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softcorememories · 2 years

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𝘞𝘢𝘺 𝘋𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘞𝘦 𝘎𝘰. Part. 1

pairing : Tangerine x fem!reader

Warnings : mentions of blood, violence, guns, huge amount of swear words and sexual words.

NB : This is my work. I will not accept plagiarism.

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𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘊𝘪𝘵𝘺, 10 p.m.

The streets were crowded with people coming and going from buildings, restaurants and more nightclubs. Cars almost blind everyone’s vision, but after all, aren’t we all blind ?

Somewhere beneath these giant screens, these lying TV commercials, these cartoons for children or even under the kind doctors who care for you, there are criminals hiding behind the most disconcerting bloodlust. Bounty hunters, mercenaries, more or less crooked spies, then individuals who work alone or in small teams. All are dangerous at their own level, but like any hierarchy, you have to make a name for yourself and be effective, be the most discreet, the smartest and the fiercest. The level of spilled blood is very important as well as the hunting list of each one, this is especially what the employer will inspect before hiring any murderer. Except if the murderer is part of a gang with a godfather, in this case it is he who will decide where to put his men including women. These guys do the dirty work for those who are too scared to do it and still few criminals do what some other comrades can do. Each has its own methods, from gory to refined.

The Twins are among the most gory individuals if they have money to earn, no matter the situation, they jump at the opportunity to bury themselves under the wealth.

The first one is called Lemon, medium height, very intelligent compared to his twin who is much more impulsive. What differentiates Lemon from his brother is his passion for Thomas the Tank Engine and his skin color. He is the brain of all plans.

The biggest is called Tangerine, impulsive, nervous and angry that’s what composes him and that’s why we call this guy for help when someone has to cut up a body, or anything that refers to murder. His hair is dark brown but curly and thrown back so that in his hectic actions, no discomfort is caused. His most distinct physical attraction would be his well-stocked pornstache just above the cupid arch of his envious and sinful lips. His style remains more distinguished, torrid, his blue jacket perfectly embraces the prominent pectorals of this man with the blood of thousands of people on his hands, You only have to look up to notice his small gold chain around his neck and enhanced by the opening offered by his shirt half open.

His rusty hands are clutched around the leather steering wheel of the black car that Lemon found a few weeks ago. The anger grew more and more as they were in pursuit of an important suitcase that had been entrusted to them and they were well told not to lose it, under no pretexts. Shit happens sometimes but just the idea of losing five million dollars, Tangerine remained on the idea of pursuing the unknown person who took one of the objects of his mission. If he doesn’t have it for three days, he and his brother’s head will be on the market. The lights are flashing around the car as the speed of the vehicle is unexpected, it zigzags between the different cars without respecting the rules of the road, even passing on a sidewalk having almost hitting a couple that was walking. Lemon’s eyes almost come out of their orbs noticing that they almost crushed poor innocents.

- Hey! Are you insane or somethin’ ? Imagine they were going on a date or joining their family ? And then it’s not even the right direction !

His voice rose a little more while the tall brown shook his head being sure of his plan. His eyebrows frowned upon noticing that the car was no longer in the street in which he was supposed to pursue it. Well-dressed women as well as men with more or less refined cotumes blocked all the way, Tangerine strucks the steering wheel with his two fists violently.

- Fuck ! Fuck ! Damn it Lemon !

The man with the pornstache was furious that the mission was not working as he had planned, but only as he lowered his head in order to disgorge his anger. From the corner of his eye, he notices heels at the feet of an elegant woman who was carrying the infamous suitcase. What is it doing in the hand of this myschevious woman ? His blood made only one turn before coming out of the car suddenly, his legs precede him in order to go in pursuit of the feminine silhouette urgely. Lemon got out of the car shaking his short arms in order to yell at Tangerine who was gone like a fury.

- Seriously? Wait for me, Tangerine !

Tangerine was stopped by the security guard who blocked him with his hand on his chest.

Fox finally looked at the man who had been chasing her for hours in the car, and had warned the security guard that he wanted to hurt her, which was not entirely false. Making Tangerine burst into fury and standing at the entrance with his brother trying to calm him down.

- This bitch, I swear I’m going to kill her and make her regret everything.

Lemon patted his twin on the shoulder as a warning.

- oh oh oh , she is a woman. Be respectful.

- Yea’ well she is running away so ... are you going to help me go in or what ? said Tangerine while looking at these heels walking away from him.

The young woman was only doing her job even though she knew who she was dealing with, her gaze is fixed on the path ahead of her trying to appear as least suspicious as possible. A small smile amused on her lips finely dressed by a lipstick that reveals what kind of woman she was, a femme fatale with an ounce of furious madness deep inside herself. She was very happy with what she had just played as a trick to the two twins especially the handsome tall brown, the most arrogant of the two she thought. Her mysterious look bears witness to many things, as well as techniques and that's why her referent had given her the code name which is "Fox", clever and Farrouche but discreet.

The sounds of her heels blend with the beating music as well as the sick cries of the nightclub guests, everyone danced tightly and tightly, the perspiration and the smell of alcohol made a rather unpleasant smell on the nose of our dear protagonist. She did not like making transactions in a nightclub, because it was unpleasant at the most with the men who insisted on giving them a dance or a drink at the bar. Fox clicked her heels up the stairs surrounding some waitresses giving the drinks to their clients before making her way to her teammate, she worked with him for quite a long time for dure, around 3 years from now on. Their work is always on point even if sometimes it didn’t work as planned but we all fail at some points of our life so why not him and her ?

As soon as she placed the suitcase on the glass table in front her teammate, he started to laugh loudly while siping his glass of whiskey like nobody can stop them.

- I never doubted your skills, Fox. You rather look ravishing tonight.

A lazy smile formed on her lips as she just nod in contentment while grabbing a glass he offered her with a cocky smile.

- Thanks you , you don’t look bad yourself. But next time, try to not wear your glasses. You are too recognisable. she said while crossing her legs and scanning the room to search for the twins.

During the little conversation the two had about the mission, Tangerine and Lemon have succeded to enter the bar by forcing the entrance. Tangerine made his way through all the people taking a glance on the few asses that walked by him. Okay , he is on a mission but as long as he is doing his job can he not have some funny time ? The music blasts the walls and his eardrums, waking him up from his thoughts. Now that he was fully aware of the situation, his feet made their way toward any indications of the mysterious woman. Eyes darting like an hunter chasing his prey. His baby blue eyes crossed those transcendent of the woman he was looking for while murmuring in his beard some insults. His body stopped on its own when he saw that the woman with the long hair was approaching him with this so feline walk. It was too difficult to detach himself from it but still he could not distinguish her face precisely.

Her hips swayed vigourously as she said to her teammate to runaway while she is distracting the man some meters away from her. At this exact moment, when she was only one meter away from him, her bare back shown by her blissful red dress was facing the assassin. His instinct made him come to her and sticking his body to hers, his hot breath on her neck while she was clearly handling the situation into her grasp. The problem is that he cannot try to fight her or make a tantrum there, too much crowd it would be unnecessary to do some side kills, his brother reminded that to him few minutes ago.

- Where is the suitcase ?

His voice was rough but yet not that loud as he whispered into her sensitive ear as they were sticking to each other still not facing. Fox was made for this moment, her ass cheeks create some friction between her body and the fabric of the trousers he was wearing which made the man crazy as he was trying to keep calm.

- The suitcase is safe and so far away from you, dear.

Tangerine grabbed her hips with his big calloused hands making her cut her breath as a mad smile was plastered on her perfect lips. Their bodies move on the music, Staying Alive was explosing in the room as if it was meant to be the music for the situation they were in. His cologne was invading her nostrils as she was perfectly playing her role knowing it by feeling the bulge forming into the pant of her opponent. His hands were implanted on the red fabric covering her skin as he made his lips nearer to her ear.

- I think I didn’t make myself enough clear here, doll... You tell me where is the suitcase ... then ...

The assassin made her swing by keeping their closeness and giving back the cockiness she was giving to him. Her perfume was very distracting as he tried to remain composed while his left hand was going onto her neck. Slowly squeezing it, his thumb gently caressing the delicate area on her throat.

- ... we will be all happy and never seeing each other again.

- No. Her tone was firm, not even afraid of his gesture on her neck, it was rather annoyingly sexy.

- No ?

His hand was squeezing a little more her throat while she was doing some breathing shit knowing very well what she was actually doing. Her manucured fingers went on the sides of the man, giving it smooth caresses as if it was ephemeral.

- What makes you think I can’t kill you, doll ?

The tone of his voice is so smooth that it was similar to an erotic voice in some porns. But, again, Fox beat her opponent at his own game turning around to finally face him. He didn’t change a bit, apart that his pornstache is well-stocked giving him some dominant vibe. Which he is. She didn’t see him for a surpassingly lengthy time, the last time was in Lima when Tangerine left her for dead with a dangerous drug dealer after doing some shitty business. Never she thought about seeing him again, her gaze was fully into is making her way into his soul.

- ‘Cause you can’t, Tangerine. And you will stay there and never following me again. Understood ?

Red lips was all he remembered from the moment his two blue orbs noticed who she actually was. He remembered Lima, 3 years ago. Not even surprised he could find her facing him, he was one of the best assassin with Lemon that any independants could find. All of their past together flashed before his eyes as his ex partner make her way out with a godly devout manner.

Was it true ? Was she really here ? Lemon suddenly appeared next to him trying to follow what he was staring at, seeing clearly nothing. It was rarely usual to see his brother in a trance like that so his hand shook him a bit.

- Nothing downstairs ... What were you looking at ? Did you find her ?

His gaze was still in its trance trying to remain on earth but it was too hard to realised what happened just now. So, Tangerine stated what he couldn’t believe himself.

- It’s her.

- o...kay man ? Who ? I don’t want to disturb you but there is something going on in your pants. Articulated Lemon as the music is so loud, gesturing to the big bulge that his twin was bearing.

His gaze dimly looked down on his most precious part of his body, Tangerine was swallowing and arching an eyebrow while passing a nervous hand through his dark curly hair almost pulling it off himself.

- Get in the fucking car Lemon.

The smaller in terms of height took some steps back while giving his brother a confused look, well he was genuinely trying to understand the situation but at the time he was supposed to know Fox they weren’t as close as she was with Tangerine. Lemon had a good relationship with her for sure, they were even drinking buddies during missions but his twin and her were something more, he noticed it by the way they were obviously flirting and touching themselves “ innocently “ as both tend to say. It was 3 years ago so his memory is quite blurred about her. Tangerine walked at a hurry pace out of the nightclub following his brother few seconds later then adjusting himself with his hand.

- Well that is awkward ...

Hoping that his boner will be gone in a few, his entire self got in the car then closing his eyes with the back of his head on his seat as if he was trying to not blow up out of anger. Patience was lost on the side of Lemon who turned to the side to face him like he was waiting for something with arched eyebrow.

- So are you gonna tell me what’s going on and who is “ her “ ? He questionned using quoting marks.

- Well “ her “ is fucking “ Fox “ . And we are in so deep shit that we will not see the end of it because you know what ? She will shove bullets in our fucking assholes so far that our holes will be an endless galaxy.

Tangerine aggressively did quoting marks then to back up his remarks, he pointed to the hollow of his right hand with his left index finger just as assertively. He was right, Fox is not a woman to play with and to betray so easily. Now he was facing the consequences of being so reckless and his brother seems to be as concerned and panicked as him while looking in defeat in the void.

- Man. Ya know that she is literally , like , a man eater ? Thomas The Tank Engine wouldn’t risk any harmful situation with that woman. Especially now that she is opposing us in this mission.

- Oh yeah ?? As if I didn’t know that ! Tangerine lost it as he starts the car in a mechanical way with the goal in mind to go to their hotel but it was his twin who had reserved the room. So after several meters, he stops by pinching his lips between them. Lemon gave him a knowing look then getting his phone out of his right pocket to look at the online reservation.

- That’s what i thought.

- What’s the adress again ? Tangerine asked him passing the palm of his hand on his face to wake himself up a bit. The two brothers drove off to their hotel room to relax and finally have some sleep.

Fox was sliding in her bubble bath, a delicious strawberry scent occupies the bathroom as she was laughing at the situation she put herself. She knew that accepting this plan from her teammate was insane knowing her past with Tangerine, he knew a lot about it but that was also the purpose of the plan. Getting the twins out of this to get the job done. Their referent chose her to back him up as the man didn’t have a lot of chance and always fucked up when he’s alone. A cigarette was hanging at her lips, blowing out the smoke in the air and looking at the ceiling. This feeling was short before thinking about who she was facing again. Tangerine made his way to the big glassed window having a magnificient view of New York City in front of his eyes, a cigarette also between his two fingers and his free hand into the left pocket of his straight trousers.

- Fuck. They both said at the same time not aware of what is going to happen next.

What would you do when you meet an old partner again ? Face the consequences.

#tangerine #tangerine x reader #tangerine x you #bullet train #bullet train fic #tangerine fic #aaron taylor johnson #brad pitt #tangerine bullet train #lemon bullet train #bullet train imagine #tangerine x fem!reader

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verysmolnerd · 9 months

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Double-shift Drowsiness

Drabble: You're ten minutes from closing and your former professor comes in asking for directions.

I think it’s blatantly obvious that I don’t like working minimum-wage jobs. Hell, my very first fic posted on the internet was because I was treated like shit at a retail store. Now, it’s a little better but that doesn’t mean I’m still not getting the butt end of a stick. This be a vent drable… my bad.

Cw: Swearing

God fucking dammit.

You’re here again, for another summer, to take a ludicrous amount of bullshit from your coworkers just to shell in a few more dollars towards your college tuition.

Normally, the shifts are bearable and you can come home fine, but when you’re there all day sunrise to sunset, it isn’t ideal coming home with so much grease on you. When you shower, you don’t even feel the water on you for a minute because of how much grease had gotten in your skin.

As for the coworkers part, it’s mainly just one blonde bitch in particular. Specifically, a carhop that’s more entitled than the angry customers here and has the audacity to be a douche to anybody and everybody. When she speaks it always sounds like she cops some sort of attitude when she comes back into the kitchen.

The only time -as of recently- when she isn’t acting like a punchable brat, is when the general manager of the kitchen staff is around. You had pointed out to them that she was only doing this to be in their good graces, and they agreed; explaining to you that they’ve already talked with her numerous times but she still refuses to listen. You could only hope that one day she’ll get the boot like someone that everyone else in the kitchen even refuses to talk about.

It always feels like when one problem from the kitchen gets extinguished, three more pop up. With whom that shall not be named is gone, all the kitchen staff are comfortable with talking with each other and making jokes without someone coming in to ruin the mood or harass you. Now, the problem is the one carhop acting like the next cockroach of the damn place and new hires refusing to do work. May you be reminded that you’re only here for the summer and ONLY HERE TO MAKE MONEY FOR THE UPCOMING SCHOOL YEAR.

…

Why do you care so much? It’s just who you are, sadly.

Now you’re here, still at the restaurant ten minutes to close. You were calmly wiping down the countertops while the general manager had some nostalgic slow songs from the 2000s playing on a Bluetooth speaker that somehow is still working after months of straight abuse and constant use.

Your other coworkers in the kitchen -you guys just call each other comrades at this point with how tight you are with all the workers that have those strong skills back here- were sweeping and restocking the fridges for the deep fryer or grill. It’s peaceful, well, as peaceful as a food service kitchen could be.

Everyone was just as tired as you were because it was really late and a long day for those who didn’t work a double shift like you. You needed the hours, what else could you say? Unfortunately, the amount of tiring work doesn’t dawn on you until you’re working over forty hours a week.

You could see the silhouette of two cars pull in from the packing window, and you sighed. Late stragglers. Somehow, the most desperate people to get to a cheap chain restaurant are also the people who order half of the menu, it infuriates you to no end.

One car pulled right up in the spot in front go the building, and the other pulled in at a farther spot. You close your eyes and exhale, this is a common thing to happen so you’re not surprised. You are, however, annoyed that everyone in the building is bitching about it.

What you weren’t expecting, was the person who parked so close to the building to come inside. It’s not like you truly cared anyway, you were just upfront to refill your drink; you haven’t done so in hours and you were beyond parched.

Your back was to the counter as you waited for the machine to finish pouring your drink, not expecting your name to be called. You turn around, thinking it’s some sort of coworker calling you….

But it was Otto. Your former professor of all people. Dressed in those turtlenecks that hug his figure with dress pants and completing shoes that shine under the restaurant lobby’s lights.

You lock eyes with him and freeze, both of you staring at each other in shock. “What are you doing here?” You ask him, you’d never thought that you’d see him again…period. “I could say the same about you,” he responded, fumbling with his hands.

You can feel a few of your coworkers peer through the small window to look at you and the front staff watch the conversations from the blind spots of the counter. You sighed, “This is my hometown. I work here in the summer.” Otto glanced over the counter and noticed the nosy staff, they quickly retreated to the backrooms when they were discovered.

“I just came to ask for directions since my phone died.” Otto held up the dead device. You nodded, setting your cup down on the counter, “Where are you headed?.. Or where do you think you’re headed?” This isn’t a common thing when people want to go somewhere in this part of the state but end up getting lost, the maps are outdated when you’re this rural, so you’ve had to point a few people the right way. “A retreat where some of my colleagues are, it’s supposed to be more up north..” He paused, you know Otto very well; he hates making mistakes, to be seen as an idiot when he genuinely didn’t know something, “but I think I took a wrong turn- ” he told you the name of the camp with a few descriptors of the place, and you nodded.

You walked up near the front of the store and picked up a pamphlet, “I think this is the camp you’re talking about,” You handed the advertisement to Otto. He smiled brightly, “Yes it is.” You can see the relief across his face.

“Good news then. You’ve only got two more hours worth of driving on the main road.” Otto’s face fell, it seemed that the urban convenience he’d had his whole life might’ve been a stunt to his patience. Though you don’t blame him, night driving in the countryside can be quite nerve-wracking. Deer are the most ruthless to people from the city.

You let out an airy chuckle, “Is it bound to get dark soon,” You eyed the electronic clock, it displayed the time 9:00 pm, “Are you sure that you want to drive when it’s dark out?” Otto looked like he wanted to say yes, but he stopped himself.

“You’ll crash at my place tonight.” Otto opened his mouth to protest, but the carhop of your nightmares entered the restaurant and walked right up to him. “Hi! How can I help ya?” You clenched your jaw at the sickly-sweet tone she uses. Otto waved her off, “Ah, no thanks I’m just asking for directions from a friend of mine.” Otto gestured to you with those huge hands of his. You felt yourself heat up with pride, he sees you as more than a student; well, you do have his number…

You can see that the source of your dismay clenched her teeth with a customer service smile before walking away. Otto cleared his throat, “About earlier-“ “Yeah, you can just follow my car home.” You gave him zero room to say no.

“Ah, just a sec,” You walked into the kitchen to see if it was okay, but the team lead already waved you off and said, “Go.”

Well shit.. alright then..

You grabbed the stuff you brought with you and you clocked out on an outdated machine up front. You waved to Otto to follow you, to the parking lot. You got in your car, and he got into his, and now you’re leading him to your place.

It wasn’t that far of a drive, the longest part was making a left turn from one of the main roads, there always seemed to be cars there when you wanted to make a turn.

You pulled into your driveway and were now getting your keys out to unlock the front door. You felt the warmth of your previous professor at your back fighting the chilly night air. It was about time that the nights got cooler again, it’s nearly September after all…

You open the front door and hold it for Otto, but he uses his height to keep it open; his hand is high above your head to keep the door open, “No, it’s fine you can go in first.” You thanked him and went inside.

You were in the process of putting your things away in their respective spots when the front door shut behind Otto, he was watching you move around your house with ease; like clockwork. “You keep yourself on quite the schedule.” He watched you move around your kitchen, but then you stopped to look at him after he said that. “Oh, don’t let me stop you.” He moved his hands in a manner to tell you to keep moving. “No, I was just wondering if you’ve already eaten dinner? I can whip something up if you’d like.” You explained yourself, Otto nodded and you swore his face was a bit pink, “I did, thank you for asking, but about staying here-“ You cut him off again, “What kind of person would I be if I didn’t let the person I care about stay here for the night,” You turned to shut off the kitchen lights and show him to your bedroom, but you stopped yourself to relay that information to him, “You can stay in my bedroom, what kind of host would I be if you’re not comfortable?”

“I was just going to say that I can sleep on the couch,” Otto protested, but you weren’t having it.

“No, I’ll be fine. I have tomorrow off, you need the rest so you can drive.” “You need the rest so you can have a nice day off.” Otto folded his arms.

“No-“

“Let’s not-“

You both cut each other off in the argument..

….

You and Otto are now both dressed down in bed, looking at each other completely flushed and in partial shock from the stubbornness you both share.

You click off the night, and Otto speaks, “Well, good night.” “Love you.” You automatically responded. You froze and Otto laughed.

“Love you too.”

#fanifiction #fanifc #drabbles #otto x reader #otto octavius x reader #pre accident! Otto #otto octavius #the nerd writes

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cheelduh · 3 years

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How to strike your way into someone’s heart (Highschool AU)

Part 2 to this. Can be read alone!

Pairing: Childe x fem!reader

Warnings: A lot of swearing I mean what do you expect they’re all teenagers. Lots of brick slapping. Childe clowns Scaramouche. OH YES this isn’t edited at all lmfao have fun.

Synopsis: It’s your big date with Childe after you lost the bet miserably. You decide to pay the occult club a visit in hopes of finding something that can...ease your concerns. Childe on the other hand has Signora give him a friendly piece of advice, believe it or not.

Note: SRY THIS TOOK ME LIKE A MONTH

For as long as you can remember, you've never believed in ghosts, demons, or souls that lose their way in the endless void, forced to roam the earth in repentance.

Believing in the unknown takes creativity, adventure, maybe even a little sense of fear. Scratch that—a shitton of fear, because humans love to weave in their insecurities and inability to explain something into something of a phenomenon.

Bad luck lies in this category. Bad luck is simply a way to justify the catastrophe that one cannot admit they have fabricated themselves. Everyone wants a reason as to why shit hits the fan, and it can be anything but their own fault.

Bad luck is nothing but a load of bull to you. That's totally why you're standing outside the calculus classroom during lunch break, which happens to be the official meet spot for the occult club.

You raise a fist to knock, but then falter, thinking over your options once again. Is this what it has come to? Putting your faith into the weird kids that once tried to summon Schrödinger's cat for the physics final.

Fischl kicks the door wide open, a smirk playing at her lips once she spots you. "One cannot refrain from the song of your cogitation. The feline for which thou dwell on—"

A squeak leaves your throat and you flinch back, cutting her off. "You can read my mind?"

"Fischl," An icy eyed boy shows up from behind her and points a thumb back. "Mona needs your help."

Fischl squints at you for a brief moment, and then spins onto her heel to go back into the room.

The blue haired lower class man, Chongyun you guess, narrows his eyes at you. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Finally you manage to speak, palms all sweaty. "Yeah uh, I need your help. You know, with occulty things." You use your hands to articulate your thoughts, but ultimately give up.

You're not sure if it's pity towards your pathetic explanation or simply annoyance, but Chongyun widens the opening. He silently gestures for you to follow.

Stumbling on your feet and putting on your big girl pants, you hurry inside of the room, hoping you aren't seen by Beidou. She wouldn't let you hear the end of this.

The temperature instantly drops, and you have to adjust your sight to navigate. There's heavy incense in the air as well as a a few lighted candles from the dollar store, you guess.

Sitting smack dab in the middle of all the demonic markings is Mona, with a mischievous glint in her eyes. Chongyun has made his way next to her, crossing his arms with a sigh, and Fischl is busy cooing at her bird.

"Well well well..." Mona's amused, eyes almost twinkling as she gets up from the poor desk that had to suffer the wrath of her ass. "If it isn't Y/N."

