#From a medical point of view it's such a cross between a mental illness and a physical one

[tuehquestionmark]

In a world with hanahaki. It would be???? Treated like it's a problem that you need to come to a therapist with. Like? It's possible?? To get over someone??? If you're in love with them??? In any case you can distance yourself. Like if the symptoms start showing?? Like if you have hanahaki and do nothing about it you are just not. Coping? It would be wildly romanticized for sure like WILDLY but it would generally be acknowledged by adults at least that dying from unrequited love is not.... Uhhh... Not. Go see a therapist don't mope and romanticize a literal disease that is killing you.

[dantesunbreaker]

Why Do You Lie? Ch. 2/3

Daryl Dixon x Transmasculine Reader

I have this posted on Ao3, but I like having my work cross posted. This has some pretty heavy themes so be warned.

Trigger Warnings: Attempted Suicide, Mention of Transphobia, Mentions of Drug Overdose, Self Harm, Mental Illness

Scavenging what you could find within the convenience store had been simple as a breeze when you once again had the relief of medication in your system. When two walkers had stumbled out from a blocked door you didn’t so much as flinch before driving your knife through both their skulls. But, you feel an icy stare at your back. Daryl watches your every move like a hawk, expecting that you are going to freeze up again. It hurts more the fact the acher won’t utter a single word to you.

So, when all bags are full to the point none of you could even imagine being able to carry more, you eye Daryl ask he starts his bike. You watch him turn his head back towards you a fraction of an inch, but not daring to turn enough for you to enter his field of vision. Hesitant, you let all your insecurities bubble up inside you. Sucking in a deep breath, you make your decision.

Thankfully, while Michonne gives you a look as you drop into the passenger seat of the car, she doesn’t make any remark. Fidgeting with your seatbelt, you miss the way Daryl’s muscles tense up before he is back on the road again. You fiddle nervously with the strap of your bag before you sigh and place it on the center console between the seats. Daryl kicks off onto the journey back home and you find yourself watching him shrink into the distance as he keeps a large lead between you.

“You know how Daryl is,” Michonne breaks the silence, noticing the way you continue to gaze out the windshield at the archer. “He’s a stubborn man that doesn’t know how to handle his emotions. But Y/N, he only is being like this because he cares about you. Daryl just wants you to be safe.”

“Maybe,” you force yourself to turn away, forehead resting against the side window as you watch the world go by. “I’m not so sure of that right now. I know he cares in his own way, but I just don’t know if I can convince myself it’s about me and not just because I'm part of the group.”

“Give it time.”

Sometimes you wish that you could be as certain as Michonne. You don’t give her a response, knowing she doesn’t really need or expect one. Instead a comfortable silence falls over you for the rest of the trip, leaving you to your own thoughts once more.

It’s peaceful, to the point you nearly drift to sleep on the trip, feeling both mentally and physically burnt out from the roller coaster of a day you experienced. But it isn’t over yet. As the prison slowly creeps into view, you know that you have plenty of work yet to come. Probably a million questions soon await you as well. Rick and Carl are already waiting, having seen your vehicles approaching and are quick to open the gates just long enough for you to pass through. Driving up the dirt path to the second gate, you watch the pigs in the small hand built pen with a smile as you pass. As Michonne parks just inside the perimeter of the yard you notice that Daryl is nowhere in sight, likely having gone off somewhere secluded to unload his bike.

You’re first out of the vehicle, moving straight to the back of the car to begin unpacking. It takes a moment for Michonne to follow you out, and you notice your bag clutched by the strap in one of her hands.

“Don’t forget this,” she calls while skillfully tossing it across the top of the car to you. “I’ll be back to help in a moment.”

Not questioning where Michonne is off to, you begin to inventory your haul. There is probably enough food to feed everyone for a couple months, though with Rick’s crops coming it, it had the potential to last even longer. When it comes to the medical supplies, it is hard to judge how long everything will last however. But it certainly is enough to replace everything in the infirmary at least three times over.

As you are about to begin unloading, you look up to see Rick and Michonne walking side by side in your direction. Michonne catches your eye and gives a completely neutral expression you are left utterly unable to gauge. This could be bad. Ducking your head you quickly turn away from them and attempt to look deep into sorting supplies.

“Y/N, can I borrow you for just a moment?” At Rick's words your stomach drops. Anything but this. Facing Rick, knowing that he knows you weren’t being honest... well let’s just say you would rather shoot yourself in the foot. But you aren’t a complete coward.

With eyes closed tight, you suck in a deep breath before you turn to accept your fate.

“Yes, Rick?”

As much as you don’t want to meet his intense gaze, you lock eyes with the scruffy older gentleman. If only for the briefest of moments. Better than nothing. But in that moment, instead of anger in Rick’s sky blue eyes, you swear you see something else. What is it? Remorse.

“Walk with me.”

Casting your gaze to your own boots, you fall into stride with the other man. There is a knot growing in your gut as you dwell over every possible way this conversation could go. Would he send you away? In pulling the wool over his eyes to go on the run, did you jeopardize your welcomeness within the prison? After a while, when you’re well past the cell blocks and away from the others gathering out in the yard, Rick stops with a deep sigh, his back to you and rests his hands on his belt.

“You’ve been with us for a while now, Y/N,” Rick begins, voice soft yet full of authority, just loud enough for you to hear. “We found you, we took you in just a few months before taking this place. I’ve seen you put yourself at risk to save others. To protect Carl. To protect Judith. So, it’s just something I don’t quite understand.”

Rick finally turns back to face you, a strained look of something akin to pain in his eyes as he takes a step closer to you. Your lip trembles. Distress and fear makes you want to turn and run from the situation. Flight or fight instinct kicking in and telling you to leave an uncomfortable situation. But you keep yourself together, grounding yourself as best as you are able.

“You are part of this group, part of this family, Y/N,” Rick leans closer to you, adjusting to your height until you can’t help but look into his eyes. “You are important. Not a single person here would judge you, and if there is, be sure to send them my way and I will get them sorted.”

Appearing to be out of near thin air, Rick holds one up of the bottles of your medication in front of you for you both to see. Shit. Michonne must have slipped one out of your bag while you weren’t looking in the car.

“You gotta know, there is no need to hide from us,” grabbing your wrist with a firm calloused hand, Rick turns it over and places the bottle back into your palm. “If this is what keeps you safe, what keeps you with us, then it’s important to us too. You give us a list of what you need, what to look for, and we will get it for you. You don't have to be afraid. We will take care of you."

You can't help the few tears that trickle down your cheeks before you hastily wipe them away with the back of your sleeve. It’s hard knowing what to say. But the look on Rick’s face as you continually wipe at the tears that just won’t seem to stop, you know he understands what you want to say without needing to utter a single word. With a wink and a nod, he moves past you, giving you a firm clap on the back as goes.

Feeling as though a heavy weight has been lifted from your chest, you allow a small smile to form on your lips. Maybe there is hope. Maybe the time has come to take a chance and to stop letting your inner demons be your voice of reason. Tucking the small bottle into your pocket, you turn back to help unload the car with a much lighter spring in your step.

With the help of a few former citizens of Woodbury, it doesn’t take more than half an hour to have the vehicle completely unpacked. Neat stacks are organized by where they need to go while people carry what they can to their designated locations. By the time everything is said and done, you are exhausted, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to the back of your neck. All you can think about is how nice it will feel to drop into your bunk for a much needed rest.

All that is left is your personal bag, still loaded with your haul of anti-anxiety meds, which is slinging over your shoulder. You try to tell yourself that perhaps after a night to unwind and settle from all this excitement you will talk to Hershel about stocking some in the infirmary. Maybe someone else was struggling just as much as you and could use them as well. Distracted, you pay no mind to what is in front of you, and thus let out a startled gasp as you collide with something warm and solid before falling flat on your backside. Beside you is your bag splayed out against the ground, contents scattered all around you.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going!” You stumble over an apology before you even look up, but once you do your voice catches. Crystal blue eyes stare down at you. Daryl.

Panic creeps in as you fumble to shove everything back into your open bag before the archer takes note of the numerous bottles of pills. But that of course is an unrealistic fantasy. With heart beating fast, you think it may explode as you watch in slow motion Daryl crouching and taking a bottle in his hands where he turns it over carefully.

“Just like Merle,” Daryl’s voice is a low growl, hard eyes staring through you. The bottle is thrown back at the ground. “Always hoarding whatever shit he could get his hands on. I’m tired of losing people, so not gonna keep takin’ that risk. Ya ain’t going outside that fence no more. I’m gonna make sure of it.”

So badly do you want to correct him, to explain what the pills are for, why they are so important and essential to you, but you can’t find your voice again. Though, this time your instinct for flight gets the better of you. Forgetting your bag, forgetting your meds, you leap up and push past Daryl, nearly knocking him over as you sprint inside the cell block. Tears sting your eyes as you run, ignore all those that call out your name as you pass. Not until you reach an empty cell block far into the depths of the prison do you slow to a stop. Just a few days before Rick had sent in a group to clear the block.

Making sure both entrance and exit doors are secure, you make your way to an empty cell and press your back against the wall and slide until you hit the ground. Trembling hands grab your shins and pull your center until your head rests on your raised knees. A violent sob shakes your body, tears burning your eyes.

“Why am I like this?” You cry out to the empty room. It echoes back in your ears and reminds you how truly alone you are.

Hours pass as you stare endlessly at the concrete wall across from you that you see but don’t actually acknowledge as being there. You teeter somewhere on the edge of being numb and debilitated with pain. But nothing erases the aching pain that stabs at your heart. There is no light that can pierce the darkness that is your thoughts as you think of how you could eliminate a problem for those at the prison. In ending your suffering, you could relieve them of the burden of your care.

Choking on a sob, you rip the shirt off your chest to stare and the raised white scars that scatter from shoulder to elbow, some ever so fainter ones bleeding down into your forearms. Besides the two large scars under your chest is a fine speckling of scars stretching across your ribs and soft stomach. Beyond the beltline it only continues. Hip to knee is not only thick with scar tissue from repeat injections but criss crossed with jagged lines.

