival; a little snapshot of a traditional spring carnival. Vendors sold merchandise, food, and drinks to patrons, and, of course, the stadium doled betting slips for the gambling patron. The air buzzed with electric interest; anticipation sparked off of everyone’s lips.

No sign of the Gentleman Ghost for the moment… but that was the thing about ghosts, wasn’t it? They didn’t show themselves unless they wanted to.

If you wait in the right place, they’ll come.

Edward eyed the odds sheets with a wry smile, nostalgic. How his father loved listening to him prattle as a child, looking over the betting forms and picking his dear Pop a winner just about every time. It was a fun experience for them both: a few hours together, a few thrown races to sweeten the pot, and then a jackpot here and there just to even things out...and a very fair cut for young Edward’s good work, as a simple sno-cone wouldn’t suffice.

Calmly, he glanced over his betting slips: broad coverage, but he’d put his money on a mid-range racer. Mint julep in hand, he meandered off to find a good seat with some elbow room.

The ambient anxiety of the crowd was only growing; people with prying eyes looking towards the starting gates, craning their necks to see even though there was nothing yet to even look at.

The crowd was thick, but not so thick as to swallow up every seat. Edward had arrived early enough to get a spot that wasn’t too far, wasn’t too close, and where he wouldn’t be browbeaten by the sun that was steadily rising.

About five minutes before the start of the race, there was just the smallest glimpse— something that could be ignored if a person wasn’t looking for it. A shimmer in the air, above the stands— that looked, for just a moment, like a billowing cloak, before winking out.

He was here, it seemed, cutting it close… But didn’t see fit to grace the populace with his signature, ghostly physique.

Ah. There he was: and who needed a seat when the air itself was at your command?

Edward watched him for a moment, sighing inwardly. Was it nice, he wondered, to fly? Was it relaxing, tiring, how did it feel to place your body in any relation with the world you wanted? Perhaps it was different when one was non-corporeal, but was it like zero-gravity? Something else, more elusive and yet even more wonderous?

Something as simple as existing in one’s own capacity was beautiful, really, when in the right eyes. It was something he might know someday, but for now, he could dream freely about how much magic there was yet to be found.

Smiling, he stuck his forefingers in his mouth and gave a whistle.

It drew looks from people who were close by, made curious by the sound, but they quickly disregarded it as the horses and jockeys began to get to their positions.

He had gotten someone’s attention, though. A moment later, there was a soft voice in Edward’s right ear, disembodied but familiar; “Why, I didn’t know you liked the races, Mr. Nygma. Fancy seeing you here…”

“Are you kidding?” he smiled. “My father and I had some of our best times at the races: I was his best bookie. Join me, James? There’s plenty of seats.”

“Is that right…?”

Craddock seemed to consider the offer for a moment. Then, to Edward’s right, the empty seat became suddenly occupied with the familiar attire of the Gentleman Ghost. He fidgeted in his opacity, seeming a little uncertain whether he really wanted to be opaque, but settled.

“You’ll excuse my rudeness in having been hidden,” Craddock murmured. “I get looks, you know. I’m a little overdressed in some areas, and underdressed in others.”

“That happens to me sometimes. When it does, I just ask why they decided not to look good today, and it usually gets them to back off.” he chuckled, fiddling with his cuffs. “It’s a mark of your caliber as a person, James: no need to hide your class.”

Underneath the thick veneer of charm, Edward fidgeted, excited. By all accounts, James had to be the secret admirer. He had to be. Was he? No doubt about it but maybe? Had to be, and how exciting: one ought to flirt a little and be sure.

With another sip of his julep, he gestured toward the starting gates. “Have you got a favourite? I’ve put the bulk of my faith in 1,000 Deaths.”

“I appreciate the words, but no matter how nice my garments or how upright I carry myself, the average mortal tends to be put off by…” he gestured vaguely to his face. “Ah, well.”

He seemed to think for a minute, but it had always been hard to read James’s thoughts with no visible face.

“Most of my stake is on Whetstone,” Craddock obliged. “Handsome thing. A very strong lineage, though quite young… not the favored to win, but still with a chance.”

The announcer began speaking; the stadium chatter dampened, just for the moment. The tension was palpable, and James leaned forward, knee starting to bounce in impatience.

“Whetstone, hm? I put a smaller bet on him, just to keep my options broad.”

I wonder if he’s watched the lineage line of all of these horses. He’s been around long enough, he could easily trace which racer’s from which stock. My word, he probably knows these horses’ family trees for winning pedigrees…

He settled back, brows raised as his mind bussed off merrily about horse family trees, but tuned back in at the opening trumpet. Setting aside his drink, Edward braced his elbows on his knees, rapt.

“Good luck.”

The race was exceptionally quick— as derbies are supposed to be. Craddock kept the bench beneath him in a death grip, and he leaned so far forward that he might’ve toppled over.

His form was jittering— the material of his clothes starting to turn sludgy as his concentration waned. Had Edward’s attention been turned off the race and to his companion, he would’ve seen the featureless head of the Ghost flicker in-and-out of transparency; not long enough or solid enough to catch a good glimpse, but enough to signal his mind was elsewhere.

“Damnation!” was the Ghost’s hailing cry when Whetstone finished third, behind 1,000 Deaths and a hereto unmentioned horse called Brushed Gold.

Tsking, Edward rolled his eyes and frowned at his betting slips. “So much for that…”

Loathe as he was to admit it, it was something he rather liked about the derby: there was always a chance he could be wrong, and that kept life fresh.

“That wasn’t even one of my picks. Luck certainly isn’t on my side here, hm?”

He had not, in fact, noticed the loosened grip on James’ form, eyes trained on the horses. With a scowl, he sipped his julep.

“...Sorry for third place, chum.”

James gave a short, agitated sigh. “Shade will have staked everything on Brushed Gold. Mark my words. That bastard—”

He stopped short, and tilted his head in interest. Intrigue in anything other than the horses and their riders was a rare thing for him on a racetrack, but the julep had caught his eye. He hadn’t taken much notice of the concessions at these sorts of things before, a little preoccupied by more pressing matters— like whether Squire Shade had fixed this race, too.

“... Oh, what do you have there?”

“Oh, this?” he asked, lifting up his drink. “Mint julep, a derby tradition in the south. Of course, it’s out of place during April in the north, but why not have fun with the occasion? If I’m going to lose, at least I can enjoy my drink.”

He grinned a bit. “Want a sip?”

Can I contract illnesses from ghosts? Time to find out.

“... A little,” Craddock confessed. Again, he knew the sweet siren song of food and drink, and that it would never taste nearly as good as some corner of his mind remembered— but there was no harm in it. “I, too, would wish to dull the sting of my loss…”

He would be having words with Shade soon, hopefully sometime before the bastard pinched every penny from his pocketbook…

“... if you don’t mind?”

“It’d be odd to ask and then not offer. Here.” he said, holding the glass over, straw presented. Ghosts were fascinating, really. Where did the drink go? He knew he didn’t really taste it well, but if the spirit was willing enough, would it compensate for the missing flesh?

Was this what people considered an indirect kiss?

...Be quiet, brain, don’t get all excited over inconclusive information.

“Have all you like.”

With a grateful nod, Craddock takes the glass. He takes a modest sip, the liquid suspended humorously in the air for a moment before it travels down an invisible windpipe and out of sight.

“Oh,” he says, and he sounds strangely delighted. “Oh, I actually…”

The taste was more striking than he had suspected (which was not saying much— a mouthful was still no better than what he suspected a droplet or two would be) and it proved an unexpected pleasure.

“So interesting, on the tongue…”

“You like that? It’s a very summery drink, always drunk at the Kentucky Derby.”

But I’m sure you knew that much.

“...I’m sorry, I have to ask...have you been following Whetstone’s family line through the racehorse generations?” Always with the questions: he even annoyed himself, now, with how he blurted them out. “Or any or all of them?”

He brightened.

His hat, of its own accord, lifted itself off his head and placed itself in his lap; he removed, from within it, a bleached-white pen and a colorless scratchpad.

“As a matter of fact,” he said. “I have. I don’t have my completed ancestry chart in front of me, but I still remember…”

He began drawing little boxes and lines, filling in a dizzying amount of names. The family tree branched into a maniacal, tangled root system.

“As you can see, there’s a few important derby wins by his ancestry… The earliest I can recall is 1897…” he paused, and started highlighting names.

“It’s a hobby of mine, tracing these. I did try ever so hard to get my horse’s lineage, to see if he had any interesting ancestry, but that never truly went anywhere…”

Edward perked up in turn, in twinned delight of being on the mark with his suspicion and well-received in his query. Watching James draw out a lineage chart from memory was dazzling: his heart did a little leap to see his penmanship. Every detail was as enchanting as another, and he remembered so much so well..!

“What’s your horse’s name?”

He paused. The pad and pen returned themselves to his hat, which he placed on his head.

“When I first realized I had the beast,” he admitted, “I was not feeling particularly… creative. I referred to it as ‘the Horse’ for some time…” He gave a slight laugh. “After calling it all sorts of things. Damnable creature. Demon from hell. Wicked beast from the underworld. After a while, just ‘my Steed’, and that stayed. I suppose I should get around to a proper name some day.”

“...That does beg the question: was it always a skeleton, or was it a living horse at some point?” Edward wondered aloud, muttering into his glass. “And if it was a living horse, what compelled it to become a ghost..?”

After a moment, he shuddered. “I’m going to assume it’s just a necromancer’s experiment.” Much kinder to the mind than the notion of a vengeful horse, knowing the nature of such beasts. “M-moreover, horses don’t need names, strictly speaking, so long as they know who you’re talking to.”

James had opened his mouth to correct— but stopped just short of it.

He knew very well where Steed had come from— well, that wasn’t strictly true, but he knew why the beast came forth at his beckoning.

But he got the feeling this was one thing that Edward would be happier not knowing. James was loathe to ruin that handsome look of interest etched on his face with an honest answer.

As he stared a moment at Mr. Nygma’s face, James realized there would be an expectation to respond, and he mentally backpedaled to where the conversation had been.

O, Lord, let me keep my wits for just a moment longer… Don’t stare at his beguiling smile, Craddock.

“Ah, yes, that’s reasonable. I have no other beast of burden, so Steed won’t be puzzled by the name.”

“It’s very cool that you can summon a horse, mind you.” Edward grinned, glancing up to look James in the monocle. “You’re...hah, well.”

He turned to his julep again, hiding his smile. “...quite the interesting character, James. I appreciate your patience with all of my questions.”

“Ah, I am happy to answer them.”

He had asked for payment for such queries before— but it seemed a little ungentlemanly to ask now. Besides… this rather public place was not the kind of area to indulge… in that sort of payment.

Scandalous. Imagine if Shade were watching…

He had started tinging that strange, mother-of-pearl pink for a short time again, before settling back to his normal coloration. There was a slight, almost unconscious tug at his collar.

“You’re one of very few whom I would share secrets and knowledge of this kind with— I consider you a valued friend, Mr. Nygma.”

As out of his depth in the realms of romance as Edward tended to be, even he could parse out a blush when he saw one.

He hummed, inspecting the ghost for a moment before his lips curled into a broad, knowing smile. Smug as anything, detestable, and easily recognized as a magnet for many a fist.

“Something on your mind~?”

Oh, he did not like that facial expression. It made him think Edward knew something horrible and secret that he didn’t— James instinctively brought his hand to his face on the off-chance that he’d let his countenance run around unchecked.

No, that wasn’t it…

“Ah, no, I… was just wondering when the next race would…” he petered out, very well knowing that this lie was not going to get better the longer it went.

“...”

“Ah, right. Time to go place some fresh bets, is it?” he asked, duly ‘distracted’ from his line of query. Let it simmer a bit, and it’ll all come to a head.

“I’m going to try out a few I’ve never heard of...call it an inspiration, given the last race. If some nobody’s going to win a surefire race like that, then it’s time to start paying more attention to the nobodies.”

Craddock nodded.

“Mine have been placed well in advance,” he murmured. “I’ll keep your place safe for you… ah, and perhaps get something for you to eat…?”

He seemed a little more subdued than usual— warily waiting for the bar of the Riddler’s suspected trap to spring. There was some small amount of dogged wariness and suspicion that’s readable just from his posture, even if his face gives nothing away.

“You’re right, I should.” said Edward, rising and stretching with a quiet grunt in his nose, a few joints popping. “If you don’t mind keeping the seat?”

“Of course,” he had no earthly idea what compelled him to add, in this non-violent crowd on a lovely, non-violent day— “Return safely…”

People had already mostly drained out of the stadium, moving for snacks, souvenirs, collections of winnings, talk amongst themselves, or a bathroom trip.

What does he know that I don’t…?

“With any luck.”

Edward gave a little wave as he meandered off, pondering his next bets as he walked, as well as whatever nightmares the concession stand might offer that resembled sustenance. A hot dog? Technically food, good enough. Nachos?

You should ask him, honestly. But is this the place and time?

...Truly, is there a better one? We’re face to face, so to speak, and it’s always better etiquette to ask in person rather than across the internet, especially with matters of the heart.