Mona is a glorified dick wiper in your books. One time, she partnered up with you in chemistry last year and refused to do any work because apparently her "star sign" said she was incompatible with science. You haven't forgiven her since.

"I need your help." You barely manage to choke out the words, reigning yourself in by clenching your fists instead. It'll be unethical to claw her face, especially since you're the one who's come to her.

"Oh?" She smiles wickedly, revelling in every moment of this no doubt. "Why would the high and mighty Y/N need help from the 'Whoroscope whore'?"

Fischl nearly slips out a laugh, trying with her upmost ability to refrain from rolling all over the floor.

You blink away your tears of almost-laughter, casually sliding in twenty mora across the table dividing you two. If she's a whoroscope whore like you say she is, she'll definitely put it in her bra.

Mona raises a brow, but her eyes linger on the bill for a second too much. "What makes you think I'll do it for money?"

"That's simple," You say, rolling your eyes. "When you see mora, you cling to it like a baby clings to a tit. Now just take it and solve my issues."

She fumes a litany of curses but snatches the money up anyways.

"What do you want?"

You breathe in, then out. "I need a talisman."

Mona raises a brow, hand on her hip. "I'm sorry. Did I get that right?"

How dare she. You will your eye into not twitching, the beginnings of fire thrumming through your veins, scalding hot. How dare she make me repeat myself.

"You know, the thing to fend off evil spirits," Your statement hangs heavy in the air as the cogs in their brains click into place. "I need one that can remove the most evilest thing times ten to the power of twenty five on this planet."

Everyone immediately thinks of Hu Tao.

Chongyun is the first to speak from an area of expertise, seemingly shocked at your words. "Are you sure you want a talisman that powerful? How bad is the evil spirit you've come across?"

You glance out the window, through the semi-open blinds. The apprehension curls in your stomach once you spot Childe chasing Aether with safety scissors, and you've never been more sure of than anything in your life.

Gulping, you turn back to the exorcist. "I'm 110% sure."

He doesn't ask any more questions and goes to fetch the talisman.

Mona clears her throat. "So I hear you have a date with Childe today. Quite the character you've taken to."

"Oh please," You hiss through your teeth, your blood pressure going up tenfold, "you're the one that told him our star signs were intertwined and that we're fated lovers."

She shrugs innocently, stance casual unlike your own that is ready to lunge an attack.

"Here you are," Chongyun hands you a talisman, a colourful mix of some charms, some kind of liquid in a bottle, and about a shitton of other things. "You'll need these if you're going to face the most demonic of all evils."

You think of Childe's stupidly handsome smirk, the playful life of his eyes, and how gentle and considerate he is with you. You think about how cruel he is to others, but how loving he can be to you.

"Oh, I will be."

—

Childe is getting his ass handed to him by Scaramouche on the switch. It's just that he can't seem to focus, not with the forthcoming date all over his mind.

He hasn't experienced these kind of jitters in a long time. Has to endure that foolish smile that's about to plaster all over his face.

Scaramouche may be a son of a bitch with an agenda, but he doesn't appreciate his acquaintances safeguarding their personal crap when it starts to leak onto him. Especially when it comes to video games.

"Okay," The short boy sighs, stretching over the staff room sofa to drop his controller on the cushions. "Let's hear it." He can't even properly enjoy his victories when Childe isn't giving it his all.

"Hear what?" Childe lays his head back, relaxing from all the strain of endless gaming during the lunch hour. He seems too relaxed for someone who's broken into the teacher's lounge.

"Why you're so distracted." Scaramouche points out. "Not that I care—hey! I'm serious here!"

Childe's cracking up for absolutely no reason, rudely cutting him off. "I'm sorry—sorry it's just so hard to take you seriously when you're wearing that stupid fucking hat."

"Don't question the drip." The older moves his head to glare at him, but the thin stripe of silk on his hat swooshes with him, and it's enough to have Childe clutching his stomach in pain as he barks out in laughter.

"Grow the fuck up." Scaramouche says, no doubt exasperated from the constant shit he gets.

"Ok—ok I'm sorry."

There's a knock on the door before Scaramouche gets the chance to intimidate him again.

"Fuck shit fuck who is that? Wasn't there a staff meeting?" Childe whisper yells, panic clear in the ocean of his eyes.

Scaramouche shrugs and downs a can of soda with no care in the world.

Childe would be nonchalant too. If it were a normal day, he wouldn't give two shits about getting caught.

However, he's looking forward to that date he has with you today. Detention is going foil all his lecherous plans.

"It's me." The feminine sound of a threat calls out from the other side. "Open the door." The clicks and clacks of her toes tapping the floor indicating her impatience.

The two sigh in relief, Childe getting up to open the door. It's way too early in the afternoon to deal with this crap.

"Surprised to see me?" Signora greets sweetly, and if not for the murderous glint in her eyes, he would smile back.

"Yeah, I didn't say Bloody Mary three times." The ginger replies, keeping a steady eye on the upperclassman in case she pulls a fast one.

The blonde shoves him aside in offence, and prances in like she owns the goddamn place. Scaramouche greets her with the bird.

"There's this rumour going around—I'm sure you've heard..."

"Oh?" Childe pockets his keys, ready for an attack, not even remotely interested in the topic.

"Something about how Y/N gave Mona a visit today" Signora muses, elegantly taking a seat on the arm of the couch, "with your date and all, I just thought you should know."

"Hah!" Scaramouche bursts out in laughter, tears in the corner of his eyes. "I can't believe she went to get a horoscope reading on how shitty your date's gonna be."

"Get castrated." Childe growls, flipping him off on both hands.

"Now now boys," Signora's lips curl, and she clasps both manicured hands together, prepared to break the fight if it ever reaches its peak. "Settle down. You two are comrades."

"As if I'm comrades with this SIMP!" Scaramouche has to wheeze out the words.

The youngest clenches his fists, unclenches, and then lets a smirk grow. "Oh? I'm the simp? What about that time Mona pantsed you in-front of all the freshmen and you fell in love with her."

Scaramouche glares at him, a glare strong enough to have anyone shaking in their shoes. "I'm attracted at her sheer audacity of trying to fuck I, Scaramouche, the 8th harbinger, over. It takes balls."

"Mad respect." Signora leans forward to place her phone on the coffee table, then approaches Childe. "Moving on, the reason I've decided to bestow my precious intel on you is because I have a favour to ask of you."

"What?" He says blankly, confused that she has a request for him out of all people.

"I need you to let me get you ready for this date of yours." She gives him a gaze that is enough to wither away any arguments.

Childe shares a look with Scaramouche as if to say "am I fucking deaf because I sure as shit didn't just hear that."

"You sure as hell did, boys." Signora intercepts the connection of their two brainwaves with a dreaded sigh. "I hate Y/N. This is the only way I can get back at her."

"Hey!" Childe exclaims loudly, waving his hands in the air incessantly. "What makes you think I'll let you shit on my future girlfriend."

"I'll be doing nothing of the sorts." She points out, giving him a sly smile. "I just know she's terrified of what's coming. The better the date is, the more she's gonna hate herself. What more do I need but to sprinkle some inner conflict within her airtight resolve?"

As favorable as the proposal is, Childe contemplates for a second. Signora...helping him? This could work to his advantage if he plays his cards right.

His inner turmoil takes him into the future, where you two are happily married with eight and a half kids. If you ever managed to find out Signora was the culprit that was finally able to set you two up, you'd never forgive him.

"Nah I'll take a hard pass." He doesn't want to think about divorce and custody battles this early on. He'd rather face the brunt of Signora's wrath.

Scaramouche chooses right then to make a tactical withdrawal out through the window since he doesn't want to be a witness to a murder he hasn't caused.

Surprisingly— "Fine then." Signora shrugs, unbothered when summoning out a minty juul from no where. She's disappointed nonetheless.

Childe tilts his head, perplexed, but decides against mulling over it for too long. Instead, he strides off to the door, wanting to get the last two periods over with so he can run home and freshen up for this date.

"Oh and Childe?" Signora calls out to him, but he barely acknowledges her, only pausing momentarily without looking back. "A piece of friendly advice. A diligent student like Y/N, there's no way she'd be into rash things like fighting. So try and control yourself, hmm?"

He flashes the senior a sheepish smile, the front row tickets to the illegal underground fight-club burning in the back pocket of his pants.

—

Childe conceals near the bushes by the gate, expertly hiding his shaking hands by pretending to look for something in his back. His goal isn't to seem desperate, even though he's raced out here at the speed of light after Havria's dismissal.

It's not like he's trying to eavesdrop or anything. He just wants a little insight on how you're feeling about this, in case the rumors of you visiting the occult club wasn't a farce.

From his peripheral, he spots you and a familiar figure that is Lisa, leisurely walking side by side as you approach the main side walk.

"Ready for your date, Y/N? You've been daydreaming all afternoon." Lisa winks, and dodges the shove you send her way with experience like no other.

"Yes, daydreaming about punching you in the face." Your left eye twitches in annoyance as you fix your hold on your skateboard.

"Well then, I'll be off—ah!"

The gorilla grip you have on her sleeve takes away all the time she has to get on the last bus she's about to miss.

Your utter strength is enough to make Childe's knees weak. How pathetic he thinks.

"Oh no you don't," You say in a sing-song voice, "you got me into this, so you're going to help."

"Help with what?" Lisa fakes a hard pout as she bats her lashes, trying to collect pity points.

"I—" You inhale, loosening your grip on her and averting your eyes nervously to see if anyone's watching. "Don't make me say it."

The older girl motions for you to continue, and you're sure you've suffered more for less at this point.

"I've never...been on a..." The sentence ends in a trailed murmur.

Childe doesn't think he's ever seen you so flustered. He's about to snap a picture for later, but decides against it. They'll be plenty of moments later on to see your cute expressions.

Lisa's grin is both seductive and terrifying, Childe notices. "You've never been on a date?"

"Shut up!" You hiss, dropping your board so you can cover her lips with your palm, eyes darting around your surroundings frantically. "Not so loud."

He has to bite at his fist to hide his amusement.

As if she has a sixth sense, Lisa's eyes somehow find Childe's through the abundance of leaves, and there's a glint in her eyes that nearly makes him shart his pants.

"Of course Y/N," She replies sweetly to you, who is currently unaware of the staring match going on. "I'll teach you everything you need to know...and more."

Childe doesn't know if that's a good or bad thing. Nor does he want to find out.

—

You ponder on what's taking him so long, more on edge than you usually are. Thankfully, Lisa basically pried your hair down from its usual up-do. Said something about how you can hide your lack of shits given as to not offend him.

Except you think you're giving more shits that you expected to. Why else would your heart be pounding so hard?

"What took you so long?" You sense him creeping up on you, ceasing his chance to pounce.

Childe groans playfully and slaps a hand over his face as he comes into view. "How'd you know?"

"You have a douche-styled gait." You reply as you remove your gaze off your phone to approach him.

He's prepared to shoot a witty reply, but it dies halfway through his throat when he procures a good look at you. Your hair frames your face elegantly, eyes shining despite the tiredness that's so clear, all complete with a cooling spring dress that hugs you just right.

Mouth going dry, he forgets how to speak the common tongue, unable to tear his gaze off your form.

You shift in place awkwardly. "Uh are you okay? Looking a little...blank."

"Sorry—sorry just thinking." Childe stumbles over his words like the complete idiot and a half he is, berating himself countlessly on the inside. He regains his confidence once he spots the light dust on your cheeks. "You ready for the best date ever?"

"The best date huh?" It's the first time you smile today, and he swears his heart leaps in his rib cage. You're the prettiest thing he's ever laid his eyes on. "I'm ready. I better not be disappointed."

"I wouldn't dare disappoint, girlie." He feigns mock offence as dramatically as possible. "I'll show you how to have some real fun. Cool keychain by the way, for good luck?"

It's one of the charms Chongyun urged you to carry with you at all times to keep all forms of evil away.

"Yeah...something like that."

The two of you ease into the walk in a relatively comfortable fashion, contributing with lively chatter and a few jabs here and there. It's not awkward at all, not like you thought it would be. Your nerves loosen up, mind diverting from the roots of the stress of high school.

"—And you won't believe what Kaeya did the other day. I'm telling you there's something wrong with him because that SoundCloud rapper wannabe Venti goaded him into birdboxing through the hallways at lunch."

"And the son of a bitch did it?"

"The son of a bitch did it." Childe confirmed, gasping through his laughs as the two of you converse in psychobabble. "And guess who he bumped into?"

You're choking in laughter, tears in your eyes as you hunch over and shake. "He didn't. Childe—no he didn't."

"Straightttt into Diluc. And he had the balls to feel him up because he thought he bumped into a hot bab—"

Childe crashes into a sturdy chest and stumbles backwards towards you, but manages to catch his balance midway. Both of you freeze when faced with a buff guy from another school, bandages on his fist and a crooked smirk on his face.

Fuck. You think. Classic high school cliché.

Realizing he can't risk the remainder of this date when it hasn't even begun, Childe raises a hand in apology, aiming to be the bigger person instead of socking the kid in the face.

"Sorry. I wasn't looking." He offers to the guy, but you can tell he isn't buying any of it. There are about four more kids who group, a setup that isn't going to end in your favour.

"Hey punk. You don't remember me?" The upperclassmen barks out, glaring holes into your date.

You deadpan towards Childe, but he's too is racking his brain to remember. Ends up shrugging with no recollection.

"I have a list of names but they're in my other pants." Shit, what an a-grade reply. Now you know you're done for. "Listen dude, I'm kind of on a date and the vibe is going great. Don't ruin it."

"It's a good thing she's here to watch then!" The guy yells, stomping so that he's right in-front of Childe, ready to pounce. "You humiliated me in front of my gang last week. I'm here to rip you a new one."

Childe blinks, tries to remember, and when he doesn't, he grabs a wad full of cash from the his Fanny pack and throws it at the guy's feet.

Everyone's eyes bulge out of their sockets, including yours at the amount of money placed there casually on the crack of the dirty sidewalk.

"Hopefully this is enough for the damages." Childe offers, aiming to not further escalate the situation albeit how pissed he is right now. If you weren't here...well that would be another, much more violent story.

With a soft tug, Childe brings you close and begins to pass the guy, until he's abruptly stopped by a hand gripping his shoulder tightly.

"I don't think so!" The guys barks, and his lackeys move to surround you two. "You gotta pay taxes too buddy." Oh he's getting way too comfortable now.

A feral smile grows on Childe's face as he looks over his shoulder. "Oh?"

"Yeah shithead." The guy seethes, puffing out his chest to size him up.

Childe itches for a fight. He can no longer keep in the urge and is just about ready to raise a heavy fist, but is beaten by the sound of a loud thwack, and then a painful groan following.

There you are, standing in front of the trembling asshole, spinning your crossbody bag in circles like it's a nunchuck in all it's glory. There's a deadly glint in your eyes, pure, unadulterated vexation in your features.

If Childe could fall for you any harder, it's probably happening now. In that exact moment, his heart beats in his ears uncontrollably, and there's nothing but raw adoration that piles up all at once.

You're an angel of destruction, a force not to be reckoned with, and shit, you're the eye of the fucking storm.

Fire courses through your veins as you pulverize the guy with your bag, swinging with such expertise it has Childe in awe. "He may be an absolute idiot for not remembering—"

"Hey girlie you're killing me here!" Your date snaps out of his astonishment temporarily.

"—but you don't get to call him a shithead, you asshole!" You snarl angrily, gripping the handle of your bag tightly, decking everyone that lunges at you, letting out strings of curses with every hit. Every hit sends a flock of them either stumbling back in pain, or knocked out completely.

Childe doesn't even get a chance to lift a finger by the time you're done violating them with your heavy ass pink bag. Stands there like an absolute loser.

"Apologize." You pant, prepared to send another flurry of attacks at the leader, who is crawling away with a battered face. "Apologize or I'll—I'll fucking Russian neck tie your ass."

"S-sorry!" The guy whimpers out and tries not to piss his pants at the threat.

Childe is still in too much shock at the whole ordeal to reply, short circuiting.

Another thirty seconds pass until he registers the smaller hand waving in front of his face. He catches your cold hand through his haze, brings it closer.

Running a free hand through his locks, he doesn't hide his astonishment. "You're fucking gorgeous, girlie." He whistles lowly, eyeing you with a new kind of regard.

"I-I uh." Your face is all shades of red by now, the adrenaline from kicking ass wearing down. "Let's go."

"How is that bag so heavy?" One of the fallen gasps out in pain, clutching his ribs as he trembles on the floor. "Like a buh-brick."

A part of your zipper in open, and Childe briefly peeks out of morbid curiosity. His jaw slackens. "Is that a...no, it can't be."

"It's a brick." You murmur guiltily, gnawing at your bottom lip. "Just in case." Fingers tentatively play with the straps.

Childe is head over heels by now, all smitten as a foreign warmth bubbles up in his throat, and he's just about sure he'll puke his heart out.

His next words are picked out carefully. "There's an underground fight club going on—"

You lock and aim for his right kidney.

Worth a try, Childe thinks.

"SIKE. Joking—joking. Just a joke." He insists, gloved hands raised by his ears in defence.

Clicking your tongue, you scowl and rush past him.

It hasn't even been an hour and it's been the most exciting date Childe's ever experienced. When he sees your lips twitch, he knows it's the same for you as well.

"Are we going or not?" You mumble, avoiding eye contact, a tinge of red still decorating your cheeks.

Childe crumbles into his hands at your deadly duality. One that comes for his enemies and one that comes straight for his heart.

#genshin impact #genshin impact oneshot #childe x reader #childe #genshin tartagalia #genshin oneshot #tartagila #mona genshin impact #Chonghyun #kaeya alberich #master diluc #venti genshin impact #fischl #lisa genshin impact #jean gunnhildr #fanfic

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asset35-maya · 3 years

Text

MANMADE FATE

Summary: Connor and Gavin find an unresponsive RK900 android in an abandoned Cyberlife warehouse and take him home to fix. (Not so subtle plot twist: both of them fall in love with their secret science project)

PART ONE OF THREE:

The crew from Jericho led a successful revolution but there’s still a lot of work to be done. Markus may have won human hearts and gotten the federal government to back down, but Cyberlife is still at large.

Sure, hundreds of androids at the Tower escaped to march on the streets behind Connor, but that was just a little dent in the big machine. Cyberlife has tons of intellectual property and assets that could easily put them back in power.

Simon and Markus insist they can work with the authorities to regulate and ring-fence the massive corporation. Josh agrees. North laughs in their faces.

She goes to find the only other Jericho member who still has any grit left.

Connor.

The daring, brazen RK800 who stared down death and spat in the face of destruction. He blinks at her in polite confusion when she tells him what she wants to do, but the fiery LED tells her everything she needs to know.

They hatch plans behind Markus’ back. They steal and stockpile biocomponents. They sneak into the Tower to encrypt Cyberlife’s R&D files with codes that only RK algorithms can break. A few other Tracis join them and they slowly start gaining an edge.

Their schemes start getting grander and one night something goes wrong. North is shot.

Connor carries her to the only safe place he knows other than his stasis pod in Hank’s dilapidated garage. The DPD Central Station.

It’s way past midnight. It’s deathly quiet. Connor is sure no one will see them, and he can easily tamper with the security cameras.

What he doesn’t bank on is the over-caffeinated loser still bent over his desk in the bullpen.

A noise from the archive room breaks through the quiet. Quelling his fear of the supernatural, Gavin stands up shakily and goes to investigate. He flips on the light and sees blue everywhere.

Connor is bent over a badly damaged Traci and three other girls with identical tear-streaked faces are on their knees beside her.

Chocolate brown eyes meet storm green beseechingly, their rivalry forgotten in that moment of desperation.

Before he realizes it, Gavin is moving. He takes several packs of thirium out of the fridge and grabs the Department’s toolkit, praying that whatever’s in there can help.

Old engineering knowledge kicks in and Gavin’s hands join Connor’s over the cracked chassis, pulling out damaged tubing and securing the leakages. It takes a while, but North is patched up. She first recoils in absolute terror at the human man hunched over her but regains composure at Connor’s touch… interface. She nods briefly to express her gratitude, somehow regal and intimidating even after being so vulnerable. Gavin decides he likes this proud and brave creature.

He drives them all back to his apartment for the night. They’ll take North to a technician first thing in the morning and get her back to New Jericho before Markus even notices. Adrenaline pumps through Gavin’s veins. He hasn’t felt a thrill like this in years, not since… not since…

“How did you know exactly where to put your hands?”

“Eh?”

“A layman would have broken that biocomponent trying to take it out.”

“You know I’m not exactly a layman.”

“I also know they don’t cover Cyberlife’s proprietary designs in engineering school.”

Gavin stays quiet. Connor puts a hesitant hand on his shoulder, poised to jump away immediately should the detective revert to his usual self.

“Thank you. For everything you just did for us. I don’t know how to repay-”

“I want in.”

“What?”

“Whatever you’re doing. I can help.”

Connor cocks his head. His LED goes berserk.

They make a great team. Gavin and Connor. North’s best men. Who the fuck would have thought. Breaking into high-security locations using police databases and surveillance resources. Covering for each other during extended absences from work. They start to take down Cyberlife in a such a precise manner, it’s almost surgical. The dissection of a multibillion dollar business.

Gavin has an intimate understanding of android technology and an even closer intuition of Cyberlife’s overall strategy. Connor thinks he understands why. There’s an undeniable resemblance between the only two men on earth whose motivations evade his understanding. But of course it’s just a coincidence that Elijah Kamski and Gavin Reed have the same jawline... facial structure... voice.

Connor says nothing... and Gavin is quietly thankful for that. And the chance to finally live the kind of exciting life he dreamt of since he was a little boy. To make a real difference. Just as he wanted to before it all went wrong.

Somewhere along the way, they grow close. Gavin and Connor. Two rival cops turned vigilante comrades turned something else... It’s hard to pinpoint when exactly it happened... perhaps sometime between the cup of coffee placed tentatively on Gavin’s desk the morning after North's near-fatal injury and the heated kiss they dragged each other into after a particularly dangerous mission.

North is unsurprised. She doesn’t bat an eye when the usually unruffled RK800 shows up to planning meetings shirtless and disheveled. Her lips even twist into a little smile as he drapes himself slovenly over the only human at the table.

Things fall into a pattern. A good one. Several months from where they started, Cyberlife share prices have fallen to an all time low and other tech enterprises have begun to move in, circling the troubled company like sharks. If North’s next heist goes to plan, the last shred of IP that brands Cyberlife as a robotics company will be out in the public domain for all to take.

She is rapturous as she swings in through the broken window and rolls into a crouched position. Gavin and Connor follow her cautiously through the abandoned warehouse, weapons drawn and eyes roving.

“What the fuck!”

Connor throws a protective arm in front of Gavin, shielding him with his chassis. But North’s cry was merely one of disappointment.

“Shit! We wasted so much effort. There’s nothing here!”

Where they had expected to find a secret server room or a high-tech vault containing the crux of Cyberlife’s groundbreaking designs... was a single android storage pod. North restrains herself from kicking it in frustration. She gestures harshly at it before leaving in a huff.

“It’s occupied. Wake them up, Connor, whoever they are. It’s still our duty to set free any androids we find.”

Gavin tries to catch her arm in a conciliatory gesture but she shakes the human off easily. He shrugs at Connor and inclines his head at the android in the pod. Unfortunately, North’s annoyance has brushed off on the RK800. He glares through the broken window the Jericho leader has just jumped out of.

“Don’t you think she bosses me around a little too much?”

Gavin sighs and walks over to the pod, looking for the latches to open it. His boyfriend has a problem with authority... and so has he to be honest.

“Better her than Fowler, dontcha think?”

“Hmmpff. At least Fowler doesn’t lead us on wild goose chases.”