At least that was something you could say you were good at, being smart enough to only place your wounds where it was easy to hide. You can’t recall the last time a new scar was added to your mass collection. Sometime after the dead began to walk the earth, but not long before Rick and the group had found you and taken you in. The joy and sense of belonging that had brought you was enough to combat that ever present part of you. Or at least you thought it was. Rick may think of you as part of the family, but you can’t shake the feeling they would be better off without you. Daryl, the one you care for and love most of all, you fear never really cared for you at all. Though it’s too late now though, you wish that you had told him how you really felt about him. You know it’s something he needs to hear, that people are capable of loving and caring about him. Something you fear he doesn’t realize himself.

Drawing your knife from the sheath on your belt, your hand moves without an active thought as you stare at your wrist. Letting out a soft sigh, you watch the dark red line that begins to travel down the length of your forearm. Location shouldn’t matter this time. You don’t have to care if anyone can see the scar, because this should be the last one.

Numb, you remember the bottle that Rick handed to you. It is still in your pocket. With the hand not trickling with blood, you pull the medication from your pocket and pop the lid. A cold and empty laugh leaves you. Something that is so necessary to your ability to function has somehow brought an abrupt halt to your happy ending. You put one on your tongue and promptly swallow, frowning at the horrid taste. At least you can be calm as you wait.

For a moment you consider why just stop at one. You could take the whole bottle just to make sure that you’ve finished yourself off. But you pause. You think back to Daryl. What would he say when he saw you like this? Death by overdose just like he probably expects from you. You can’t win, even in death. Fresh tears fall as you let out a guttural scream, throwing the open bottle at the wall and watch the explosion of pills rain down around the cell. With a quivering sob, you close your eyes and wait, dreaming of better days of being without pain.

[packedwithlife]

Mushrooms to Stay away from Early Dementia

While most connection dementia and fragility with "elderly folks individuals", long term olds have seen a 3X expansion in beginning stage of dementia as of late! If it's not too much trouble, delay and read this once more: there has been a 3X expansion in dementia among those in the 30-64 age bunch!

Obviously we as a whole ought to give our best for reinforce our invulnerable frameworks against early age-related illnesses like dementia and slightness now! Many are becoming mindful that Ergothioneine (Thus), an amino corrosive that is found in overflow in specific mushrooms like Lion's Mane, is a powerful cell reinforcement that upholds the body's resistance strength against dementia and other persistent age-related sicknesses.

Dr. Robert Beelman from Penn State College has concentrated on Thus since the 1970s and has viewed there as major areas of strength for a between the wellbeing of a worldwide society and in the degrees of Consequently tracked down in the weight control plans of those in the general public. Dr. Beelman's times of examination is very convincing in that he has reliably observed that abstains from food wealthy in Consequently are related with longer, better lives across the world; both as far as lower persistent age-related sickness rates and regarding longer generally speaking future.

We should investigate two of the most common age-related conditions: Feebleness and Dementia, including Alzheimer's illness.

Frailty Frailty is most frequently estimated as far as an individual's capacities crossing five key classes: Shortcoming, Gradualness, Weight reduction, Fatigue, and Low Actual work. At the point when somebody is exceptionally stationary, can't stand or hold things firmly, moves gradually with fast fatigue and gets in shape, then that individual is in danger of being named "slight" as per Johns Hopkins College and addresses one of every ten individuals beyond 65 years old.

While the maturing aspect clearly can't be controlled, the absolute most significant part of keeping away from slightness can be straightforwardly controlled in general: "Eating Great." Eating great empowers one to remain dynamic and helps against mental degradation. Eating great means staying away from pesticides in food sources however much you can by picking the right food varieties arranged by need:

Pick Affirmed Natural fixings to assist one with staying away from the lethal Gather Together pesticide. However it should be noticed that not all Guaranteed Natural items are really 100 percent Gather Together free, in light of the fact that these dangerous poisonous showers would be able and do float and wash down from adjoining fields at higher rises.

Pick Undertaking Non-GMO Confirmed as the following most ideal decision for food since ranchers use GMOs to permit the plant to acknowledge the splashing of Gather Together against weeds. By keeping away from GMOs, one is again expanding her possibility trying not to have dangerous Gather Together her food.

Pick non Processed food varieties. Continuously keep away from "food varieties" that contain synthetic compounds, additives, fake fixings, colors, fades, sugars, and so forth. The more synthetics that one puts through his body, the more pressure that is placed on the kidneys and liver to channel and eliminate as a large number of the poisons as they can. Tragically, when barraged reliably with handled food sources or pesticide-loaded food varieties, critical pressure collects for these crucial substantial organ channels and they can't keep up; bringing about an assortment of medical problems.

Dementia

Dementia, including Alzheimer's sickness, is a psychological problem related with a fast decrease in mental capability, memory, mental handling capacity and thinking, and frequently an adjustment of character. The word dementia is a general term for this kind of degenerative cerebrum sickness, while Alzheimer's is a particular sort of this mind illness that addresses over portion of dementia cases.

With the typical age for the beginning of dementia being 83.7 years old, most more youthful grown-ups don't give a ton of consideration to it except if they have seen it in their families previously. Be that as it may, as we have seen the paces of beginning stage of dementia have detonated among those 30-64 with over a 3x expansion lately!. We all ought to be focusing on how wellbeing and nourishment decisions can reinforce the insusceptible framework against early dementia.

While the force of prompt delight and companion strain with food decisions is serious areas of strength for very, hazard of settling on terrible food decisions is very genuine. Exhibiting its connect to eat less and sustenance, Alzheimer's Illness is alluded to by a lot of people as Type III Diabetes because of related insulin dysregulation in the cerebrum. As confirmed by one of every ten Americans having Diabetes as indicated by the Middle for Infectious prevention, many are obviously not mindful of the basic significance of nourishment. Many individuals just eat and drink for delight or potentially to "top off" at the least expensive conceivable expense without concern or believed that we truly are what we eat.

Solid To the side: One simple method for assessing your wholesome decisions is to start to draw an obvious conclusion with regards to your "number two". While not an extraordinary supper discussion, in the event that your crap isn't strong, then, at that point, you ought to consider surrendering wheat for half a month just to see what occurs. However, wheat should be really and totally dispensed with for this test to be successful. Attempt it, what do you need to lose?

Given its connection as Type III Diabetes, it's nothing unexpected that there is a high pace of comorbidity with Diabetes and Dementia. It's plainly never beyond any good time to begin settling on the right dietary decisions like expanding Thus utilization by eating and drinking mushrooms.

Mushrooms Reinforce Invulnerable Protection Against Early Dementia

Our resistant frameworks are completely fit for holding off age-related infections like slightness and dementia, assuming we deal with, power and reinforce them with the right nourishing decisions.

As Dr. Beelman has reported, the amino corrosive Ergothioneine (Hence) is a strong cell reinforcement that is straightforwardly connected across the world in various examinations with higher Consequently utilization reliably showing lower dementia, slightness, and passing rates. As a matter of fact, Thus is presently viewed as a biomarker for both slightness and dementia.

While Thus can be found in specific plants and in creatures that eat plants starting from the earliest stage, presence is most elevated in certain sorts of mushrooms, like Lion's Mane, Shiitake, and Shellfish mushrooms. Be that as it may, to get the most Consequently and other helpful supplements from these mushrooms, one ought to try to cook or brew the mushrooms to separate their thick cell walls and delivery the Thus and different supplements.

While relationship doesn't necessarily in every case suggest causation, as per the investigations of Kondoh, Teruya, Kameda, and Yanagida, lower Thus levels are fundamentally connected with mental deterioration saw with delicacy, dementia and Alzheimer's illness patients. While not full confirmation, this examination when joined with the broad work done by Dr. Beelman appears to demonstrate a pile of proof is building that proposes we ought to all add more fermented Lion's Mane tea, or potentially cooked Shiitake and Shellfish mushrooms to our eating regimens.

Significant enhancing Thus levels in creature concentrates on has been displayed as a successful treatment to mitigate mental impedance and oxidative tissue harm. While mushroom powders are an extraordinary mushroom supplement development, it is ideal to cook or brew mushroom powders to set the supplements free from the thick cell walls as opposed to utilizing them straightforwardly in smoothies.

Online tea store packed with Life offers one of the most mind-blowing safe supporter teas with its brilliant ImmuneATea item. Heavenly either prepared hot, or over ice in the wake of blending, tea maker Loaded with Life made an item that makes it simple to get the sustenance and regular, decaf energy of Lion's Mane, Chaga, Reishi, and Cordyceps mushrooms in a single delectable, hydrating drink. Each crate from tea provider Loaded with Life contains 16 individual tea sacks loaded with the extraordinary tasting and soluble amicable adaptogen and mushroom rich mix prepared for blending.

How Therefore Functions

People get Therefore from their food sources and drinks, for example, cooked or blended Lion's Mane, Shiitake and Clam mushrooms. Food varieties that are filled in the ground and meat from creatures that eat food sources that fill in the ground generally likewise contained Hence. Nonetheless, current herbicides/pesticides and plowing rehearses obliterate the underground mushroom mycelium networks that supply Thus and different supplements to food sources filled in the ground (and creatures that eat them). The development toward regenerative cultivating practices and natural cultivating will guarantee solid mycelium organizations and Hence rich grasses, vegetables and creatures.

Consequently is extricated by the body and shipped by means of its own OCTN1 carrier framework to be put away all through the body in different tissues like the cerebrum, liver, kidneys, red platelets, skin, and so on. Thus is then used by the body as a cell reinforcement to eliminate poisonous free extremists which harm our substantial tissues and lead to malignant growths and many age-related infections, for example, slightness and dementia including Alzheimer's illness.

Thus goes about as an incredibly powerful cell reinforcement, truth be told. Consider the correlation with the solid cell reinforcement glutathione.

Glutathione is delivered normally by the liver and acts against free revolutionaries, makes synthetic substances and proteins that are basic to appropriate materially and safe framework capability, and helps in building and fixing substantial tissues.

Hence goes about as a cell reinforcement against the especially hazardous hydroxyl revolutionaries at a rate almost multiple times higher than glutathione!