And he’s so...cute, really, when he’s flustered.

Just don’t scare him off by being a bastard, Edward, of all the things you could do…

He sighed, placing a few bets at random, as well as one on Whetstone, and then wandered back to his seat with his assortment of edibles.

Craddock was not alone on his arrival. As a matter of fact, it almost looked like seeing double.

Two men in mantled white coats and tall hats, sporting a signature eyepiece and no face… the differences were small, and only noticeable if searching.

The second wore a bow-tie instead of a cravat, wore glasses instead of a monocle, and was slightly bigger around the waistband than Craddock.

They seemed to be arguing. They had very similar voices and accents, too— though the double’s seems to be slightly richer, more aristocratic.

“I can’t give that to you,” Craddock was saying.

“You staked—”

“I know what I staked. Just take whatever you want from the mausoleum.”

“But it’s a pain to go all the way out there…”

“A walk would do you some good, Shade—”

Shade, who had been occupying Edward’s seat, seemed to notice him coming.

“Later, then. Let’s hope Whetstone does better, mmm?”

The second ghost took his leave, sinking back through the bleachers as if swallowed by quicksand.

Craddock turned, brightening noticeably on spotting Edward. “Mr. Nygma! You’ve returned— burdened with food.”

His voice implied a smile.

“If that’s what it can be considered.” he replied genially, inspecting his seat for ectoplasmic residue before taking his seat. “Associate of yours, James?”

Heaven forbid he call anyone a ‘friend’ offhandedly: that’d be presumptuous.

“Or just a copycat for fashion?”

James grimaced; not that Edward could tell.

“Associate is a good word for him… That was Squire Shade— I’m sure I’ve mentioned him before.”

He was concerned Shade’s presence might’ve bothered the mortal, and he carried on: “His was just a temporary darkening of my doorstep. He’ll collect his earnings and go back to Europe. It’s nothing to be concerned with…”

It occurs to him now to fish for whatever had Edward in such good spirits a moment ago. He’ll have to be subtle.

“... Especially not at the moment. Trustworthy company makes ugly company look all the worse, don’t you agree…?”

“Nothing makes me appreciate a good cup of coffee like drinking a very bad one.” he agreed, settling back with his snacks. “Take what passes for my lunch today: eating this will make even the ordinary meal I’m having later taste even better than it already would.”

Truly, he didn’t mind Squire Shade as a concept, but there was something irksome about someone being in his seat, talking to his colleague (who sounded annoyed about it) that ruffled his feathers just a touch.

“Care for a nacho?”

“Oooh, yes. I’ve seen them before, but not tried one.”

He took a chip, and in exchange returned the julep, which was looking a little less full than Edward remembered.

“Oh, it crunches.” Ghost murmured, as if to himself. “Interesting…”

Edward, noting the state of his julep, couldn't help but smile a bit as he nibbled his own chip.

"You know, I could buy you a julep, if you would like one." Or does this one taste better because it's mine?

“I would,” he hazarded. “It’s rare I find something that I can taste and find worth tasting… I’d pay you for it, of course.”

There was the loveliest little smile playing over Edward’s lips, and it made the Ghost’s stomach feel strangely warm. This was the kind of thing he would’ve taken a beau out for— a lovely warm spring day at the racetrack… James had courted many a lady in such a place, though never a gentleman overtly.

Change subjects, James.

“... I’ll confess I have not kept in touch as well as I should have,” the Ghost began. “How have things been in Gotham, lately?”

The proverbial trap twitched, as James asked just the right question. Edward's expression became downright sunny.

"It's been a very interesting few months, actually. I've been receiving these charming little notes from a secret admirer, and it's just been delightful for me. The mystery, the eloquence in wording, it's all been just so exciting! I've never had one before, have you?"

Oh no.

The Ghost could feel the bar of Edward’s trap moving to snap his neck, not unlike the noose that’d taken his life. His hands itched to touch his throat.

“Oh, have you?” James mirrored the other man’s cheery disposition, seemingly unfazed. “That must be quite exciting. I do so love the intrigue, the romance of an unknown suitor— I received letters like that in my life, but not during my death.”

"It's been absolutely compelling.” Edward agreed cheerily. “Of course, the one downside to the entire situation is not being able to know how to reciprocate, or whether I’d like to at all. It’s a good thing that this admirer’s classy, with a certain je ne sais quoi, otherwise I’d toss their work out along with all of the weird fan letters I used to get in Arkham.”

He sighed (if a pinch dramatically) and sipped his julep. “How can I ever respond to the anonymous? It’s like whistling into the wind.”

If you’re going to fess up, now’s your chance.

The wire creaked, threatening.

Confess.

Do ghosts sweat?

Well, they don’t, but Craddock definitely felt like he was. He knew he should say something— seize the opportunity now, while it was convenient… Edward had proved receptive, open—

But would it be the same if he knew it came from a ghastly spectre like myself?

“They haven’t left so much as a clue to their identity? How agonising…”

Damnation, Craddock— the deeper you dig, the more difficult it will be to get out of…!

“They have. A few, actually.” he replied easily, listing on his fingers. “Familiar tone of address, so it’s someone I know. Recently discovered the anonymous feature, and their first instinct is to go send mischief to someone who’ll appreciate it. The real smoking gun, though, is the language choice. Antiquated, lyrical, boldly professing, dramatic...and not just anyone would lean on sending someone a flirty note a ‘ghastly’ action.”

Edward looked to James with a small yet infuriatingly knowing grin. “Sound familiar, James Craddock?”

Each word was like the footstep up to the noose, each one more damning than the last. James did start sweating about mid-way in, his form starting to wobble and bubble in a rather curious way. The unintentional salmon sheen his body took on only damned him more.

“I,” he said, unintelligently. “I- It sounds… good sir… quite like you are… accusing me of… indecent behavior…”

It’s as flimsy an excuse as any that can be raised, but his instincts tell him to stall as long as possible.

The problem was he couldn’t just escape this as he might a persistent lawman…

“An accusation would imply that it’s a bad thing.” said Edward, tone silky. “But, not to put too fine a point on things: if you have something to say, you’re allowed to say it to my face.”

The highwayman’s instinct was to escape and regroup when better prepared. Craddock’s not a coward, per se, but he knew how to preserve his own life— oh, hmm, poor metaphor, he supposed. He had self-respect enough to not partake in a losing battle.

But he knew that wouldn’t win him any favors.

This was his stage— and he must perform.

“You are… interesting to me,” Craddock said, carefully. “In a way that few people were when I was alive… and even fewer now that I am deceased. Perhaps I might’ve… expressed unsolicited fondness— I have made mention before, mark you, that ghosts are prone to fits of melancholy… They swing to the other side of the pendulum, quite often, as well… and I was in a… joyous mood, a jocular type of…”

He spared a fleeting wish that the next race would begin already.

“... I meant nothing untoward by it.”

“...That is, perhaps, the most roundabout ‘yes’ I’ve heard in some time.” Edward murmured fondly. “But, ah...here’s some reassurance, as the recipient.”

Gently, he took Jame’s hand into his own, and kissed the top of his knuckles. Just so, just lightly, just enough.

“I like it, and I’m glad I was right to suspect you.” he said, patting James’ hand genially. “Feel free to continue, it makes my heart go pitter-pat.”

The rush of affection James felt was absurd.

First, like a fist to the stomach— then cloying and heady, sticking in his lungs and his brain. He received it well… he’s open to it… he...

Suspicion was there, but as an afterthought to the hope fluttering in his breast.

It’d been a long time since he’d had something like this, and as much as he liked to deny it, now that he was no longer flesh, the spirit grew strong— and it hungered for contact with the living, with the desperate ache of a lover separated from their beau.

Before Edward’s eyes, the ghost seemed to melt— metaphorically, yes, and literally, as his body forgot its shape and began to run like syrup.

Just as quick, the ghost’s ectoplasm churned and retook its shape.

“My apologies, my apologies, ahh— if I had, known the reception would be— I never would have— So childishly...” He shied his head to the side. “Give me a moment, to— collect myself…”

“Take your time.” said Edward, preoccupying himself with his lunch, hand still atop Jame’s.

He’s worried about seeming childish when I’m the one who makes games and puzzles and toys...who has the right to be so adorable?

Moreover, he gelled, which was fascinating to ponder. Ghosts blush. Ghosts have physical reactions to being embarrassed: bodywide, presumably because all they had was a manifestation of themselves, rather than a body to pilot from the heart and soul.

No wonder he hid his face: it took away the unspoken expressions that his own form could betray under duress.

“I find it charming, personally.”

==.

“Falling apart at the seams is not charming,” James muttered, insistently. “This is unbecoming for one such as I.”

After a moment, he straightened, smoothing away a glob of ectoplasm back into his shoulder. He regained his composure.

“... I’m… happy you like it,” James admitted. “I haven’t courted— in quite some time, and it was jesting, partially— I didn’t think you would take it seriously.”

“Well~. Do you want to make it more serious, or shall we have flirting? I’m content either way.”

I’d rather be serious, but no pressure. He knew he’d already had James raked across the coals today, no need to be overly pushy now that it’s in the open.

“I confess, I do admire you quite a bit myself! I hadn’t said much on it because, well... I always got caught up in the excitement of knowing you at all.”

He fidgeted a bit at that, quieting down: all the smug bravado in the world can’t make up for a weak and ill-timed admission.

“...If, that helps to know, any.”

“Not to put you on the spot… but does your admiration fall with me, or the nature of my person?” James asked, gently.

“...Hm.”

Edward sat back, sipping his julep as he gave this some thorough consideration.

There was, without a doubt, a large fascination at play with the supernatural. Pretending it wasn’t would just be insulting to both parties, so nevermind to that: it’s given. But what is there besides that, to their dynamic?

Edward considered, eyes shut, on feelings. This was very different than his arrangement with Bruce, for the simple fact that there was no sense of tension or panic. This wasn’t the horrific grips of a crush, literally crushing his mind, this was...light, airy, cheerful, exciting. All of the good things they talk about with these sorts of situations. James was nice. James was fun, sneaky, pesky, patient, kind without sacrificing the fact that he was a bastard. It was comforting, really, to spend time with someone who kept himself to a certain standard even as a crook. It was...warm.

“...both, but there’s...warmth, here. Not like when I’ve got a new subject to study, of a new game to try out, or a new language to learn. This is excitement, but it’s...comfortable, too, if that makes sense. You’re good to me, and I like being around you.” he said, after a long pause. Brows furrowed, he added: “I have to admit...I don’t have much experience in affairs of the heart, so I don’t know if I’m making sense...but there’s more there than just discovery, even if I can’t name it.”

The Ghost nodded, as if Edward had relayed a truth he was already well aware of.

“Your candor is…. Relieving,” he sighed. “I was not sure if you could feel that way for a spirit— or, if you did, it was only because of that.”

There was a small pause.

“In honesty, part of my attraction to you is how… alive you are.”

“How alive I am?” he asked curiously, offering the remains of the julep. There’s enough to be worth taking. “Is that why you keep taking my pulse?”

He drank.

“You have no idea how absolutely beautiful it is to be alive,” Craddock said, dreamily. He seemed a little faraway. “The smallest breath to me is the most wondrous thing. Your pulse… so sweet, Edward. So lovely.”

Edward watched him, gaze softening from bright curiousity to tender affection. No matter how a busy mind could scream and over-analyze, there was little anyone could do about the honesty in their face.

Ah. That was it, wasn’t it? There was something, right there, that he adored. So many people he knew treated life like a calloused and dull affair to be tolerated, but James, just like Edward...James cherished life, its splendors, its opportunities. There was so much to enjoy about existing...was that what kept him all along? A love for life so strong that death couldn’t claim his heart?

“Mhm~?”

He seemed to shake himself out of it.

“It’s… I’m uncertain if this peculiar love is a common condition among ghosts, or just I that feels it. But it is… strong, and oh-so thrilling…”

There was the slight, pearly blush again. “I am sorry if I concealed part of the truth from you when asking for the payment I did, those months ago. It was… a lapse in judgement. Selfishness.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s common among ghosts: it’s something I really like about you.” said Edward fondly.

...is the pulse thing sexual, though? No, don’t ask him that. There’s more important questions, and those can wait too.

“I don’t mind the delay: being selfish is fun sometimes, isn’t it? I like that you’re a scallywag, too.”

He laughed.

“One of the finest. You’re lucky.”

His pride seemed to have recovered, twice-over; puffing like a particularly cocky rooster, primping himself now that Edward’s affections had been secured.

“I most certainly am~” he smiled, awfully proud himself. There was the small issue of his other boyfriend, but there’s surely time enough to negotiate that after the glow’s settled out a bit. Either it will be or it won’t, but hopefully, since Selina’s in the picture for Bruce, perhaps Edward can have his cake and eat it too, just as well.

Thoroughly pleased with himself, Edward rubbed a thumb over James’ knuckles. “...I really did like those notes, you know. Made me feel special.”

“Well, you are,” James murmured. He lifted Edward’s hand, and with a moment of hesitation, pressed a kiss to his knuckles. The contact of his lips was as cold as the grave— and leathery as an old boot.