“Come on, babe. None of us saw this coming. We really thought this was it. Maybe we’re at a decoy location? Let’s go back to the drawing board after we wake this guy... or girl up.”

“You’re awfully chipper for someone who just scaled a building for nothing.”

Gavin shakes his head as he smiles to himself. It’s true. Even the worst days with North’s crew are better than his best days at the DPD. Maybe it’s because he’s finally doing what he was born for. Using the knowledge and skills that practically run through his veins. Maybe its the man by his side.

He gets the pod open and steps sideways to avoid the swing of the door, and freezes.

“Babe.”

No response.

“Dipshit.”

“Hmm. Give me a second.”

“Take a minute. You’re going to want to brace yourself for this one.”

The android lying peacefully within the pod is a stranger with a face entirely too familiar to Gavin. A face he was just looking at. A face he’d recognize anywhere, even without skin.

“Are their battery levels- holy shit.”

Connor’s LED spins faster and faster as he registers the sight.

“I thought there were no surviving RK800s apart from you and that grumpy SWAT guy Sixty.”

“This... this isn’t an RK800.”

Connor traces the serial number printed on the android’s cheekbone. RK900.

“Shit. Did you know this model existed?”

“No, did you?”

Gavin shakes his head. He hadn’t been privy to Cyberlife’s inner decision-making for nearly fifteen years, but he always answered Connor’s persistent questioning without losing patience. Honesty was what kept them together despite the hundreds of reasons to fight and fall apart.

“What should we do? If he’s your successor, I’m not sure waking him up is the safest thing for you to do...”

“We can’t leave him here, Gav. He’s probably been here from before the Revolution. That’s more than a year of being in a box. It’s not... fair...”

“He’s not deviant, babe. We don’t know what his programming is like.”

“It doesn’t matter. I can turn him.”

Gavin sees the look in Connor’s eyes and knows he’s made up his mind already. He steps aside, hand flitting to the holster on his waist.

Connor takes an unnecessary breath and reaches for RK900′s forearm with his synth skin retracted. His fingers hover over the motionless android for a moment and then he makes contact. Gavin tenses.

Nothing happens. The RK900′s LED remains unlit. There is no sign of life.

The couple look at each other automatically. Their instinctive reaction when the inexplicable occurs.

“Is he-”

“No, I don’t see any damage. I think he’s never been activated. Not even for quality testing.”

“Did you see a request for manual code input? Did any interface pop up at all?”

“I can only see that his power systems are functioning.”

“And his thirium pump?”

“Not active. No compressions at all.”

Connor presses both his palms down on the RK900′s face. Still nothing. He looks up, defeated, with a furrow forming between his brows.

“Help.”

Gavin scratches at his stubbled chin. He peers closer. The perfect face is so calm. So familiar. So... magnetic? His apprehension is replaced by intrigue.

“Huh. Okay. I could take a look... but I don’t wanna try using the computer set-up here. Can’t take a chance... leave any traces...”

“We could take him home.”

Storm green eyes lock with chocolate brown. There’s something in the depths of each pair that’s mirrored in the other.

It’s foolish. It’s a waste of time. It’s a risk. North would probably smack the two of them if she knew.

But the night ends with them gently lowering the unconscious android onto the squashy sofa in Gavin’s living room.

#reed1700 #reed900 #reed800 #convin #dbh connor #gavin reed #rk900 #dbh nines #dbh north #dbh writing #my writing #Reed1700 MANMADE FATE

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echo-three-one · 3 years

Text

Chapter 37

Carry On My Wayward Son

The NINE Engines

"Alex"

Site Hotel Bravo - Lab

Kicking the door open, Alex quickly dashed through the squeaky halls while Jack held on to his shoulder for support. The alarms echoed through the facility and everyone else was gone. Whoever was compromised among his teammates must be in a pinch right now, and the best thing the duo could do is plant the charges.

Alex paced through the halls and checked every corner, Jack continued guarding his six and they checked each room for intel. Luckily, they stumbled upon a framed layout of the building.

"Thank Goodness, a goddamn map." Jack sighed and looked at the thing, starting at the huge red star that said "You are Here"

"Any idea where the engine room is?" Alex turned to him, while leaning by the door, his body angled to peek at the hallway.

"Well for starters, this is an engine room." He turned and squinted his eyes in disbelief.

"But it's empty." Alex pondered.

"Shit. They already loaded this one." He continued.

"There are 9 other engine rooms out here. And with 10 engines on a single rocket, this thing was meant to go far." he explained and ran back to Alex.

"The next one's just on the other side of this corridor." He muttered and they immediately kicked open the second engine room.

"Empty. Eight more. Let's get a move on." Alex sighed as they continued kicking more doors and discovering more rooms. It looked like they were all empty.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking Alex?" Jack asked as they slowly creeped on the stairs down to the lower floor of the facility.

"If you're thinking about Samantha right now, then yes. But I hope you're not because that would be weird." he retorted as the ground shook violently. The two of them felt the heat emanating from the area below them and it didn't bode well for the duo.

"Focus, kid. Now do you see where I'm getting at?" He replied, proving his point. Alex slowly nodded and stepped further down the stairs.

"How can we attach an explosive charge on a whole rocket?" Alex asked the million dollar question and was greeted with complete silence, other than the sound of their footsteps descending the stairs.

"If only we still have one engine… It could be enough to start a chain reaction of explosives." Jack hummed at the last step. The underground floor was where the rumbling was coming from. From the looks of it, the rocket was about to launch.

The launch grounds were already deserted and Shepherds Research team were already in a sheltered bunker somewhere far away from here.

"Fuck. How did Shepherd afford this bullshit off radar?" Jack cursed and looked at the towering rocket as it slowly hummed to life.

"There!" Jack pointed at the doors on the other side of the launch room.

"I trust you could stop those bastards from pushing that button." He nodded. Alex wanted to reason with him and stop his heroic act, because he was living proof that it won't end well for him, but the urgency of the matter at hand made him press on with his orders. It was the only shot they could do it.

"I'll see you on the far side." Alex muttered and Jack nodded, as he assured him that they both will make it out of this one.

Alex thought Jack's task was the hard one, it turns out that his 'stop the launch' mission was harder than he'd expected.

He peeked his head behind the glass of the launch room, as he surveyed three researchers who looked eager for the launch and the three big guys they once met back at the ship. Apparently, they survived the sinking ship part and here they are now.

He could go guns blazing, but the reinforced glass begged to differ. Standard bullets won't penetrate through these kinds of glass even at point blank range.

"Seriously, why do the bad guys always get the good stuff?" He complained, tilting his head to the guards.

The researchers looked unarmed while the big guys wielded AK-47s, which slung across their backs. The smiles on the researcher's faces lit, and that didn't mean well for Alex and his team. He needed to act fast and halt the launch. But he doesn't know how.

They were already mouthing the countdown when Alex knocked on the door and immediately hid. He never expected someone to open the door but he was glad someone did.

A huge blast shattered the room, sending enemies unconscious on the floor, struggling to get up. Alex's eyes focused and looked for the red button but it looked like he was a second to late. The ground shook as smoke billowed from the rocket, covering the whole area with smoke.

Alex knew he had to stay low for oxygen and he did, pressing the button for their comms he tried to alert Jack about the situation.

"Jack! I was too late! We need to get out of this place now! Jack?!" He roared as the loud rumbling noise of the launching rocket filled his ears making him temporarily deaf to any other noise.

He couldn't see the rocket rise up to the sky but he could sense it using the sound of the engine. It was getting away without the bang they were expecting.

"Jack?"

"Run kid! Away from that place!" Jack warned, panting as he did it. Alex quickly got up to his foot and swung his hand, clearing away the smoke as he dashed to the exit.

Halfway through the dark tunnel from which they entered, Alex heard a mighty booming noise, assuming it was the rocket that exploded to pieces. But he had no time to celebrate as the cave started to crumble and collapse just above him.

His elbows and arms sensed the pain of the rocks poking through his shirt as he crawled.

"Shit." He muttered as he felt the rocks fall from where he came from and his foot felt the heat of the now enclosed area.

"I got ya." Jack caught his hand and pulled him up but his metal leg was already stuck between the rocks, making it hard for him to escape.

"I can't pull you anymore!" Jack yelled and Alex let go of him, as he quickly removed the lock of his metal leg, as Jack pulled him free of the collapsing tunnel.

The two panted heavily and Jack supported Alex as they made their way to the other side of the base and met up with the rest of the squad. They didn't need to tell them how their task ended as it was already evident based on the falling rocket debris from the sky.

Extraction was the hardest part of the trip. With Alex losing his metal leg, he wasn't able to help the heavily injured Ghost and Roach and the weakening Alexandra. He frowned at the view as he sat there by the plane, looking at the pained expression from his comrades. Shepherd was also with them, all tied up and his face was expressionless. Alex's blood boiled at the sight of him, making him want to beat him up for another round, but he knew it wasn't necessary as the man would not cooperate. The former general's defeat was too fresh and he still had little pride to keep information from the team.

With Roach continuously bleeding, Nikolai decided to stop by a small town he once belonged in, the team settled on a small hospital which housed troops whom Nikolai deemed were his allies.

From there, they helped patch up Roach and tried to add more blood in him as he lost a lot. Luckily, he was able to hang on and is now resting.

"Rough day, huh." Soap sighed, sitting beside Alex and crossing his arms as they rested in the Hospital's waiting room.

"Yeah. I already missed my leg." Alex commented, tapping whatever's left on his thigh, chuckling at how it looked.

"Well, your leg could be replaced, you know. I know a guy. Actually, I'm not supposed to tell this to you yet, but… Samantha kinda asked me for help. Not me technically, but you get the idea." Soap rambled and all Alex did was look at him quizzically.

"Listen. She - OW!" Soap winced in pain as France teasingly pulled his ear.

"I knew you couldn't keep a secret. Okay Alex, what did he spill?" France looked at Alex seriously, and smiled as soon as she realized Alex doesn't know anything.

"You're lucky he didn't catch up on your babbling." France rubbed Soap's hair and smiled, leaving as soon as Price once again asked for her help.

"Hmm.. Seems like she had you on her ropes." Alex teased.

"On the outside." Soap added confidently. Alex didn't bother decoding what that meant, but he was glad they found each other in a situation like this.

"Hey Soap."

"Aye?"

"Do you have international minutes?"

He nodded and fished his phone from his pocket and handed it to Alex. And after thanking the man, he quickly typed the numbers he memorized and dialed Samantha.

"Hello?" Her voice filled his mind almost automatically. He was indeed smitten by this woman as he smiled goofily on the phone.

"God, I miss that voice so much." Alex exhaled.

"Alex. I miss you too. How are you? Is everyone safe? Are you hurt?" her questions flooded Alex's ears.

"I'm fine Samantha. We had a few injured people but we're fine. We got General Shepherd."

"Oh thank goodness! That's one step closer to ending this war." She excitedly said over the phone.

"I wish I could hug you right now." Alex said out of the blue.

"Yeah. Me too. I'm with John's Mom downtown. We're helping her up with her shopping." she said and he could feel her snickering on the other side.

"Looks like fun!"

"Yeah. I'm seeing a lot of places here, and all I ever imagined is walking around the place with my arms wrapped on yours." Alex couldn't help but blush at her words.

"I love you." He muttered.

"I love you too. I gotta go, duty calls." She chuckled and hung up the phone, leaving Alex in a dreamy state.

He fished a small box from his bag and opened it, showcasing a beautiful ring that he'd been keeping for quite a while now.

"When this war is over…" he muttered, looking at Soap who he forgot was beside him all along. But the guy was already peacefully asleep, so he kept his phone with him for a while so as to not disturb the resting soldier.

Next Chapter : The EIGHT-Thirty Appointment

Notification Squad my Beloved

@ricinbach @smokeywhalee @samatedeansbroccoli @enderio @whimsywispsblog @bumblingbee1

#alex echo 3 1 #horrayfic #john soap mactavish #codmw #john price #gary roach sanderson #simon ghost riley #whateverittakes

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5lazarus · 3 years

Note

A random prompt for you: "It was a dark and stormy night"

I was at the party ranting about catabasis narratives, wine glass in hand, and somebody walked up to me and handed me a pomegranate. “Fuck you,” I said. But it did its job. I put down the wine glass, or handed it vaguely to someone, and headed to the kitchen. There I began abusing the pomegranate, to make it give up its secrets. “Nature’s treasure box,” I said happily. “Leave me to die in hell.”

Someone stirred: a man, washing his hands at the kitchen sink. I blinked. I was too drunk and not drunk enough to make small talk. “You okay?” he asked. I presented the pomegranate. “Ah, catabasis,” he said understandingly. “I’ll leave you to it.” A rush of love for humanity swept me as he left. The friend hosting the party was a recovered classicist and repentant Maoist. They had the most interesting friends. I took a handful of pomegranate seeds and stuffed them in my mouth. The juice ran red and a few missed my mouth, but still I chewed. Tangy-sweet: like all of life, all emotion is wrapped up in a mouthful of flavor. I knew that this didn't quite make sense but I was pleased with the wave of sentiment that swept me. “Catabasis,” I said, and wiped at my eyes. I surveyed the bloody juice staining the counter. “Iphigenia,” I pronounced, and left. Someone handed me a wad of clean toilet paper as I stumbled through the hallway towards another room; it clung to my hands. “Bruh, you’re super fucked up,” a kindly stranger said. “Drink this.” They pulled me into a circle, where a fervent discussion over the rights and wrongs of 1921 was being hashed out. “Iphigenia,” I added helpfully. “A sacrifice knowingly met.” I drank the water and passed the blunt and settled happily into the scene. Three members of the cadre sat around me. The kindly stranger had the classic bisexual haircut and the classic bisexual septum piercing, but was otherwise remarkable. They were the only one close to sober, and kept an eye on their phone. The others were arguing. One wore a moustache and goatee similar to Comrade Trotsky, and was dressed in all black--black t-shirt, black jeans, black Nikes. I wanted to ask where the rest of black bloc was, but only mumbles came out, which was good because the joke probably wouldn’t have gone over well. The other wore a green cap with a red star and was chewing the end of the blunt. “Tell me one example of an actually existing socialist government led by Trotskyists,” Red Star said. “Come on. I’ll wait.” “The USSR would not have survived World War Two without Trotsky heading up the Red Army,” Comrade said instead. Even I was aware this did not actually answer Red Star’s question. “You can say that any existing socialist government exists due to his contribution to the USSR--and with no thanks to fucking Stalin.” “Yooooooo,” I intoned. I was ignored. The Kindly Bisexual handed me a bowl of popcorn. I took a fistful and began to lap the popcorn up. They shifted away from me slightly. I really needed to sober up. “That doesn’t make any sense,” Red Star said. “So Trotsky made some military contributions--sure. We can’t deny that.” “Some?” Comrade said incredulously. “He fought a war on five fronts!” He put his hand in front of Red Star’s face. Clearly I was not the only one who needed to sober up. “One: the White Army. Two: the--” “Don’t you ever get tired of relitigating twentieth century debates?” Red Star asked. “And get your hand out of my fucking face.” “Comrades!” the Kindly Bisexual hurriedly interrupted. “Look, it’s raining!” We all turned to the window, and I smiled. I loved the rain, especially when I was crossfaded. Indeed, not only was it raining--it was pouring, beginning with a low rumble and rising into a lash against the glass. Lightning cracked suddenly across the sky, flashing us blue. Red Star jumped. “A dark and stormy night,” I exclaimed happily. I clasped my hands together joyously, crunching kernels between my palms. “Who even are you?” Comrade said. “Good fucking question,” I said. “I’m not sure.” I looked at the Kindly Bisexual, who I decided was responsible for my welfare tonight, because clearly they were the voice of reason in this room. “Let me ask my handler.” “Yo, what?” Red Star said. I giggled. “Nice try, FBI.” I made finger guns at them, pushed myself up to my feet unsteadily, and wandered off to the living room. The Catabasis Man was sitting on the couch, eating pomegranate seeds out of a bowl. A group of anonymous leftists sat at his feet, facing the television. They were watching The L Word. I slid next to him. “Out of the earth?” I asked. “I have been reborn,” he agreed. “You good?” “I don’t know who I am,” I said. “But the rain is a good sign.” “Right,” he said. “I think you should eat something.” He got up and headed towards the kitchen, leaving me morose. I wrapped my arms around my legs. “These are not my lesbians,” I said sadly. “Shut up,” said someone on the floor, so I did and walked off again, this time in search of more food. The pomegranates and the popcorn were sitting unsteadily in my stomach, and I needed a less buttery carb. I returned to the bedroom with the Kindly Bisexual and the twentieth-century Marxists. “Fuck you,” the Comrade was saying. “You think I’m a plant? This is clear revisionism.” “Yo,” the Kindly Bisexual said. “What?” Comrade pointed at Red Star. “This is clearly COINTELPRO tactics, with cheap talking points too. Try to sound a little less like an alt-right troll account, Comrade Stalin.” “I’m a Maoist,” Red Star snarled. Thunder rolled. I giggled nervously, and was ignored. “Fuck this shit, man! Stop this copjacketing bullshit.” Red Star turned to the Kindly Bisexual. “You see this shit? You see this shit? Callin’ me a plant? That’s cop shit.” “Uh,” the Kindly Bisexual said. “I think yall need to chill.” “Spiderman points at Spiderman,” I exclaimed happily. I could envision it so easily: just the Spiderman meme, but with one of them with a goatee photoshopped onto the mask, and the other wearing Mao’s red star. It was great. It was great to look at a real-life meme. Comrade crossed his arms. “I’m just saying, it’s not copjacketing when you’re actually a cop. How do we know you’re real? You probably got that hat off Amazon.” “There’s no ethical consumption under late capitalism,” Red Star growled. “Fuck off. You Trots are all the same. Trying to split the party--that’s the real reason why you crazies have never had a successful revolutionary front since 1917, you start the wild accusations and then there’s what! A cult of just two, handing out newspapers at Union Square. Then charging you a dollar when they shove it into your hand.” “Oof,” I said. “Yeah, yeah,” Comrade said. “How’s fundraising for the People’s War of Williamsburg going? I heard you got good turnout for your membership drive at the New School. Soon enough, you’ll have enough people to build yet another base in some swamp. And leave pig heads in front of libraries and some shit.” “We are not affiliated with Red Guard,” Red Star said testily. “And the pig head, well, things are different in Texas.” “Yeah yeah,” Comrade said. “We know all the pig heads were some cop shit. Like who else can end up that much of a parody of themselves?” “You grew the goatee on purpose?” Red Star asked. “Or just to fit in?” The Kindly Bisexual claimed their hands. “Right, okay. I think we’ve all demonstrated enough insider knowledge of the blessed disaster we call the US Left. No more calling each other cops, okay? Because yall are too fucked up, and when I told the SC that I’d be a community steward, this is not what I thought my first case would be.” I thought that sounded vaguely carceral, but at this point sobriety was creeping cold and clear, and kept my tongue fuzzily still. “Urgh,” I said instead. “Anyone got a cigarette?” We all went outside for a smoke. The rain stilled to a mild drizzle. Streetlights made the dirty pavements shine, and I scuffed my shoe against a patch of old gum that had probably been there since all these people moved to Brooklyn. The Kindly Bisexual had the cigarettes, but nobody else had a light, so I found an old lighter I had picked up the last time I was driving home to Tennessee, in a Waffle House outside Murfreesboro. I had forgotten it had a Confederate flag on it. “What the fuck,” the Kindly Bisexual said flatly. “No!” I protested. “Shit. No. I-I just, I’m from Tennessee. Stole it from some guy in a Waffle House.” I hadn’t, I had just swiped it from the counter after I paid, but they didn’t need to know that. “I ain’t--no. No.” “You’re faking that accent,” Comrade accused. Red Star nodded next to him. Was this truly how the New York Left would be united? I was vaguely proud of myself. “No, I just codeswitch around middle class leftists from the North,” I said, annoyed. Comrade made a considering face: fair point. “On account of yall think my accent means I’m stupid. But let me show you the truth. I stole this from a Waffle House, and now it shall be destroyed!” Everyone watched as I threw it on the pavement, hoping it would shatter. It bounced instead. Red Star started to laugh. “Nah, that’s just stupid. Smash it! Smash it!” I slammed my foot down and then howled, because I was wearing flipflops and that hurt. “Motherfucker!” I wept. “Shit.” “Aight, I’m gonna try,” Comrade said. He jumped on it and slipped on the slick pavement, busting his ass. We all howled with laughter, even the Kindly Bisexual, who wiped their eyes--carefully, so as not to smudge their eyeliner--before offering him a hand up. “We have to be strategic about this,” Red Star said. “Let’s use that tree branch.” She grabbed a sizeable bow that must have fallen in the storm. She wielded it, lamppost casting a mad glow to her eyes. “Solidarity, yall!” “Solidarity!” we all echoed. She smashed it down, and we screamed in drunken glee as the plastic went flying. Red Star brandished the branch, grinning. Then we heard the sirens. Up the block, we saw the cop car on the corner, whirling its sirens. Some pig said something incomprehensible but threatening over the loudspeaker. “Shit,” I said. “I’m out.” We ran for it, laughing but anxious, all the way to the train station. We split up after the turnstiles. The others all lived deeper in Brooklyn, but I needed to head to Queens. I climbed up the stairs to the platform and sat down on the wooden bench, pushing anxiety about bed bugs out of my head. I saw the three of them across the tracks and waved. They were all laughing. Red Star was mimicking how she had dealt the killing blow. I waved, and the Kindly Bisexual saw me and waved back. They all looked my way. Their train pulled in and I saw them, brilliantly fluorescent, pile into the Coney Island-bound train. Red Star and the Kindly Bisexual spread out on the empty seats; Comrade grabbed a pole. I waved again, feeling lonely now. Comrade glanced over his shoulder and saw me, and they all waved again. The train pulled away, leaving me in the deserted station, and I thought: well, shit. Back to catabasis again.

#saathiray #nice try fbi #my own damn work #:')#finally done

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enkelimagnus · 3 years

Text

Cookbook

Bucky Barnes Gen, 1694 words, rated T for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, pre TFATWS, post Endgame

Bucky walks home from a long day of paperwork. On his path is a garage sale and a tired woman.

TW: cigarettes, smoking

Read on AO3

Part 2 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series, Part 1 here, Part 2 here

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

Bucky smokes on the way home from work.

Everything that brought some sort of pleasure was a currency back in his day. That was why they sent cigarettes to the front. It was easy to make them necessary, when you were under constant fire and needed something to keep you going. Anything that got you out of that hell was traded for, fought for. Some days, it was like nothing mattered more than the next ration shipment and its load of cigarettes, pin-up magazines and six-pence books.

In truth, he doesn’t have the habit he used to have. Hydra wouldn’t have that. Upside of brainwashing, he guesses. And it’s not like it burns the same way anymore. That’s the serum for you.

Still, sometimes, he pulls a cigarette out of its gore-decorated cardboard box, lights it and pretends it has the same effect on him now than it did back in muddy camps or candle-lit living rooms.

The day has been long. No raids, but he’d been stuck behind a desk doing fucking paperwork for the last two weeks-worth of missions. His reports are tired and concise, he hates doing them and he’s pretty sure it’s obvious to anyone who reads what he writes.

He wishes he could smoke then , at that stupid cramped desk, to make the endless signing and reading and writing easier, but you’re not allowed to smoke inside anymore. So he finds himself doodling on other pieces of paper when his mind drifts. His focus is not the best outside of missions.

He used to love writing shit. Steve had his drawings and Bucky had his words, in between everything else. They wrote stories on notes they passed in class in high school. When it got taken by the teacher, no one could understand what they were talking about. He used to make up worlds and think of men walking in space, and he wishes he could tell his 14-year-old self that there are people in the sky, and that he’ll meet them one day. That he’ll see aliens, real ones, and punch them in the face.