Staying away from early dementia begins with giving close consideration to what you eat and drink consistently. By dealing with your body by eating great as framed here, one's chances of having major areas of strength for a framework and it are upgraded to keep away from early dementia.

[fire-to-fire]

Views on Mental Health: Fundamentalist Baptist vs. Charismatic

A brief observation from someone who was a part of both denominations at some point of my life while having mental illness and being otherwise nuerodivergent.

Disclaimer: these are just my personal observations about these denominations informed by my specific experiences within this area. Also I’m aware autism is not a mental illness but that is not usually a distinction made within these denominations hence why I included it.

Fundamentalist Baptist

Mental Health issues were often viewed as a failure of faith.

“You wouldn’t have anxiety if you truly trusted God to take care of you!”

“You wouldn’t have depression if you truly appreciated what Jesus did for you on the cross!”

The recommended treatment for this was daily prayer and bible reading, religious counseling, and repentance for the sin of having mental illness.

Seeking out secular therapists and medication was generally looked down upon as it was viewed as a spiritual issue that could only truly be solved through God.

Some mental illnesses and nuerodivergencies, such as schizophrenia and autism, were considered more legitimate and medical. In these cases often medications were seen as appropriate. Not to say they weren’t ableist towards them (any “sickness” is after all a result of original sin) but it was mostly similar to the sort of ableism that would be present in non-religious environments.

Charismatic

Mental health issues were viewed as the result of demonic possession/spiritual attack. Sometimes this is seen as the fault of the individual for letting it take root in the first place and not having enough faith to deal with it on their own.

“You have the spirit of anxiety in you”

“The demon of depression has his hold on you”

The recommended treatment for this would be casting out the spirit/demon, this was usually done through prayer and the laying on of hands. If the problems persisted after this, then usually the blame would further shift to the person affected.

“You aren’t letting the demon go”

“You’re giving it permission to stay”

“You don’t want to be free/better”

Seeking out secular therapy and medication is seen as the result of a poor relationship with God because if one was truly close with God they would have no struggles or pain at all.

The line between what is a spiritual problem causing mental illness and what is a medical condition causing mental illness is blurred. After all, someone with schizophrenia or autism could have a legitimate medical condition but it is just as likely that they are experiencing a demonic attack. Often this distinction is made arbitrarily and so allowance for medication and other secular treatment varied person to person.

[jayoctodot]

The Silent Patient vs The Maidens

I will start by saying that I understand the appeal of these novels as page-turners. They are easy to read and if you want a twisty reveal at the end, you will probably be entertained and satisfied. That being said, I am SO CONFUSED by the near-universal adoration of The Silent Patient and the reasonably positive reception of The Maidens. The weaknesses of the two are strikingly similar, as well, which doesn’t give me much hope of seeing improvement from this guy, though I am intrigued to see whether he keeps repeating the same (apparently successful!!) patterns. These books were at least super fun to hate.

(For context, I read The Maidens for a bookclub I'm in, because several of the members had read and loved The Silent Patient, and one of them gave me a copy of the latter to read on my own time. I loathed The Maidens and then read The SP for comparative purposes. And because I'm a masochist, apparently.)

SPOILER WARNING! Do not read on unless you've finished both books (or unless you care not for spoilers). Sorry if it gets a bit shouty.

Here are the similar weaknesses I noticed in both:

PSEUDO-PSYCHOLOGY

-> Weirdly similar “group therapy” scenes early on where a cartoonishly unstable patient arrives late, disrupts the meeting by throwing something into the middle of the circle, and is asked to join the group after the therapist(s) speechify on the importance of boundaries (HA! None of these therapists would know an appropriate boundary if it kicked them in the ass) and debate whether to “allow” the patient to join. Both scenes are so transparent in their design to establish the credibility/legitimacy of the narrators as therapists, but instead both Theo and Mariana come off as super patronizing. The protagonists are less and less believable as therapists at the stories progress (though at least Theo’s incompetence is explained away by the “twist” at the end; Mariana, on the other hand, is confronted in the opening pages of the novel by a patient who has self-harmed PRETTY extensively, and rather than ensure he get proper medical attention, she essentially throws him a first aid kit and tosses him out the door so she can pour herself a glass of wine and call her niece... and it devolves from there).

-> Ongoing insistence throughout the narrative that one’s childhood trauma entirely explains the warped/dysfunctional way a character behaves or views the world, which is why the books go out of their way to give EVERY potentially violent character a traumatic childhood; when Theo insists that no one ever became an abuser who hadn’t been abused themselves, I wanted to throw the book across the room. (That is a MYTH, SIR. GET OUT OF HERE WITH YOUR ARMCHAIR PSYCHOLOGY.)

-> Female murderers whose pathology boils down to “history of depression” and “traumatized by a male loved one/family member.” Because, as we all know, depression + abuse = murderer!

-> The “therapy” depicted in both books is laughable and so so unrealistic, mostly because neither narrators function as therapists so much as incompetent detectives, obsessively pursuing a case they have no place pursuing (or skill to pursue - both just happen across every clue mostly by way of clunky conversation with all the people who can provide precisely the snippet of info to send them along to the next person, and the next… until all is revealed in a tired, cliched “twist”). Their constant Psych 101 asides were so tiresome and weirdly dated (also, the constant harping on countertransference got so ridiculous that at one point during "therapy" Theo literally attributes his headache and a particular emotion he feels to Alicia, as though the contents of her head are being broadcast directly into his mind... and I'm PRETTY SURE that's not how it works???)

CHARACTERS

-> Psychotherapist narrators with abusive fathers and pretensions of being Sherlock Holmes, which results in both characters crossing ALL KINDS of ethical lines as they invade the personal lives of everyone even tangentially connected to their cases (and, in Theo's case, violate all kinds of patient confidentiality. Yeah, yeah, by the end, that's the least of his offenses, but before you get there, it's baffling that NO ONE is calling him out on this).

-> All female characters are either elderly with hilariously bad advice, monstrous hulking brutes, or beautiful bitches (except for ~MARIANA~, who is Bella Swan-esque in her unawareness of her own attractiveness, despite multiple men trying to get with her almost immediately after meeting her. I'm so tired of beautiful female characters being oblivious to their own hotness. Are we meant to believe all mirrors and male attention have escaped their notice? If it’s to make them “relatable,” this tactic really fails with me).

-> All characters of color are shallow, cartoonish side characters, and most of them are depicted as unsympathetic minor antagonists (the Sikh Chief Inspector in The Maidens continuously drinks tea from an ever-present thermos, and his only other notable characteristic is his instant dislike of Mariana, whom he VERY RIGHTLY warns to stay out of the investigation that she is VERY MUCH compromising… the Caribbean manager of the Grove is universally disliked by her staff for enforcing stricter safety regulations at the bafflingly poorly run mental institution, because HOW DARE SHE. There's a very clear vibe that we're supposed to dislike these characters and share the protagonists' indignation, but honestly Sangha/Stephanie were completely in the right for trying to shut down their wildly inappropriate investigations).

-> "Working class" characters (or basically anyone excluded from the comfortably upper-crust, educated main cadre of characters) are few and far between in both stories, but when they show up, he depicts them as such caricatures. We got Elsie the pathologically lying housekeeper in the Maidens, who is enticed to share her bullshit with cake, and then a TOOTHLESS LEPRECHAUN DEALING DRUGS UNDER A BRIDGE in the SP. I kid you not, a man described as having the body of a child, the face of Father Time, and no front teeth, emerges from beneath a bridge and offers to sell Theo some "grass." I was dyinggg.

-> There are no characters to root for. Anywhere. Partly because they’re all so thinly drawn — and because we’re clearly supposed to view almost ALL of them as potential suspects, so they’re ALL weird, creepy, or incompetent in some way.

-> The flimsiest of flimsy motives, both for the narrators and the murderers. Theo fully would have gotten away with his involvement in the murder if he hadn't gone out of his way to work at the Grove and "treat" Alicia and his justification for doing so is pretty weak; his rapid descent into stalking and murder fantasy and his random ass decision to "expose" Alicia's husband as a cheater with a spur-of-the-moment home invasion and staged attempted homicide is ONLY justified if the reader hand waves it away as WELP, HE'S CRAZY, I GUESS (after all, he DID have an abusive father and a history of mental illness, and in Michaelides novels, that's ALL YOU NEED to become a violent psycho). I guess we're lucky Mariana didn't also start dropping bodies (because the logic of his fictional universe says she should definitely be a murderer by now... maybe that'll be his Maidens sequel?). But she especially had NO reason to randomly turn detective - and she kept trying to justify it by saying she needed to re-enter the world or that Sebastian would want her to (??), even though she had no background in criminal psychology... or even a particular fondness for mysteries (really, I would've accepted ANYTHING to explain her dogged obsession with the case. WHY were Sebastian and Zoe so certain she would insert herself into the investigation just because one of Zoe's friends was the first victim? WHY?). As for Zoe and Alicia, their motives are mere suggestions: they were both abused and manipulated, and voila! Slippery slope to murder.

WRITING STYLE

-> Incessant allusions to Greek tragedy and myth, apparently to provide a sophisticated gloss over the bare-bones writing style, which opts more for telling than showing and frequently indulges in hilariously bizarre analogies. Credit where credit is due — the references to Greek myth are less clunky in the SP, and I liked learning about the Alcestis play/myth, which I hadn’t heard of before - but OMG the entire characterization of Fosca, who we are meant to believe is a professor of Greek tragedy at one of the most respected universities on the planet, is just absurd. His "lecture" on the liminal in Greek tragedy is essentially the Wikipedia page on the Eleusinian Mysteries capped off with some Hallmark-card carpe diem crap. The lecture hall responds with raucous applause, clearly never having heard such vague genius bullshit before.

-> Super clunky and amateurish narrative device of interludes written by another character; Sebastian’s letter reads like a mashup of Dexter monologues and Clarice’s memory of the screaming sheep, but by FAR the worse offender is Alicia’s diary, where we’re supposed to believe she painstakingly recorded ENTIRE CONVERSATIONS, BEAT-BY-BEAT DIALOGUE, even when she’s just been DRUGGED TO THE GILLS with morphine and has mere moments of consciousness left… and even before that, she literally takes the time to write “He's trying the windows and doors! ...Someone’s inside! Someone’s inside the house! ETC ETC” when she thinks her stalker has broken in downstairs. WHO DOES THAT?)