“I could keep sending them, if you like it.”

He shuddered, as he always did at contact, but chuckled as well. Ah! He has lips! They’re freezing and tough: this is filed away immediately in his mind among other tidbits of interest.

“You should, especially since I would have little recourse but to send a few back myself.” assured Edward. “As I said before, it’s hard to reciprocate without an address to send notes to...and I’ve had time aplenty to accrue my compliments.”

“Ah, yes,” Craddock murmured to himself. “I… I should make a permanent residence in Gotham, shouldn’t I? There will be more reasons to visit now... more reasons to stay.” He seemed to be convincing himself into it, and with a determined lift of his chin, declared: “I’ll… make an effort to get a haunt of my own. I’m sure Shade knows mortals who handle that kind of thing…”

His purse is curling up and dying at the thought— but he’d had a few lifetimes to get enough money for a proper home in Gotham.

“Only if you want it in writing...and even then I could send it to wherever you want it to be sent.” said Edward calmly. “After all, if you’re visiting Gotham, there’s no need to go through all of the trouble of getting a place when you could just...visit mine.”

Again, that foul, smug smile of his has crept deep into his cheeks.

That did not seem to have occurred to him, busy grandly dreaming of a Gatsby-esque existence of quiet solitude and pining. It takes him a moment to recover.

“... you seem like you’re suggesting something rather… crude, Mr. Nygma…” the smile bled through his voice.

“I’m simply pointing out that I have a spare bedroom that is no longer occupied by a massive computer array.” he said primly, eating a nacho before continuing. “And that it’s pragmatic to offer it as space, in the event that you’d rather not go through real estate paperwork.”

“Mmm, a massive computer array,” Craddock seemed quite merry. “So I’m not the first love you’ve invited there.”

He had a small mouthful of julep. He couldn’t tell if it actually made his hunger for taste any better or worse. He had another mouthful.

“The proposition is interesting, anyway. I’m sure the arrangement would be beneficial to both of us.”

He’s outright teasing now.

“Computers aren’t my first love, and that one, well...came with a rather long story attached, that’s for another time, where I’m less sober and more irate.”

It did, however, seem to be the time to mention…

“There might be a hiccup, mind you, in this cozy little affair here...you see, I was asked out by another suitor on Valentine’s day, days after you sent your first messages.” Edward admitted, if a bit grimly. “Mind you, he himself has another he sees, so naturally I’ll have to ask him if an arrangement between you and I would offend...I don’t see why he’d decline it, but it’s only respectful to ask first.”

He mulled over a nacho, frowning slightly. “And if he says no, I have a lot of thinking to do...and for once, I’d really rather not.”

Ah, was any giddy leap complete without a plummeting fall?

Was he disappointed? Yes.

Was he crushed? Not quite.

“Hnnm,” he said, the extent of his verbal acknowledgement. “Oh, look. The next race is about to start.”

Ah. There it was, the rare and unmistakable sensation of guilt, settling thickly into the pit of his stomach.

“So it is. Have you got any new bets?”

At least that was a nice five minutes...and, as always, at least we have the now.

“I sunk a fairly consistent amount into Whetstone,” James’s fingers rolled an interesting tattoo across his knee.

James wasn’t unfamiliar with the idea of polyamory. He knew the women he saw during his life had an endless string of boyfriends, and he was only one of the mob. He knew the men he’d courted, so carefully and privately, had their heart’s desire elsewhere. It was not new to him.

But he had thought that maybe…

...

He didn’t feel much like watching the race anymore. Losing to Squire Shade would be grating, and Edward…

Stick it out, James. This is far from the worst outcome of today.

“I gave him a fresh bet for this race, myself.”

Damn it. Damn it all to absolute Hell, in what world was it fair to spend 37 years in ambivalence only to come around and find any affections at last split between two? And now, lurching around in him, was the maelstrom of doubt and humiliation, the latter ten times worse than the former in any capacity. The silence was deafening, the mood wrecked: he’d ruined everything as usual by saying too much.

Let go of his hand and stop disappointing people, Edward.

Ghost, meanwhile, is silently rationalizing a mile a minute.

Who is this other? How do I compare? Is he Edward’s first choice?

Then, a small, unusual part of his psyche chimed in with his criminally underdeveloped sense of empathy:

Does choosing hurt him?

That was a disturbing thought.

He ought to withdraw, kindly, as a gentleman. This other, whomever they might be, would be the ideal choice— mortals are better paired with mortals.

A thought occurred to him— solace, comforting as a frostbitten man seeking fire, or the heat-scorched for shade. James let out a small, kindly little laugh. It rings, clear and gleeful, like a bell.

The laugh snapped Edward out of his spiral of self-loathing, frown lifting from explicit discomfort to bemusement.

“...um...yes?” he offered, curious. “What is it?”

“That doesn’t matter,” James said, swallowing the last of his laughter. “Oh, God, it doesn’t matter at all to me.”

He took Edward’s hands in his, stared at him directly— there was a flicker of something there for a fraction of a second, like a reflection in a mirror passing by. Dark, intent eyes, haunting for just a moment…

“You’re speaking to one of the most selfish, stingy men on the planet, Edward— did you think jealousy would seize me so hard that I’d be struck stupid? I’d be a fool to lose this—” he gestures between the two of them, “—over something so small. I don’t care who they are, I don’t care that you love them— it’s enough that you love me.”

Edward’s eyes were open, jaw slacked and mouth agape in wonder of what he’d just been told, as the trumpets sounded to queue the racers to their starting gates. A flush crept easily across his nose and cheeks as he began to smile once more.

“Really?! You mean it?”

“Yes, really. Who would say something like that and then recant it?” Perhaps a bit harsh, but the Ghost was buzzing with nervous energy. “I’ll accept whatever you give me, Edward. It’s enough that it’s anything at all.”

“You’d be amazed by how many people tend to say things without thinking them through.” he breathed, cheeks pink and eyes bright in excitement. “I, I have to admit, I thought you were about to drop the whole thing then and there.”

I was, he almost said, but that would win him no favors.

“I am cognizant of my faults,” Craddock said, instead. “I’m far, far too selfish for that.”

“Aren’t I lucky, then, that you are.” he chuckled, utterly relieved. “And people talk like it’s a bad thing, to want and keep things.”

There is a sneaking feeling in the back of his mind that James is putting on a brave front, but then, so is Edward: there’s an open end that cannot be resolved immediately, therefore it’s best not picked at, so much as treated and patched until real answers can be gotten.

“I don’t think it’s a fault, when it’s honest.” BANG, and the horses are off.

=end=

#askgentlemanghost #narrative #long post #btas askblog #dcau askblog #interactions #off-camera #plot #the riddler #Gentleman Ghost #edward nygma #james craddock

48 notes · View notes

littleeyesofpallas · 4 years

Text

I don’t usually dwell on American cape comic shenanigans too much, because it’s a fast and loose kind of writing that doesn’t really play well with being scrutinized or really thought about at all, at least any longer than it takes to get through a page, but man... this whole Tynion IV Batman thing is still rubbing me the wrong way... and what bugs me is how it’s definitely not all “bad,” and in fact a lot of the build up is great, but then the resolutions (or lack there of) are massive let downs, but then also he keeps skirting by with these loose ends that feel like they weren’t forgotten but that they might get picked up later. It would almost suggest he has a real big picture planned as a through line across multiple stories...

So, when Tynion took over with issue 86 and Their Dark Designs, he actually provided a great premise: In the aftermath of City of Bane and Alfred Pennyworth’s death, Bruce muses over his apparent old habit of sketching himself little snapshots of an idealized Gotham he holds in his head. We have a clear establishment of the theme of Design, and also the idea that Bruce has an end game in mind. He’s not just reacting to crime as it happens, he has a long term plan. This is a genuinely good angle to have for a Batman story.

To build on this, we learn that Lucius is working on some new tech for Bruce and he specifically marvels at how far Bruce’s war on crime has escalated. The bat-gear hasn’t just been getting more sophisticated over the years, its development is beginning to outpace its practical applications.

Additionally, we get a weird kind of distraction of a B-plot with various master assassins convening in Gotham under a singular organized job, but among them the spotlight falls on Deathstroke. Does Tynion talk about Deathstroke being one of the classic anti-batmen? Does he talk about Deathstroke’s healing factor? No. He talks about Deathstroke’s augmented brain processing faster than Bruce can keep up with (a trait most authors tend to overlook with Slade); this means his only means of competing with Slade is to have a plan that puts him down before his super fast brain can think of a way out, because implicitly he will out think Batman given time, and if they’re both whittled down to adapting to one another in the moment, Slade wins.

Again, our theme is Master plans/Designs/end games.

Enter the heretofore unmentioned legendary, nigh mythical, Gotham villain named The Designer has reemerged after an indistinct time missing from the criminal underworld. His claim to fame is planning 20 steps ahead, outpacing his adversary’s planning to snub any and all resistance utterly and completely.

He’s brought up because he once mentored Penguin, Riddler, Catwoman, and Joker in their early days(and in their 90s era outfits as a clever reference) and apparently the master plans he devised with each of them that were never enacted have been queued up by “someone.” Designer is back, but he’s supposed to be dead; In a painfully uninteresting, cliche “twist” Joker was too KuHrAaZzY to handle and Designer turned on him rather than finish his tutelage, and in the ensuing firefight the 4 Gotham rogues killed the legendary Designer.

So, there are a lot of fun questions this raises, like who the apparent new Designer is, what his plan is, and what he wants...

Bruce has another run in with Slade and launches into an awkward, kinda whiny rant where he tells Slade that if only super villains hadn’t wasted so much of his time escalating the arms race of powers and gadgets and gimmicks, that he could have fixed Gotham years ago. So, here we are again, this idea of plans, of reactionary escalation, and of the absolute need for a master plan that snubs the opposition before they can react and learn. Batman beats Slade, of course, which just goes to show what we’re always meant to assume from Batman anyway, that he already had Slade beat from the get go. He had a plan; Batman always has a plan.

So this is super cool! It took us kind of a plodding 6 out of 9 issues of this story to get here, but this is a good place! We know Batman has a master plan for Gotham, we know from what we’ve heard about plans/Designs as a theme that means he’s already got all his villains accounted for, and that he’s just going through the motions: turning the wheels to make the machine work. It’s only a matter of time, now.

I’ll be honest, my thought at first when I was reading these? I thought The Designer was Batman, or some part of Batman’s plan. That he’d resurrected this mythical villain as part of his own master plan, to perhaps trick all his biggest adversaries to go all in on a singular massive criminal enterprise that Bruce had already designed from the get go to fail, and to take them all down with it once and for all. It fit the profiles, and it felt like the natural direction this all was headed...

But then it was just The Joker. Designer really was dead, Joker brought him back, stole his master plan and pulled it off himself. He stole Batman’s money and gadgets, and took over Gotham (again). That’s it. It was a 9 issue/4 month long fucking prologue to Joker War. And more importantly... NONE of these themes paid off, even a little... And to be fair, if these had turned into something to be addressed and resolved in Joker War, I might have been okay with it... But they weren’t...

Also there’s a (would be)great little moment towards the end here where we learn that The Designer’s original nemesis, a master detective whom he crushed and humiliated, once taught Bruce “how to lose.” And this went nowhere. But it could have been super interesting, because what exactly does that even mean? Does it mean learning to accept loss and move on? Does it mean letting the opponent’s plan succeed because if they put everything into the one plan, then it means they never actually had a follow through, so now the board is wiped clean and everyone’s back to square 1? What exactly was the point of bringing back the Designer’s legacy if we just learned that the real Designer wasn’t even the master mind of this whole story?

So then we meander into Joker War, curiosity still piqued, but expectations drastically lowered...

Joker has all Batman’s gadgets: that’s actually kind of cool. I like the idea of Joker having infinite resources and Batman being the one working underground. It’s kind of been done before in pieces, but never quite as explicit as this. It’s not genius, but its a solid premise. Joker goes on a meta-rant about people watching “the classics” over and over, and audiences being content to see the same old story, provided it’s done right. (A bold called shot, Tynion.)

And we glimpse the mysterious future Batsuit that apparently Bruce doesn’t remember designing. It’s kind of a throwback to the gray and blue look of the silver age Batman, when comics were a little more cheery and goofy and child friendly. It’s a nice commentary on the idea that Bruce wants to make Gotham into a better place, not where he doesn’t need to be Batman, but where he can be a less grim Batman. It speaks to Bruce’s character, his vision for Gotham, and Tynion’s nostalgia that is now being strongly established as a driving force of these stories...

Joker’s plan involves paying Gothamites, in the middle of this citywide takeover by clown gangs, to attend screenings of Zorro, at which point he’ll kill them walking out of the theaters. Batman shows up at one theater, fights some Joker zombie things, get gassed, gets rescued by Harley and given an antidote that induces a hallucination chat with Alfred.

Laughably, in this talk Bruce admits “I failed...” when talking about letting Alfred die and letting Joker take over the city but then hallucination Alfred talks Bruce OUT of it. So whatever it was Bruce learned about losing from the old detective, this apparently wasn’t it; this was the wrong kind of losing.