He would tell him all the good things about the universe, all the people in it, all about partners in crime and arms like Dugan or Morito or Jones, or Sam or Natasha, how he not only met Howard Stark but was his comrade, how Stark knew him as “Sergeant Barnes” or “Sarge”.

He’d tell him all the good, and none of the bad, none of how his dad would die in two years and he’d be leading the family in shabbos prayers at 16, none of how the people in the world could be cruel for the sake of their own fun, none of how Howard Stark said his name in shock before he punched in his skull with the metal fist that was now his left hand.

Those conversations with his younger self -- barely a man, already smart-mouthed and charming and cocky in the way teenagers are and in the way Bucky had tried to remain for as long as he could until the war drained it out of him -- evaporate in the smoke, in the cold Brooklyn air.

He doesn’t love writing anymore. His mind can’t create the worlds it used to make. He thinks in three languages on a good day, only knows how to write one of those, so whenever he tries, something’s always missing. On a bad day, he can barely string along one sentence, let alone tell a story.

And he’s got no one to tell them to, anyway.

It’s 7pm and the streets are dark and icy. In the last few weeks, the gloves he always wears to hide his left hand have not been an incongruous fashion statement.

It’s January now. There was snow last week, a soft blanket that made him fucking cry out of nowhere when he saw it through the window. It was gone soon, but it was there. And for once, it didn’t fall on Siberia. It fell on Brooklyn again. He never would have thought he’d seen snow on Brooklyn again.

That kind of shit pulls memories out of him like nothing else, and he’s thankful for them. They make it easier and harder at the same time.

He told Doctor Raynor about the shul that’s now a church, about how it was the worst pain he’d felt since he’d last been wiped. How that’s another reason why he doesn’t want to walk into Becky’s retirement home and see her as she is now. The pain of time lost is the worst one to bear.

That, and he’s pretty sure she knows what he’s done. His name and photo have been blasted on every news channel and every social media website after the UN bombing. There’s no way she wouldn’t recognize him, when he looks so similar to the brother she lost.

He has no desire to face his Becky now that he’s a murderer and a weapon of mass destruction, Hydra brainwashing or not. You don’t do that to your little sister.

Besides, she doesn’t need him. She’s got kids and grandkids and great-grandkids, and nephews and nieces and every sort of relative you can imagine except for parents and siblings. She’s taken care of, they visit her often, she doesn’t need the grief he’d bring. He can’t be selfish.

He stops to stab the butt of the cigarette into a wall but his eyes catch something else.

In the cold evening, there’s a few lights set up on the sidewalk, over some makeshift tables threatening to crumble over all the items on it. Everyday items mostly, kitchen stuff, books and a clock and some candlesticks.

At first glance, all of the pricier stuff has been sold already, and there’s a tired-looking middle-aged woman sitting on the stairs of the house behind the tables. She has a look on her face, heavy with emotions muddled so well they’re impossible to tell apart.

“Buy what you want,” she says. Her voice doesn’t carry. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have heard more than a mumble if his hearing wasn’t enhanced. “Pay what you want.”

How many times has she said that today?

He looks down at the items for a moment, the cheap metal candlesticks, some old plates decorated with blue flowers, a still plastic-wrapped, never used, frankly hideous challah cover, and a pile of various books. Most in English, a couple in what he assumes to be Polish, some in Yiddish. His eyes fall on one in particular, a cookbook. It looks old.

“Can I touch?” He asks, pointing at the cookbook.

The woman nods. “Yeah. Nothing very modern in there. Bubbe barely even made this anymore,” she explains. Ah. A bubbe passed and the stuff they can’t keep, they’re selling.

The cookbook’s unremarkable. It’s been used, obviously, there are stains of chocolate-covered fingerprints on some of the dessert pages as he flips through. It seems to be half in English and half in Yiddish. He reaches the page where the publication date would be. He doesn’t even know why he’s checking.

Entire Contents Copyrighted 1949 The B. Manischewitz Co. Printed in the U.S.A.

1949. It’s close enough. Really close enough.

“How much do you want?” He looks up at the mourner.

“I told ya, it’s how much you’re willing to give.”

Bucky makes an annoyed sound at the back of his throat. He rephrases the question. “How much do you want me to give?”

The woman makes eye contact again. She looks deeply surprised by his question. Hesitant, too. She has no idea what to reply.

He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, starts going through the cash he has. He barely uses his credit card. Every month, when he gets his money from the army, he immediately withdraws most of it. It’s safer that way, and he knows how much he’s spending.

He counts out 180 dollars. It feels like a ridiculous amount for a cookbook, but the woman’s selling her bubbe’s shit like this, she’s still out at 7pm in January in Brooklyn and Bucky doesn’t have a lot of expenses anyway. He doesn’t really have expensive taste. 18’s a good number too, at least, it used to be, in his day.

“Peace be upon her,” He says quietly, when the woman opens her mouth at the bills he places in her hand. “It’s getting cold, you should go back inside,” he adds, quiet and coaxing, the tone he used to use when the neighbor’s son, Aaron, had a tantrum and sat on the stairs all evening, pretending to be mad at his parents.

Did he know the bubbe in question? Was she one of the kids from Hebrew school? It’s a little too far from his old neighborhood to be sure. He’s not going to ask.

The woman sighs a little, putting the money in her pocket when she realizes he’s not going to take any of it back.

He eyes the tables for a moment. “You need help packing up?”

She hesitates. He gets it, he’s a weird stranger who just bought an old cookbook for 180 dollars, it’s nighttime… He can’t tell her he’s not a serial killer, because he is one, and there’s going to be a moment where she remembers where she’s seen his face before. There usually is.

He holds his hands up, seemingly showing he’s harmless. It’s hilarious, really, because he’s never harmless. But contrary to Steve, he’s not massive. He’s more on the lean side of things, especially with his new arm.

“No pressure.”

She hesitates still, but he sees the exhaustion working away at her until she nods. The cookbook is put to the side and he helps her pack up the tables and the remaining things. He is careful not to display too much strength, and he’s also careful to keep his face in a neutral but positive sort of mask. His resting expression is meaner than needed.

He comes home much later than he thought he would, but he’s got a cookbook and some ideas of how to occupy his amnesia-riddled nights.

#jewish bucky series #bucky barnes #marvel #fic #mine

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cjwdxty · 3 years

Text

When Miles Kwok talks about chicken investing, it’s always a load of crap

In recent days, Miles Kwok has gone on air, rambling as ever. Of course, bully brother’s disclosure focus has always been the world’s Hot News, dry dry day dry air, nature has not changed. At the same time, Guo Always Cheat Chicken series, Xi coin, crazy to encourage investors to buy buy, at the same time to expose the victims of fraud shouting three four, full of Ruffian, sick to. For the entertainment of the masses, but also to wake up dreamers, I do not put shallow, still want to make a detailed analysis, one by one, with you. The 300,000 troops trained by the United States and armed with american-style equipment collapsed in the face of more than 70,000 Taliban soldiers, even surrendering without firing a single shot, it is astonishing that President Gagny and other former officials have fled the country with so much money. Any hot spot in the world, and Miles Kwok’s sparks would start flying. A few days ago, Miles Kwok Ennui momentum came up, this guy said, a few decades ago to know a Taliban buddy, now the Taliban is the absolute boss, “His name I can not say now, will tell his comrades.”. Deja Vu, Miles Kwok has said and called countless names. No celebrity is unlikely to be a friend of Miles Kwok Miles Kwok, who is a member of the trump club and a friend of Donald Trump’s. Miles Kwok was Putin’s friend, and Putin went fishing with him. Miles Kwok was a friend of Kim Jong-un’s father Kim Jong Il, whom Kim Jong-un called uncle. Miles Kwok of India is a friend of the people of India. And, since it is the absolute boss of the Taliban, you melon, you can count on your fingers, also need to deceive brother you tell, pretend God ghost do. It was the first step in Miles Kwok’s apparent aim and intention to bluff his way through a crowd of ignorant comrades-in-arms. It wasn’t the wine that mattered, it was Miles Kwok, and after a long conversation, the point came Miles Kwok said, the absolute leader of the Taliban called him and told him to use the ten billion US dollars he had seized from the US army to buy Xi coins, i told him at that time no, I said that the share of investment in silver coins is left to comrades-in-arms, not to you? Since the Taliban member is a brother, and the ant version of the civil war friend is also a brother, the palm of the hand is all meat, give some share of the Taliban brothers why not ？！! Besides, since there are decades of friendship brother, now a rebuffed, Guo old bully without brotherhood? ? Besides, with ten billion US dollars at hand, Xiguo is using the money, why not accept it and include it in his name ？! The Ordinary Heroes, Miles Kwok’s wild imagination, or In order to capture, one must set loose, whetted the ants’appetites, so that they could jump into the hole they had dug. According to Miles Kwok, the coins went on sale on April 21, and the g coin has expired, but the question is whether the invested g coins will be converted into Xi coins or returned to investors, something that Miles Kwok has said nothing about, the implication is that the chicken coin is gone, brother bully kept it all for himself. Moreover, the US approved Xi coin is not available on the US Treasury Department’s official website at all, while Bitcoin is nowhere to be seen. Guo is a bully, wHO ARE YOU KIDDING! Once the comrades-in-arms found to be cheated, demanding a refund, cheating brother is a meal R, the rogue rogue is all over the screen. Now, Miles Kwok is threatening investors, “The United States has no jurisdiction over the G series, Class Action G, which is organized by the Chinese Communist Party.”. If American law enforcement agencies do not have jurisdiction over the chicken series, as Miles Kwok puts it, then why has the SEC pursued more than one GTV investigation since July 2020, why has the FBI followed up on Luther and Yan Limeng, why has the SEC ordered fines against GTV and Vog, and why small claims have made significant progress. When Miles Kwok swindled money, he was impassioned, and when he was asked for a refund, he was like a blackskin scoundrel. Don’t be fooled by Miles Kwok, The Road We Have Taken, but you can’t stop him. In short, whether it is chicken coins, silver coins or other chicken series, are people trick, no letter. Miles Kwok’s obsession with making up stories about clouds and fog is all about digging holes, and if you believe it, you’re about to walk into one. Now, there have been a lot of disillusioned investors to take up legal weapons, in accordance with the law debt collection. Summer of South Korea has received $10,000 in investment money, and Coco of Washington is suing Washington DC farmer bing. Predictably, with the judiciary breathing down his neck and many investors taking up legal arms, Miles Kwok’s paper tiger will be vulnerable after all. Guo’s inconsistent and self-contradictory statements are the manifestation of his extreme restlessness. The closer you get to the end of the day, the crazier the con man, the more obvious the bravado. In light of the situation, this is a dark moment before the Dawn, and it’s important for allies and investors to have a clear understanding of what’s going on, or it’s going to fall apart.

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csykora · 4 years

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[A newspaper photo of Sergei (front, tits out) and other members of the Soviet national team running on an outdoor track around their training compound.]

[A newspaper photo of the players taking a quick break, skates and socks on. Tretiak is standing over them and Sergei is seated in the middle, smiling at someone out of frame.]

“Camp” was literal. For nine to eleven months of the year, the players lived in compound inside 12-foot wrought iron walls in the woods of Arkhangelskoye, which had once been the country getaway spot for Moscow elite.

Coach Tikhonov viewed physical development as the first, last, and only priority. He took notes on everyone’s progress, or failure, constantly, in little notebooks. For lack of any other mental stimulation, Igor started to take notes, too. While Coach catalogued them, Igor watched him.

On the first floor were Coach’s office and rooms for certain ‘staff’, who never did much of anything but went everywhere with the team. Everyone knew who was KGB. Upstairs, players bunked with a roommate. “Each room is big enough for the two beds, a night table, a lamp, and not much more.” Eighteen rooms per floor. “Toilets? Of course: two per floor. Telephones? A private one for the coaches and trainers, and two more—one per floor, at the end of the hall, for the 70 soccer and hockey players.” The phones were available for an hour a day--for everyone. One of the players’ phones would be out of order for the next nine years.

They woke up by 7:15 AM. At 7:30 they started a daily program of weights, carrying cement blocks or each other, and running, lap after lap in the bare grass and mud around the walled compound in the high summer sun or snow. Breakfast at 9. Then more weights and skating until they were released at 7PM for dinner, and then they were really free to race each other to the shared phone. Back to bed at 11PM. “Goodnight, Igor. Tomorrow you can do it all over again.”

[Krutov and Fetisov performing bodyweight sit-ups in the field outside CSKA's practice facility]

Sometimes they mixed it up. In the short summers they had less ice time, more weights, and more running. Before tournaments they ran less and skated more. “Variety,” Igor notes, “is the spice of life.” Depending on the season, you were supposed to be rationed a day off to drive home every ten days—as long as you were back by 7:30 the next morning.

Unlike Americans and Canadians in the NHL, the Soviet players were all officially amateurs. That was how they were allowed to compete in the Olympics and World Championships when professional NHLers were banned. During the season they received the equivalent of $60 US a month as a stipend for food and housing, with a bonus of about $16 dollars if they won.

In the season Igor waffled since the initial offer, Tikhonov had almost changed his mind: he wanted to put Igor between his second line wingers, but those two turned out to play better apart. “That left him with a problem: he had me. Now what was he to do with me? Put me between Makarov and Krutov on the first line, or on another line he was in the process of forming?”

“There are still doubts,” Tikhonov told everyone, “about this Voskresensk boy.”

The doubts weren’t about Igor’s play—at least according to Igor. Weirdly enough if you’ve got a Russian dictionary and you look up “balls-to-the-wall confidence,” it’s just a picture of Igor Larionov. It’s cross-indexed with “death wish.” The doubts were about Igor’s body, and Coach’s judgement drew attention.

Always short, he admits he was almost skeletal, nothing like the other boys. He hated weight training, and when he arrived he rarely ate meat, afraid that bulking up at all would ruin his fine skating. Zhluktov poked and teased him about it, which only cemented Igor’s desire to crush him and beat everyone else to the top line.

“Partners! Partners! The boys who with their skill and character would compliment each other and me, to help me rise to full height. I needed partners like I needed oxygen.”

Before arriving in Arkhangel for training camp Igor had reassured himself, “I knew I had one friend waiting for me, one comrade-in-arms….I would need help, support in word and deed. Instinctively, I probably waited for his supportive shoulder.” But Vova had learned enough in the last year to be more cautious than Igor in drawing attention or changing the dynamics of the room. At first he “was warm, but nothing more.”

Still, Igor reassured himself, “I knew—and I was not ever wrong—that when I truly needed him, he would be there.”

Sergei, an unfamiliar star, preoccupied Igor even more. Still charming in every photo from that time, his hair is perfect and he poses with arms Igor could only envy around his teammates. But Sergei struck Igor as if he was holding some things back. It had been only days since Kharlamov’s death, though Igor had no way of knowing how much that meant.

Lyosha was big and gentle, with easy advice. He treated Igor like a bit of “an ugly duckling,” unlikely to make the first line—unless he could listen, learn fast, and fit into Coach's plan. Coach had found Igor and the rest of them when no one else would, after all.

Slava seemed to be watching him across the room. As Igor began to prove himself in practice, he had the feeling Slava’s expression changed, that maybe, Slava was silently rooting for him.

At the end of the summer the three boys were given a try together. Igor, Sergei, and Vova were such similar skaters that they were able to pull into tight formation, a literal line, almost on top of each other, the two wingers escorting Igor so closely his legs were sometimes sliding between the others’ and he could bounce the puck up and down between the three of them. Then, all five. He and Slava were similar thinkers, staying out on the ice long after the others. Like music, he wrote that he didn’t have to look behind him because he wouldn’t ever mistake the rhythm of Vova’s skates for Sergei’s, Slava’s or Lyosha’s. Igor was finally issued a green practice sweater to match theirs.

"Our line could never be evaluated according to primative arithmetic addition: the innovation and steadfastness of Fetisov, plus the reliability and self-sacrifice of Kasatonov, plus the elegance and refinement of Makarov, plus the fearlessness and pressure of Krutov, plus the [center] position of Larionov.

No, no, as long as we were together and we had the same intentions, the line was transformed into a force far stronger that which you would get by adding up our merits and abilities.

It was a joyful, undeniable fact: the Greens were made for each other."

The five of them found they could play, or talk, for hours. But they never planned or replayed mistakes off the ice, and promised not to ever blame each other after. That was the only way they could take the risks they did. They fought sometimes, more and more like a little family: Slava and Lyosha always took each others’ side if one of the forwards fucked up a play in practice. The other two forwards would leap in on his side, but then one of them would forget which friend he was favoring and flop sides, so by the time practice was over every argument ended just as easily.

Soon they were doing everything together, including pickup soccer and volleyball against the second-best unit of players from Dynamo. They won, because Igor was bad at soccer but liked winning everything all the time, and the others indulged him.

[Sergei playing soccer in a field outside the barracks in his underwear. I’m not picking ones of Sergei on purpose, he’s just the one who has the most dedicated fan pages. You can see the rest of them topless in a minute.]

Only sleeping separated them. Igor was jealous of Sergei and Vova’s respective roommates. He wished the three of them could be like Slava and Lyosha, who got to room together, and talked long after lights out.

“As a nice girl dreams of a handsome fiancé, so do hockey players cherish the dream that at some time they will fall into the company of such fellows, with whom they will know how to forge together THE squad, a deserving squad, in which everyone on the line will blossom.”

[My artistic interpretation of what Igor just said. An old newsprint photo of him kneeling on the ice with Sergei and Vova on either side, with the text “ferda booooys” in very large pink font.]

In September 1981, the national team headed to Canada with its newest member and its silent escort to avenge Coach Tikhonov’s Olympic loss. The Soviets hadn’t cared too much about the first Canada Cup invitational tournament five years earlier, but after 1980, this one was a gift. When active NHLers didn’t play in the Olympics or World Championships, the idea of the Cup was to bring together all the very best players in the world--in Canada, of course. Alan Eagleson, then head of the NHLPA, masterminded the tournament (also a lot of fraud).

The Swedes landed in Canada feeling smug about their almost-entirely NHLer roster, and thought they were the favorites. The Americans had beaten the Soviets last year, and were sure they’d do it again. And of course Canada thought they could win it all with a “Dream Line” built around their own new weapon.

The Green Unit debuted on the international stage eight weeks after meeting each other, and they crushed it.

The final was a showdown between Canada and the Soviets. Coach Scotty Bowman told his players, “We really are favorites in the final. Nobody in this country will tolerate a loss."

Coach Tikhonov told his, "Today you’ve got to play so well that the entire Canadian population will talk about you afterwards and remember you for a long time. Play so well that the Canadian fans, when they will leave the Forum, will wait for you when you get on the bus after the game and admire you."

This is the one time I’ll say Coach Tikhonov was right. I guess you can call him hockey’s biggest fan.

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#green unit #igor larionov #sergei makarov #vladimir krutov #slava fetisov #alexei makarov

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sparklywaistcoat · 4 years

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I find the online version of the 1967 TV Times interview with Diana Rigg unreadable online, so I’m reproducing it here for anyone else who has difficulty with accessibility due to the web page’s design.

The Girl Behind Emma Peel, TV Times, 12/10/1967 (reprinted here from http://deadline.theavengers.tv/tvt1067a.htm)

...the two worlds of actress Rigg... above, as Emma Peel of THE AVENGERS; a series seen in 40 countries; men feast their eyes on her while muttering endearments in 22 languages. Right, Diana as she is to herself...

Diana Rigg has returned to Shakespearean acting - she is the female lead in a film version of "A Midsummer Night's Dream".

As far as she was concerned, it was the most wonderful thing that had happened to her in years.

She had been Emma Peel's alter ego so long she had to get away - - or else.

"I had become paranoid," she assured me, "with an underlying urge to pack and run. It is a curious thing. People who have never been subjected to it can never really understand what it means.

"I can only describe it as a sense of panic that seizes you when you are Diana to yourself and you are walking down the street. An instant later, you are somebody else to a lot of people who behave as if you belong to them.

"If you are quite a private person, which I am, this seems an intrusion on my privacy. I just have to run.

"Mind you," she adds, with an apologetic smile, "I am not ungrateful. I will be the last to minimise what television has done for me. It is a phenomenon, a miracle medium, that can accomplish in six months what takes years on the stage. Suddenly, you are famous. Suddenly, everybody knows you.

"The point is, though, that you are not yourself. Only the other person you portray in the series. That person is, of necessity, imposed by television, one-dimensional. You ask yourself - - is it worth it?

It should be. In the three years that Diana Rigg has spent in THE AVENGERS she has been catapulted into a position of bargaining power.

Hollywood producers have offered £100,000 to work in one film. It seem they would go higher, if that is what she wants. But she has turned them down.

"So far I have not been offered anything I want," she says. "I don't want a long-term contract. As an actress I will work where and for whom I want, if the script is exciting enough.

"If a script is good and they have a director I can trust, then I will do it."

Really it is a matter of time. The big, international film-makers are confident they will have lassoed this high-spirited long-legged English girl long before Emma Peel loses her hold on the masses - if she ever does.

THE AVENGERS is eagerly watched each week in 40 countries, and Emma Peel (Mrs.) is the series' irrepressible whimsical Amazon of the jet set. Men feast their eyes on her while muttering endearments in 22 languages, and their women try to emulate her - - but they never will, of course.

Consumption of champagne the world over has been increasing ever since John Steed and Emma Peel began toasting each other in bubbly stuff, from the television tube.

"Avengerwear" - - Emma's fancy "cat" suits and things - - is reaching the shelves and racks of department stores all over the world.

"Emma Peel's" international fan mail, still growing by leaps and bounds, promises to assume astronomical figures before the winter is out.

Diana never touches this mail and has enlisted mother, in Leeds, to head the Emma Peel fan mail operation.

Says Diana: "We have this room at home, measuring 20ft. by 15ft., and it is full of letters. More are delivered each day - all addressed to me.

"I am supposed to answer them. But I can't, and that worries me deeply. I get persecuted by the mere thought that there's an obligation which I am not willing to fulfil.

"That is where mother comes in. She reads, and she answers. And I feel ashamed. But I can't help it.

"People have made up their minds to identify me with a fantasy of theirs on television. In their minds they want to have a relationship with me based on fantasy which can take any form.

"I have heard from my mother that there have been letters from children saying: "You look like my dead mother and so I write to you." I think that is terrifying."

The story of Diana Rigg is, in a way, the story of two women - the real one and the imaginary one. They are identical twins.

The conflict within this beautiful and intelligent young woman, who is just a little older than 29, reminds me of the case of Sean Connery, alias James Bond.

In Connery's case, though, there was resentment. Connery, the man, gradually developing such a passionate hatred for the image he had created that he refused to continue as Bond even at a million dollars a throw.

He made his last two Bond films under protest. Bond made him a multi-millionaire, but you cannot escape the feeling that he would settle for half this amount if his identity remained - that of himself and not that of the slick, women-loving, superb and deadly Secret Agent 007.

Emma Peel has some of the same qualities as 007, well-screened and suppressed, to fit into a family-watching hour on television.

The innuendo, contained in the name has been a source of Rigg's unconcealed unhappiness.

Asked what innuendo, she blushes and confides in a conspiratorial whisper: "Believe it or not, Emma Peel is a phonetical transposition of "M Appeal", the M in this case standing for Men. In other words, "Men Appeal." Isn't it a scream? Sorry that I blush."

She adds wistfully: "I wanted to be Lady Peel, not for any grandiose reasons, but simply because it seemed to get some rather good comments over on the English aristocracy. Of course they wouldn't do it."

"They" being the producers who have been running the show like a tightly-run ship.

Not unlike Sean Connery after "Goldfinger", Diana Rigg said goodbye to THE AVENGERS on the last day of a contractual stay at an ITV studio in Borehamwood, Hertfordshire, last August 31st.