-> Speaking of dialogue, the dialogue is so bad. Based on his bio, Michaelides got a degree in screenwriting, which makes his terrible dialogue even more baffling.

-> HILARIOUSLY rendered voyeur scenes where the narrators spy on couples having sex. Such unintentionally awkward descriptions. First we had Kathy’s climax sounds through the trees and then the bowler hat carefully placed on a tombstone before the gatekeeper plows a student. Again, I died.

PLOT/"TWIST"

-> The CONSTANT red herrings make for such an exhausting read. Michaelides drops anvils with almost every character that are so obviously meant to designate them as suspects in our minds. There is absolutely no subtlety in his misdirections.

-> The “crossover” scene between the SP and The Maidens makes no sense - when in the timeline does Mariana’s story overlap with Theo’s? They confer just before Theo starts working at the Grove, obviously (though Mariana appears to be the one who alerts Theo to the job opening there? Whereas in the SP, Theo has been obsessively tracking Alicia since the murder and had already planned to apply to work there?), but then are we supposed to believe that while Theo has been psychotically pursuing his warped quest to “help” Alicia, he’s also been diligently treating Zoe, so invested in her case that he repeatedly reaches out to Mariana to get her to visit Zoe and even writes Mariana a lengthy letter to convince her to do so??? And then a couple days after The Maidens ends, Theo is arrested???

-> But the thing I really did hate the most is how Michaelides treats his female murderers (who are both also victims themselves) as mere means to deploy a “twist”; there’s no moment spared to encourage our sympathy for Zoe, who was groomed and manipulated by the only trusted father figure in her life, and even after spending a decent amount of time getting to know Alicia via her ridiculous diary, where it’s so apparent that she’s been demeaned, objectified, manipulated, gaslit, and/or used by EVERY man in her life, she’s sent packing to spend the rest of her days in a coma… HOW much more satisfying would it have been for her to succeed in exposing Theo and reclaiming her voice? But no, she basically rolls over when he comes to finish her off (SPEAKING OF — ARE WE SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE THERE ARE NO SECURITY CAMERAS IN THIS INSTITUTE FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE????), writes one last diary entry, and drifts off forever. And then a couple pages of nothing later, the story is over. GOODNIGHT, ALICIA!

Both books kept me rolling throughout (by which I mean eye-rolling but also rotfl). Maybe I will check out his next effort — I’m morbidly curious what he’ll turn out. It does leave me wondering whether I should give up on thriller novels entirely, though. Are many of the weaknesses of these novels just characteristic of the genre? Maybe I'm just holding these books to unfair standards? I'm mostly only familiar with thriller films — many of which I think are amazing — but maybe you can get away with more in a film than you can in a novel.

...I really only intended to write a handful of bullet points, but more and more kept coming to mind as I wrote, to the point where subheadings became necessary. Whoopsie.

[subbing-for-clones]

Stranded Part 1

Savage Opress x reader

A/N: Oof I really have a problem cause all I want is to be stranded alone with the big boy himself.

Word Count: 4.1k

Summary: On his way to locate his long-lost brother, Savage’s course gets altered and he is thrown into the unknown. Barely surviving the crash, he finds himself on a deserted planet with a force sensitive woman who somehow managed to thrive here on her own. If they’re going to make it off this strange planet they will have to work together.

WARNINGS: blood, fear, dead body, wounds, mental illness. Probably not how black holes work but idc fight me about it. Alcohol consumption.

NEXT         MASTERLIST

       Savage Opress had been traveling the galaxy trying to find his brother Maul. After being betrayed by the nightsister he was meant to serve, Mother Talzin gifted him a necklace that would act as a compass. One that would guide him to his long-lost brother who could teach him to harness this new power he had realized. His 'gift' however appeared to lead him on a never ending, wild goose chase. Glowing and fading seemingly at will. It had been months and although his hope had started to fade, he pressed on without any other option. The Republic, the Separatists and everything in between wanted his head. He missed his way of life before the nightsister had chosen him to act as her tool of vengeance.

    A rumor of Maul being killed on Naboo by a Jedi had reached his ears. Better than anything else he had to go off of he punched the coordinates into his ship's nav computer and made the jump to hyperspace. The way the stars visibly stretched never ceased to amaze him. He watched the blue from the viewport before he nodded off to sleep, unknowingly altering the coordinates when he kicked his boots up onto the dash.

    He awoke hours later to alarms blaring and red lights flashing. Not being an experienced pilot by any means, panic tickled the edges if his mind. He pulled out of hyperspace, hoping there was a nearby planet he could land on. To his horror there wasn't a planet in sight. Rather, an immense blackhole that was slowly pulling small asteroids into its center. Panic now gripped him full force as he tried to get out of the gravitational pull but it was too late. It had him in its clutches and he could do nothing but let it take him.

    He thought of his younger brother in these moments. How the nightsisters had controlled his mind and forced his hand to take Farel's life. Perhaps he deserved this fate. To be swallowed into nothing after crossing the only living thing that had ever truly cared for him. He closed his eyes on the precipice of the abyss and with a single tear for his fallen kin, let the void devour him in his ship.

       He had expected to pass out or die but he never lost conciousness. He had his eyes scrunched for so long but he never stopped hearing the alarms ringing. He dared to open them only to see, well nothing. It was the darkest black he had ever seen. His navigation was almost useless, he had no idea where he was or where he was going but he could tell that he was in fact going forward. He dared to pray that there was another side to this hole and that he could in fact survive. That hope faded when he realized he was out of fuel, powering only life support at this point.

    Much to his surprise the sight before him changed. What started as a pinhole of a darkness that was slightly less bleak grew. It grew until he could see stars again. He was thrown out of his turmoil and launched towards the only planet in sight. From space it was incredibly green, white caps peaked occasionally and bodies of water could be viewed as well. Wherever he was headed seemed to lack vast oceans but rather, large lakes perhaps.

    He realized that without any fuel he would crash. Once he broke the atmosphere, he redirected the last few vapors he had in the tank to his engines and was able to aim the ship towards one of the nearing brown peaks. Hoping to slide down into the jungle. The initial impact knocked the wind out of him but thankfully didn't immediately kill him. His ship slid down the slope at an alarming speed and a dip in the terrain sent him airborne again. The second impact knocked him unconscious.

    He awoke maker knows how many hours later to the chirping of birds. Out of the viewport he could see that several more crashed ships beneath him had possibly broken his fall. Giant trees he had never seen before stretched out in front of him but not so close together that he couldn't see a decent way into the forest. His back must be facing the mountain. The ship was smoking and the hull was smashed beyond repair. For the first time he was grateful he had no fuel so the ship wouldn't explode if a fire spread.

    Blood dripped into his right eye from where he knocked his head and broken a horn. Lacerations of varying depth littered his body. He tried to move and quickly assessed that it was likely one of his ribs was fractured although he couldn't feel it sticking out or in anywhere. Savage attempted to pull himself free and realized his left arm wasn't responding. The worst of all, in his mind, the necklace that Mother Talzin gave him was shattered in his lap.

    He had to get his shoulder back in place and slung. Slowly he stood to his feet and made his way out of the transport, feeling claustrophobic. The moment his boot hit the grass below him he felt so many things through the force. This planet was teeming with life, wild and wavering force signatures surrounded him and stretched out as far as he could sense. One signature was starkly unique to the others he felt and he tensed. It was incredibly light, lighter than anything he had ever felt before. An airy, dreamy aura with sparks that danced through it grew closer. Whatever it was, it was nearing quickly. He force pulled his saber-staff from the ship into his grasp and lit one side, growling ferociously like the wounded animal he was. Whatever it was he felt had stopped in its tracks. He couldn't see anything through the trees and he took a hesitant step forward. Until he heard her.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I'd like to help."

    He couldn't see where the voice was coming from. It was a female. A young woman he would guess. Her voice was gentle and soft but projected well from her hiding place with a kind power behind it.

"Show yourself," he called almost roaring in pain.

"Promise you won't kill me on sight?"

"Are you alone?" his eyes darted around him trying to pinpoint her location.

"Yes... I know you can feel it."

    He could feel it. What he felt through the force, it was only her. He sheathed his saber and showing it over his head, tossed it to the side. Only then did she leap down from the canopy of the forest. If his rib didn’t make it painful to breathe, he would've gasped. Her hair shimmered in the light of the mid-day sun, her eyes glistened brightly with curiosity and breath-taking beauty. He had never seen a woman like her before. Beneath what was once a white cotton dress, now worn and stained, he could see and admire the outline of her body. A slit up the side revealed one of her legs and a knife strapped to her thigh. She had nothing on her feet as she slowly made her way over to him with her hands visible so he knew she wasn't armed.

"Hello. How did you survive the crash? I've never seen anyone else survive the crash."

"I don't know," he squinted his eyes at her wearily. His voice low and deep rumbled when he spoke.

"I can help you with your shoulder. I had some medical training before I crashed here myself."

Knowing he needed help he nodded cautiously. She continued towards him and gently removed his armor. When she took out her knife to cut open his shirt, he took a step back.

"I meant it when I said I wouldn't hurt you,” she hesitated before continuing; never breaking eye contact. Searching for a sign to stop.

    She slowly sliced open his shirt in one smooth motion. She took a second and allowed her eyes to drift over him. His golden skin and distinctive, almost tribal black tattoos. His massive chest, straight jaw and crown of horns. It was the first time in a very long time she had seen a man still breathing let alone of his caliber and tried to hide the heat that rushed to her cheeks.

"Um, I'm sorry but you're very tall. I'm going to need you to sit down, please. So I can reach you."

    He did what she had asked of him, keeping his back straight. With him sitting and her kneeling tall next to him he was still a head taller than she was. She placed her hands on him and asked him to breathe deeply. On the second exhale she slid the shoulder back into place with a loud crunch. He growled not really at her but the situation itself.