Joker mentions part of his plan was to make a new generation of heroes and villains with the massive shared trauma of the theater killings. We’d been seeing bits of Clown Killer, but that’s it. He actually seems pretty cool, but he wasn’t really doing much more than cameo in this. No new villains* actually, not until the epilogue gives us the anti-hero GhostMaker.

*correction: there are a few retroactively established villains who are new to publication, but no new villains born out of the actual Joker War scenario.

The whole Batfam shows up to wrestle clowns. For some reason Tynion or DC editorial in general went to GREAT lengths to contrive Dick being back in the old Nightwing outfit, Tim being Robin again, Cass and Steph being Batgirls, Babs being Oracle, and Damian having renounced the Robin title for this... They don’t do jack shit; They wrestle clown goons in the background.

Yet, again one of Joker’s stupid genius plans ends with a fist fight between a highly trained martial artist and a guy in a purple suit and we’re expected to be excited about this. Harley shows up to trick Bruce into leaving Joker to die, but of course he survives anyway...

So there are a few themes here that got heinously underutilized... Joker’s super into this self-aware thing about this being just another Batman-v-Joker affair, and about recreating Batman’s origin, and we see this play out on the other side with the weird walk back on the Batfam’s costumes. But we know Joker will lose, so ostensibly the bottom line here should be that, no, actually... doing the same old thing isn’t enough, and people aren’t as predictable as Joker thinks.

But if we’re acknowledging this idea that Batman-v-Joker is a thing that happens in cycles and it’s always kind of the same thing, and people are sick of it, then you know what one undeniable fact of continuity flies in the face of that? That no matter how many times we reboot the universe and repeat this whole song and dance, Batman keeps accumulating more sidekicks. I’d have loved if this whole thing had just climaxed with Joker “winning” in his over elaborate 1v1 grudge match only to have half a dozen extra bats bust in and kick his ass.

But more over, Batman NEVER had any sort of plan in this... The whole lead up in Their Dark Designs, which took LONGER to set up Joker War than Joker War actually lasted, was about Bruce having this Design for Gotham... And Joker War goes out of its way to remind us of this lingering concept, and doesn’t actually do anything with it, but tries to still dangle it over us, like... “oh no, we didn’t forget it, it’s just for later!” And like, I’m still kind of on board for it, but less and less so the more this shit drags out without any satisfying benchmarks along the way. And it’s just super frustrating to want to give Tynion credit for the genuinely good set up he seems to have here... Except is it still a “good setup” of it ends up not actually setting anything up? or if what it sets up turns out to be disappointing and bad??

It’s just really bizarre to me that I honestly kind of desperately want to like Tynion’s Batman (Clearly I’m having a fucking field day digging my teeth into it) but in spite of the good that’s there, and the clear forethought that appears to have gone into it, he keeps tripping himself up somehow.

#batman

4 notes · View notes

savagematchmaker · 4 years

Link

Dazai's got dirt on multiple demons; he summons them to play a prank on Kunikida.

Things don't go according to plan.

------------------------------------------------------

Slipping off his shoes at the entrance and lightly knocking on the open door, Atsushi entered Dazai’s apartment. The man’s message had been very vague, and Atsushi feared another (failed) suicide attempt.

However, when he entered the room his mentor was in, the image that greeted him made him shudder and take a step back, definitely not letting out an undignified squeak.

Dazai turned as he heard the boy enter, a cheerful smirk gracing his features; as he got to know the man better, the expression seemed more and more like an evil smirk to Atsushi. The demons surrounding the not-worried-in-the-least Dazai did not help in the least his impression.

“Atsushi-kun, there you are~”

“Um, Dazai-san…” Atsushi feebly started, eyes nervously darting to the pitch-black shadows surrounding his mentor. “Why are, uh, they here?” He gestured to the demons, who seemed to be grinning at his obvious discomfort.

“Ah, them?” Dazai’s cheerful smile was full-on smirk right then. “They owe me some favours.” A glance at the nearest one, a black shape outlined with angry red. “Isn’t that right, Chuuya?”

The figure trembled with anger and whatever he said was silent to Atsushi’s ears, but apparently not to Dazai, who started shaking with laughter.

“Erm-” Atsushi glanced between the two of them and decided not to approach that subject. Instead, he opted for safer waters. “How did you get that much leverage over so many demons at once?”

Dazai’s grin turned smug. “Secrets are very useful, my young friend. You just need to know the right ones.”

Atsushi decided right then and there never to let Dazai know any of his valuable secrets (not more than he already did, anyway).

He avoided the gaze of another demon, who insistently glared at him from where he was seated cross-legged next to ‘Chuuya’.

“Dazai-san, what do you need all these demons for, though?” asked Atsushi, feeling slightly lost.

“I have had the greatest idea ever,” stated Dazai, and his disciple was already apprehensive. He remembered Dazai’s last ‘greatest idea’, which had involved a chainsaw, Atsushi dressed as a girl, and a very high bridge. “We are going to play a prank on Kunikida-kun!”

Atsushi inhaled sharply, but said nothing. It could’ve been worse after all. He sat down in one of the nearby armchairs, carefully avoiding the unknown demon’s glare. What was his problem?

“Dazai-san, can you hear them?” asked Atsushi, still ignoring the demon’s stare.

“You need to have a bond with 'em to be able to~” he grinned at the ‘Chuuya’ demon, who only looked away, crossing his shadow-arms.

The demon who’d been staring at Atsushi grumbled. The boy tried not to jolt when he realized that he could hear him. Dazai’s eyes darted to him and a grin spread on his face; it became apparent to Atsushi then that he was doomed.

---

Kunikida certainly did not appreciate the prank, nor did he think that it was funny being followed by demons the whole day and everyone else pretending they did not see them. After being beaten up by the angry blonde, Dazai turned his attention to Atsushi and the boy gulped.

“Ne, Atsushi-kun~” he smiled at the boy. “Didja know that if you look out of the corner of your eye at a demon, you can see his true form?”

The boy dimly wondered why he needed to know that, but he said nothing, having stopped questioning Dazai’s antics a long time ago.

A few days later, Dazai was still accompanied by the demons, which to Atsushi meant that he had something up his sleeve. The man was lounged at his desk, pestering the red demon, who appeared very close to fulfilling Dazai’s wish of dying by pushing him out of the nearest window. Atsushi did not need to hear him to feel his murderous intent.

“What are we still doing here?” asked the demon who’d been glaring at Atsushi before. The boy still hadn’t gotten used to hearing him.

Dazai shifted his attention to the black demon, who moved back a step then seemed to regret showing weakness.

“Well, Akutagawa-kun~” Atsushi stubbornly ignored the flicker of excitement he felt at having found out the demon’s name. “You can always leave if you don’t mind people finding that out,” said Dazai, smiling self-assuredly.

The demon -Akutagawa- said nothing else, only coughing lightly and sinking into the nearest armchair. He ignored the way Atsushi’s eyes followed him, but, once the boy looked away, his gaze shifted to the boy and stayed there.

It was then that Atsushi remembered Dazai’s words of seeing a demon’s true form. Careful not to be noticed, he stole a glance at Akutagawa out the corner of his eye. He found the demon, no, boy, already looking at him; their eyes met and both of them started, but neither looked away.

Atsushi was the first to blink and Akutagawa smugly smiled at having won their unmentioned competition. Bristling, Atsushi opened his mouth to give him a piece of his mind- but fell silent when he noticed Dazai watching them and smiling all-knowingly.

Looking away from Akutagawa, Atsushi focused on the report Kunikida had placed on his desk over half an hour ago, which the white-haired boy still hadn’t started reading. Dazai snickered and Atsushi felt a flash of annoyance at the same time he heard the red demon insult ‘Shitty Dazai’ and punch him in the shoulder.

Atsushi’s shoulders hunched. He felt seriously overwhelmed.

---

The gun went off in his hand and the bomber fell to the ground, clutching his arm and dropping the explosive-containing package to the ground. Tanizaki was there in a flash, handing it to Ranpo, who instantly disarmed it and dropped it to the ground. Other police officers apprehended the terrorist and Kunikida untied the hostages.

Atsushi exhaled, relieved, and leaned on the pillar next to him. He winced when he crossed his arms and touched the shallow wound on his side. Lifting the side of his shirt, he glanced at it; he’d get Yosano-san to look at it later.

“You should get that looked at,” Atsushi heard someone next to him say and he glanced in the person’s direction to find Akutagawa leaning as well on the pillar next to them.

Fighting the impulse to flinch back from the demon, Atsushi shrugged.

“It’s shallow, I’ll get it treated later,” he replied and they fell into silence.

Well, this was awkward.

“Hey, Atsushi, come see this!” exclaimed Tanizaki, waving at the boy from next to the police cars.

Atsushi stopped leaning on the pillar and glanced at the demon, only to realize he was gone. Confused, he just blinked at the empty space until Tanizaki once again shouted at Atsushi to come and he started walking towards the police cars.

---

Atsushi had no idea how or when it started, but at some point he and the demon had started walking the streets at night together, sometimes while Atsushi was on patrol, other times for no particular reason.

Usually, they didn’t say anything, only silently keeping each other company. There were times, though, when Atsushi would tell him about his days in the orphanage or his latest mission; Akutagawa would tell the boy about the latest idiot who had made a deal with him.

It was during one of their late-night walks that Atsushi noticed a change in Akutagawa. Or rather, his appearance. Lately, Atsushi hadn’t needed to glance out of the corner of his eye at the boy to see his true form. It was visible to him all the time.

He did not mention anything to Akutagawa.

---

The next day, when Atsushi entered the police building, he walked directly to Dazai’s desk to ask for a clarification. The brunette’s smile told him that he already knew what he was going to ask, but he opened his mouth anyway.

“Dazai-san, what does it mean if I can see a demon’s true form without staring out of the corner of my eye?” he asked, ignoring the man’s grin.

“Good morning to you too, Atsushi-kun~” His smile widened and Atshushi fought the urge to kick him in the shin. “Your bond has gotten really strong, that’s what it means. He probably trusts you with his life,” he said, looking amused with the whole situation.

Atsushi definitely did not feel happy hearing that.

But if he stood closer to Akutagawa that evening, or their hands brushed one too many times for it to be accidental, it did not mean anything. Nobody would be able to notice.

Would they?

#bsd #bsd akutagawa #shin soukoku #soukoku #bsd atsushi #bsd dazai #bungo stray dogs #bungou gay dogs #bungou stray dogs #bungou sd #bsd chuuya #chuuya nakahara #ao3 #fanfic #fanfiction

13 notes · View notes

captainsandclotpoles · 5 years

Text

Find What You Love, and Let It Kill You...(Sir Gwaine x Fem!Reader Series)

PART ONE: SOULMATES

A/N: For @charlottie2998. x

Gwaine’s never been the type to believe in anything as sentimental as soulmates. He’s not even sure he believes in love, really. He believes in good company, good food, and good ale, and that’s the next best thing, right?

But there’s something about (y/n). Something about the way she can hold her own, always keeps him guessing. He’s always loved playing the knight in shining armour – even if the irony is strong with that one – but with her, he’s never had to.

Well, she’s never let him, is probably a better way of putting it. The first day they met, she’d saved his life. Her, saving him. Not the other way around.

He’s drawn to her. Intrigued by her. Captivated, enchanted…infatuated, he thinks to himself with a snort, shaking himself from his thoughts and tossing the apple core he’s been munching on into a nearby horse pen.

Riding down the valley towards Mercia, he looks to his left and there she is, right there next to him on a horse of her own. Since the day she’d saved his life, they’ve become travel partners. There are no guarantees it’ll be forever, or even for a week; they simply go wherever the wind takes them, and if that happens to be the same place, well – that’s all the better.

At least, that’s what he’s been telling himself. But after six months of traveling together, he’s beginning to wonder if the wind is simply guiding him to wherever she is.

Even if he doesn’t know anything about her.

Well, nothing of importance anyway. He feels like that’s such a ridiculous thing to admit because he isn’t sure he’s ever known anybody in his life as well as he knows (y/n). He knows that she loves a big breakfast in the morning, to set her up for the day. She loves large tankards of mead, practical footwear, and adventure. Travel. The wind in her hair, new sites, sounds, smells. New people. She loves freedom – not being bound to anyone or anything. Her form can barely contain her wild and carefree spirit.

But he also knows, or rather senses – since they’ve never spoken about it – that she’s had a troubled past. He’d felt like she was running when he’d met her, and from what, he didn’t know, but she’d agreed a little too quickly when he’d suggested they accompany each other on the next stage of their travels since they’d both been headed on to the same town anyway. He hadn’t thought she’d needed his protection, but even the bravest and fiercest fighters can benefit from a second pair of eyes keeping watch on the roads. It would also mean one of them could stand guard while the other slept; he remembers noticing her dark circles and wondering how long it had been since she’d last been able to do that.

He made sure to take first watch, that night.

(y/n) was also, obviously, a woman traveling alone. All too often the two of them had pretended to be married, to protect her from wandering hands and imposing figures. Having a companion, especially a male one, would provide her with a new level of security that sword alone could not.