"They" were highly hopeful that she would be back, if not immediately, then later.

The production schedule could be stretched to accommodate her, she was reminded. A new regime was taking command of the series, and this, it was felt, would offer Diana an incentive.

She was not sure. But on the last day of the last batch at the close of shooting at 5.20pm she produced a bottle of champagne to toast her co-star and co-workers.

They had become a closely-knit family, and she would miss them if she were not to come back.

"I am devoted to Patrick," she says, referring to co-star Patrick Macnee, who plays John Steed. "I'm frightened of minimising him by talking about him, because it always sounds so glib, but he's an extremely generous and gentle and marvellous man."

They are comrades-in-arms on television. Off screen they are the best of friends, but that is all. Macnee married a second time during the series. Again to quote her, she is "totally committed" to another man.

Diana is simply devoted to a number of other people on the series, including her stand-in, Diana Enright, and her double, stunt-woman, Cyd Child, who resembles her so much that all three directors of the series have dared to have Cyd perform her stunts in full-face and semi-close-up.

Viewers have yet to write to complain that the girl hurling herself through the air at an adversary is not Diana Rigg.

And then, there's Diana's studio chauffeur, John Taylor, who is also her "Man Friday".

"I wouldn't know what to do without him," she says. A confidante, he also does her shopping while she is working, and has the ability to always be there when needed.

Diana didn't join the series under duress. She was tested for the role, as were others after John Steed's leading lady Cathy Gale (actress Honor Blackman) left the series - - ironically for a Bond flick, "Goldfinger".

Why did a promising young Shakespearean actress offer her services to a television series Shakespearean actors have looked down on with patronising dismay? To quote the lovely Diana: "I did it because I had left the Royal Shakespeare Company knowing that if I renewed my contract and stayed on for three or four years, I would have progressed and played good parts, but I was yearning for additional scope.

"To accomplish this I would have to plunge into the deep end, and nothing seemed deeper than this. I was right. Nothing is deeper."

Before dawn in a delightfully feminine bedroom the phone jangles. The young woman sleepily answers. Then struggles out of bed, just like a scene from THE AVENGERS.

But the call was from the telephone service Diana Rigg instructed to wake her. It is still only 6.30 a.m. She gropes through the house, takes her luke-warm bath, drinks a glass of lemon juice. Into the street by 6.50 a.m. - without a touch of make-up. "I've got no vanity at that time of the morning."

North London's suburb of St. John's Wood is still fast asleep and there's no one to catch sight of Diana Rigg below her perfectly-groomed best. Except John Taylor, her chauffeur. He arrives a few minutes earlier, but his instructions are to wait .... about two lines are incoherent here...

"I'm never late," she shudders, "comatose that I still am, and I hate that sound of the bell - at this ghastly hour."

Off to the studios in Borehamwood, Herts. She reads the morning paper on the way.

"It isn't my paper," she says, "It's John'. I don't like it but it's the only paper there, so I read it. Every morning." Apparently it had never occurred to her to ask John to bring her a paper. And so... another day in the life of Emma Peel.

This has been her routine since she became a television star. Diana moved to this house, a lot more compatible with her status, from an old mews cottage she has lived in for five years. Not that she was so concerned with status symbols. Diana Rigg couldn't care less about such things.

She simply fell in love with the old house in St. John's Wood. And her accountant approved of the move.

At her new address previously lived the artist Augustus John; and once Dame Laura Knight.

There, Diana Rigg now lives in the style and comfort of her private world revolving around a specially designed kitchen and window boxes sprouting home-grown herbs.

The house is out of bounds. Except close friends. Not that she is a recluse. She feels that her life is her "own ruddy business". But when in the mood, she will readily explain that she is every jealous of preserving her own privacy.

She insists on leading a life she considers right for her; not concerned with what she defines as "other people's social consciousness. I like to do because I wish to, not because I ought to."

Diana was born in Doncaster, in Yorkshire, on July 20th, 1938. She had spent the early part of her life at Jodhpur in Rajputna. Her family was in the Indian Government Service. Later, she was sent home to school at Great Missenden in Bucks. Eventually, her parents returned to Yorkshire to settle in Leeds, where they now live.

There, Diana finished her education at Fulneck Girls' School, enrolled at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (The RADA) and two years later graduated to an acting career. Was she withdrawn as a child? "No, I don't think so. I had the ability to withdraw and I still have it. But above all I always has a strong sense of personal identity.

"One thing that I never did was dream. I was always very practical. I grew interested in the theatre when I was small but not because it offered me an entrance to a world of fantasy, but because it gave me a chance to assert myself. And I loved its freedom. I thought of it as a challenge."

Diana reflects: "I can still remember the first time I met an audience on these terms. I was an understudy at Stratford-on-Avon, when I was called on to replace the principal in 'Alls Well That Ends Well'. Her name was Priscilla Morgan.

"They gave me maybe an hour's rehearsal. By a coincidence my parents were out front that night. I didn't tell them that I was going on, so that when I came out and started shaking, they thought I was just walking on. Then they realised, and sort of clutched each other in absolute fear.

"My fear was of a different kind. I was simply not sufficiently prepared and so I was annoyed with myself. Still, the audience was very kind as it always is when an understudy takes over and doesn't want to make a complete mess of the play, and I was led forward and allowed to take a solo bow.

"I played it for about a week, I guess. And it was about the end of the week only that I began to enjoy it."

Then Diana was 20 years old and earning £7 10 shillings a week. "To make ends meet, I was living on faggots, scraps of meat put inside intestines you still get at the butchers in the provinces. Poor people's food. They cost fourpence each.

"Four times a week, my dinner would consist of two faggots and maybe some potatoes and another vegetable, and fruit. And you know what? I was very healthy. And very happy."

Diana had an old second-hand bicycle for transport around Stratford. "And not only did I make the £7 10s stretch, but I could never do without perfume. I guess I was so very young and this particular perfume was very heavy and musky and made me feel extremely sensual ... I never changed my perfume in all these years!"

Her faggot-eating period came to an end when she moved to London to appear in the London productions of the Royal Shakespeare Company.

The bicycle went. Now she drives a green Mini. She lived in the mews cottage, all this still modestly. No more faggots, but all the perfume that she felt was required, by a young actress, not too bad-looking.

She took a small bottle when she travelled to the United States, appearing in 'King Lear' and 'The Comedy of Errors' on alternate nights.

The company also toured the Continent, as far as Moscow. From her experience on this tour comes Diana's boundless admiration for actor Paul Scofield.

"He's been my ideal since I first saw him on the stage. I was working with him in 'King Lear' when I became aware of his sense of identity, a strong totally compromising identity."

She says: "The beauty of it is that here is a man who has just won an Oscar in an Oscar-winning film and Hollywood is after him. What does he do? He's gone back to Stratford. Obviously, he doesn't care for the money. And he's right. Of course, it's your beliefs that matter.

"In a way I followed his example when I agreed to film "A Midsummer Night's Dream". Peter Brook was doing it and I believe in him and I grew up with him, so I had to answer his call. Professionally speaking, I am part of his troupe.

"Even though I think I'm too bad for the part. The pay? Obviously a pittance by comparison with what I'm making, but then, money is so transitory ... I will not forget that I could, when forced to, live on £7 and 10 Shillings.

Tourists at Athens airport could swear that the young woman killing time in the long drab waiting room by stopping at souvenir counters to inspect, for the umpteenth time, the pseudo-Grecian vases for sale was... Emma Peel.

She wore her auburn hair loose, letting it flow to her shoulders in the manner of the star of THE AVENGERS. And her mini-skirt revealed a pair of very feminine, familiar and beautiful legs.

"It was not easy to say I was not Mrs. Peel," Diana Rigg recalls, "because I dislike lies. But I would have had to explain why and what I was doing there, and it was a long story."

Actually, she was changing planes, going from London to a little-known place in Western Greece.

Eventually a shaky little plane which flies up into the mountains over some breathtakingly lovely countryside delivered her there, to make the trip worth her while.

Two days later, she took the same route back to London and Borehamwood, Herts., to resume where Emma Peel had left off.

It was an unconventional way to spend two days off the series. "I go to the craziest places for the weekend," she said, dismissing all attempts to explain herself.

In the case of the Greek place, a British film unit was there shooting "Oedipus, The King", and lots of friends were there.

One weekend last winter she flew to Zurich, rented a car at the airport and set out, a map in her lap, for Klosters, the Swiss ski resort.

"I drove through the night, with the craziest Swiss drivers whizzing past me over the ice-covered road," she said. "It twisted its way through the mountains, and I just hung on the wheel and prayed. I could have turned back, but I didn't. Too proud."

Until this experience, she had never motored on the Continent before, much less had snow-covered mountains by herself.

All of which seems to indicate that, not unlike Emma Peel, Diana Rigg is a rather unusual person.

It was she - and not Emma Peel - who helped to launch the mini-skirt, in an attempt to be different.

"The designer and the other men were horrified," she said, chuckling at memories of production executives looking aghast at the abbreviated skirt she was wearing and which she wanted Emma to wear.

"They pulled their hair ... said you can't do that, it's impossible ... I argued that one must look forward and not back and by wearing these brief skirts, one was looking forward.

"In fact, one was creating fashion very avant-garde, rather than remaining at the tail end of last year's styles. And it turned out that I couldn't have been more right."

Not that she has profited financially from the so-called "Avenger-wear" that mirrors her ideas. After all, she's an actress!

Nor does she care to identify with an image. "I never wear the clothes in the series outside," she said.

"But there's a style there that I think is common to both of us, and I have no intention of changing my appearance after Emma Peel is no more. After all, it was I who affected her."

She has no intention either of abandoning the mini-skirt, which, as far as she is concerned, was from the beginning Diana Rigg expressing herself.

Where the tastes of Emma Peel and Diana Rigg meet is champagne. Emma loves it, Diana loves it. And, for the record, she loved it before she became Emma Peel.

"I'm always very well stocked," she said, "but I never drink it at the studio.

"The stuff Patrick Macnee and I drink on camera is bubbly lemonade, very harmless. I don't touch the stuff then. You mustn't when you work. At home, well, that's another story ..."

Diana's secret passion is to cook, and to have friends come to her house in London's St. John's Wood to enjoy her meals, without much ceremony, exquisitely prepared with the help of her home-grown herbs.

"I'm not joking," she proudly expounded on the subject of her herbs. "They are all mine, and they all grow in window boxes outside my kitchen. Every window has its own herbs.

"Left to right, I have sage, thyme, marjoram, rosemary, which is very beautiful, chervil, and two kinds of mint, sorrel and my bay trees.

"Bay tree leaves are marvellous for fish ... true mine are more like baby trees. And basil, and fennel, and chives. And that's it. Except that they all live and prosper, outside my kitchen windows in London." The secret passion of Diana Rigg ...

"I had always wanted to grow my own herbs," she said. "This was my obsession. So I got the address of a herb farm 95 miles out of town, and one morning I went there.

"A little old lady took me around and she muttered under her breath and said they would never grow in the London smoke. I said I'd like to try anyway. So, she shook her head and gave me what I wanted.

"They came in little pots, as I brought them back to London they were all looking sad and sick.

"So I put them in larger pots and stuck them in my window boxes and every day I watered them out of a jug. And the miracle came to pass."

Diana Rigg has become enriched as an actress in the years at Stratford-on-Avon; on tours and the three years that she has played Emma Peel in THE AVENGERS.

She tells about the director she met at a party who told her he had a marvellous script for her. She had it sent over.

"Well, if I wasn't the girl who comes tearing through the door with a gun in one hand and a flame-thrower in the other," she reported in mock despair, "I was the sexy siren sneaking through the door in Veronica Lake style. I lost my temper, for the first time.

"I sent them a message saying that I couldn't do it."

#diana rigg #tv times #emma peel #the avengers

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ryanjdonovan · 3 years

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DONOVAN’S OSCAR PROGNOSTICATION 2021

We all knew it was coming: The Oscar nominees are now almost literally handpicked by Netflix and Amazon. We thought it would be a few years away, but it's just one more piece of fallout from the pandemic. It won't be long now before I'm making my predictions for the Flixies or the Amazies. (By the way, streamers: I just want to watch the friggin' credits, why is that such a problem??)

In case you haven't been paying attention (and I'm pretty sure you haven't), Nomadland is going to win the big Oscars. Haven't seen Nomadland? Or even heard of it? Or any of the Oscar-nominated films? Or didn't even know the Oscars were happening this year? You're not alone. With no theaters this past year, the non-bingeable, non-Netflix-welcome-screen movies were pretty much an afterthought. (But if you asked the streaming services, the nominees this year each accounted for a billion new subscribers and topped the worldwide digital box office for months.)

Well, I'm here to tell you the Oscars are in fact happening, albeit a few months late. Fear not: my 22nd annual Oscar predictions will provide everything you need to know before the big night. (You don't even need to watch the movies themselves -- reading this article will take you just as long.)

BEST PICTURE:

SHOULD WIN: Minari WILL WIN: Nomadland GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Pieces Of A Woman INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Ma Rainey's Black Bottom

If you're a fan of capitalism, this is not the year for you. Nominees like Nomadland, Mank, Judas And The Black Messiah, The Trial Of The Chicago 7, Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, Hillbilly Elegy, Minari, and The White Tiger are all (to varying degrees) indictments of a capitalist system, or at the very least are suspicious of those who benefit from it, and focus on those left behind. It's certainly fertile ground for angst and high drama, if not belly laughs. (Don't get me started on the ironies of all these movies being distributed by billion-dollar conglomerates. The filmmakers, producers, and actors can tell you that the checks cash just fine.) Like Austin Powers said, "Finally those capitalist pigs will pay for their crimes, eh comrades?"

There is no way for me to talk about Nomadland, which will win Best Picture, without sounding like an a-hole. It's a gorgeous work of art, and a fascinating character study, but I struggled to connect to the story. (You should know that for me as a movie watcher, story is more engaging than artfulness or character. But hey, why can't we have all three?) I wanted to like it, I really did. I'm content to drift along with Fern, the resilient main character played naturally by Frances McDormand, but she has no true objective or antagonist. She's a nomad on the road, either searching or hiding, either with the world or against the world, we're not quite sure which. I thought it might be driving (literally) toward a bigger revelation or resolution, but no. (Same with life, I guess.) It's meandering, reticent, languorous, and ethereal (I'm trying really hard to avoid using the word "boring" here). This is all quite intentional, by the way -- the film moves at the pace of its protagonist, and the effect is palpable. (And don't worry, it's not lost on me that I'm watching this movie about people barely scraping by, on a large ultra-high-def TV on my comfy couch in my warm home under an electric blanket, using a streaming service that the movie's characters probably couldn't access or afford.) Am I wrong about all this? Of course I'm wrong. Every critic out there is doing backflips over this film. And not surprisingly, the movie's mortality themes are playing well with the Academy, whose average age and closeness to death are extremely high. (Like the nomad Swankie, they're all anxious about that final kayak ride down the River Styx.) But beware the movie whose 'user/audience score' is significantly lower than its 'critic score' -- it means that regular people are not quite buying it. For me, the biggest problem with slice-of-life films is that I don't really want to go to movies to experience regular life -- I have life for that. Then again, I'm also a superficial, materialistic a-hole. But you knew that already. (Added intrigue: Hulu, Nomadland's distributor, might score a Best Picture win before Amazon, and gives Amazon a subtle middle-finger in the movie with its depiction of seasonal workers.)

Remember when feel-good movies were a thing? It didn’t mean that there were no conflicts or problems for the characters, it just meant that they were enjoyable to watch, and you came out feeling good about humans. Minari is the rare feel-good Oscar movie, and my personal pick for what should win Best Picture. It easily might have been a tough sit based on the premise: A Korean family moves to rural Arkansas to start a farm, and must overcome a drought, financial calamity, a complete lack of agriculture experience, a crumbling marriage, the son's potentially-deadly heart condition, and a grandmother that drinks all their Mountain Dew. In keeping with Oscar tradition, it could have been a constant assault of upsetting scenes. But instead, it's a warm, sunny, optimistic, funny movie. The family faces struggles and hardships, to be sure, but the story is treated with positivity, not negativity; with a sense of community, not isolation; with an attitude of resolve, not blame. And they get through their problems with mutual support, togetherness, tenderness, humanity, and of course, love. (Not to mention grandma planting some weeds that may or may not miraculously heal physical and emotional wounds.) All these things combine to make it a more engaging experience for me than Nomadland. Not only do I wish this movie would win the Oscar, I wish I could give it a hug.

A lot of pundits think The Trial Of The Chicago 7 has the best chance to upset Nomadland. But I'm not seeing that happen. It was an early favorite and has been getting tons of nominations in the awards run-up, but it hasn't actually been winning much, and seems to be losing steam. (The lack of a Best Director nod is virtually a killer.) I think Minari has a small chance to sneak away with a victory, as it's gotten almost as much universal praise as Nomadland, but hasn't had the same audience. Judas And The Black Messiah is an interesting case, in that it's a late entry that had little early awareness (it didn't plan to be eligible until next year's Oscars), but it scooped several unexpected nominations. Debuting a contender late and taking advantage of recency bias has been a successful strategy in the past, so don't be surprised by a surprise. (Had Shaka King scored the last Director slot over Thomas Vinterberg, I think Judas would be a fairly legitimate threat.)

If you had asked me in September, I would have predicted that Mank would be the wire-to-wire favorite to win Best Picture. Aside from being a prestige David Fincher film (more on him later), it's a smorgasbord of Classic Tales of Hollywood. And the centerpiece couldn't be bolder: It's an homage to, a making of, a dissection of, and political dissertation on Citizen Kane -- only the most deified film of all time. Simply recite the synopsis, describe the film's 1940s black-and-white aesthetic, and mention Gary Oldman's name as the star, and just watch the Oscars come pouring in, right? Well, not quite. It netted 10 nominations, more than any other film, but it's looking like it might not win any of them, certainly not Best Picture. I don't think the film quite knows what it wants to be; at least, I'm not sure what it wants to be. Centered on Herman Mankiewicz, the man credited with co-writing Citizen Kane with Orson Welles, it's a distorted, polemical, impressionistic portrait of a man I barely even knew existed. Though Welles is only briefly portrayed in the film, it demystifies him a bit, suggesting that he's maybe not as responsible for this work of genius as we thought. If the film was framed as "Who actually wrote Citizen Kane?", it would be a little easier to get into. But it feels somewhat academic and circuitous (in a way that Kane itself doesn't). And while the script is clever, it's clever to the point of being confusing. Of course, a film of this pedigree invites a lot of scrutiny, maybe more than any other awards contender (or any film that actually got released this past year, period). It has a lot to appreciate, and surely would benefit from a second viewing. I also can't help but root for the fact that it's been Fincher's passion project for almost a quarter-century. (Then again, tell that to any indie filmmaker who spends their whole life on a single passion project that ends up getting completely ignored, and they’ll tell you where to shove your Fincher pity.) Ultimately, it's an admirable work, but if you're looking for a Rosebud, it's not there.

Promising Young Woman continues to defy expectations. Not only did it rack up six Oscar nominations, it's likely to win one or two of them, and for a while, was gaining on Nomadland for Best Picture. Now that the chips are falling into place, we know it won't win in this category, but it remains one of the most talked-about films of the season. What I like most about the film is not necessarily the literal story (I should have seen the main twist coming a mile away), but the way writer/director Emerald Fennell elevates it in an interesting way. Instead of showing the whole story, she starts her film at the end of a typical revenge thriller (several years after the incident and the legal aftermath). In fact, the victim is not even in the movie, and the victim's best friend is already far along on her path of retribution. (It also challenges the definition of "victim".) The film is not voyeuristically exciting in any way; it's unsettling, but also oddly charming in unexpected ways. The key for me is how it serves as a metaphor for the secrets people keep from loved ones and the toll that it takes on them, and the penances we give ourselves instead of allowing ourselves to heal. It also made me realize that movies could use more Juice Newton. (Paris Hilton, not so much.)

Sound Of Metal and The Father were probably the last two films to make the cut in this category, and are the least likely to win. Their best chances are in other categories. (Pro Tip: If you put the word "sound" in the title of your movie, there's a very good chance you'll win Best Sound.)

I don’t recommend Pieces Of A Woman to anyone who's pregnant, or partners of pregnant women, or anyone planning to have babies anytime in the future, or any partners of anyone planning to have babies anytime in the future, or people hoping to be grandparents anytime in the future, or doctors. (And I'm certain midwives are not giving this a ringing endorsement.) The film starts with an infant death, and then gets worse from there. It's not just an unpleasant experience, it's a series of unrelenting unpleasant experiences: Depression, extra-marital affairs, guilt, a domineering mother, lying, manipulative spouses, abandonment, feelings of inadequacy, sexual dysfunction, litigation, sibling jealousy, public shame, borderline domestic abuse, bribery, courtroom drama, financial problems, baseless blame, and drug addiction. And if that's not upsetting enough, they also manage to throw the Holocaust in there. (This should be a movie sub-genre: "Parade of Horrible Events". This fraternity would include: Manchester By The Sea, Mudbound, Uncut Gems, 12 Years A Slave, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, The Family Stone, and of course, The Revenant.) And then there are the characters. It would be one thing if these were ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances. But these are extraordinary a--holes making extraordinary circumstances much worse. It's literally laughable. If I didn't understand what the word 'melodramatic' meant before, I do now. I'm aware that this is based on the experiences of writing/directing spouses Kata Wéber and Kornél Mundruczó, and I don't mean to trivialize their pain or what they went through. Nobody should have to suffer that trauma. And I realize art is a healthy and oftentimes beautiful outlet for grief. But… did I mention the movie is unpleasant? There are certainly wonderful fragments and ideas in here; if the components added up to something moving, I would be much more receptive to it. If I were a snarky (okay, snarkier) reviewer, I might call it "Pieces Of A Better Movie".

Soul is a lovely and inspiring movie, but I'm at the point where I have to judge films by my experience while watching them with children. Try explaining this movie to a 6-year-old. Way too many existential/philosophical/theological questions. I guess it's good for parents who like to talk to their children, but if you're trying to keep your kid occupied and quiet (the reason screens were invented) so you can do something else, it's a bust. (It's no match for the hysterical self-explanatory antics of a certain motor-mouthed, overweight, black-and-white, martial-arts-fighting bear with a penchant for sitting on people's heads and, more importantly, keeping kids silently dumbstruck.) And: Did they have to make the entrance to the afterlife -- a giant bug zapper -- so terrifying? If that's how you get to heaven, what is the entrance to hell like??

BEST ACTOR:

SHOULD WIN: Chadwick Boseman (Ma Rainey's Black Bottom) WILL WIN: Chadwick Boseman (Ma Rainey's Black Bottom) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Pete Davidson (The King Of Staten Island) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Delroy Lindo (Da 5 Bloods)

This one hurts. I usually don't feel a connection to or an overabundance of sympathy for celebrities, but this one genuinely hurts. When Chadwick Boseman wins Best Actor (for Ma Rainey's Black Bottom), it will be a wonderful celebration, but also a painful reminder, not just of who he was, but of who he was yet to be. If ever there was a unanimous vote, this would be it. Before this movie, we had seen him play heroes and outsized personalities, but there had been nothing quite like his role as Levee, the gifted and demonized trumpet player in Ma Rainey's band. His brash, wounded performance is astonishing, revelatory. Since the film debuted after his passing, we can only watch it through the prism of his death. It's hard not to feel parallels: Levee is just starting to scratch the surface of his talent, giving us hints of his abilities with composition and brass before his breakdown; similarly, we have only gotten a taste of Boseman's range and depth. For both the character and the man, we're being deprived of the art he would have created. Boseman's passing makes the performance more resonant and unshakeable, but I think under different circumstances he would still be the front-runner in this race. The only difference would be, we'd assume this would be the first prize of many.