She used half of his shirt to make a sling for him and the other to wipe the blood off of his face. She force pulled an empty bag from the tree which surprised him.

"You'll have to clean your wounds so they don't get infected. I have a home near here with cool and hot springs if you'd like to accompany me."

    He knew he wouldn't be able to do much without aggravating his injuries so he reluctantly agreed. Before she led him away, she trotted over to one of the crashed ships off to the side. The pilot was dead and just starting to decompose, she tossed him out of the cockpit using the force and scavenged what lay inside, unphased. Well, she's got the stomach for surviving out here. He thought to himself.

      Now with a full pack she helped him up as best as she could almost collapsing under his weight. He kept a few feet behind her, taking only his saber and a change of clothes from the ship. She led him through the forest for what must have been at least two or three miles.

    A break in the tree line revealed a log cabin with a mossy roof adorning a few solar panels. He had grown accustomed to either adobe or durasteel buildings so this was a bit of a shock to him. Several hot springs steamed behind the cabin and a large pond lay to the front. Creatures that resembled chickens roamed the grasses near the house and what looked like an herb garden on the other side.

    He stopped and took in his surroundings for a moment before he followed her inside. The floor was also wooden, with various animal pelts laid out across the paneling. It was one large room except for what he assumed was a fresher. A large bed lay in one corner, what resembled a small kitchen in the opposite. Crude shelves covered the walls containing various items from dishes to clothing to medgear and a fireplace with a kettle. A small table sat off to the side with a few chairs. That's all she really had. Some things were obviously salvaged from ships like her clothes, the bed and bedding and some of her cookware but most of it looked hand made. It reminded him of his village in a way. They were not an advanced people when it came to luxury living by any means.

    He watched her dump out her bag on the table while he took a seat on the bed. He didn't realize that it was chilly outside until he felt the warmth of the fire that still burned. She was going through the medical supplies she found and sorting it when he finally spoke, still looking around her home.

"How long have you been here? Is there anyone else?"

"I've lost count. Fifteen years, I think? At least twelve. This planet is larger than the one I grew up on so it’s hard to keep long term time. If there is anyone else here, I haven't found them."

"How did you come here?"

She made her way over to him and started cleaning his wounds with the sealed antiseptic cloths.

"Same way as you I imagine. The blackhole. My family was traveling with an outdated navigation system. I guess the route had been changed due to the void but we were unaware. My father died in the crash and my mother died from exposure not long after. I was ten. The only reason I survived was my force sensitivity."

"You've been alone this whole time?"

"Yes... you're the first to survive the ordeal as well.. other than myself."

    This saddened him for a number of reasons. He couldn't imagine being alone for so long, especially for a child to grow up on her own. It also meant that there was little hope for escaping this planet. She bandaged him gently, their bodies in close proximity. Her work was precise but her hands shook slightly.

"You have a rather deep gash on your side, I think I should stitch it if you'll allow it."

"Have you done it before?"

"To myself yes."

"Alright."

    You left and quickly returned to him with the suture kit and some kind of root. She explained that if he chewed it, it would ease the pain so he took it. She knelt down in front of him and began her work as he gnawed on the blue root. It tasted sweet and the effect took hold quickly to his pleasure. She worked diligently and was careful as she could be. Once again, her work was perfect, the stitches were small and tight but her hands still trembled. When she finished her work, she spread some antibacterial salve on him and went to put her gear away in silence.

"Are you alright?" He asked, hesitant but genuinely concerned.

"Yes. I'm sorry, it's just been so long since I talked to someone who could actually respond. So long since I've heard another voice." She tried to laugh it off but her voice shook as much as her hands had.

    So long she had been by herself. To stave away loneliness she had named every one of her chickens and force probed the minds of animals. Even a few times resorted to sitting with the corpses of the people who never survived their crashes. At first, he felt bad that she had been surviving on her own but the true weight of it was sinking into his chest. He could feel her confliction through the force. Although his presence was a relief to her it was incredibly overwhelming. She changed the subject as quickly as she could.

"Is your species carnivorous or omnivorous?"

"Um, I’m a carnivore but I can stomach a little produce."

"I'm glad I went hunting yesterday then."

    She didn't have to go far to reach the kitchen area, maybe fifteen feet. She was silently thanking herself that she opted for a tall ceiling leaving less than a foot of headspace for her unexpected guest. She thought of him jumping and getting his horns stuck and broke out into a series of quiet giggles.

    Savage had an idea of what she found funny because when he stood, he could almost reach the top with his pointed ivory. He watched as she took out a few steaks from the cooler under the counter and potatoes from another cabinet. Lighting a fire in a stove he hadn't noticed he studied her in silence as she chopped various vegetables and pulled dried herbs from where they hung. She had some electricity to power the cooler from the solar panels but most of the light in the home came in through windows or the fire. He did see oil lamps on the shelves and watched as she filled a pot with water. She had plumbing here as well. He was kind of amazed.

"You did all this yourself." It wasn't a question. "You built this home, ran pipes and wires and.. well everything. How did you learn to do all this?" He was truly in awe.

"The house came together fairly quickly. It helped that I didn't have to actually lift the logs," she pulled one of the chairs from the table using the force to make her point. "The plumbing and the solar power, that came much later. Many ship crashes later. I was lucky that a construction contractor transport crashed. He wasn't lucky, but I was. That's where I got most of my materials and he had a few manuals with him," she added the produce to a pot and turned face him, leaning against the counter. He took the chair she had offered at the table.

 "All of this... it's quite impressive. I might actually survive the night if you don't turn me out," he offered her a slight grin which she returned.

"I'm happy to help and have the company."

    She returned to cooking and threw the steaks on a griddle of sorts, instantly filling the home with the rich smell of cooking meat. Savage's mouth watered. Realizing exactly how hungry he was. She finished her work in silence. Turning back to him only when she had full plates.

    The meal was unlike anything he had tasted in his life. Everything was real, no fillers that were often found in city cuisines and richer than anything he had on Dathomir. He rolled his eyes and she laughed.

"I'm glad you like it."

"I do. I never asked you your name. Mine is Savage Opress. I'm a Dathomirian nightbrother."

"It’s nice to meet you." She furrowed her brow realizing she had forgotten something she wanted to remember.

"I'm sorry I wish I had a name to give you but... I don't remember it or where I came from exactly. I remember my family called me 'little one' but... that’s all I remember," this inadvertently broke both of Savage's hearts.

"Can I call you that?"

"Sure. I wouldn't mind. I don't know the name of the planet I came from but I remember it was a desert and small; maybe it was a moon. I do prefer the climate and lushness of this planet. I've never had to worry about food or water."

"I'm not a fan of deserts either. My planet is humid."

"Where were you going when you got lost and fell here?"

"I was trying to find a brother I had never met. I only recently acquired my connection with the force and I was told he could train me."

"Oh, well I'm not sure you will be able to leave anytime soon but if you decide to stay here.. with me anyway.. until we find a way out, I could help you. I've grown quite strong with the force and I'm sure I could aid you."

"You could?" he seemed surprised at her offer but also kind of excited. It seemed the longer he was off the trail Mother Talzin had laid out for him, little pieces of himself were returning.

"Yes I can. Unless you would prefer to fare on your own here. I would understand."

    He shook his head in response. She was already set up, knew how to survive this place. He didn't dislike her company either. She seemed to brighten at the prospect of him staying. When they finished eating, she invited him to get comfortable. A mutual understanding that they would be sharing the bed as there was only one and the idea of sleeping on the floor was awful. She took their plates and grabbed a large jar of dried grains, taking it outside without a word to him. He could hear excited clucking as he stripped down to his knit shorts and tried to get comfortable. It was difficult with his shoulder and fractured rib. He opted to sit up until she returned.

When she did, she grabbed a bottle of brown liquid and took a swig.

"Almost every single ship has liquor on it at least."

   She offered him another blue root and the bottle, both he gladly took. He almost choked when she turned her back to him and slipped out of her dress within his sight. Leaving only a thin tight fabric covering her backside. He wanted to avert his gaze but was intrigued with the various scars that decorated her body. Modesty or self-awareness in front of others were traits she never learned he thought. She pulled on a loose-fitting shirt and took the bottle back from him taking another swill. Snuffing out the stove but refilling the fireplace. The daylight fully extinguished. Only the light belonged to the fire flickering through the room.

    She looked beautiful in this light. She had a graceful wildness about her that Savage admired. Strength in mind and body to accomplish what she had. He could feel it in the force too, her connection to it ran deep.

"Fair warning, it gets cold here at night even though it's technically spring time. It's a long night too." She made her way towards the bed.

"That’s fine. My species has two hearts and a high metabolism so our body temperature is much higher than yours."

    She felt that to be true the moment she crawled in next to him and lay down. She felt the heat radiating off of his skin. Savage scoot down once she was in. She reached a hand out to his chest to feel his dual hearts but hesitated. He saw this and guided her hand on top of his pulse. Her breath hitched. He was so warm and so soft and he really did have two of them.

"Goodnight Savage."

"Goodnight Little One."

      At some point before the sun rose Savage's eyes fluttered open. He didn't feel her in bed anymore but with the home's set up it didn't take long to find her. She was facing the fire whittling a block of wood with the knife he had seen strapped to her leg. She had left him another blue root on a stool beside the bed. Her hands moved quickly and she was muttering rapidly to herself. He could only pick up a few things from what she said.

"I am one with the force the force is with me.... alone but not, accompanied but alone.... the force is with me......not alone..... the beasts in the trees..... he wasn't real...... one with the force....." An occasional giggle escaped her lips, she was gently rocking back and forth while her hands worked.

    He didn't say anything but just watched her. The blanket of night must make it worse, when life on the planet was silent and the air was cold. He wondered how much longer it would've taken for her to become like this all the time if he hadn't shown up. She seemed alright earlier, nervous and jumpy but nothing like this. He uncovered his body and slowly made his way over to her. Sitting beside her with his legs crossed, trying not to touch her so he wouldn't startle her. He just waited for her state to ease.