But despite adopting the unofficial, and definitely unmentioned – to her – the status of her protector, apart from the above-mentioned things Gwaine knows absolutely nothing about (y/n). He doesn’t know what her past is, just that she’s had one. She’s never mentioned her childhood. Never mentioned her parents. Never even so much as hinted at a possible trade she’s worked in.

He didn’t know who she’d been. But, he supposes he knows who she is.

And that’s more important, right?

They come to a clearing at the bottom of the valley and set up camp for the night. While Gwaine unrolls the beds and (y/n) starts a fire, and he can’t help but smile at how easily they’ve created this routine for themselves, and how comfortable it’s been to keep it.

“I’ll take the first watch.” Gwaine smiles, settling himself against a tree, and fights back a laugh when (y/n) rolls her eyes at him.

“I can take the first watch, Gwaine. You took it last night.”

“Who’s counting?”

“Me.” (y/n) sticks her tongue out at him, before lighting the fire and sitting down next to him on the hard ground. After a while, she looks over at him and smiles, and it’s a softer gesture than he’s used to from her, and takes him by surprise, “I don’t mind.” She continues, “Honest.”

He just nods at that, accepting when he’s been defeated, but simultaneously realising it’s happening all too often with her.

***

A few hours later, the two are lying on their backs, staring up at the stars, arguing about constellations.

“No, that’s the North Star, you idiot.”

“I’m pretty certain it’s that one.”

“Gwaine, that’s south.”

He bundles up a blanket and chucks it at her in defiance, which of course she catches and throws right back.

“Don’t blame me.” She continues, “Blame your faulty knowledge.”

“How do you know that’s south, eh?”

(y/n) sighs, and points upwards, “Ursa Major, there, and then-”

“Wait, where?”

“There!” (y/n) points harder, again, but Gwaine just scrunches up his face, clearly not seeing where there is at all.

(y/n) grabs his hand, uses it to point upwards, “There. See?”

But all he can focus on is the fact she’s holding his hand.

He knows she’s tough, that she can hold her own, that she’d probably kill him if he said any of what he’s currently thinking aloud to her, but right now, in this moment, all he can think about is how small her hands are, how soft and yet strong they feel in his own, how perfectly they fit in his own, and he wonders if he can tell her how he feels through the contact, if their wrists are close enough for her to feel his pulse hammering against his skin, beating out a rhythm that says more than he ever could with his words.

Gwaine has never been the type to believe in soulmates. But he thinks if he did, he’d probably say (y/n) was his.

***

She falls asleep not long after.

For a while, Gwaine just watches her, wonders how he’s fallen in so deep so fast, wondering how he could have let himself, why he wasn’t more careful.

But he keeps watching her and finds he doesn’t regret a moment of it, because it’s brought him here, now, with her trusting him like this, and he remembers it’s a two-way street, that she wouldn’t be putting so much faith in him if he wasn’t safe enough to do the same with her.

Right?

A distant rustling in the trees snaps him from his thoughts. He doesn’t even need to shake (y/n) awake; her own years of traveling solo wake her instantly from her light slumber. She sits up with a start, instinctively reaching for her sword, eyes darting to Gwaine immediately – who’s jumped to his feet and is standing with his back to the tree he’d been leaning against.

(y/n) scrambles up and darts behind a tree of her own, directly across from him. They both look over their shoulders into the trees, and Gwaine hears the sharp breath (y/n) takes in when they see the flames of torches flickering in the distance.

But it’s not the torches she’s shocked by, not the fact that they’re about to be discovered by knights patrolling the borders, and that as nomads they’ll be executed for trespassing if they’re caught. No. It’s who the knights are that’s got her so panicked, more specifically - who they serve; a man she hasn’t seen in a year, a man she thought she’d escaped from, a man she had wanted to leave behind with the rest of her past.

She should never have been so naïve.

(y/n)’s head snaps over towards Gwaine’s, to tell him who they’re looking at, and maybe get a chance to explain herself before this all inevitably blows up in her face, but she sees the exact moment the realisation washes over him, and she knows she’s missed her chance.

Her real chance was when he’d told her about his father, three months ago. She should have told him then. She should have been honest, but although she couldn’t be honest with him, she’s got no problems being honest with herself, and (y/n) knows she’s feeling something for Gwaine she’s not felt for anyone in a long time, and that’s why she couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth.

And now it’s too late because they’re being surrounded by Caerleon’s men, and when the King himself steps out of the shadows and his eyes land on (y/n)’s, (y/n) realises why they’re here – the King has been looking for her, and now he’s found her, (y/n) knows she’s probably not going to make it out a second time.

#sir gwaine #find what you love and let it kill you series #part one #gwaine #merlin #bbc merlin #knights of camelot #gwaine x reader #gwaine x fem!reader #gwaine imagines #sir gwaine imagines #fantasy #medieval #knights in shining armour #pre-merlin au

91 notes · View notes

arcticdementor · 5 years

Link

Well, it’s about to happen all over again. I’ve been wondering how soon a certain marriage of convenience in contemporary cultural politics would come messily apart, and now we’ve seen one of the typical warning signs of that impending breach. Those of my readers who are concerned about environmental issues—actually concerned, that is, and not simply using the environment as a convenient opportunity for class-conscious virtue signaling—may want to brace themselves for a shock.

The sign I have in mind is a recent flurry of articles in the leftward end of the mainstream media decrying the dangers of ecofascism. Ecofascism? That’s the term used for, and also generally by, that tiny subset of our society’s fascist fringe which likes to combine environmental concerns with the racial bigotries and authoritarian political daydreams more standard on that end of modern extremism. If you’ve never heard of it before, there’s good reason for that, but a significant section of the mainstream media seems to have taken quite an interest in making sure that you hear about it now.

…

The first thing I’d like to point out to my readers here is that, as already noted, ecofascism is a fringe of a fringe. In terms of numbers and cultural influence, it ranks well below the Flat Earth Society or the people who believe in all sincerity that Elvis Presley is a god. It’s one of those minute and self-marginalizing sub-sub-subcultures that a certain number of people find or make in order to act out their antinomian fantasies in comfortable obscurity, and enjoy the modest joys of being the biggest paramecium in a very, very small pond. It’s fair to say, in fact, that the chance that ecofascism will become a significant political or cultural force in your lifetime, dear reader, is right up there with the chance that the United Church of Bacon will become a major world religion.

So why is this submicroscopic fringe ideology suddenly on the receiving end of so many faux-worried essays in important liberal newspapers and magazines, and in the corresponding end of social media and the public blogosphere? The reason, I’d argue, has to do with something else that’s been finally receiving its own share of media attention.

…

That is to say, counting up all its direct and indirect energy costs, this one conference had a carbon footprint rivaling the annual output of some Third World countries—and you guessed it, the point of the conference was to talk about the menace of anthropogenic climate change.

…

At this point, in fact, one of the current heartthrobs of climate change activism, Swedish teenager Greta Thunberg, refuses to fly anywhere because of commercial air travel’s gargantuan carbon footprint. Sensibly enough, she travels through Europe by train, and her rich friends have lent her a sailboat to take her across the Atlantic for her upcoming North American tour. This would be bad enough if Thunberg was an ordinary citizen trying to raise awareness of anthropogenic climate change, but she’s not—she’s the darling of the Davos set, a child of privilege who��s managed to parlay the normal adolescent craving for attention into a sizable cultural presence. Every time she takes the train, she adds to the number of people who look at the attendees at the Sicily conference mentioned above and say, “So what about your carbon footprint?”

That, in turn, is fatal to climate change activism as currently constituted. For years now, since that brief period when I was a very minor star in the peak oil movement, I’ve noted a curious dynamic in the climate change-centered end of environmentalism. Almost always, the people I met at peak oil events who were concerned about peak oil and the fate of industrial society more generally, rather than climate change or such other mediacentric causes as the plight of large cute animals, were ready and willing to make extensive changes in their own lives, in addition to whatever political activism they might engage in. Almost always, the people I met who were exclusively concerned with anthropogenic climate change were not.

…

To some extent this is common or garden variety hypocrisy, heavily larded with the odd conviction—on loan from the less honest end of liberal Christianity—that if you feel really bad about your sins, God will ignore the fact that you keep on committing them. Still, there’s more to it than that. Some of what else is going on came to the surface a few years ago in Washington State when a group of environmental activists launched an initiative that would have slapped a fee on carbon. As such things go, it was a well-designed initiative, and one of the best things about it was that it was revenue-neutral: that is, the money taken in by the carbon fee flowed right back out through direct payments to citizens, so that rising energy prices due to the carbon fee wouldn’t clobber the economy or hurt the poor.

That, in turn, made it unacceptable to the Democratic Party in Washington State, and they refused to back the initiative, dooming it to defeat. Shortly thereafter they floated their own carbon fee initiative, which was anything but revenue neutral. Rather, it was set up to funnel all the money from the carbon fee into a slush fund managed by a board the public wouldn’t get to elect, which would hand out the funds to support an assortment of social justice causes that were also helpfully sheltered from public oversight. Unsurprisingly, the second initiative also lost heavily—few Washington State voters were willing to trust their breathtakingly corrupt political establishment with yet another massive source of graft at public expense.

…

If you haven’t heard of these followup studies, dear reader, there’s good reason for that. They argued unconvincingly that everything would be just fine if only the nations of the world handed over control of the global economy to an unelected cadre of experts, under whom the institutions of democratic governance would be turned into powerless debating societies while the decisions that mattered would be made by corporate-bureaucratic committees conveniently sheltered from public oversight. (If this seems familiar to those of my readers who endure EU rule just now, there’s a reason for that: the state of affairs just described has been the wet dream of Europe’s privileged classes and their tame intellectuals for quite a few decades now.) That’s the usually unmentioned reason why The Limits to Growth fielded the savage resistance it did: a good many people in 1972 recognized it as a stalking horse for a political agenda.

…

In the same way, the mere fact that certain people are trying to use climate change as a stalking horse for unrelated political agendas doesn’t mean that it’s a good idea to dump trillions of tons of greenhouse gases into the atmosphere, or that doing so won’t cause epic disruptions to an already unstable global climate. Mind you, anthropogenic climate change isn’t the end of the world, not by a long shot; the Earth has been through sudden temperature shifts many times before in its long history, some of them due to large-scale releases of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere—that’s one of the things really massive volcanic episodes can do, for example.

Attempts to dress up climate change in the borrowed finery of the Book of Revelations—sinners in the hands of an angry Gaia!—have more to do with our culture’s apocalyptic obsessions, and with the desires of ambitious people to scare others into signing on to their agenda, than with the realities of anthropogenic climate change. That said, we can expect a good solid helping of coastal flooding, weather-related disasters, crop failures, and other entertainments, which will take an increasingly severe economic toll as the years go on, and help drive the declines in population and economic output mentioned a few paragraphs back. Yes, this is one of the things The Limits to Growth was talking about when it predicted the long slow arc of decline ahead of us.

The problem faced by the people who have been pushing climate change activism is that their political enemies have found a very effective way to counter them: they can point out that the people who babble by the hour about the apocalyptic future we face due to anthropogenic climate change don’t take their own claims seriously enough to walk their talk. Thus the attendees at the environmental conference on Sicily mentioned earlier can no longer count on having their planet and eating it too—or, more to the point, they can’t count on doing so while still convincing anyone that they ought to be taken seriously. This is hard on certain delicate egos, and it also makes it hard to keep pursuing the agenda mentioned above while continuing to lead absurdly extravagant lifestyles propped up by stunning levels of energy and resource waste.

There’s a simple solution to that difficulty, though: the celebrities, their pet intellectuals, and the interests behind them can drop environmentalism like a hot rock.

That’s what happened, after all, in the early 1980s. Environmentalism up until that point had a huge cultural presence, supported by government-funded advertising campaigns—some of my readers, certainly, are old enough to recall Woodsy Owl and his iconic slogan, “Give a hoot, don’t pollute!”—and also supported by a galaxy of celebrities who mouthed pious sentiments about nature. Then, bam! Ronald Reagan was in, Woodsy Owl was out, John-Boy Walton and John Denver gave way to Gordon “Greed is Good” Gekko and “material girl” Madonna, and the Sierra Club and the Friends of the Earth had corporate executives on their boards of directors, and did everything they could think of to deep-six the effective organizing tactics that got the Clean Air Act, the Clean Water Act, the Endangered Species Act, and a galaxy of other environmental reforms enacted into law.

…

I think we’re about to see the same thing happen to climate change activism, and one of the symptoms of the approaching swerve is the sudden flurry of mass media publicity being given right now to the tiny fringe phenomenon of ecofascism. Over the months ahead, I expect to see many more stories along the same lines all over the leftward end of the media and its associated blogosphere, insisting in increasingly shrill terms that anyone who pays too much attention to the environment—and in particular, anyone who expects celebrity climate change activists to modify their lifestyles to match their loudly proclaimed ideals—is probably an ecofascist. In fact, I would be very surprised if we don’t see a series of earnest articles in the media claiming that believing in ecological limits is racist; such claims are already being made in the blogosphere, and their adoption by the mainstream left is, I suspect, merely a matter of time.