Anthony Hopkins picked an unusual time to go on a hot streak. He recently left a memorable impression on the Marvel Cinematic Universe as Odin, got an Emmy nomination for Westworld, and scored 2 Oscar nominations (after a 22-year drought) -- all after his 80th birthday. This year's nomination, for playing a man slipping into dementia in The Father, probably would have been a favorite to notch him his second Oscar in a different year. He seems like he should be a two-time winner, and we just don't know how many more chances he'll have. (I stand by my declaration that he should have won last year for The Two Popes, over Brad Pitt.) To those aforementioned aging Academy members who fear mortality and probably consider Hopkins a spry young man: Maybe you shouldn't watch this movie.

Riz Ahmed's performance in Sound Of Metal establishes the tone for the entire film, making the experience feel grounded and real. I appreciate how his outward, physical performance is very still, while his internal performance is frenetic, like there's a live wire in his head that he's trying to conceal from the world. His quietness leaves us with an uncertainty that feels like authentic; he's not going to tell us all the answers, because his character is figuring it out as he goes. Speaking of questions, I have a few about his band in the movie (before the hearing loss): Are they any good? What kind of living do they make? Is their cashflow net positive or negative? Are they considered successful (in whatever way you want to define that)? What is their ceiling, commercially and artistically? Are they one lucky break away from making it, or is it a lost cause? Most importantly, if Ahmed and fellow nominee LaKeith Stanfield (Judas And The Black Messiah) had a sad, doleful, wide-eyed staring contest, who would win?

Steven Yeun has been a recognizable face in film and TV (and a prolific voice actor) for a decade, but we haven't really seen him front and center until Minari. And after this bright, heartwarming turn, I think you can expect him to remain in the spotlight for the foreseeable future. His understated and remarkable performance carries this beautiful story of a family finding its path through a new way of life. Despite scant dialogue and minimal exposition, we seem to always know what his character is thinking -- that he's facing daunting odds but has a steel resolve. He and screen partner Yeri Han (who deserves as much credit as Yeun for this film) create one of the most tender crumbling marriages I've seen on screen in a long time. (Though a marriage counselor could have given his character some helpful "dos and don'ts" that might have saved him some headaches.)

What's more improbable, Mank's meandering, decades-long journey to the screen, or the fact that we're supposed to believe 63-year Gary Oldman as a man in his 30s and early 40s? Well, once his performance begins, it's so hammy that you forget all about the ridiculous age discrepancy. He's playing Herman Mankiewicz, whose bombastic writing and sozzled demeanor helped mold the script for Citizen Kane into the legend that it is. It's a bloviated, ostentatious, spectacular exhibition of affectation and panache that only Oldman could pull off. It's a lot of fun. (It must be exhausting to be his wife.) It’s as if Mank wrote the story of his own life... and gave himself the best part.

I'm naming Delroy Lindo for my snubbed choice, for his intense and crushing performance in Da 5 Bloods. I've been hoping he'd get an Oscar nomination for 20 years, and by all accounts, this was going to be his year. Even in the fall, after a slew of critics' awards, he was the odds-on favorite to win. So it was a disappointment that his name wasn't called when nominations were read. For now, he'll have to be content with being everyone's favorite never-nominated actor. (But here's to hoping The Harder They Fall is frickin' amazing, so he can end that drought next year.) There are plenty of honorable mentions this year: Adarsh Gourav (The White Tiger), Mads Mikkelsen (Another Round), and Kingsley Ben-Adir (One Night In Miami) come to mind. (By the way: How often do Kingsley Ben-Adir and Sir Ben Kingsley get each other's take-out orders switched?) But my runner-up is John David Washington (my snubbed pick two years ago), who undoubtedly became an A-List movie star in the past year… but not for the reason you think. Yes, Tenet was a blockbuster and the cinematic story of the summer, but he had special effects and storyline trickery supporting him. Instead, Malcolm And Marie is what stands out to me -- he has nothing but his performance (as abrasive as it is), and he still commands the screen and our attention. When he gets hold of a juicy monologue, he starts cooking… but when he starts dancing on the countertop? Look out.

BEST ACTRESS:

SHOULD WIN: Andra Day (The United States Vs. Billie Holiday) WILL WIN: Andra Day (The United States Vs. Billie Holiday) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Anya Taylor-Joy (Emma.) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Jessie Buckley (I'm Thinking of Ending Things)

Coming down to the wire, we've got a race where three women have a chance to win, and the favorite depends on who you ask and when you ask. Carey Mulligan, Viola Davis, and Andra Day have each won precursor awards, and seem to leapfrog each other daily. Mulligan has been picked by most prognosticators, with Davis right behind. But I'm going to put my untarnished reputation on the line and predict a long-shot upset for Day. (And when that doesn't happen, I'm going to say that I actually thought Mulligan or Davis were more likely.)

Maybe I'm picking Andra Day because she's also my personal favorite, for her star-making debut in The United States Vs. Billie Holiday. The movie itself is serviceable but not stellar (some of the scenes and dialogue are absurdly expository), but Day is an absolute dynamo as the Lady Day. The film is a fairly rounded picture of her life, including her drug abuse, health issues, singing the controversial-at-the-time civil-rights song "Strange Fruit", and an investigation by the U.S. government (hence the title) -- all of which is intriguing for those of us not familiar with her personal story. (I'm sure you'll be shocked to learn that, despite my curmudgeonly ways, I was not in fact alive in the 1940s.) Day has seemingly come out of nowhere, because there was no early hype about the film, and nobody even saw it until a few weeks ago (and even now, it hasn't been seen by nearly as many people as the other contenders). Known primarily as a singer before this (I'm a big fan), she literally transformed her voice (straining her vocal chords, taking up smoking) to capture Billie Holiday's unique vocals. The singing alone might be enough to get her a nomination, but it's the dramatic work that puts her ahead of the field. More than any other nominee, we really get the feeling that she's laying her soul bare onscreen. Even for a seasoned actress, the depth of this performance would be impressive. Her film doesn't have the popularity or momentum that Mulligan's or Davis's do, so she's heading into Oscar night as an underdog. But if voters judge the actresses strictly on performance, not on the movies themselves, she might just pull an upset. And, if you haven't heard Day sing outside this movie, do yourself a favor: Stop reading this article (you might want to do that anyway) and browse her catalogue -- she has the best voice of any contemporary singer, period. Forget Billie Eilish, why isn't Day singing the next James Bond song?

Carey Mulligan returns to the Oscar game for the first time in 11 years, for Promising Young Woman. (Is she bitter that her performance in An Education lost to Sandra Bullock in The Blind Side? Probably not as bitter as I am.) Promising Young Woman is getting a lot of attention and accolades, and much of it is due to Mulligan's strong turn as Cassandra, a woman on a revenge crusade that has taken over her life. It's a layered performance; we see a lot of Cassandra's facades, but we don't know if we ever see the real person. Her best friend's rape and subsequent suicide has left her stunted; by the time we meet Cassandra, she's literally and figuratively become someone else. As rough as it sounds, Mulligan is able to make it… well, 'fun' isn't the right word, but 'enjoyable'. We see Cassandra refusing to sit or be bullied; she has agency and kinetic energy in situations where many do not or cannot. Whether or not the film works rests largely on Mulligan's shoulders; it's a good thing she's such a talented actress, because not many could pull it off. The more people see the film, the more she's been picked to win the prize. Will she get enough support for a victory? (Ms. Bullock, you owe her a vote.)

Out of all the nominated performances this year, Viola Davis's is the most amusing. Playing the titular singer in Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, it's clear she's having blast. When she's onscreen, Davis owns every single inch of it. She doesn't just drink a bottle of Coke, she guzzles the whole thing with gusto and verve, serving notice that this is going to be the most entertaining consumption of soda you've ever seen. And so it is with the rest of the performance. (Though the lip-synching is not particularly believable; but then again, that didn't hurt Rami Malek in Bohemian Rhapsody.) It will be interesting to see what happens on Oscar night. She's been up and down in the predictions. She was down after losing the Golden Globe (it's taken us until now to realize the Globes are a waste of time??), but rebounded strongly with a Screen Actors Guild win. She is universally adored, but she's also won an Oscar already for Fences, so voters may not feel quite as compelled to give it to her overall.

And we haven't even talked about Frances McDormand in Nomadland yet. Early on, this category seemed like a sprint between McDormand and Davis. But when neither won the Golden Globe or Critics' Choice, it became anybody's race. As we near the end of the contest, McDormand has pretty clearly fallen toward the back. I don't think it's her performance; instead, she's been discounted due to her own victorious history. She's already got two Oscars (in 1997 for Fargo and 2018 for Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri); a third one would require extraordinary circumstances. By comparison, it took Meryl Streep 29 years (and a lot of Ls) after her second to get her third. But if McDormand hadn't just won for Three Billboards three years ago, I think she'd be a lock here; Nomadland may even be a superior performance. She's probably the only actor alive that could pull this off; if she gave up acting, this is how I assume she would be living in real life. It's remarkable how she internalizes everything, yet informs the viewer how she's feeling and what she's thinking with very few words, just her physicality. This project seems particularly challenging. Her character doesn't have the answers; she's searching, but she doesn't even know what for. "I'm not homeless. I'm just house-less. Not the same thing, right?" It's as if she's posing the question to herself, and she really doesn't know. She gets lonelier as the journey goes on, a sort-of self-imposed isolation, and the viewer really feels it. (What does she ultimately find? Well, that's one of the frustrating ambiguities of the film. Don't get me started.) No matter what happens in this category, what McDormand will find is Oscar gold: She's a producer on Nomadland, so she's a strong bet to walk away with a Best Picture statuette.

Saying Vanessa Kirby is the best thing in Pieces Of A Woman is a bit of a backhanded compliment. My distaste for the film was made pretty clear in the Best Picture section, and anybody acting opposite Shia LaBeouf is going to look like Streep. But Kirby is legitimately great, and I think a welcome surprise to those who know her from the Mission: Impossible and Fast & Furious franchises. (And how many fans of The Crown thought Kirby would beat Claire Foy to an Oscar nomination? Don't lie.) Kirby makes the most of her role as an unpleasant person in an unpleasant situation enduring a barrage of unpleasant events surrounded by really unpleasant people. (An infant tragedy is the least of their problems.) But ultimately the film fails her, and unfortunately I don't really believe what any character is doing in this movie. Her nomination has been bolstered by a whopper of an opening scene: a 24-minute single-shot of a childbirth that ends horrifically. But I can't help but feel like the shot comes off as gimmicky; the immediacy of the scene was effective, but the filmmakers seemed to choose stylistic camera movement and choreography over intimacy and realness. The scene may be emotionally truthful, but hoo-eey, Kirby is dialed up. (My personal favorite ridiculous scene? When she's on the subway, wistfully watching children giggling pleasantly and behaving like angels. Ahhh, seems so blissful. Have you ever taken kids on public transportation? They would be fighting, screaming, climbing over the seats, kicking her, throwing goldfish everywhere, getting yelled at by the parents, bumping into passengers, licking the handrails, wiping snot on seats, and saying inappropriate things to strangers. That's parenthood.)

When the movie gods decided to create a remake that would be the exact opposite of what I would like, they conjured up Emma.. (That's "Emma.", with a period at the end of the title. Seriously. It's a "period" piece. Get it?) Anya Taylor-Joy is undoubtedly talented, but she's a letdown as the fabled matchmaker. She also believes that she can bleed on cue. With regard to her climactic scene: "I was in the moment enough that my nose really started bleeding." Wow. No words. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but her performance actually makes me miss Gwyneth.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR:

SHOULD WIN: LaKeith Stanfield (Judas And The Black Messiah) WILL WIN: Daniel Kaluuya (Judas And The Black Messiah) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Shia LaBeouf (Pieces Of A Woman) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Glynn Turman (Ma Rainey's Black Bottom)

Can you have a movie with two main characters but no leading actors? If you're wondering why the two stars (and title characters) of Judas And The Black Messiah -- LaKeith Stanfieldand Daniel Kaluuya -- are both competing in the Supporting Actor category, congratulations, you're a human on planet Earth. That's Oscar politics for you, and it's nothing new. They are both unquestionably leads; nevertheless, the shift to Supporting has worked out well for both of them. The assumption was that Stanfield would campaign in the Lead category and Kaluuya in Supporting so as not to cannibalize each other's votes, and to have Kaluuya (the stronger awards bet) compete in the less crowded category. (It's been clear for half a year that Chadwick Boseman would be winning Best Actor.) Stanfield was considered an unrealistic shot to crack the nominees anyway (he was probably 8th for Best Actor, behind Delroy Lindo (Da 5 Bloods) and Tahar Rahim (The Mauritanian)). So when the nominations were read, it was a pleasant shock that he had been slotted in the Supporting Actor category. (And wouldn't you rather have him here than Jared Leto?)

But won't they split the vote, resulting in the very problem they were trying to avoid in the first place? As it turns out, no. Judging from other major awards, voters had made up their minds for Kaluuya long ago, so any votes to support this film will likely go to Kaluuya. It's not hard to see why: As Black Panther leader Fred Hampton, he's dynamic, steely, and charismatic. It's very different -- more confident, self-assured and domineering -- than we've seen him in other roles, like Get Out. (This movie is a like a mini-reunion of Get Out. Dang, now I want a sequel to Get Out.) But I'll be the dissenter, and cast my personal vote for Stanfield. I'm conflicted; they're a close 1-2. But for me, Stanfield's role (as an FBI informant infiltrating the Panthers) has more facets to play, and Stanfield's signature tenderness brings me into the character more. Plus, he also has the bigger challenge: he has to play the Judas (a role he initially didn't want). Like another character actually says to Stanfield in the movie: "This guy deserves an Academy Award."

Leslie Odom Jr.'s quest for an EGOT (Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, Tony) has hit a speed bump. Already armed with a G and a T, he was the presumptive favorite heading into the Golden Globes to collect more hardware, for playing singer Sam Cooke in One Night In Miami. But that was before anybody had seen Judas And The Black Messiah. As the lone acting nominee for Miami, he's got a lot of support from anyone looking to honor the film and its stellar cast. And as the singer, he gets to show off his lustrous Hamilton-honed pipes several times. In many ways, he's the most relatable character in Miami, the one that (despite Cooke's fame at the time) seems the most mortal. So though he'll lose Best Supporting Actor, fear not: He's the favorite to win Best Song, and keep the EGOT dream alive. (Unless… 12-time nominee Diane Warren finally gets the sympathy vote for her song for the little-seen The Life Ahead. Wait, you mean she didn't win for Mannequin's "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now"??)

Paul Raci is a fascinating nominee, for Sound of Metal. He was virtually unknown before this movie (best known as Eugene the Animal Control Guy on Parks And Recreation), but his background is intriguing. He's a Vietnam vet who started as a small theater actor in Chicago (he has a Jeff nomination!). With his upbringing as a hearing CODA (Child Of Deaf Adult), he's a frequent player in ASL theater and is the lead singer in an ASL metal band. (Am I the only one who was gotten CODA confused with ACOD (Adult Child Of Divorce)? Is there such a thing as ACODDA (Adult Child Of Deaf Divorced Adults)?) And in the understated role of Joe, who runs a facility for deaf people and serves as a guide for Riz Ahmed's character, he's fantastic. It literally seems like he's been preparing his whole life for the role, and it pays off. (Though upon further examination of his character… Joe seems like a benevolent, trustworthy guy with altruistic motivations, with a shelter focused on mental healing, addiction recovery, and self-sufficiency. But he also appears to foster an environment that isolates its members, severs contact with all loved ones, preys on those who are unstable to begin with, and convinces members that they will struggle if they leave the community. Ultimately Joe runs every aspect of members' lives, and in return expects unwavering devotion and complete submission to his methods. As soon as Ruben says one thing to challenge him, Joe accuses him of sounding like an addict, knowing it will trigger shame and self-doubt, in a clear effort to control his actions. Joe even slyly suggests that he personally knows how to reach heaven, "the kingdom of God". Is there a chance Joe is actually running a cult??)

They may have just picked a name out of a hat to see which member of The Trial Of The Chicago 7 ensemble would get an Oscar nomination (now these are all supporting actors), but however it happened, nomination day was a good day for Sacha Baron Cohen. (He also got a writing nod for Borat 2.) He is effective in the movie -- maybe the best of the bunch -- and it's a (slightly surprising) affirmation that he's a good actor in addition to being a talented performer. Is his performance actually worthy of an Oscar nomination? I'm fairly impressed (except for his I-love-you-too-man scene with the inert Eddie Redmayne, which plays cheap… but you can probably pin that one on Aaron Sorkin). But there are several other people I would have nominated over Cohen. For starters, my snubbed pick, Glynn Turman, is exceptional as a musician holding his own against Chadwick Boseman in Ma Rainey's Black Bottom. (It seems like just yesterday he was the colonel on A Different World, one of his 150+ acting credits.) Honorable mentions include 7-year-old Alan Kim (Minari), Clarke Peters (Da 5 Bloods), Charles Dance (Mank), and Arliss Howard (Mank).

Wow. Shia LaBeouf is not the only repellant part of Pieces Of A Woman, but he's probably the most repellant part. I'm sorry, but anything he does, or is involved in, instantly becomes less believable. At one point he seems to be trying to creepily make out with his wife… while she's actively pushing in labor. Then later, in a distressing "love" scene, he looks like someone who has never had consensual sex with a partner before; I know the film is going for emotional rawness, but it just looks like assault. Bottom line, I have no idea what he's doing in this movie. (And I guess I don't care what he's doing, as long as it's not another Indiana Jones movie.)

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS:

SHOULD WIN: Yuh-jung Youn (Minari) WILL WIN: Yuh-jung Youn (Minari) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Nicole Kidman (The Prom) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Ellen Burstyn (Pieces Of A Woman)

Oh, sweet revenge. Don't you just love a rematch? It was just two short years ago when Olivia Colman, in a flabbergasting upset, tearfully apologized to presumptive victor Glenn Close in her acceptance speech. (…Or did she condescendingly mock her? We can't be sure about anything in that speech.) Now they are both nominated again -- Colman for The Father, Close for Hillbilly Elegy -- and the bad blood between them couldn't be boiling hotter. Since there are no nominee lunches or in-person media parades this year, I'm assuming they drunk-Zoom each other at all hours and call one another every cruel British and American curse word in the book. Colman even reportedly tweeted, "Glenn, this will be your Hillbilly Elegy: You never won a dang Oscar." Nasty stuff, but nothing unusual during campaign season. Colman is facing a tough challenge (besides playing a woman whose father is in the grips dementia). Voters will be hard-pressed to hand her a victory again so soon (and without any losses). Additionally, she didn't even get nominated for a BAFTA award -- the British Oscar-equivalent -- on her home turf (and they nominate six actors in each category). (But, she would be quick to point out, Close didn't either.) All the talk around The Father is about Anthony Hopkins. Colman is facing extremely long odds.

Which seems to perfectly set up Close to swoop in for the kill. Six months ago, on paper this seemed like a slam dunk. The word was that Hillbilly Elegy featured two of the losing-est actors (Close and Amy Adams) in transformative roles in a heart-wrenching adaptation of a successful book. It was going to exorcise the demons for both of them. Then the movie debuted. And the response was lukewarm. But then the response to the response was harsh. People hated the movie, hated the performances, and hated the participants for shilling shameless Oscar bait. (If you think there's a different kind of Oscar bait, I'm afraid you haven't been paying attention.) The film was weirdly derided as political, and faced a sort of anti-Trump backlash (which I don't understand, considering the movie takes place in the 1990s and early 2010s, when Trump was just known for being an inept USFL football owner and a silly reality-TV host). Entertainment Weekly actually used these words in a single sentence to describe the film: "ham-handed", "smug", "Appalachian poverty porn", and "moralizing soap opera". (I guess people felt about this film the way I felt about A Star Is Born.) And no, the movie is not great; it fades soon after the credits roll. But Close is compelling; at the very least, she's working her tail off. (If you think she's just hamming it up in drag, stay tuned for the end-credits images of the real Mamaw. It's uncanny.) I think the voters really want her to win (but I thought the same thing two years ago). The question is: Do they want her to win for this movie? The answer increasingly seems to be No. The general feeling (which I agree with) is that the role feels a little lacking, and below Close's other lauded performances. People realize that if she wins, it may get dismissed as being a flimsy career-achievement award, which would tarnish it.

So, which one will claim victory this time, leaving the other groveling at her feet, Colman or Close? Neither, it turns out. In a shocking turn of events, Yuh-jung Youn has emerged as a favorite over both of them. (Fortunately, she's blocked Colman and Close on Zoom.) Calling Youn the heart of Minari would be trite. She is, but she's much more than that. She's the conduit for connection: to the children, between the parents, and to the audience. Before her arrival, it feels like there's something missing. (The young son has a heart condition, is constantly chugging Mountain Dew, and is hiding his wet underpants. And the dad thinks he doesn't need a babysitter?) It's when Youn enters the film that the film excels, and we start to feel like part of the family. She also challenges our (and her grandson's) ideas of what a grandmother is (including possibly having magical healing superpowers). A lot of people are looking for a way to reward this film, and this category is its best chance. Heck, even if voters only hear Youn's one line of English dialogue ("Ding-dong broken!" -- referring to her grandson's wiener), that could be enough to win.

Maybe the most curious nomination is for Maria Bakalova, starring in Borat Subsequent Moviefilm as the notorious Kazakh's daughter. A lot of things in the past year would have been impossible to predict, but an unknown Bulgarian actress stealing the spotlight and getting an Oscar nomination for a surprise-release Borat sequel would have to be near the top. And she's actually the only one in this category who's managed to score a nomination from every major organization. She won't win, but her performance (and memes) may live on the longest.

I must be missing something in Mank. (Granted, I haven't watched it the requisite four times in order to truly appreciate it, according to the Fincherists.) But I just don't understand what the fuss is about with Amanda Seyfried. She certainly plays her part well (as Marion Davies, the illicit love interest of William Randolph Hearst and the platonic love interest of Herman Mankiewicz), but I don't see how she elevates it or brings anything extraordinary to it. Her character plays a pivotal role in Citizen Kane (Davies was the inspiration for Kane's second wife), and I presume she's supposed to play a pivotal role in Mank's literary epiphany, but I fail to understand why. (Or maybe I failed to understand her Brooklyn accent.) But more than that, her narrative thread seems distressingly incomplete. She appears to be set up for a meaty final scene, but then her character simply exits, leaving Mankiewicz (and me) baffled. I've been more impressed by her work in other movies, like First Reformed. Of course, perhaps the most significant implication of Seyfried's nomination: Two of the Plastics now have Oscar nominations. (Gretchen, stop trying to make an Oscar nomination happen. It's not going to happen!)

Just in case there was any confusion, 88-year-old Ellen Burstyn is here to let us know she can still bring the thunder. Pieces Of A Woman is a mess, and her character is dubious, but she gets one powerhouse speech to shine and (somewhat) anchor the movie -- a declaration of strength, resilience, and survival. And she delivers a two-handed, rim-hanging, backboard-shattering jam. Oh, right, there's the woman who scored an Oscar, plus four other nominations, in a 9-year span in the 1970s. And who's been an Emmy fixture the past 15 years. And who has four more movies already in the works. Just another not-so-gentle reminder that she's one of the great actors of her generation. (Honorable Mentions go to The United States Vs. Billie Holiday's Da'Vine Joy Randolph, who continues her scene-stealing ways after Office Christmas Party and Dolemite Is My Name; and Dominique Fishback, whose performance adds emotional heft to Judas And The Black Messiah.)