    Eventually it did, it didn't take too long. She could feel the heat coming off of his skin. He watched her carve the wood into a long beaked bird, its wings outstretched. She tossed it into the fire and turned to face him. His eyes glowed gold against the dark backdrop behind him.

"Are you real or am I really, finally starting to snap? It's bad in the dark.."

    He took her hand and she tensed at his touch. He cautiously guided her into his lap and pressed her ear to his hearts. She could feel them beating like drums under his muscle. He had dealt with various episodes back home. Sometimes the men in his village would snap at the fear of being chosen by one of the nightsisters. Sometimes the women would come to beat them just to remind them of their place in the hierarchy. She melted and was grounded by his pulse.

"I am real. I am here. You’re not hallucinating."

    His chest vibrated when he spoke. His deep vibrato continuing to calm her. When she looked back into his eyes, they were softer. It seemed as though if they were going to make it out of this, they would both need each other.

[bloodybells1]

Lucky Dog

                    No philosophers so thoroughly comprehend us as dogs and horses.

                                                                                            —HERMAN MELVILLE

I look into the eyes of an animal. 

I am in the habit of doing this with a little Brussels Griffon by the name of Casca, my canine, whose gentle orbs and spunk and flexibility make me forget that he is in fact a dog and not a cross between an Ewok and a Koala.

Not right now, though. These are different eyes, the ones of a Maltese crossed with a West Highland Terrier, peering through a curtain of matted hair draping over his brow, as he lays back on my futon. He has jumped up here as I lay down on it, after having flipped onto his back in a split second, in what seemed to have been a familiar move, so natural and quick. It was a gesture of near total compliance. He was egging me to stroke his belly. 

There was something deep about his gaze, somewhat simian in intelligence, communicating a kinship, but difficult to pin down. If this creature hadn’t the capacity to at least conceive of complex, putatively human emotions and other states of mind—like fear, relief, care, or pleasure—lacking only a verbal means to communicate them, then everything that I was seeing in his eyes, the layers of thought and feeling, were just a coincidence of Mother Nature, some thing that animals do which I don’t have access to, but which I insist I do in the form of anthropomorphization. 

Yet, that doesn’t seem possible: the facsimile is too close. These have to be the same things, or similar things, that we humans feel, that I am now sensing coming from this upturned canine lying on my lap on the futon.

At this point in the story, the dog’s name is Sammy. 

Sheri, the woman who’d found him on the street, had posted on the NextDoor forum hoping that someone might claim him. She’d grabbed him on the corner of Broadway and 177th. The dog was in a panic, chaotically searching for his owner, crossing the street with his leash in tow, and she’d scooped him up and brought him to her nearby apartment. Sheri’s domestic situation precluded a canine presence: she wanted to find the owner of the dog, but more urgently, she needed someone to foster him in the meantime. Otherwise, she’d have to put him in a shelter. My girlfriend Bernie and I had taken pity and responded, offering ourselves as foster parents for the interim. We’d hold him until the owner showed up or until he’d otherwise find a permanent home. 

We’d started calling him Buddy, but Sheri had asked he be named something with an “S,” so Bernie suggested “Sammy.” 

And Sammy is taking this house by storm.

As it turns out, I’d met Sheri once before, though neither of us know this during our Zoom call. She’s leaning back on the headboard of her bed with the soon-to-be monikered Sammy laying supine, his favorite position, by her side. Bernie’s been texting with Sheri and now she and I are talking to Sheri over Zoom to take a look at Sammy, who is all but glowing through the screen, despite his matted hair which, even on the call, looks as though it's never once been brushed. 

I’m having that funny feeling you get when someone seems familiar and you can’t quite place why, until later on in the conversation Sheri tells us her address and a little about her job and I put two and two together and realize she’s the wife of a good friend, a fellow actor and writer named Michael who lives in the neighborhood. I know that Michael’s wife is a make-up artist for various TV shows and—bam—the memory of having briefly met her outside her apartment building once before enters my head.

“Oh my God, this is going to sound creepy but I know who you are, Sheri. I know your husband. I know your son’s name. I’ve actually met your son. Benjamin, right? I’ve been to your house.”

Sheri’s jaw creeps open in amazement over the coincidence and I add with ironic omniscience, “I know everything about your life.” 

“Wait . . . what? For real?” Sheri is having a hard time processing all of the information but immediately knows what to do next, which is to walk out of her bedroom and open Michael’s study. My friend’s familiar bookshelves and wall art come into view of the camera.

“Honey, look who I have on Zoom.” 

Michael turns around and sees who’s on the other side and yells out my name, happy over the coincidence, as I am as well. 

We come right over to pick up Sammy and it’s a nice reunion during a bleak pandemic year when I’ve been seeing very little of people outside of my three-block radius. 

It seems that Sammy’s a bit of a good luck charm. He’s bringing people together. Bernie and I are taking him around the neighborhood, to the park just a block above our apartment and everyone is asking who this precious, white-haired creature is. 

“We don’t know!” we keep saying. “Our friend found him in the street.”

“Are you going to keep him?”

“We don’t think so.”

“But he’s getting along so well with Casca.”

Indeed he is. He’s friendly. But Sammy’s also timid and nervous. He is after all, a strange dog in a strange land. I can’t imagine what must be going through his head. Who are these strange people? What is this strange neighborhood? Where are my owners?

That’s the thing. The owners. 

We’re not so sure whether, in fact, there are any. We hear stories about how animals are often deposited in the city, right on the street, by callous owners with little patience—and little humanity—who then drive off and disappear, leaving the poor animals to be discovered by locals. 

Some of Sammy’s details align with those stories. He was discovered not far from the George Washington Bridge, which would lend credence to the account of a disinterested owner from some place in, say, Westchester, who’d decided that Sammy had become a liability they could no longer sustain and who had left him in Washington Heights just before taking the quick way out into New Jersey over the bridge. Sammy’s coat is also completely tangled, with small knots, very much like dreadlocks, peppered throughout, with dirt and lint encrusted within, which suggests a type of neglect that might align with the story of someone who no longer wanted him. He also smells profoundly of urine, though this is likely to have happened from having to spend a night alone, if that is even the case. We just don’t know. Finally, it is abundantly clear that Sammy has not been neutered.

But there’re other details that don’t lend credence to that story. It only takes a couple of hours with him to see that Sammy, who is responsive and trusting and loving, had been cared for deeply by whomever had had him. He was loved. A quick pull on his lower lip reveals pristinely clean teeth, as well. Yes, he’s nervous, and he keeps pulling on his leash like a caught snapper. Every time we walk him he juts around like he’s on a desperate hunt. He has an air of desperation, a vigilance for possibly familiar faces that might pop out any second. But he looks at you with an unmistakable sense of domesticity. And he’s clearly house trained. 

Sammy definitely has an owner. Someone who loves him. Of that we are certain. 

So then why was he running around on the street? Sheri says that when she grabbed him on the sidewalk he was so scared and confused that he jumped into a car, idling and double-parked, at random, surprising the passengers before being pulled back out by Sheri. It’s obvious that he was in a car just before he was lost. He’s looking at every car, every vehicle that passes by, almost as if to check the make and model, hoping against hope it’s the one that left him in this frightening place.

I think back to a woman I used to care for. I was volunteering for an agency, ComForCare, seeing to social needs for seniors, primarily those living alone. She lived in an elder care facility in the Upper West Side. She wasn’t all that much older, but she had a severe case of schizophrenia, for which she was heavily medicated. She was a lovely lady with a sense of humor and a deep appreciation of art. We used to go to the movies and to the Met. She had difficulty holding conversations for a sustained period and she hoarded. It had been bad enough that her old apartment had needed to be professionally cleaned out. I saw it once and was given a window into what real hoarding looks like: stacks of books up to the ceiling, along with opaque grime on the walls. Still, she was lucid and functional enough to be able to take her car out when she wanted to go for a drive, she could order food and sit through a movie and extemporize about it afterwards and she could use the bus if she needed to commute around the city. 

It occurred to me that, had she been moved to, she could have had a dog. She could’ve seen to its needs, fed it, stroked it, watered it, and otherwise cared for it. But the dog would, like Sammy, have borne traces of a style of care that is not regarded as, shall we say, complete. 

My theory was that someone with a condition misplaced him. There’re all sorts of humane concerns regarding cleanliness and desexing which take only a couple of Google searches to discover. Therefore, so I reasoned, though Sammy was loved, he nonetheless had been neglected, and only a mental illness may account for the discrepancy. This person likely became disoriented in an unfamiliar neighborhood; perhaps they’d needed to pull over unexpectedly, and hadn’t realized that all of a sudden Sammy wasn’t in the car and drove away. They hadn’t realized it until it was too late, and were now frantically searching around for him, most likely not able to make the right calls to the right places, for “obvious” reasons. The poor owner, I thought, unable to do the right thing. Or maybe they were about to make the call to us. Who really knew? We were just theorizing. 

Or maybe I had it all wrong and it was actually much simpler. Maybe the owner just straight up forgot about Sammy. 

Sheri’s put up fliers within a two-block radius of where she found Sammy. She’s gone into several vets office’s in the area with news of the found dog. Bernie takes a picture of Sammy on our couch, staring at the camera as though his owner might pop out of the lens. He looks lost, even though he’s been found. He is lost, of course; but we have found him. And we’re seeing to it that he gets to where he belongs. So we follow suit with Sheri’s efforts and post the picture of Sammy with a notice on the largest Facebook group for lost dogs in Manhattan. We also register him with a local shelter which will post his photo and his information on their website. We’re like scientists at the SETI Institute, sending out radio waves into the vast ether, expecting a response from the deep, hoping that if there’s anyone out there searching for us, they will now be able to find us.

We’ve given Sammy a much-needed bath. I didn’t want to just throw him into the bathtub after all that he’s been through, so I waited several smelly hours while he lay next to me before we scrubbed him down. He ran around the apartment like he had a rash, scraping and rubbing his body against any surface he could find, the bottom of the sofa, the rug, the futon, while we chased him around with a towel, trying our best to alleviate that weird feeling dogs get when they’re wet. Casca, ever the Ewok, just sits, enraptured by the sight, like an older brother watching from the sidelines. After Sammy calms down I do my best to brush his hair but the dreadlocks make a proper brushing impossible. Still, he looks much better. In light of everything else it’s pretty inconsequential, but I go ahead and schedule an appointment with Casca’s groomer. I want Sammy to look as spiffy as possible in case the owners don’t show and we need to start finding him a new home.