#john michael greer #ecosophia.net #environmentalism #greta thunberg #ecofascism #green nude eel #puritans gonna puritan #the limits to growth #climate change

57 notes · View notes

formerlyrunephoenix6769 · 5 years

Text

RWBY VOL 7 / VOL 8 - HEAD CANON TRAJECTORY/TIMELINE.

Heya Folks, so I’ve been enjoying the weather and bashing around ideas that would make for an epic fic,or even just my theories of how V7/8 could possibly play out.

(Its in no way a prediction or do I have any expectancy of this any of this happening, just a lil bit of fun and by no means a demand made of CRWBY or a claim that I know what they have planned or that I can write it better, anyone who claims any of the above and that they can are dipshits in my eyes.)

I don’t have time to dedicate to writing it so I thought I’d get it down on bullet points, but If I do make it into a fic with will be called “Birds of a Feather.”

As we are going into Vol 7 and the Atlas arc, here are some thoughts.

* Picking up immediately from the end of VOL 6

TEAM RWBY/ORNJ/Q&M

Arriving in Atlas, our trusty heroes touch down and are detained by the Atlas Military. Though they plead for an audience with General Ironwood and explain why they are in possession of a military Airship from the Argus base, (The ‘lengthy’ report from Caroline Cordovin having yet still to be written and submitted.) their pleas fall on deaf ears at first.

Weiss makes an adamant plea that her sister, Specialist Winter Schnee be contacted, rather than her father, as they have top secret information detrimental to the tide of the coming war which needs to be delivered immediately.

They are still detained whilst the personnel in question are awaiting confirmation of information provided.

Whilst detained, Blake is split from the group, much to Yang and Weiss protests, but Blake tells them that its ok, and is taken to the Faunus allocated holding cells, I shall be referring to as The Pound/Kennels

(Divergent, Yang refuses to be split from Blake and so is held with her.)

Whilst split from the group, Blake (&Yang?) sees how the Faunus ‘prisoners’ are treated, realizing that there is still very much to be done with regards to Atlas and its prejudices towards the Faunus community

(It would also be a great way to show and not tell, even if there are snippets of info about the disparity between Mantle and Atlas parted to the two women.)

Maybe Blake tells the Faunus of what occurred in Haven, that the WF is now back under the leadership of Ghira, returning to the previous peaceful ways, working with the humans rather than against.

That Adam Taurus and Sienna Khan are dead. (This could also segue-way into a brief moment of showing just how much killing Adam has affected both women) The news is met with mixed reactions from the Faunus.

* Specialist Winter Schnee arrives to the holding place of our main cast. After a heartwarming reunion between the Schnee sisters (as heartwarming as Winter can be) information is relayed minus a few omissions bout stealing an airship and vicariously causing the subsequent Grimm attack back in Argus, the Relic and Ozpin being in Oscar’s head, a request to see Ironwood is made.

(Extra points of some Winter/Qrow friction… The pair are cynically sassed by Maria.)

Weiss also makes it known that Blake (&Yang?) have been detained elsewhere and demands their return. The heroes are delivered to Ironwood and they are reunited with Blake (&Yang?). Apologies are made to Miss Belladonna for her treatment.

Discussion of the Relic, Salem’s plans, Cinder as the Fall Maiden, etc occur, finally bringing Winter into the fold and Ironwood up to speed.

(Yang still does not admit that she is aware that Raven is the Spring Maiden)

Ozpin finally makes an appearance, much to the groups surprise, Winter’s shock and Ironwood’s expectation. (Maybe a tiny bit of unmentioned but shown discord from Winter towards Ironwood at being kept in the dark?)

Qrow questions Jimmy about the Relic of Creation/ where abouts of the Winter Maiden and the importance that Salem and her faction do not get their hands on the two Relics. Ozpin presses the issue to be met with Ironwood cryptically parting that the Relic of Creation is ‘safe.’ Much to Ozpin’s and Qrow’s frustration.

Mention of new clothing needed, Maria’s goggles, Yang’s arm and Gambol Shroud needing to be fixed. Lodgings are offered at Atlas Academy

Our heroes make moves to go to lodgings leaving behind Qrow, (maybe Oscar/Oz and therefore vicariously Ruby) with Ironwood and Winter so that they can strategize.

*Weiss begins showing the group round Atlas, (perfect opportunity to show us the aesthetic of Atlas much like we got to see Argus. The tech, architecture, culture etc.)

Blake is ‘cat’ called so to speak, (Get your pet back on its leash) thereby showing the audience and the group just exactly what Faunus face on day to day basis.Everyone comes to Blake’s defense, esp Weiss and Yang.

If Blake does not come under fire then at least in the background the group witness Faunus treatment, via difference in clothing, service jobs etc.

It could even play out that when trying to enter an establishment that Blake is either denied entry or forced to enter through a Faunus door, akin to Apartheid or at the minimum, disgusted looks.

Weiss is rather vocal. (What’s that supposed to mean?) and outright refusing to enter an establishment that treats Faunus that way…. The proprietor would end up grovelling and snivelling….

“I’m willing to make an exception for an illustrious Schnee!” OR ”So the news ‘is’ true… You have lost your mind!” (As a call back to Jacques threat in Vol 4)

Nora offers to go in there and smash the place to bits.

Blake begins to voice concerns that maybe she ought to put back on her bow, much to the group’s dismay. (Maybe some sage advice parted from Maria)

Henry Marigold is in the background having witnessed the altercation before slinking off????

Our group meets Flynt and Neon, who offers to take them to the Academy and get settled. Brief happy reunion occurs.

Neon walks through the streets of Atlas bold as brass, seemingly unaffected by the looks they are garnering, but also calling out to a few vendors she knows who jovially return her greeting, giving the sense that she is much liked (and as a direct contrast to the previous altercation) much to Blake’s surprise

New outfits are acquired. A few weaponsmiths admit that maybe Yang’s arm Atlas Tech is beyond their skill.

Maria says that an ‘old friend’ will most certainly have the skill to repair her arm, and Blake’s weapon.

*Maria goes to visit her ‘old friend’, with Blake and Yang(Ruby if she has returned from strategy meeting, or if she never attended it) in tow.

They are brought to a workshop/lab. As Maria and the old man catch up, and he is looking at the goggles/weapons that need to be fixed. the girls have a look around.

Ruby is fangirling over weapons. (They come across either the schematics for Penny, half built androids, ie inner framework etc ) OR a previous model, who is working as the old man’s assistant.

Ruby is taken aback, when she meets the Penny 2.0, who does not recognize her and Ruby realizes that she has none of Penny’s memories. Ruby is visibly upset OR The audience sees schematics for Penny’s design, or an arm on a workbench in the processes of being rebuilt, or very distinctive feet poking out from under a cover. (this would save Ruby from yet another heartbreaking moment) The old man in question is Professor Polendina. Once they find out that this professor Polendiina, he and Ruby have a heartfelt discussion about Penny and he is pleased to hear that penny had become what she always wanted which is a real girl and that she had made friends, who remember her fondly and will never be forgotten. Prof Polendina fixes the goggles and begins preparing to fix Yang’s arm telling the group that it will take time and they can return at a later date.

The group leave.

(DIVERGENT NEON BRINGS BLAKE TO MANTLE TO SEEK OUT A FAUNUS WEAPONSMITH TO REBUILD GAMBOL SHROUD WITH SOME NEW ADJUSTMENTS, THEREBY SHOWING THE AUDIENCE THE AESTHETIC OF MANTLE, OLDER TECH, LIVING SPACE AND CULTURE THEREFORE FURTHER CEMENTING THE DISPARITY BETWEEN THE TWO PARTS OF THE CITY)

*Meanwhile. Cinder and Neo arrive in Atlas/Mantle, immediately going about finding a Spider’s Den for information on TEAM RWBY.

Tyrian is stirring up trouble amongst the Faunus in Mantle, claiming that siding with his ‘Queen’ will grant them the tools to overthrow the Atlesian Elite whilst Watt’s pays a visit to Jacques and other people in positions of power, fear mongering and telling them what exactly is coming to Atlas, that they don’t stand a chance and the only way to ensure their survival is by siding with his employer.

This begins to sow the seeds of dissonance, and doubt in Ironwood’s leadership.

x-x-x-x

THIS IS ONLY AS FAR AS I HAVE GOTTEN WITH PAINSTAKING DETAIL, THE REST BELOW IS BRIEF OVERVIEW.

I have have a loads more written that I am corralling together but its something I’ll keep working on keep you posted.. If I do ever write a fic .. It will be called Birds of a Feather cause a good chunk of it is tied to the return of Raven and a desperate last stand with the Branwen twins back to back, trying to give Tai much needed time to get the kids out of the city.

There's a huge flash in the sky, behind the kids as they are escaping and all we hear from Yang is a very soft '"Oh' or a gasp. ..

(She is the only one who knows her mother has died as she felt the power entering her. She keeps this to herself as nobody knows Raven is the Spring Maiden other than Cinder.

It’s not meant to be some overly dramatic scene, just a soft realisation that Raven was indeed thinking of her in her last moments and did care.

I'm a firm believer that Raven made out to Cinder's faction she didn’t give a shit about Qrow or Yang as an added layer of protection, that when she finally did double cross Cinder that Salem's faction wouldn’t come after them in retaliation, esp given Raven's semblance and her still being able to make a portal suggesting that she is still very much attached to her brother and daughter)

TO DO WITH THAT.

Yang spends the rest series not using her semblance, her father and friends believing it is to do with what she has learned in the last 3 volumes, rather than something else, which Blake does pick up on.

If Yang does use her semblance it will be sparingly and the others just think that is has evolved.But Blake defo knows otherwise and presses the issue.

Maybe someone returns with Qrow's weapon signifying he is dead and that there was no sign of Raven, who everyone assumes ran and left him to die. Maybe a negative comment is made by Tai to that effect causing Yang to lash out an tell him Raven's died protecting them..

When asked how she could possibly know, she tells the others that she is the Spring maiden.

On the Weiss /Blake/Faunus issue. The Fall of Atlas causes the Atlesian elite to flee to Mantle where they are met with mixed reception. Some Faunus are adamant that they don't help. Others rush to help them..

The Atlas Elite come to realise the kindness that these people are offering even after they have been treated as lesser.. (extra brownie points if the douchebag who told weiss to get her faunus on its leash is actually the background accepting help)

Whilst the group are hiding amongst the locals, attempting to regroup and Winter tries to coral what is left of the Atlesian Military, taking over command after the death of General Ironwood

.Weiss comes to see just how bad the conditions really are in the factories, esp SDC factories and truly sees how the other half lives. She is aghast to see other human beings running around with her Grandfather's legacy branded into their skin.

When she points this out to Winter, she finds out that her older sister was aware of it, but only due to her military duties.

Weiss is of course appalled that Winter would keep this from her, who in turn tells her it was out of protection, that there was never a right time.

Weiss vows that when all this is done she is taking back the SDC from her Father/Whitley no matter the cost.

Some faunus are not at all happy that the Schnee's are down amongst them and it is Blake that comes to her defence explaining the new focus of the WF, what happened at Haven and that Weiss will stay true to her word. The faunus from the detention centre back at the start, back this up.

The group find that they are being hunted for and make the ultimate desicion to leave and make a bid to escape.

A call is made for all Atlesian Military personal to return to their posts as the a new council has been formed , with Jacques Schnee at its head, (with Salem obv pulling the strings cause Jacques is a now a puppet.) having taken the place of Ironwood.

All Atlas students are also called to go back to the academy. Team FNKI refuse. And Winter goes freaking rogue, gathering soldiers and personnel loyal to Ironwood. Team FNKI join her, as do other students and Faunus from Mantle vowing to protect what it is left and not let it fall until the very last man/women

(maybe the Branwen’s Last Stand happens here??? ).

Our heroes abscond with the Relic of Knowledge but without the Relic of Creation which is now in Salem's possession. Spotted by Emerald, and it is suggested by a short clip that she follows them at close quarters.

Our heroes are battered, injured and moral at an all time lows, (similar to vol 3 , as in all fairness they need a huge loss to balance things out and remind us of the stakes and NO ONE is protected by plot armour, extra points if Ruby loses an eye)

At the end of volume 8 , our heroes are in a non disclosed location, licking their wounds and wondering if they can truly carry on.

A flash to Atlas devastated, surrounded by flying Beringals etc in the sky circling.

TO DO WITH THE VILLAINS ,

This plays out concurrently over the two volumes.

As Salem and her hoard of flying monkeys descend on Atlas and tear it asunder. Emerald and Mercury come across Cinder and Neo.

As Emerald rushes to apologise profusely that they didn't know she was alive. Cinder brushes her aside.

Over time, Emerald comes to witness the difference with the way that Cinder treats Neo and becomes increasingly envious, Mercury points out what he did in V6E9 that Cinder doesn't give two shits about her, to which she replies,

"You don’t know that!".

The tension between Neo and Cinder build, mainly from Emerald's side, as Neo literally sassily shrugs it off. Maybe at some point there is a 1v1 fight

(mainly cause I really wanna fricking see a battle of the semblances... Hallucinations v's Illusions.