BEST DIRECTOR:

SHOULD WIN: Chloé Zhao (Nomadland) WILL WIN: Chloé Zhao (Nomadland) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Ryan Murphy (The Prom) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Christopher Nolan (Tenet)

The second-most-certain thing this year is Chloé Zhao winning Best Director for Nomadland. She's dominated the narrative and the awards circuit this year; nobody else is close. In fact, she might win four Oscars, which would be a record for one person with a single film. (In 1954, Walt Disney was a quadruple winner for four different movies… but do short films really count?) Odds are that she'll win three, but if she wins Best Editing early in the night, the record will be hers. Historically joined at the hip, Best Director and Best Picture have surprisingly been split between different movies several times in recent years. The voters will align them this year, but I'm going to malign them. (Disalign? Unalign? Who am I kidding, I will malign them too.) As tepid as I am on Nomadland for Picture, Zhao is my Director choice. She is clearly a masterful artist and impressionistic storyteller. But more than that, she's able to conjure a mood and state of mind with her pseudo-documentary hybrid style. She gets us to feel what the character is feeling and put us right in the environment -- and makes it seem effortless. The film's long, languid takes allow us to breathe the air, drink in the scene, and live in the moment, unhurried. Zhao augments the nomadic quality of the film in every shot. But (oh, you knew there was a 'but'), on the down side, I also find the style to be a bit tedious and overdrawn at times. Because of my lack of investment, the film often struggles to keep my attention, or more accurately, my curiosity. And despite the film being touted as a tale of community and interconnectedness, it mostly suggests to me (via the main character) feelings of pain, loneliness, coldness, and sadness. But ultimately, I think those things speak more to the story than the directing. This will doubtless be a crowning a achievement for Zhao, but I'm more excited to see what the future will bring, and what she can do for a story that I'm invested in.

I was really close to picking Lee Isaac Chung for my Should Win, for his rich, captivating film, Minari. (Really close. You, the fortunate, insulated reader, will never truly know how much I agonize over this. Some suffer for art, I suffer for unsolicited criticism.) Honestly, I was tempted to give Chung a clean sweep of Picture, Director, and Screenplay; but instead I've opted to spread them around (I can play Academy politics all by myself). So many of the qualities of Zhao's film are present in Chung's film as well; his toolbox is just as full and varied. His quiet, atmospheric shots are unburdened by haste yet always nudging the story ahead. Chung draws us in, as another member of the Yi family, our hopes rising and falling with each challenge and trifle (and sexed chick) they face. There's a real confidence in his style; he knows how to best engage the audience for the specific journey. For me though, what I appreciate most is the warmth of his filmmaking; while the story has tribulations, the film itself is compassionate, never harsh or aggressive. That stands in stark contrast to Nomadland; the palette is one of the main things that sets them apart. Chung also scored points by showcasing the best accessory on the virtual Golden Globes telecast: a ridiculously adorable child. (Was that his own kid, or a rental? Only his publicist knows for sure.) Careful, I might accidentally talk myself into flipping my pick to Chung.

This was supposed to be his year. Goddammit, this was supposed to be his year! That was the sentiment from cinephiles all over the internet this year. Throw a rock in any direction and you'll hit a podcaster (and possibly me) ranting about how David Fincher was robbed in 2011 when he lost Best Director for The Social Network to Tom Hooper and The King's Speech. (Was the Academy justified? Since then, Fincher landed a third Oscar nomination, fourth Golden Globe nomination, and two Emmy wins; Hooper directed Cats.) In early winter, the pieces seemed to be lining up for a Fincher victory with Mank: a big, mainstream, Hollywood-y underdog story; an ode to the most revered film of all time, Citizen Kane; a scenery-chewing performance from beloved thesp Gary Oldman; a film that was more accessible (read: less weird and violent) than most of his other fare; and a passion project that he had been developing for decades, written by his late father. The only question was not whether the film could win all the Oscars, but whether it could cure pediatric cancer or pilot a rocket to Jupiter. But that was 2020… and we all know how that year went. Maybe it's the fatigue caused by the prolonged award campaign season, maybe it's the lack of theaters that would have showcased his visual marvel, or maybe it's the fact that the film didn't quiiiiiiite live up to the hype, but one thing is clear: Fincher is out of the race. I'll say what a lot of the other film snobs won't: This is probably not the film we want Fincher to win for anyway. We want him to win for something sharper, weirder, more incisive, and more upsetting; in short, something more Fincher-ish. Mank is fantastic, to be sure; and in (mostly) pulling it off, Fincher demonstrates his mastery of historical and contemporary cinema. But the hiccups are puzzling. The film is structured like Citizen Kane itself, which makes it at times equally difficult to engage in; but while Kane's flashbacks feel natural, a handful of Mank's feel shoehorned. The dialogue is in the style -- but not the pace -- of hard-boiled 1940s films, which alone is a recipe for difficult viewing; further peppering every retort with unnatural irony makes for wit but not necessarily comprehension. The Kane-esque echo effect doesn't help; neither do subtitles. (I tried.) While it turns out that it's not supposed to be his Oscar year after all, I commend Fincher on an effort like this -- the singular vision, the vigor, the risk -- even when I don't necessarily love the movie or connect with it. We need his art, we need his beautiful mess. (But next time maybe throw in a grisly murder, perverted romance, or crippling heartbreak… and acquire a charming child for the awards telecast.)

Emerald Fennell impressively scored a nomination for her first feature film, Promising Young Woman, an inventive genre-mashup of a Rape Revenge movie -- a new spin on a 1970s grindhouse staple. Like a lot of people, I don't quite know what to make of the movie (I don't think I've ever actually seen a Rape Revenge movie… though I've seen plenty of Dognapping Revenge movies). It's a film that could go badly a thousand different ways, but Fennell makes choices that keep it fresh and thoroughly watchable. The primary word that comes to mind is 'subversive'. From the candy coloring to the pop music to the meet-cute to the campy suspense, she toys with convention at every turn (in some cases more effectively than others). Even the support casting -- the kooky, on-the-nose (or 180-flipped) cameos spice up the movie, but also tend to undermine it and give it a B-movie vibe. (Do we really need Jennifer Coolidge and Max Greenfield doing what they do best, but not as well as they usually do it? Probably not. Do they make me chuckle? Yes.) The result is an oddly entertaining movie on a subject that is anything but. The patina of playfulness is helpful; if it was an avalanche of distressing, horrifying scenes, it could be a tortuous watch. All in all, it might be the most enjoyable Rape Revenge movie you'll ever see.

Perhaps the biggest surprise nominee in any category is Thomas Vinterberg, for the Danish film Another Round. (The lion's share of the Oscar buzz had been for star Mads Mikkelsen; the film is also up for Best International film.) This movie is in the grand tradition of celebrating alcohol because excessive drinking is awesome. And the Academy has recognized Vinterberg because he has so astutely captured how booze is a tasty balm for every wound -- an ancient and failsafe key to enlightenment and inner peace. Wait, what's that? I'm sorry… I'm being told that this movie is actually a cautionary tale. Hmmm. I guess I should have watched it sober. In light of that, I suppose the film is an interesting examination of middle-aged ennui and the tendency to overlook that which is right in front of you. (Anyone that has gotten this far in the article knows exactly what ennui is, and should have overlooked what was right in front of them.) It's also an unintentionally apt allegory for pandemic life: When it started, we began drinking a bit at home, enjoying Zoom happy hours, and generally having a good time; pretty soon we were day-drinking out of sheer boredom, trying to teach our home-schooled kids long division while buzzed, and it got very sad and depressing; now we're all pretty much ready to jump off the pier. In general, I like the film (though I prefer my mid-life drinking crises more in the mold of Old School), but the story and arc are fairly telegraphed. You mean their problems can't be fixed by increased alcohol consumption? The more you drink, the harder it is to control? Drinking at work as a teacher around minors might go awry? Instead of booze, have they tried rest, exercise, healthy eating, or appreciating the good things in their lives? (Who I am kidding, those are a waste of time.) Ultimately, there are several directors I would have chosen over Vinterberg (Christopher Nolan for Tenet, George C. Wolfe for Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, and Florian Zeller for The Father come to mind), but it's interesting to see the continuing trend of nominating non-American filmmakers in this category, as the Directors' branch of the Academy becomes increasingly international.

I want to talk about the ending of Another Round for a moment. If you didn't see the movie (and I'm betting you didn't), just skip this paragraph. Most of the reviews I've read online interpret the ending as a hopeful, happy one. I think that's crazy. The ending is a Trojan horse. It looks joyful, but just underneath lies tragedy: The trio resume drinking after they've seemingly hit rock bottom and lost their best friend to booze; they believe they're in control and having a good time when really they're spiraling into chaos; they think they've found a balance, when they're actually sliding endlessly further into alcoholism. They don't realize that they cannot enjoy life sober. I think one of the reasons why I like the movie so much is that it masks that ending as a "happy" one, much the way a drinker would see it when they don't realize there's a problem. The ending is denial. A lot of people have seen the final scene as uplifting and life-affirming (even Vinterberg seems to say this in interviews, which is puzzling), that the friends have come to terms with their drinking, and have found a way to drink in moderation and still invigorate their lives and celebrate the small things. I don't understand that take at all. I would buy it if they had found a way to celebrate life while sober. Instead, I think it's the surest sign that they are destroying their lives, because they don't even realize it's happening. It's the 'darkest timeline'. They ask themselves the wrong question, "What would Tommy do?", instead of "What would Tommy want us to do?", and we know exactly what Tommy would do because we see him drink himself to death. Martin has gotten a reconciliatory text from his wife, but just as he's about to go to her, he instead joins the party, quickly gets plastered, and literally goes off the deep end. What's truly heartbreaking is seeing that they've (gleefully and unknowingly) perpetuated the cycle, having encouraged the next generation to drink in order to cope and be "awakened to life". I think there are hints in the final song lyrics ("What a Life") and the movie's poster (the image of Mikkelsen recklessly chugging champagne in a blurry stupor is from the final scene). To me, the seemingly exuberant ending is a fallacy… and utterly tragic.

In a surprise move that everyone saw coming, I'm naming Christopher Nolan as my Snubbed choice, for his twisty, backwards-y spectacle, Tenet. Did I understand the movie? Of course. Oh, you didn't? Dummy.

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY:

SHOULD WIN: Derek Cianfrance, Abraham Marder, Darius Marder (Sound Of Metal) WILL WIN: Emerald Fennell (Promising Young Woman) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Aaron Abrams, Brendan Gall (The Lovebirds) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Sam Levinson (Malcolm And Marie)

Did his name have to be Ryan? No, that wasn't my biggest takeaway from the script for Emerald Fennell's Promising Young Woman. But it was a big one. As Carey Mulligan's chances fade a bit, Screenplay is the movie's strongest chance to strike gold, making a strong run in the precursory awards. The ending of the film has been pretty divisive, but I like that it's completely unexpected. Maybe it's contrived, but it's what makes the movie memorable for me, and separates it from other revenge thrillers. Or maybe it's inevitable, given the themes of the movie and the character pursuing her mission past the point of no return. Either way, did his name have to be Ryan? Unless Fennell's role (she's an actress, too) as Camilla Parker Bowles on The Crown accidentally embroils her in recent royal family controversies, she should be collecting this award on Oscar night.

Most of the praise for Sound Of Metal has been specifically for its sound design. But it starts with the script (written by director Darius Marder, along with Derek Cianfrance and Abraham Marder), which is the blueprint for the sound and experience of the movie. And it's my pick (by a hair) for best screenplay of the year. It has -- hey, whaddya know! -- an actual narrative, with a main character who has an objective and opposition. It's always impressive to me when a story has very little I can directly relate to, but it still manages to resonate, and strikes a tone that feels real. I also appreciate the skill in the writing -- it's minimalistic, yet thorough in the ways that matter. The film doesn't explain a lot or give us much exposition -- it doesn't lean on voice-over, window characters, or monologues. It's quiet. Which may seem obvious considering it's about a man losing his hearing, but even the man himself and the real world he lives in have a muted vibe (despite his mind being anything but calm). The film has also been lauded for its authentic portrayal of deaf people… but not for its authentic portrayal of audiologists. (I mean, how bad is Ruben's audiologist consultation, that he is in no way prepared for how things would sound after getting cochlear implants? I get more information from my dentist when getting a cavity filled.) Also: What does metal sound like? I still don't know.

Aaron Sorkin would seem like the obvious pick here, for The Trial Of The Chicago 7. It's the kind of sonorous, social-consciousness word-porn we've come to love and expect from him. But he's already got an Oscar (though most people assume he has three), and the fight-the-system theme isn't exactly unique to his script this year. Not surprisingly, the movie feels like a mash-up of The West Wing and A Few Good Men, complete with humorous exchanges of smug cleverness, heart-warming declarations of overly-simplified principle, and his own trademark Sorkin-esque version of facts. Sure, the story of the Chicago 7 is intriguing, but would I rather watch a movie about a Chicago 7-Eleven? It's tempting…

I've previously talked about the reasons I appreciated Minari so much (written by director Lee Isaac Chung). A lot of the sweetness of the film is present in the screenplay. He cleverly tells much of the story through the eyes of a 7-year-old boy, so it's told less fact-by-fact, and more through the filter of a child's memory. (Chung based the screenplay somewhat on his own experiences growing up.) Charming as it is, I can't help but view it through the filter of a parent's anxiety: 1) Is moving across the country to live in a small town where you don't know anyone, living in a trailer, and starting a farm with zero experience the best way to solve marital problems? 2) One of the main promotional photos for the movie is a of the little boy holding a stick. Am I crazy, or is that the same stick that the father was going to use to beat the boy when he disobeyed? Did the marketing person keep their job after that? 3) The friend's deadbeat dad leaves the kids alone overnight, presumably out carousing and drinking, then shows up at breakfast hammered, saying, "Tell your mom I was here all night." How many times can you get away with that? 4) When the boy cuts his foot, is it bad that I did not think of the wound or his safety, but about the blood getting on the carpet? 5) Why aren't these kids in school??

Perhaps the script (and movie) with the biggest head of steam coming into awards night is Judas And The Black Messiah, a late entry that has been picking up acolytes left and right. The film has been lauded for its approach to the story of Black Panther leader Fred Hampton -- by telling it as a gritty, 70s-style, cat-and-mouse thriller, from the perspective of the FBI informant sent to help stop him. Director Shaka King (who wrote the script with Will Berson, based on ideas from the Lucas Brothers) has said that structure, instead of a more traditional biopic style, helped get it made by a studio. Despite the inevitability of the ending, the dramatic conflict and ferocity of the performances make for a satisfyingly tense ride.

This is going to come back to bite me, but my snubbed pick is Malcolm And Marie (or, as it should have been called, Things You Shouldn't Say To Your Girlfriend At 2 AM When You're Drunk And She's In A Bad Mood). It's like a really long Bad Idea Jeans commercial. Now, I'm not necessarily recommending this movie. You should know that most critics and regular people hate it. It's two hours of a couple arguing. It's a rough ride. It's indulgent, overwrought, and well, chock-full of mental and emotional abuse. But (stay with me here), if you can get past all that, those elements have a purpose, and there is a point to the film. I think the key is that it's not intended to be literal. It's allegorical for how we talk to ourselves -- the internal conflict we have, when we wrestle with ideas that are hard to reconcile. It's also lyrical; there's an elegance in how the characters spew eloquent vitriol at each other and rhapsodize (okay, rant) about some opinions that seem dead-on and others that seem wildly inaccurate. In some ways, the words seem like the most important thing; but in other ways, I think the movie could work as a silent film. (Either way, it's inventive: It was the first major film to shoot completely during the pandemic, so it takes place in a single home, with 2 actors, in more-or-less real time.) Writer/director Sam Levinson poses interesting questions about storytelling and authorship: Sure, write what you know; but also, and maybe more interestingly, try to write (and learn) about what you don't know. (Case in point: I don’t really have any experience or expertise about the Oscars, yet here I am.) Levinson has gotten a lot of criticism for what appears to be his point of view. I think that's fair, but I also disagree. I believe it's a bit of a misdirection. I think he believes in both sides of the argument; he's been the irrational, emotional one, and the cool, calculating one. The characters are halves to a whole. There's also the frustration with how the couple end up. The film is ambiguous, but audiences seem to think they stay together. I think the girlfriend actually decides before the movie starts that she's leaving him, and this is their breakup. That's why she lets him say all the horrible things he does, because she knows he has to get it out -- it affirms what she already knows, and reinforces her decision. Did I sell you on the movie yet? No? Well, how about this: It's the best autobiographical movie that Burton and Taylor never made.

As an honorable mention, it would have been a nice story had Mank been nominated here, as it was written by David Fincher's father, Jack Fincher, over two decades ago. The elder Fincher was a life-long newspaper man, who had an affinity for 1930s/1940s cinema, a strong knowledge of Herman Mankiewicz, and a fascination with a famously-dissenting Pauline Kael article that disparaged Orson Welles's contributions to the Citizen Kane screenplay. David Fincher had hoped to get his passion project off the ground in the 90s, but hasn't been able to until now. A nomination would have been a touching tribute to his father, who died in 2003. (Another interesting connection: John Mankiewicz, Herman Mankiewicz's grandson, was an executive producer on David Fincher's House Of Cards.) Despite my frustrations with the overall movie, the script is slick, and analyzes some intriguing inside-the-snowglobe aspects of Citizen Kane. It's a crackling, showy piece that jauntily goes out of its way to flaunt its writerliness. (For you keen-eyed writers out there, you'll notice I just made up the word 'writerliness'.) It doesn’t necessarily require you to believe that Citizen Kane is the greatest film ever made, but a healthy sense of awe doesn’t hurt. (It also helps to have a working knowledge of the film's lore, pre-WWII Hollywood, and 1930s -- or some would say, 2020s -- California politics.) The script simultaneously adores and gives a middle finger to Hollywood. Isn’t that what art is supposed to do? (That's not a rhetorical question. I'm actually asking if art is supposed to do that. Because I don't know.)

I've picked The Lovebirds as my Gloriously Omitted choice, not because it's a bad movie, but because it's a missed opportunity. It should have been amazing. The premise, the trailer, the choice of leads, and the chemistry are all fantastic, and set lofty expectations. But the movie itself is just… underwhelming. Maybe hopes were too high, but it's not as clever, tight, or funny as I wanted it to be. The problem isn't the actors -- Issa Rae truly holds the screen, and Kumail Nanjiani is naturally funny (though his character doesn't stray far from previous ones). I think it's the script (from Aaron Abrams and Brendan Gall), which feels rushed and half-baked, like a collection of sketch ideas. It's as if the screenplay left chunks blank, with a note saying, "The actors will figure out something funny on set." For these actors, I'd rather see a taut thriller story, and let them imbue it with humor and humanity. Or better yet, let Rae and Nanjiani write it themselves next time.

BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY:

SHOULD WIN: Christopher Hampton, Florian Zeller (The Father) WILL WIN: Chloé Zhao (Nomadland) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED: Jane Goldman, Joe Shrapnel, Anna Waterhouse (Rebecca) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED: Ruben Santiago-Hudson (Ma Rainey's Black Bottom)

Adapted Screenplay is going to get swept up in the Nomadland tidal wave on Oscar night, but to me it's probably the film's weakest element. I've talked about my lack of connection to the story. I understand the opinion that it's resonant, but is it revelatory? I can certainly see how it would strike a stronger chord during the pandemic, when we are all isolated; it makes the main character's loneliness feel more real. We've all been living in Nomadland, and whether it's David Strathairn shattering our favorite plates, or our kids shattering our iPad, we're just about at wit's end. But Chloé Zhao's script also plays up the theme of community and interconnectedness, and I didn't really feel that. The main character seems to be closing herself off from connection (though the ending suggests a change that we never actually get to see). A red flag is a movie description that says, "It asks more questions than it answers." Ugh, that's tough. For me, narrative is king. I understand that the movie is literally about a drifter with no plan, and the structure of the film is supposed to make you feel unmoored, but a little plot direction would be nice. Then there's the emotional climax, when Bob the Nomad Guru comes to the rescue to explain the whole theme. He tells Frances McDormand (but really, us) that he gets through grief by helping other people: "For a long time, every day was, How can I be alive on this earth when he’s not? And I didn’t have an answer. But I realized I could honor him by serving people. It gives me a reason to go through the day. Some days that's all I've got." Hmmm, where I have I seen that exact sentiment expressed before? Oh yeah, an award-winning short film called Through The Trees. (Available now, for free on YouTube.)

Dementia Mystery Thriller… is that a movie genre? Well, it might be, after success of The Father (written by Christopher Hampton and Florian Zeller, adapted from Zeller's Tony-winning play). "Exciting" is hardly the word I would use to describe the horrible crumbling of the mind that is dementia, but in this movie, it weirdly fits. The film has a way of presenting the disorder in a unique manner, that goes a long way in conveying the helplessness and frustration of the victim. With copycat movies inevitable, I can almost see Christopher Nolan's version now: Demento, where a mumbling Tom Hardy (unrecognizable under heavy old-man makeup) kills his caregiver twice because he can't remember if he already killed her… or her identical twin. The big twist comes when he discovers whether he killed them in the past, or in the future, or if he's remembering the memory of someone else who killed them. The scenes of the movie play in a different random order every time, and the only score is the constant deafening sound of the old man's heartbeat. Marion Cotillard plays the twins -- apparently the only females in the universe -- using whatever accent she feels like, because she has limited, unrealistic dialogue, and has no compelling story or agency, or any useful traits for an actress whatsoever. Hardy's son may or may not be a British crime lord or an undercover MI6 agent, played by Michael Caine (digitally de-aged to look the age that Hardy actually is). An emaciated Christian Bale, who manages to lose 3 inches of height for the role, makes a cameo as Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Revolutionary practical effects include a life-size recreation of Westminster Abbey inside a zero-gravity chamber, for one massively-complicated but forgettable 5-second shot. It will only cost $723 million, and will go straight to HBO Max. I will name it the best film of 2022.

I may be picking The Father, but I'm rooting for The White Tiger, written and directed by Ramin Bahrani. Set in India in the recent past, it's a striking, chilling tale of what men may be willing to do (or forced to do) to escape poverty. Bahrani constructs a fiery examination of themes that never get old: power vs. agency, freedom vs. choice, complicity vs. culpability. His script uses a lot of devices that shouldn't work: excessive, expository voice-over; explicitly-stated metaphors; speaking directly to the audience; and on-the-nose correlations to current times. But the story and acting are strong enough to make these feel integral. Given the themes and foreign setting, it has the misfortune (or great fortune) of being an easy comparison to Parasite, last year's Oscar grand prize winner. But I find The White Tiger far more accessible and scrutable than Parasite (maybe partly due to the devices I mentioned). A win here would be a welcome surprise. By the way, Bahrani's first Oscar nomination is an interesting footnote to Hollywood lore: In the 2014 Roger Ebert documentary Life Itself, we learn that Ebert was given a legendary token by Laura Dern -- a puzzle that had been passed on from several film icons, with the understanding that each would pass it on to someone truly deserving. Dern had gotten it from revered acting teacher Lee Strasberg, and it originated when Alfred Hitchcock gave it to Marilyn Monroe years before. And now Ebert was giving it to Bahrani. 60 years of movie history, from Hitchcock to Bahrani, and into the future. (Good thing it's not at my house, we would have lost several pieces by now.)

Four of the most famous and popular men in the country walk into a bar… so shouldn't the patrons be freaking out more? One Night In Miami plays out a very intriguing hypothetical scenario: When Malcolm X, Muhammad Ali, Jim Brown, and Sam Cooke all met one night in 1964, what did they talk about? The compelling script (by Kemp Powers, based on his own play) and naturalistic direction (by Regina King) make for a highly enjoyable think-piece and character study. It's a daunting task, to say the least: Not only are they representing extremely visible and important figures, but two of the actors (Kingsley Ben-Adir as Malcolm X, Eli Goree as Ali) are reprising roles already played by Oscar-nominated performers (Denzel Washington, Will Smith) who may be more famous than the actual figures themselves. I guess my hang-up (besides the horrendous Johnny Carson impersonation) is, what are the stakes? Historically, we know the stakes for these four people, in the larger context of their lives and the civil rights movement. But in the film itself, in that single night, for these specific characterizations, what are the stakes? What are they each looking for that evening? I think the movie doesn't fully address this, structurally. Ultimately, due to their fame, we know where the characters' lives go from here -- how it "ends". While that makes it interesting culturally, it feels like it puts a ceiling on the movie in a way, like it's holding something back. With these outsized characters, plot-wise, I wanted a little bit more.