Bernie takes off from work and brings Sammy to the vet. We need to find out if he has a HomeAgain microchip, that tiny piece of tech injected in between a puppy’s two scapulae, often during the first vet visit, the universally recognized system for canine and feline identification. If he has a microchip, it will lead us to his owner. They could be just a phone call away. 

Bernie’s away for hours. Patients are not permitted inside the vet’s office during the pandemic and instead must wait outside while the dog is seen indoors. Vets are overloaded (everyone’s getting a dog for companionship during quarantine). Wait times are much longer than usual. She’s basically gone half the day. I’m sitting in the apartment with Casca, who is oddly quiet. I know him well enough to know the kind of quiet he’s in. It’s the “where’s Sammy” type. I have it too. I’m actually missing Sammy.

But it soon won’t matter that Sammy, indeed, has never been given a microchip. 

It’s the day after the vet visit and I’m sitting with Sammy in my study, his head resting on the futon by my side. Bernie comes in with the news: “Sheri says that the owners have contacted her.” 

My heart sinks. It’s Day Three of the Sammy Show and I take note of my awful disappointment, how crestfallen I now am, that the possibility he may be out of our lives very soon is here. 

“Sheri’s asking them questions, to prove they’re the rightful owners,” Bernie adds. 

“Yes,” I respond, in a tone not unlike hasty justice seekers at a trial convinced that the murderer has been found and that the jury must cast its verdict responsibly. “We need to see pictures and they have to confirm the color of his harness and leash.” 

I catch myself sounding stern and paternalistic, like an eye witness to the crime defying an alternative account. Who are these people claiming to be his owners? I’m not about to let him go. The killer has been found, I think to myself, Sammy was abandoned and justice demands that he be fostered and adopted. Whoever says otherwise—like the killer claiming innocence—has the burden of proof against them.

Sammy senses something’s afoot. We know this about him already. Earlier in the day Bernie had gone out on an errand and about a minute before she returned, Sammy had “sensed” that she was headed back and sat upright with his ears pricked. One of my favorite thinkers, a spiritualist-scientist by the name of Rupert Sheldrake, ran a study about this phenomenon and published his results in a book called, unironically, Dogs that Know When Their Owners are Coming Home. Apparently, it’s a thing, and Sammy, by my estimation, is particularly tuned to this frequency. 

He’s whining and agitated all of a sudden, as Bernie and Sheri are on the phone with each other to compare notes on the photos the owners claiming him have sent. He really knows something’s up when we bring his harness into the room to compare it with the photo. He’s hopping off and back on the futon in a restless state that seems to signify his premonition that the family he loves dearly is one step closer to him finally. This is a dog who has not let go of his owners and has stayed vigilant, even as he’s been nothing but a sweetheart during his stay, a stay that is now painfully coming to an end. 

The photos lineup perfectly. He looks a little different, but that’s because they were taken when he’d just been groomed. But his harness is identical. There’s no denying it. These are the owners. 

Bernie and I look at each other and shake our heads. Like some waking dream, we become aware of a journey, a kind of psychic binge, for which we’d previously had no awareness. Without knowing, we’d consented to fork over our brains and our hearts to go on an emotional rollercoaster, a ride that is now slowing down and edging into the landing bay. It had all been going too fast for us to take real notice of what it was all about. Only in the end do we now see that we’d lost ourselves. 

Now that we know that Sammy will be back with a family who loves him, whom he wants to be with more than us, that we are no longer Sammy’s protectors, we let the judgement rip: 

“What the hell? How do you lose a dog? I can’t believe this! This is so upsetting. The negligence!” 

Things go negative. 

It never mattered while he was in our charge. Negative thoughts were like passing clouds. We wanted to keep the skies clear for Sammy. He was our responsibility and we wanted to protect him. He’d already been through enough. So we didn’t care too much for passing judgement. After all, we weren’t even sure who these people were or what were the circumstances. It was all speculation. What mattered was Sammy’s safety. 

But the moment has arrived and therefore we feel free to be angry. We want justice for our pains. We want accountability. All of a sudden, we are keenly preoccupied with the wages of the vast emotions we have expended on Sammy. 

Then it passes, the initial blast of ire gives way to reason. We come to our senses. 

“Of course mistakes happen.”  

And who are we to judge? 

And so we are left with the brutal phenomenon, unadorned by the needs of the dog, the care which we’d now finally finished giving. He is safe now. We can be free to look after ourselves. The only thing that’s left is grief. 

“Tell them to come meet us as soon as possible,” I tell Bernie, meaning that she should tell Sheri, who’s in contact with them. They are desperate to get their dog back. A couple who live in New Jersey. The husband is texting with Sheri, begging to be allowed to pick him up. His family has been broken by the loss and he wants to heal, he says. I can’t deny the obvious show of vulnerability. I want the reunion to happen as soon as possible. But first I need to eat.

The tears flow down my cheeks swiftly. We finish dinner in silence as Sammy watches us patiently from the sofa. I have to look upwards to try to think of other things, to stay the onrush of salty teardrops. We gather our things and put on our coats and I almost lose it and let a couple quakes of my sternum pass through me before pulling myself together. 

It’s that old feeling again, like when my old boy Gaius passed two years ago from lymphoma after just having turned thirteen. That sudden loss. That sharp removal. The very quick evacuation of something within, and the consequent hollowness that emerges, as though you were a sack of something meaty and full, a container that held large books or hefty Christmas toys, only for that container to be suddenly relinquished of its contents, contents which evaporate somehow, now nowhere to be found, leaving you with a newfound emptiness. 

What is this bond, this decade-and-a-half long relationship that severs with such sudden brutality? 

Why do we do it, undertake to care for these creatures? Creatures, by the way, who inevitably will betray us with their short lives, and, furthermore, whom we shall likewise betray by replacing them with descendants after they die, with heirs to their vests and doggy bowls and chew toys and harnesses who are themselves doomed to renew the fifteen year cycle. We can’t refurbish our pets, so we hand them in to God and buy a new one from the breeder or adopt one from the shelter. They last as long as the average car, which we also replace with a shiny, new version. When Gaius passed I lasted only a month without a dog, unlike, say, some of my neighbors who could not live down the memory of their old dog, who could not so readily renew the pact. 

Sometimes I see my rush to replace as a sign of disingenuousness, for if the love were as true as I say to myself and the world that it in fact is, how could I replace my dog? Aren’t I lying to myself in thinking that Casca, who came into the house as a two-month-old ball of fur, practically on the heels of Gaius’ deathbed, receives an authentic love? Isn’t love more weighty? doesn’t it come with heavier strings? Are these just playthings that garner my obsession and adoration, but not my true heart? Isn’t this a fantasy? Aren’t they just animals, expendable lifeforms, just pets? When I exchanged those pregnant glances with Sammy on my futon, wasn’t I just staring into the eyes of a mere animal? 

There lies an epistemic gulf between Homo sapiens and Canis familiaris. It is a relation bereft of semiotics. They don’t even know what is happening around them. We, as their keepers, hold the light of truth, we grant them access to the benefits of our civilization, the very same benefits that first brought them to us, when scraps thrown from the Paleolithic hearth lured those friendlier wolves, those beasts who’d decided to sever their Darwinian program and break for the humans, who’d opted for the good life outside the law of the jungle and chose to linger with these powerful pack leaders in control of fire and food. They will never know any of this. Unlike our children, whom we may teach our ways, into whose brains we implant the needs of our legacies, whom we teach our languages and whose cooperation we induce, who will be free to continue it or change it or revolutionize it as will be their wish after we pass, our dogs share no such beneficence and will live out their days in the dark, their small brains incapable of absorbing the mandates of our times. Everything they live for dies with them. Nothing gets left behind. No records. No tapes. Nothing they can fashion in their names, no society they can consciously call their own to leave behind. 

The fact, then, that, in the midst of this gap, this uncrossable line, something does indeed cross, makes the thing that crosses, that special communication, that comprehension of which Melville spoke, all the more special. Even as there is nothing to say between us but that nonetheless just about everything is said speaks to the power of connection. 

Whenever a dog looks into your eyes it is saying this: 

I have no need for your ways. They are nothing to me. I do not even know what they are. 

And I do not care. I only care about this. 

The artist Banksy used to share uplifting memes on his Twitter account. One of them showed a picture of a man and a dog on a hillside overlooking a bay with ships on the horizon and two thought clouds positioned over their heads respectively. The human’s thought cloud was full of worry and preoccupation: will they call back? Have I paid the rent? What should I do after this? The canine’s was simply a facsimile of the very scene before which the two were sitting: a bay with ships on the horizon. The caption read: And we wonder why they are always the happy ones. 

With each glance exchanged, a dog returns to sender (without opening) the merciless crux of our hubris and ambition, throughout history, throughout life. The dog says, “No thanks.” It does this by reaching into our souls with the only truly meaningful thing in life: connection. Despite your best efforts, the dog says, I am still connecting with you.

It says nothing suspicious that we replace these creatures after they die, that we invite new babies into the home, even as their predecessors have only recently passed. You still need friends and relatives when someone near and dear has passed. The same goes for animal energy. Another dog is only the continuation of the much larger bond between the species. It is a way to honor the very possibility of the bond in the first place. At least it was for me. I almost felt that Gaius, were it possible for him to express the conditional, would have wanted me to find another dog, to renew the pact between us in the form of another one of his kind. 

The grief is worth it, if only to repay the species for what it bestows us, the respite from the constant distraction of civilization, of society, of rules and of niceties. It is worth it for the love they bring, hermetically encased from all that would corrupt it from without, right to our doorstep. It is worth it for the break. For the truth.