Creating something from nothing, that only one person can see, ie, Emerald's multiple copies of Mercury surrounding Yang back in Haven.....

V'S twisting the real to look different, as I noticed Neo can only manipulate matter, as a disguise rather than create something from nothing.Neo needs something to work with. So Neo manipulates matter and Emerald manipulates the mind)

We know that Neo would win in a 1v1 with just fighting skills, though we are also aware that Emerald is fully capable of taking on a number of Grimm by herself. I think the semblance aspect would really make fight between the pair anyone's guess.

Ultimately, either Neo throws the fight in order to stay close to Cinder and her original goal which is stabbing that bitch in the back, or Emerald wins.

Emerald is defeated, exhausted and hurt. Surrounded by Grimm, Cinder leaves her to die.

(Extra points for Emerald on the ground reaching out with hand as the city burns around them , eyes brimming with tears, as Cinder gives her a look , before turning her back and walking off. Cause I’m a sucka for heartbreak)

Emerald's fate is unknown, until we see her at the end of the volume, spotting our Heroes leaving , there by kick starting her road to redemption, of sorts.

(It always struck me as odd that in V6E9 why her and Mercury were present and told a very strategic piece of info.

"The only thing that can stop Salem's plans for Atlas, is Vacuo coming to their aid, that Vacuo must be kept out of it at all costs!"

Esp when CRWBY are known for keeping things very close to the chest and making every cent of their budget count.. Which leads me to believe that it is important esp with concern to Emerald and Merc, which again makes me think that Emerald will eventually leave with that information and deliver that info to Vacuo, either out of genuine guilt and wish to make rights, or as a way to avoid being imprisoned.

We know that Vacuo have a very laxed view on criminals etc.. so it’s the perfect place for Emerald to flee to, whether Mercury goes with her remains to be seen.)

That’s as far as I’ve gotten with concerns to that.

TO DO WITH THE BRANWEN’S LAST STAND.

This could happen anywhere long the narrative, maybe towards the end of v7 or v8 I see this pair standing back to back surrounded by enemies. Anything to stall and allow Tai to lead the kids out of danger. Cuts to scene in the aftermath of an epic battle with their slain enemies, Both sat on the ground, leaning back to back, both exhausted, maybe Qrow injured, Qrow takes out his hip flask, giving it a shake, he takes a sip. He hands it to Raven, who takes a small sip before handing it back, Enemies approach a second time surrounding them, Cinder or maybe even Salem. they are severely outnumbered. The Branwen’s struggle to their feet supporting each other.

“I never thought it would end like this!”

“We came into this world together, we go out of this world together!”

“Ah come on, that’s not like you, who says it’s over?”

(either line is interchangeable for either character)

They exchange a look, both knowing that this is the end, before turning with weapons raised and running into the fray.

Cut to where the kids are, who witness sanse huge flash in the background, Yang’s soft ‘Oh’ and then cut back to Qrow’s hip flask on the ground, dented and scorched.

Yes! I know , I am a monster!

67 notes · View notes

stevenuniversallyreviews · 5 years

Text

Episode 122: Tiger Philanthropist

“It’s like the sequel no one asked for.”

Adventure Time is technically a serial, but rather than one continuous story it’s a hodgepodge of multiple meandering plots that get checked up on at random over the course of its 283-episode run. For instance, minor character Maja the Sky Witch was introduced in Episode 133 (Sky Witch), yelling at the end that she’s planning “something big,” and we got that follow-up a full year later in Episode 166 (Something Big; let it not be said that these episodes aren’t named well). Virtually no mention of Maja was made between these episodes, but Something Big served as a direct sequel, beginning in the middle of a huge battle as if we knew it was coming, and we just went with it. That, for better and worse, is the spirit of Adventure Time's long-term structure. Episodes can be about any character in its vast world, and we jump around so much that it feels like anything could happen.

Steven Universe takes a different approach, aided by a singular focus on Steven's point of view. It also has distant sequel episodes, but it’s easier to keep track of these connected stories because of a more unified through-line. I mentioned in The New Crystal Gems that I’d like to see more character interactions that are restricted by this focus (give us an episode about Peridot making avant-garde metal-powered multi-instrumental music with Sour Cream, you cowards), but it’s still generally a positive from a plotting standpoint to keep things Steven-centric.

For the most part, I’m a huge fan of distant sequel episodes in both Adventure Time and Steven Universe despite them being such different beasts. But while the random “hey remember this storyline?” in media res variant works well in a zany show that bounces from plot to plot, Tiger Philanthropist is proof that this type of sequel doesn’t work quite as well on a show with a more traditional structure.

The premise of Tiger Philanthropist hinges on the idea that Steven and Amethyst have been wrestling this whole time. But, as we might see in an Adventure Time sequel episode, we’ve gotten zero references to this subplot between the first and second episode of the story. We never see Steven and Amethyst coming back from a gig. We never hear them talking about it in passing. We never see the tiger mask lying around to indicate recent use. The Brothers Construction and Good-Looking Gang even feel like Adventure Time one-off characters, as they’re for some reason never seen outside of a wrestling context despite Steven Universe otherwise doing pretty well at building a sense of reliable locals and background characters.

Bear in mind that we just had a whole arc about Amethyst’s inferiority complex in terms of physical ability, and at no point did the coping mechanism that she’s apparently been using this whole time come up. The thrust of Tiger Philanthropist is that she’s moved on from the need to use wrestling as an outlet for her issues, but when we haven’t even thought about Tiger Millionaire outside of a few Purple Puma cameos and maybe a poster or two early in our first season, it strains credibility to be told that she still was using wrestling as an outlet for her issues. I’m too focused on the hamfisted retconning to get invested in this story. It’s as if we got an episode about Garnet deciding to stop going to the arcade and Steven is bummed because oh by the way we forgot to mention it but she and Steven have been playing co-op Meat Beat Mania every Thursday since Arcade Mania and it’s a major part of their relationship.

Steven Universe is at its weakest when the crew seemingly forgets key plot points: episodes like House Guest forget a character’s established personality, episodes like Sadie’s Song forget Steven’s development from bratty to empathetic, and both Malachite and Bismuth go unmentioned for huge swaths of the show during times when they would’ve been relevant to discuss or feature. Underground wrestling might be less pivotal than the long-term bubbling of an old friend, it’s just as frustrating for the thread to be completely ignored until it becomes relevant again. Because it’s not like the show always does this: look at Connie’s training, which has focus episodes here and there but is also background noise in other episodes to let it feel like a consistent part of her life. Mindful Education would’ve been a disaster if Connie started training in Sworn to the Sword and then we didn’t mention it at all until she accidentally tossed a classmate.

And really, imagine if at least one of the episodes in Amethyst’s big Act II arc was in the ring. We easily could’ve had Tiger Millionaire accidentally eclipsing Purple Puma as a catalyst for her self-doubt (among many other possibilities that this crew could conceive better than I) and it would’ve made Tiger Philanthropist feel so much better. But I can’t write about that, because that’s not what happened.

What sucks is that I love Tiger Millionaire and am all for more wrestling. Despite my snotty header quote choice about unwanted sequels, I was super excited for Tiger Philanthropist, and that glorious music brought me right back into the zone as the episode began. But the wind went right out of my sails when it became clear that we’re to believe Tiger Millionaire and Purple Puma are fixtures of the wrestling scene, and that it’s an activity that’s super important to Steven as a way of bonding with Amethyst.

And there are plot elements here that, in an episode with better context, would get a chance to shine. In a world where we knew Amethyst and Steven were wrestling for around two years, this would’ve been a pretty emotional conclusion to a relationship that began in the show’s early days (not that Steven and Amethyst would stop hanging out, but it’s always bittersweet when an important phase of your life is over). It would’ve served as a great acknowledgment of how Amethyst has moved on with her life if we saw the part of her life she was moving on from. We could’ve felt Steven’s sense of loss, and the surge of relief when Purple Puma returns for one last ride. If you transported this exact episode into a series that built up to it in any way, it would be a classic. But we aren’t watching that series.

It’s a little fun that I’m unsatisfied with a follow-up where an entertainer reacts to a fan being unsatisfied with a follow-up. Much like Season 2′s Mombo Combo, two thematically linked episodes about moms separating the Week of Sardonyx from Peridemption, we get two episodes in a row about fan interaction to buffer Steven’s long day in space from the continuation of his mother issues culminating in another trip to space. Unfortunately I can’t think of as good a name for Rocknaldo and Tiger Philanthropist as a unit as “Mombo Combo” (the Fandom Menace?) but nobody’s perfect.

Lars plays a fascinating role here, because the easy option would be making him an entitled fan a la Ronaldo who wants things to go just the way he likes. And to be clear, Lars does want things to go a certain way. But he’s not dictating the terms or saying he needs Tiger Millionaire to act exactly how he wants, he’s just frustrated by a new development that seems out of step with his favorite wrestler. Even when asked directly about what he'd like to happen, Lars doesn’t know, because he hasn’t confused his fandom with the notion that he gets to dictate the specifics about the thing he likes.

(I try to be the same way, but I also definitely wrote a spiel about how Tiger Millionaire and Purple Puma should’ve been present during Amethyst’s latest arc like five paragraphs ago. Again, nobody’s perfect.)

It helps that Lars doesn’t understand that Steven is Tiger Millionaire (a repeat gag that I’d probably find funnier if I felt more charitable about the episode), so he’s unaware that he’s speaking with the creator of the content he enjoys; perhaps he’d be singing a different tune if he knew the truth. But as it is, we get a surprisingly generous interpretation of a demanding fan, allowing us to see the ethos behind Lars’s disappointment instead of writing him off as an entitled fanboy with impossible expectations. The timing of Tiger Philanthropist fits perfectly with Lars’s imminent moment in the sun, as he’s still prickly but has enough layers by now that I don’t roll my eyes too hard when he up and calls himself complex.

I don’t talk about the visuals of this show as much as I should, considering how creative the settings and weird alien vehicles and structures can get. But it bears mentioning that, aside from some weird conspicuous computer graphics for falling money, Tiger Philanthropist looks great. The stylized snapshots provide moments of goofy flair to the mix, and the heightened drama of the ring leads to some excellent lighting that shadows Steven’s face as a hooded stranger and makes Purple Puma look like an honest-to-goodness superhero. We get fun choreography and costumes befitting a wrestling episode, and some premium character expressions throughout.

And it’s funny! Colton Dunn remains a worthy successor to Sinbad, giving us not one but two great gags of Mr. Smiley joyfully defining a word to the audience (both in the ring and at home); explaining “philanthropist” is funny enough on its own for how cheesy it is, but I’m really tickled that he gives the same weight to “sea wasp.” Really, this episode has so much going for it if the central idea wasn’t such a misfire.

As you may have guessed by this review, I obviously think it’s valid to criticize aspects of art that you don’t like. So in theory, it sounds awesome to have artists respond to such criticism to make a product that you as a fan enjoy more. But we now live in an age where absolute garbage like CinemaSins allows people to pretend that productive criticism is just nitpicks, an inability or refusal to understand basic nuance, and frankly bigoted ideas about what certain people are capable of doing (if you have half an hour to spare, Everything Wrong About Everything Wrong About Civil War delightfully gets into all three!). It’s a double-edged sword, because creators listening to fans perhaps isn’t inherently bad, but a desperation to fill in “plot holes” at the expense of good storytelling is detrimental to modern storytelling (if you have another half an hour to spare, watch Lindsay Ellis’s take on Beauty and the Beast for more on this; this is a review with homework!). And this is on top of the potential of harassment covered in Rocknaldo, which not even the lousiest content creator deserves.

Tiger Philanthropist isn’t about bad faith criticism, as Lars’s views are from a sincere place, but its message of not treating fans like bosses is a valid response to fandoms who want more and more influence over the direction of an artist’s work. Which could’ve veered towards self-importance or hackneyed nods to the camera, so I appreciate that I never feel pulled out of this element of the story. We never shift from a regular episode of the show to a screed from the animators, and again, Lars isn’t villainized for not enjoying Tiger Millionaire’s face turn. Combined with Rocknaldo, we can see how important good boundaries between fans and creators can be, both for the well-being of the people involved and the quality of the art being created. Shirt Club gave us a tribute to making art, and the Fandom Menace (it’s growing on me) sees a more experienced team of animators commenting on a specific issue when creating popular art, all while not coming across as bitter or self-congratulatory. If only they’d done it in an episode with more buildup!

Obviously the creation of a big letdown wasn’t the intent of the crew, despite how neat it’d be to demonstrate fan disappointment through a purposefully disappointing episode. Rarely do I feel like effort isn’t made to produce a good episode of Steven Universe, and as seen in its strengths, Tiger Philanthropist isn’t lazy. Which makes it a little more frustrating than if they phoned it in, because we’ve got jokes and visuals and a great message but none of it matters when the conflict they wrote requires a backstory they didn’t have. If you’re gonna make an episode about the end of a continuity, it’s critical for literally any amount of that continuity to be established beyond one wayward story over a hundred episodes ago. As it is, I couldn’t wait for this episode to retire.