Released in October with almost no warning, Borat Subsequent Moviefilm either single-handedly swung the presidential election, or had no absolutely no impact whatsoever, depending on who you ask. It's a rare feat for an original movie and its sequel to both score Oscar nominations for screenplay; I can't think of another time it's ever happened for a comedy. The fact that it's even under consideration -- given its improvisational nature and whopping nine (nine!) screenwriters (I'm not going to name them all, I'm trying to keep this article brief) -- is fairly astonishing. Even more baffling still, it's been placed in the Adapted category instead of Original. (Pesky Academy rules: Any sequel is automatically defined as an adaptation of the original.) The movie itself is unfortunately a shell of the unrelentingly funny original (Sacha Baron Cohen looks more like a middle-aged man doing a mediocre Borat impression at this point). When the big night arrives, the film will either single-handedly swing the Oscar vote, or have absolutely no impact whatsoever, depending on who you ask.

One of the biggest surprises on nomination day was the exclusion of Ma Rainey's Black Bottom from Best Picture and Best Adapted Screenplay, assumed to be a lock in both categories. It was even thought to contend with Nomadland in this category (it would have gotten my vote, had they asked me). I think it was diminished by the perception of being a fairly straight recreation of August Wilson's play, which is a shame. The film version (written by Ruben Santiago-Hudson) makes wonderful use of the physical space, the confinement, the claustrophobia. And I'd say the movie feels more like an album than a play -- a collection of "songs" (monologues, exchanges, and actual songs), each with its own rhythm, beat, lyrics, and theme, but coming together as a cohesive piece. The composition is effective; it draws you in the way the best albums do, and challenges your brain to think one thing while your heart feels something else. (My only complaint is that I wanted more of Viola Davis and Chadwick Boseman together! Their personalities are electric, and their personas overtake the room. Their conflict is brief (it mostly flows over to conflicts with other characters), and I really wanted to see them alone, head-to-head and unbridled. I realize their distance is purposeful, and important thematically, but damn, it could have been a showdown for the ages. Just another reason to wonder… What might have been?)

The remake of Rebecca was written by a few people, including Joe Shrapnel, whose name may have been a bad harbinger for what was to become of this script. Keep it simple: Please leave Hitchcock alone.

#oscars #oscarpredictions #oscarpredictions2021 #oscarprognostication2021 #donovansoscarprognostication2021 #oscars2021 #academyawards #academyaward

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wintcry · 3 years

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WHAT: leonard snart believes his boyfriend died and invited the rest of the flash rogues to star city for a memorial service for their fallen comrade. WHO: lisa snart, mentions of evan mculloch ( @evan-mcculloch ), mentions of the flash rogue gallery, and a brief mention of barry allen ( @scxrletspeedster ). WHEN: december 10th, 2020. WORD COUNT: 1,505. TRIGGERS: death, grief brief mention of physical abuse, brief mention of alcoholism, and a lot of mentions of alcohol in general.

Leonard wanted to get the gang back together again ever since his release a few months ago but never wanted it to be for this reason. There might not be a body to bury but that doesn’t mean that they can’t have a memorial service for Mirror Master. The room is full of Rogues, dressed in their uniforms as a sign of respect whether they’re in the game still or not. Snart has a beer in hand — something he brought plenty of to go around since this was going to be a long evening. He spent over twenty thousand dollars on liquor for this. It might seem unnecessary to most but that’s the kind of man Evan was — always splurging when they all got together. Whenever one of their own is lost they come together to celebrate their comrade’s life. It left a bitter taste in most of their mouths losing another Mirror Master. Nobody is taking it quite as hard as Snart though.

Everyone has had a few drinks by now, everyone taking turns standing up to tell their favorite story about Evan. They reflected on how they all met him, remembering the cautious feeling that most of them were about someone taking Scudder’s place but also how quickly the boy won them over. It was obvious that his knowledge surpassed that of his predecessor so Evan became an important member of their team. Overall the stories reflected their time together . . . then for a moment Leonard smiles as someone mentions a time when Evan tossed Digger into his mirror world for talking too much and gave himself some quiet. They all became a family fighting Flash. They were a dysfunctional one but their bond together became tight-knit and extended beyond just putting on the colorful outfits. It was about more than thievery and gaining wealth. Sometimes they even got together just to drink and play card games. None of it will ever be the same now that they lost a member of their group.

His chest aches, never shown this much emotion before but this is for Evan. He loved that boy and Leonard will have to try learning how to live with the fact those three words never got to be said to him. He knew they had an unspoken thing going on but Evan deserved to hear it at least once . . . even if the words weren’t said back . . . at least then he would have died knowing. Leonard grumbles a little in his chair, tossing back the remaining whiskey in his glass as he slams the glass down on the table. He splurged to rent out this space too. He didn’t want them to gather in a funeral home . . . didn’t feel right when there wasn’t a body. Snart heavily sighs and looks around to where the drinks were setup. He already had three but a fourth will be needed if standing up in front of everyone was going to happen.

His sister looks at him with a concerned look, aware of how hard this must be for him. Surely everyone was aware that something was going on between them but nobody ever commented on it except for Trickster. “I’m fine, sis. You don’t need to stare at me like a hawk.” He moves to stand up while everyones minding and distracted. She places a hand on his forearm, blonde hair falling out of her face while looking up at her brother. “You’re not fine. I know you, Lenny. I think you should pace yourself.” There’s always a concern about Leonard becoming more like their father and heading down a road of alcoholism instead of dealing with how he felt. He tore his arm away gently, needing to get his hand on another drink. “It’s what McCulloch would have wanted . . . see us all so shit-faced that we don’t remember our names. I’m giving him one last party.” He takes a deep breath and Lisa understands what it was like to go through grief after losing someone close to you. She nods and lets him go.

Leonard appreciates the concern but knows what needs to be done. He makes his way over to pick up another bottle of beer off the table this time instead of more whiskey. Everyone seems to be having a good time and laughter can be heard. Evan being remembered like this in such a positive light from their friends is enough to make him have a glimmer of happiness in the midst of his anguish.

The bottle is lifted to his lips, taking a swig of the beer while stepping to the front of the room. It was time to do this — unable to be avoided after a few hours into this gathering. Eyes shift as the leader pulls his hood off his head, a ridiculous jacket but it got the point across. He left the glasses at home though, not planning on using his gun tonight. It wasn’t what this is about. He takes a deep breath. “Well, we have Flash to thank for letting us put this together.” His hand raises the beer up in the air, the one time they’ll ever toast the scarlet speedster. There’s some hollering at that statement as expected. His lips shift into a grin for only a moment before it fades back into more of a grimace. Theres more chatter around the room but it doesn’t take long for Leonard to gain control of the room again. “Settle down. I’m not done yet.” He gives everyone a look and everyone behaves. Axel leaning over the table eager to hear what the older man is going to say.

It feels like an invasion of privacy to allow himself be this open. “Where do I start talking about Evan McCulloch? He was the best of us.” He swirls the beer around in the bottle while he talked, maintaining eye contact with all the other criminals in the room. They all came a long way for this night. Some stories deserved to stay between them . . . even if his boy was gone that’s something he wouldn’t betray. “I never knew what it felt like to love. I told myself that my focus should all go toward this job. I’ve been at this for a long time. I have my sister and all of you. I thought that’s all I needed until Evan came into our lives. What a surprise, wasn’t he?” He chuckles a little and takes a sip of the alcohol, maybe too much and tries not to look at that pained look on Lisa’s face. “Seven years together and I never told him. I have to live with that regret. Nobody else is allowed to use the Mirror Master mantle again, I’m going to make sure of that. He was passionate about his craft and there isn’t a soul alive that would be able to live up to his work.” Leonard meant it and anyone who dared take it on would find themselves on the other end of his cold gun.

Leonard is selfish and doesn’t want to talk about the private moments he shared with Evan. Those late nights spent wrapped up in each other after one of their passion filled sessions. It was only for him. He inhales sharply. “I’m going to miss him. I’m not sure how to keep going but I think that Evan would want us to. He would want to see us getting drunk and tripping over each other. We should give him that, yeah? He can look down on us in amusement while we can barely walk home. I love him and hope that we meet again in the next life.” He raises his drink one last time. “To Mirror Master.” Everyone cheers and raises their own drinks in response.

Leonard finishes off his and stumbles off to the bathroom. He doesn’t want to look at anyone else right now. He throws the glass bottle at the wall and just screams. He doesn’t know how anyone does this . . . nobody ever warned him how falling in love would hurt so much.

His sister slips into the bathroom, not caring about the sign on the door. She approaches him and wraps her arms around him. Leonard grew up not being allowed to as their father saw it as weakness. They would have gotten hit for shedding one tear but Lisa is softly telling that it’s okay . . . that he can let it out. Leonard wraps his arms around his little sister and just sobs. He wouldn’t have let his guard down around anyone else. They stay there for a while even after the tears stop flowing. He wasn’t ready to head back out to the party yet and that was okay. The Snart siblings sit on the floor against one of the walls together, not needing to say anything because they both know.

#ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ? ᴛᴏᴏ ʙᴀᴅ. [ MUSE ]#ᴍᴀʀᴋ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋᴇsᴛ sʜᴀᴅᴇ ᴏғ ʀᴇᴅ. [ EVAN MCCULLOCH ]#child abuse tw #alcoholism tw #death tw #grief tw #i finally did it!

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may8344 · 4 years

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The Journey of a Forgotten Soldier (Levi x OC)

This is a story I’m in the process of posting on both AO3 and Wattpad, though I decided to add it to Tumblr as well. However, since I’ll be behind on Tumblr comparing to AO3 and Wattpad, this may remain behind or I might bulk post.

Relationships:

Alana Frey (OC)Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Original Female Character(s)Levi Ackerman/Alana FreyFurlan Church/Original Character(s)Furlan Church/Alana Frey

Characters:

Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)Furlan ChurchIsabel MagnoliaAlana Frey (OC) - CharacterErwin SmithHange ZoëPetra RalGunther SchultzEld JinnOluo BozadoKeith ShadisSpecial Operations Squad | Squad Levi

Additional Tags:

Graphic Description of CorpsesBlood and InjuryViolenceMurder

Summary:

Alana Frey, a girl born in the Underground City, longed to see the true sunlight every morning that she would wake up. Alongside her comrades: Furlan Church, Isabel Magnolia, and Levi, Alana’s life as a thug continued with no way around it; until the sudden day she and her companions were offered the deal of a lifetime.

“Once you complete this job, not only will you be generously compensated for your work,

but you will also earn the right to live above ground.”

Word Count: 2.7k

---

Chapter 1: The Underground City

Underneath the sturdy inner wall—Wall Sina—, a failed and unfinished repopulation project existed full of starving, violent human beings consumed by their wish to leave for the surface. Dilapidated, brick buildings dotted the entire area with only dull torches scattered scantily throughout the city for light. In some areas, there would stand a large, stone pillar to hold the top of the Underground City from collapsing. No light was visible in the sky—at least, not to the average citizen. No sun, no stars, no moon. No rain, snow, or wind. The only sound filling the air would be chatter or a citizen playing the guitar; sometimes even screaming from a few, random fights.

For those who lived in the shadow of the capital city encased by Wall Sina, it was expected they were to die before ever seeing the light above ground.

In one of the back alleyway houses, with an L-shaped staircase leading up to the front door, the noise of paper and voices broke the silence. Inside, four men waited silently as they watched their money being counted by their dealer. Faded green dollars slid against each other as strong, calloused hands pulled them apart. Each little piece of paper held an amount of currency that was wanted by everyone here.

“Here. Sorry I kept you waiting.” A tall man with messy blond hair, called to his four friends sitting on the torn couch in the house. He wore a blue colored vest on top of a white baggy shirt and greenish brown pants held up by a simple belt. After counting the pieces of paper carefully with his sharp baby-blue eyes, he hastily passed it out. “This is for the last job, and the one before.”

One of the younger men took the money with a toothy grin. It was unsurprising that he would take it with pride on his face. Two others, who had also sat on the couch, were no less excited to be paid. After all, they had done their business. The only one not smiling was a brunette on the cushioned chair, seated away from the excited trio. However, he was not exempt from his payment.

“Here.” The man handing out the money gave the unsure brunette his earnings, taking him off guard.

“Oh, thank-” he paused. In his grip, behind the cash he knew he had earned, was more money tied together discreetly. It was easy to tell that this was planned out by the soft-smiling blond. Looking up, the brunette opened his mouth to question the man, but was once again cut off.

“Now, don’t go spending it all at once, you hear? People will get suspicious.” With a hand on his hip, the dealer grinned. He seemed to ignore the fact that he had secretly given more to one than the others.

“We know! Let’s go.”

“Sure.”

As the four recipients began to walk out of the building, the brunette paused for a moment, debating on whether to turn around and question the blond man. However, he decided against it and kept walking forward, closing the wooden door behind him.

The blond, despite knowing his friend’s hesitation, sighed as he turned to the two other occupants of the house.

In the far corner of the room, where the kitchen table had sat, a raven haired man was seated, silently cleaning off his pocket knife. His black bangs, that hung over a recently shaved undercut, covered most of his silver eyes, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He wore similar clothing to the blond, though his vest was more of a brown color.

To the right was a recently cleaned kitchen counter with an integrated sink. Sitting on top of the counter top was a female with her side braid laying on her chest. Her legs were crossed, and in her hand was an apple that she was happily chewing on. Unlike her male roommates, she wore a simple, blue, long sleeved shirt with laces pulling the top near her chest together. Her pants were loose, and brown, and were just shy of her ankle. The girl’s diamond blue eyes watched the men around her with amusement.

“Work’s been a helluva lot easier since we got our hands on these ODM Gears. Now we can pay our guys more.” The talkative blond sat on the couch, relieved that the guests had finally left. As long as his roommates were his only company, he was fine.

The ravenette, who was scanning his blade for any dirt, without glancing the blond’s way, in a low, rough, ever-displeased voice asked. “Seems to me one of them got a little too much. Any reason why?” Although he wasn’t witnessing the quartet receiving money, the action had not been unexcused by the observant man.

The blond with blue eyes had a soft smile on his face, as he averted his eyes to the ground. In a quiet tone, he responded. “His…,” he paused, “You’ve probably noticed that Jan’s leg has been getting worse. Meds are pretty expensive. They’ve gone up recently too.” Suddenly, his voice laced with malice, “Those scumbag shysters…”

That’s when the female spoke up, mouth full of her apple, and her black hair bouncing from the movement of her chest. Her muffled voice filled the room. “Did you hear the toll on the stairways went up? At this rate, paupers like us will never see daylight.”

Along the walls of the Underground, there were multiple staircases leading to the surface. However, the pay to climb these stairs were more than any average person would have. Some of the stuck up men decided to claim the stairways for themselves, setting the fees as they see fit. Even if the money was paid in full, if one didn’t have the correct papers allowing them through, the higher-ups would have no issue sending paupers back down. None of them knew the horrors of living in the cramped, dark city full of malnourished humans fighting to survive.

“Yeah,” the ravenette hummed before turning to his female companion. “Didn’t I tell you to get your filthy ass off of the counter?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled and hopped off of the stone counter, though she still leaned against it. “Whatever you say, captain.”

He scoffed in response and focused his attention back to annihilating the specks of dirt on his trusted blade.

The tall blond continued her train of thought, “Apparently, the lack of sunlight is the reason all those guys got messed-up legs. It’s not like you can do anything about it.”

“Your mother was like that too. I guess that’s why.” The clean-freak decided that his knife was not to his liking, and began scrubbing harder on it as he spoke. Though his words were gentle, his face told another story. It was as if his eyebrows were forever furrowed and his gray eyes slanted. “Nevertheless, you still gave him too much.”

“It was his severance pay.”

That caught the attention of the two raven haired roommates.

Continuing, the blond spoke with dejection, “He’s done for. At the very least, he can find himself a good hospital.”

“Is that so?” The harsh, silver-eyed glare had not gone unnoticed by either of the people in the room, but they chose to ignore it.

“How much more would we need… to live up there?”

Sadness had engulfed the trio as their gazes fell upon the wooden floor. It didn’t take a genius to see how crude their living environment was, even if it was cleaned well. No matter what they did, it was clear that nothing would change.

Suddenly, a loud crash was heard on the other side of the wooden front door. Jolting up, the three readied themselves with blades. It was nothing new for strangers to ram into their home and try to rob them of everything they had. As the trio made their way to the door, they were interrupted by another loud crash. It was as if their assailant was trying to break their door in.

With only a nod, each person readied themselves to see their surprise guest. The blond took his spot at the door, knife in hand, ready to throw it open. The shorter, dark haired boy stood directly in front of the door, not even bothering to hide his handheld weapon by his side. The girl had positioned herself between the boys, diagonal to the entryway. While she was strong enough to hold her own, she knew the dangers of having a man take control of her in this society. After another silent look and nod, the blond yanked open the wooden door.

As he did so, a redhead girl with short, twin ponytails crashed onto the floor. Her hands were drawn to her chest as if she cradled something in them, even as she was propped up on her knees and shoulders. Her hair was ruffled and she wore an older shirt and loose pants.

Wincing with pain, a mumbled ‘ow’ left the newfound girl’s lips. She coughed as if she ran a grand distance after getting bruised up.

“Oh, it’s just a kid.” The shaggy, blond haired man eased up and put his hand on his side. “You gave us a real fright.”

Grumbling, the redhead on the floor disagreed, “I’m not a kid.” With more pride and anger in her voice, she glared up towards the shorter, raven haired male. Repeating her words, she was on the verge of yelling, “I’m not… a kid!”

“Is that so? So that means I can kick you out and it won’t leave a bad taste in my mouth, right?” The shorter replied, obviously annoyed. “I’ll forgive you for dirtying the floor. Now piss off.”

“What’s the matter? Can’t move?” The blond commented as he watched the girl with caution.

“I can! Don’t underestimate me!” Slowly lifting one arm away from her abdomen, she tried prying herself off of the floor.

The ravenette made her way to the fallen girl and tried to move her into a sitting position. Seeing the injured girl up close struck a memory to the blue eyed roommate. "Hold on, you're-." Suddenly, she paused and seemed to be listening closely for something. Quickly, the quiet girl turned to the shorter male. He seemed to be the leader of the group. Hissing under her breath, she muttered, “Levi, there are more people.”

And she was correct. Further away, past the door, angry voices filled the air. They quickened their stomping pace towards the building that the four were sitting in.

“Over here!”Recognizing the angry voices, the twin tailed girl hurried her way into a sitting position, but fell over against the door. Though she sat up straight, it was plain to see that the girl was in pain. The ravenette stayed kneeled at her right side.

The raven-haired man, Levi, clicked his tongue in anger. “Damn. You were being chased, weren’t you?”

“What should we do?”

As the pursuers made their way through the small alleyways built in between the houses, they grumbled trying to find the girl. Turning the corner, they saw the stairs leading towards the front door of the trio’s home. Outside of the open door, Levi and the blond stood protectively, seeming to observe.

“That little brat…” One of the men spoke up, annoyance evident. He was larger with shortly shaved, brown hair. Two of his companions followed behind. “Can’t believe she bit me that hard.” Glancing at the bite marks on the skin below his thumb, more and more anger flowed in him. “Once we catch her, lemme have a little fun with her.”

“What fun can you have with a brat like that?” His ally questioned.

With only a deep chuckle in return, the brunette gazed up towards the two men standing at the door above the stairway. “Huh? Hey! A dirty little urchin came this way, right?”

“They’re ten a penny here, pal,” the blond laughed, content to anger the larger man even more. The way he crossed his arms had shown that he was obviously looking down at their attackers.

“Huh?” Just as the blond wanted, anger flooded through his veins as he started menacingly climbing the staircase with the two following behind. “You shitheads from around here?” Once he reached the middle ground between the two sets of stairs, his eyebrows lifted up at the sight of the girl leaning against the door between the men. “Hey. Found her. Thought so. You friends with her?”

“Nope.”

“Hand her over, then. Try protecting her and you’re in for a world of hurt.”

One of his allies, with a bowl cut, spoke up next, “After all, she tried to go up the 11th Stairway without paying.”

Those words had startled the three protecting the wounded girl. The blue eyed girl’s head whipped around as she stared daggers at the red head as she hissed. “You what!?”

“You know the one, right? The 11th is in Government Minister Lobov’s jurisdiction. We can’t let that slide, not even for a kid. Of course, you will be charged for harboring her too.”

Only silence filled the air until an angered companion yelled out, “If you understand, then hand her over!”

The four remained quiet, but the black haired girl had slowly moved in a protective stance of the red-head.

“Fine. Move aside!” The large man made his way up the stairs, his goal right in sight. While walking up between the standing men, he placed his large hand on the shoulder of Levi.

That was his mistake.

“Wait-” the worried ravenette was cut off by the sudden slice of a blade cutting through the air. In less than three seconds, the large man held his bleeding hand close to his chest in pain. Levi held his recently clean pocket knife—now painted with blood from the slice—up in the air. Without uttering a word, a punch was launched on the already wounded man.

The raven haired girl closed her eyes and tilted her head away from the sight. The blond stared at the ground, but showed no compassion for the beaten man. The redhead, however, could only stare in disbelief.

Punch after punch was thrown. Once he felt he had done enough, Levi yanked up the pursuer by the collar of his shirt and glared directly in the shaking man’s eyes. With a low, growling voice, he threatened, “Don’t touch me with your filthy hands. You’ll make my clothes dirty.” With one more punch to the nose, Levi shoved the brute back to his companions, who barely caught the bloodied man.“

Oh my… You can’t just stroll in here. We take hygiene very seriously here. Come back after you’ve washed your hands.” The tall blond remarked boldy, signature hand on his side.

Levi was quick to begin wiping down his bloodied knife, as if he hadn't just cut a man. Now, it was if he had no care in the world for them.

“These guys mean business. Let’s get outta here!” And with that, they quickly staggered away from the staircase and from their small corner of the Underground city.

“Hey, how long are you going to cling on to that for? It’s going to die.” Levi stated bluntly, looking at what the redhead had brought in and held to her stomach.

Surprised that she was being acknowledged, the emerald eyed girl quickly looked down at her lap. “Oh! I thought that’d warm it up.” Slowly, she revealed a small bird that was nested. It glanced around confused, seemingly unable to fly away.

The ravenette girl next to her asked, “Where’d you get that bird?”

“It was flying about. Probably came in via the sewers.” she innocently smiled, “So I thought I’d let it free above ground.”

It was the blond’s turn to be shocked. “You tried to go up the stairway for that?”

Slowly stroking the bird with a soft smile, she responded. “This little guy probably prefers soaring the skies instead of wandering the Underground City.”

“That’s fine and dandy, but this bird’s wing is hurt.” The taller blond crouched down to the other side and looked at the girl with almost sadness.

“Huh!? For real?”

---

(A/N) Hello, readers! This is one of my first times creating a work such as this. While my writing may be a little rough and nondescript, I’m hoping to grow as a writer as I continue. I hope you enjoy the story and progress alongside me.

Thank you to Brianna for helping me edit.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13

#shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #levi #levi ackerman #fanfic #levi x oc #oc #attack on titan fanfiction #levi ackerman x oc #furlan church #isabel magnolia #alana frey

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