We’re the one, we’re the ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!

Tiger Philanthropist was a huge disappointment, but I wouldn’t consider it bad enough to go on my No Thanks! list. With a different leadup of episodes it would be great, or at least fine; it just suffers from a plot that comes out of nowhere. Context can’t salvage my bottom list, which are episodes I just don’t like period. Still, if I was doing more thorough ranking, it’s probably in my bottom ten.

Top Twenty

Steven and the Stevens

Hit the Diamond

Mirror Gem

Lion 3: Straight to Video

Alone Together

Last One Out of Beach City

The Return

Jailbreak

The Answer

Mindful Education

Sworn to the Sword

Rose’s Scabbard

Earthlings

Mr. Greg

Coach Steven

Giant Woman

Beach City Drift

Winter Forecast

Bismuth

Steven’s Dream

Love ‘em

Laser Light Cannon

Bubble Buddies

Tiger Millionaire

Lion 2: The Movie

Rose’s Room

An Indirect Kiss

Ocean Gem

Space Race

Garnet’s Universe

Warp Tour

The Test

Future Vision

On the Run

Maximum Capacity

Marble Madness

Political Power

Full Disclosure

Joy Ride

Keeping It Together

We Need to Talk

Chille Tid

Cry for Help

Keystone Motel

Catch and Release

When It Rains

Back to the Barn

Steven’s Birthday

It Could’ve Been Great

Message Received

Log Date 7 15 2

Same Old World

The New Lars

Monster Reunion

Alone at Sea

Crack the Whip

Beta

Back to the Moon

Kindergarten Kid

Buddy’s Book

Gem Harvest

Three Gems and a Baby

That Will Be All

The New Crystal Gems

Storm in the Room

Like ‘em

Gem Glow

Frybo

Arcade Mania

So Many Birthdays

Lars and the Cool Kids

Onion Trade

Steven the Sword Fighter

Beach Party

Monster Buddies

Keep Beach City Weird

Watermelon Steven

The Message

Open Book

Story for Steven

Shirt Club

Love Letters

Reformed

Rising Tides, Crashing Tides

Onion Friend

Historical Friction

Friend Ship

Nightmare Hospital

Too Far

Barn Mates

Steven Floats

Drop Beat Dad

Too Short to Ride

Restaurant Wars

Kiki’s Pizza Delivery Service

Greg the Babysitter

Gem Hunt

Steven vs. Amethyst

Bubbled

Adventures in Light Distortion

Gem Heist

The Zoo

Rocknaldo

Enh

Cheeseburger Backpack

Together Breakfast

Cat Fingers

Serious Steven

Steven’s Lion

Joking Victim

Secret Team

Say Uncle

Super Watermelon Island

Gem Drill

Know Your Fusion

Future Boy Zoltron

Tiger Philanthropist

No Thanks!

6. Horror Club 5. Fusion Cuisine 4. House Guest 3. Onion Gang 2. Sadie’s Song 1. Island Adventure

#tiger philanthropist #steven universe #su #steven universally #review

18 notes · View notes

timeagainreviews · 5 years

Text

Zero Room for Error

Over his seven-year reign as the Doctor, Tom Baker had his ups and his downs. While seen as the definitive Doctor by many, towards the end, even Baker himself was tiring of the role. On top of that, the writing had begun to border along the outlandish. In "The Power of Kroll," the Doctor saves himself and others by emitting a high pitched scream that shatters glass. In another story, he saves the very metallic K9 from a furnace with his bare hands. However, it would seem that such heroics go back even as far as "The Android Invasion," where the Doctor jumps from the top of a building, unscathed. Ironic then, that a drop from a radio telescope not that much higher, should spell his death. Perhaps this was just the first of many course corrections the new showrunners hoped to achieve- bringing the Doctor back down to earth, so to speak.

With the introduction of Peter Davison as the Fifth Doctor, "Castrovalva," seems the most interested in lending some vulnerability to the character. There's a sort of pensive quality to a character having freshly fallen to his death. It spells out a very "look before you leap," plan of action moving forward. Sure, being the action hero is badass, but in the words of Dennis Reynolds- "You know what's badass? Being alive." But how much of Castorvalva is being economical, and how much of it is just plain stingy?

After a very weird regeneration scene involving "the Watcher," Tegan, Nyssa, and Adric rush the Doctor toward the safety of the TARDIS, all the while being chased by security guards leftover from "Logopolis." It's a fairly pointless scene that could have just picked up inside the TARDIS, but it's a chance to see Anthony Ainley's pillar of a TARDIS show a little menace, shocking the guards and Adric. Nyssa's remark about hating his face marks the first and last time she will ever mention the Master wearing her dead father's face- a plot point which I feel went woefully unexplored. At this time, there's not a lot of sense as to how or why the Master fits into the story, other than "He was in the last one."

Inside the TARDIS, the Doctor's regeneration is acting up, requiring him to need the use of the "Zero Room," a previously unmentioned area deep within the TARDIS. Along with misnaming his companions, he's also reliving past incarnations, allowing us to see Davison's impressions of both the First and Second Doctors, which admittedly aren't too bad. (His First Doctor is better than David Bradley's! Yeah I said it!) When I first watched this episode, I was horrified to find the Doctor unravelling the iconic scarf of his predecessor. But upon today's viewing, I saw it as a rather gutsy move on the writer, Christopher Bidmead's behalf. Leaving the thread behind as a trail of bread crumbs back to the console room is exactly something the Doctor would do.

After putting the TARDIS into motion, Adric follows the Doctor into the depths of the TARDIS. Meanwhile, Nyssa and Tegan desperately try any information on the TARDIS computer that might help the Doctor. Their conversation waxes philosophical about recursion and the word "if," which leads Tegan to wonder if the TARDIS index file could be reached by typing "I.F." into the console, which it does. This gives them the information they need to find the Zero Room and help the Doctor.

While the Doctor is searching, he finds the pieces of what will become his new costume, with a few red herrings peppered in. While he takes to the cricketer uniform, he leaves the recorder and big green wellies behind. The cricket bat needing a bit of linseed oil shows us that there appears to be an entire room of the TARDIS dedicated to the sport of cricket. One is led to wonder if there are other rooms dedicated to other sports and whether they're all British pastimes. While the concept of an Anglophile alien with a cricket room is rather absurd, it's the making stuff of Doctor Who.

After the disappointing portrayal of the TARDIS that was "The Invasion of Time," it was nice to see a more sci-fi interior. While it was clearly the same corridor elements rebuilt, and rearranged, it was still better than an old hospital with ugly whitewashed brick walls. These corridors at least felt like they belonged in a space ship. Even the Zero Room does a nice job of developing the TARDIS a little bit. That being said, it also undoes a bit of its own hard work, the second it gets introduced.

The Doctor explains to Tegan and Nyssa that the room is completely unaffected by outside influences. Even the gravity is equalised. Being inside this room has already improved the Doctor's cognitive faculties, as evidenced by his ability to get his companion's names right. He begins to levitate where he will suspend himself until his regeneration is complete. But this is interrupted by outside forces, when the Master appears on a screen, with Adric tied up like his leather slave in some sort of web. It's like the razor wire scene from the "Suspiria" remake with none of the real danger. How the Master is able to penetrate the Zero Room, or how he kidnapped Adric is anyone's guess. Is Adric even there? It’s not made clear.

The Master sends the TARDIS on a collision course with the formation of a galaxy. You may remember this danger from another TARDIS heavy story- "The Edge of Destruction." Only instead of trying to stab one another with scissors, the TARDIS fills up with hydrogen and threatens to explode. The Doctor jettisons various rooms from the TARDIS, enabling him to convert the matter into energy, allowing them to thrust away from the event, and into safety. The only problem is, this also jettisons the Zero Room in the process. This bit has always confused me, as the TARDIS seems almost nigh-infinite inside. Rooms seem less like physical spaces, and more like files on a computer. Couldn't they just make another Zero Room?

Nyssa and the Doctor set about building a to-go Zero Room out of its doors, encasing the Doctor in it like a coffin made out of TARDIS wall. There in goes our hero, where he will sleep much of the story away. Back to the Master and Adric, still tied up and writhing in a way that will leave those of us not on a watchlist feeling uncomfortable. Bless Matthew Waterhouse, he's acting his little ass off, and he's still awful. The Master then tortures Adric until he agrees to help him. This betrayal under duress is never explored further, it's just a bit of light betrayal that will become common for Adric.

After reading on the TARDIS computer of a place called Castrovalva, Nyssa and Tegan decide to take the Doctor there to regenerate in peace. Upon arriving, the deep forest is unkind to the high heel wearing duo as they wheel the Zero Coffin around on a wheelchair. Nyssa's poor choice of footwear lands her waist-deep in some peaty water, which leads to an admittedly rather adorable reaction shot on Sarah Sutton's behalf. I was struck with the utter cheapness that was this scene. I tried to imagine Clara Oswald pushing a silly white box around on a wheelchair, and it just didn't scan. The companions of old really don't get enough appreciation. They were asked to sell some pretty stupid stuff.

While looking for Castrovalva (which is evidently the city, not the planet), our heroes are being stalked by men dressed as a cross between a Weber grill and a muppet. After some pointless padding in the form of running about, they are captured and subjected to a surprising level of hospitality. After removing their hunting gear, we see that the Castrovalvans are an intelligent people, whose only real shortcoming as a society is their choice of headgear. They allow Tegan and Nyssa the comforts of home, while the Doctor sleeps. That evening they roast a pig over the fire, which made me laugh a little. Something about seeing earth animals on alien planets always feels a little odd to me. Sure, there are humans, but that makes more sense than say a mouse in Jabba's palace, or PIGS IN SPAAAAACE.

A lot of the action at this point has come to a dead standstill. The Doctor is sleeping most of the adventure away, which is, to me at least, the worst way to do a regeneration episode. Pertwee was asleep for Spearhead, Davison sleeps through Castrovalva, Tennant sleeps while a Christmas tree wrecks Jackie Tyler's living room... Even Capaldi and Jodie sleep through their regenerations. This does lend the story a sense of urgency, but usually, it's more boring than anything. I much prefer a Matt Smith style "I'm still cooking," manic start, than the Peter Davison sleepy time show.

Once Davison is up, he does a decent enough job filling in the shoes of the Doctor. Though upon my first viewing of the story, I did not think so at all. Going from Tom Baker to Peter Davison was like going from the toy store to the bank. The Fourth Doctor is my favourite Doctor, so it just wasn't very exciting for me. And like I said, I can see now why they may have wanted to tone the Doctor down a bit. Davison is your father's Doctor. His performance is more subtle. Only now am I even coming around to a point where I appreciate what he does, which is what brought me to this story in the first place. I've been revisiting him with a renewed interest.

The episode ends after the Doctor discovers the city is in a state of recursion. Like an Escher drawing, the physical layout of the castle loops in and out of itself, trapping its inhabitants, except for when they need to go hunting. (I guess?) The Master, of course, has been there all along in old man double-hat drag. The Doctor tricks the Master into thinking he's still in the Zero Coffin by filling it with books on the history of Castrovalva. While the Master shoots a box, the Doctor is rallying the citizens of Castrovalva and breaking them of the spell of recursion, allowing them to see with eyes unclouded.

After revealing a tapestry is actually the web that holds Adric, using his mathematical mind to maintain the lie that is Castrovalva, their leader Shardovan destroys the web with a chandelier, causing the city to begin to collapse. The Doctor, his friends, and Adric flee to safety. The Master is not so lucky, as the people tear at him like an angry mob. He becomes trapped inside the city as it fades into nothingness. Upon returning to the TARDIS, the Doctor finds Tegan's landing job askew but assures her that she didn't actually fly the TARDIS, much to her disappointment. I too was a little disappointed. It would have been nice to see the flight attendant become a pilot. It did, however, lead to what I consider one of my favourite Doctor Who memes.

As a "Doctor's first story," goes, I've seen worse. "The Twin Dilemma," will always hold the "What were they thinking?" title. But on its own, I'm not sure I would say it's a wholly successful story. Lots of the plot points are glossed over, and/or made no sense. But there are a lot of things I like about the serial. It's a rare occurrence where the companions were each given a little something to do, despite the crowded TARDIS. I even found Adric tolerable in this one. The world of Castrovalva was uniquely designed and could have stood up to even further exploration. Although I would suggest watching the special edition, as it does the Escher bit far more justice. I also appreciate any episode that incorporates more of the TARDIS into the story. It seems most writers treat our old girl as simply a means of conveyance, which is unfortunate. I wish they would have allowed Davison to maintain a bit of the zaniness from these few episodes, as they promised a Doctor that was a little more cheeky than the one we got. But by the end of it all, he's got his friends, he's got his TARDIS, and he's got his celery. It's hard not to want to watch the next episode.

#Doctor Who #Fifth Doctor #peter davison #nyssa #tegan jovanka #adric #sarah sutton #janet fielding #matthew waterhouse #castrovalva #tardis #recursion #if #the master #anthony ainley #Time and Time Again

14 notes · View notes