 We lead Sammy back to Sheri’s apartment. Or rather, he leads us. He’s tugging on the leash. He knows he’s headed home. Sheri’s organized his triumphant return to the family with whom he belongs and with whom he is desperate to be reunited. I am still holding back tears as I try to keep him at bay, as he continues to zig and zag. Casca keeps approaching him, almost as if to ask, Hey man this has been so much fun I hope we can be pen pals. It’s cold and noisy in the streets.

We arrive at Sheri’s and stay in the lobby and the family comes in and Sammy sees them and runs at them at full speed, his tail vibrating like a tuning fork. He jumps up and they catch him. It’s a man and a woman, a couple, and their adolescent child, hanging in the back. The man tries to give us a reward but we refuse. We don’t wish to deny him the opportunity to be grateful, but we also don’t want to take money for what we’ve done. If anything, we should be giving him a reward. 

The woman recounts the story of noting the day of his grooming appointment and that he was still missing and she starts crying. Apparently, Sammy has a brother who’s been missing him, though they didn’t bring the canine with them. Bernie hands the gentleman an envelope with all of the info from Sammy’s vet visit: he now has a microchip and some shots. They can sort out what to do next for Sammy. He’s only eighteen months old, the woman says, so it’s not too late to get him neutered. Sheri needs to spend some time emphasizing how jumpy Sammy is and that he requires incredible vigilance. “He’s a flight risk,” she says, making sure they know what she’s trying to say to them, that is, to be more careful. 

This prompts the man to recount the story of how he lost Sammy. He dropped off his daughter just down the block and got back into his car. He drove through New Jersey and into Pennsylvania and only then noticed that Sammy was not in the car. Believing that he’d lost him at a rest stop in Lodi, New Jersey, he sent out his notices over there. It only occurred to him several days later that Sammy had jumped out of the car in Manhattan, after which he consulted the Facebook page where we’d posted his photo and was able to finally locate his dog. 

He tells this story with a nonchalance I find insufficiently penitent. The anger starts to curdle within. Every time I get in the car with Casca, I think to myself, I am looking at the back seat to see if he is ok, every five minutes, or less. How do you lose a dog and cross two states and only then realize your own dog is no longer in the car? How is that even possible? It escapes me, and because it escapes me it makes me want to scream at the guy, scream at the family. I think about how terrified this dog was and the distinct possibility that he didn’t have to be as lucky as he was, that he could’ve easily been discovered by others not disposed towards canines as much as we all were, and what then? What could have happened to this very lucky dog then? I want to scream all of this in his face.

Sammy jumps up to the adolescent and the kid grabs Sammy in midair and he’s licking his face all over and the kid is very happy to have his dog back. “Can I bring him into the car, mom?” he asks the woman. When she nods he goes through the door and I never see Sammy again.

We finally conclude all the talk and wish the family well and they are off. Sheri, Bernie and I keep talking in her lobby, while Casca sits on his side looking wanly through the doors to the outside. As Sheri departs she says we should all get together for some grub as soon as the vaccine gets distributed and some sense of normality returns. There are so many of these rain checks these days. I can only imagine it’ll be a nationwide feast once the masks are removed and people can feel it’s ok to breathe on each other again.

Bernie and I pick up a Christmas tree on the way back home. Plus a wreath. It’s cold outside and I don’t have cash and I run across the street to the ATM and then it occurs to me just how lucky I have it. I’m buying a tree without thinking about it. Something not everyone can do. I have privileges. Not everyone has the same opportunities. What’s more is not everyone has the same way of ambling about things, the same way of making one’s way. Some people, quite plainly, are just more forgetful. I remember a story someone told me of a friend of there’s who forgot their own kid in a public square and took a bus back home without the child. He noted that he loved his kids very much but that didn’t stop him from having a super lousy memory. 

I feel stupid for my initial theory about the owner having a mental illness. I was wrong about that. They were just forgetful. 

Obviously there are humane concerns. These dogs need to be cared for. But we have to care for each other too. And, in this case, that means accepting that everybody is struggling and everybody is hurting and everybody is surviving, and therefore compassion is the key.

Homo sapiens is an animal species too. When I look into the eyes of a fellow human, I am also looking into the eyes of an animal, as they are when they look into my eyes. We are animals. We are animals that have to take care of each other, too.

I can be angry that someone was negligent to a poor canine. But I also have to let it go. Who am I to judge? 

As I purchase the tree and grab the wreath, something of the Christmas spirits wafts into the scene, and my ire lifts. Bernie, Casca and I are now free to return to our lives with all of the time and space that this pandemic allows for processing momentous events such as these. 

How apt, we say to ourselves on the way back, remarking about Sammy’s real name, which we learned when the owners were initially claiming him, that he was called Lucky.

[florbelles]

background and personality for miss lyra ❤❤❤❤❤

thank you so much, lovely! sorry this took an eternity and a half xx

PERSONALITY

what’s their alignment?

d&d alignments are not her friend!

having said that, she leans towards neutral or chaotic ( very rarely lawful ); neutral in that she does not attempt to disrupt order for the sake of it and does not prioritize personal freedoms over the general ( what she believes to be ) good, chaotic in that she’s willing to do whatever it takes to meet her goals regardless of legality or acceptability and thinks little of the laws and values of society; she considers herself above the law insofar as she does not respect the law or believes it to be fundamentally flawed, but does not opposite the concept of order on principle ( while, on the contrary, she is an enforcer of order and principles within the context of the project; no one is above the judgement of god, herself included ). her loyalty and unconditional love where she gives it earns her high points in the morality category in traditional d&d quizzes, as does her commitment to her cause ( whether that’s with the project or in her life before, conning or murdering corrupt or vile members of society in retaliation ). practically speaking, though, her methods align her with the evil sector, particularly in regards to the lengths she’s willing to go to; she also gets personal enjoyment out of inflicting suffering on those she deems unworthy, derives pleasure from the atrocities she commits. she is driven by passion more than anything else, and is consumed by rage and loathing, meaning she is never truly neutral; because she gets personal satisfaction from her work as the judge, it can’t be said that she’s acting selflessly in the pure interest of upholding the values of the project, so the merit of her devotion in and of itself isn’t without ambiguity. she believes herself to be a monster, but believes her cause is righteous – it takes evil to know it, judge it, and exterminate it – but she has never once in her life done something #fortheevils or in the interest of promoting ( what she believes to be ) evil for the sake of it; for that reason she’s difficult to categorize based on the traditional understanding of the alignments.

tl; dr: given that she truly is driven by rage & passion and very much wants the world to burn ( at least at a certain critical point in her arc ), and given the depravity she’ll resort to in order to reach her end goals, she’s probably best aligned as chaotic to neutral evil ( though she believes herself to be doing right ).

which one of the 16 personality types do they fit into?

enfp-a; the campaigner.

what are their hobbies and interests? do they have any particular “favorites” (food, books, and so on)?

setting sinners free, anna karenina, fleetwood mac, driving with the windows down, sinner roasts bonfires in the summer & autumn, watching the sun rise.

favorites are answered here ( x ),  activities and interests here ( x )

what are they bad at?

bar games & team sports (anything she can’t cheat at, really).

what kind of things do they dislike/hate?

apathy, willful ignorance, obstinate self-deceit, the song oh john.

do they have any vices/addictions/mental illnesses?

she turns to risky behaviors, inflicting pain on herself ( via the provocation of others/combat ) or others ( whom she feels are deserving ). she has flirted with most forms of substance abuse in the past, but never crossed the line into full chemical dependency with anything but tobacco ( more because of using nothing specific habitually than out of moderation ).

what are their goals and motivations?

to do right even if she was born wrong ( she might be a monster, but she’s a monster for a cause, and surely that means something ); to keep what she has ( her family, john ); to fulfill her purpose as the judge of eden’s gate; to cast out the unworthy; to get her family safely to new eden. after the collapse, she simply wants to lead and protect the only family she has left — the faithful — until the shepherd joseph promised arrives and releases her from her duty.

what are their manners like? any habits?

full rundown on her mannerisms here. extremely extroverted, open body language, usually smoking; draws herself up to her full height even when seated. often holding a cigarette, talks with her hands. very animated, but graceful and deliberate. uses eye contact and physical touch to either intimidate or establish intimacy; disregards personal space for the same reason.

what are they most afraid of?

answered here.

becoming her mother. losing john. losing herself to her wrath, to an extent, but she would rather burn herself alive than become isabela. ( that was always more something that she would go to any lengths to avoid than a fate she truly feared, at least before john’s death and the collapse; that was the first time she was actually tempted to numb herself and embrace oblivion, but she never did ).

BACKGROUND

where were they born? what was their childhood like?

lyra was born in the hamptons, but she spent most of her childhood (that she can remember) on nantucket island; early childhood she spent out ruling it herself, on beaches, frolicking with the summer people, still trying to get her parents’ attention, then, still wanting what she saw other families have; not perfect, perhaps, but something.

what’s their family like?

BIRTH FAMILY

lyra maintains, for the most part, that the problem was never with her parents, but with her; she told joseph at one point that the difference between the rest of them is that they might not have been born monsters, but she was; nothing made her that way. the reality, of course, is different; because of the fact that lyra’s abuse was tied primarily to neglect as a young girl and later the emotional abuse, exploitation and manipulation by her father, she does not feel entitled to the trauma she carries from it matched against some of the horrors she’s witnessed. ( of her father’s business associates and the men she would target later in life, lawrence was never the worst of them, and for that, she considers herself fortunate ). she’s very aware of the fact that she had the best education money could buy ( provided it also got her as far away from them as possible ), that she was not beaten or, truthfully, reprimanded; her father never touched her, but that was a universally true statement — the most physical contact or affection he displayed towards his daughter was a hand on her shoulder at galas, steering her towards an associate she was meant to beguile, or lifting her hair to fasten his latest bribe around her neck.

she never, in her entire life, felt more like a whore, not even when she was fucking men she met along the road to rob them.

her mother, isabela, was not inherently malicious; she was extremely depressed and jaded and, as a result, heavily self-medicated; she did not turn a blind eye to her husband’s affairs, or to the way he slowly made lyra her replacement, but she smothered it with drugs. she did not hate lyra, and never expressed open animosity towards her and that, to lyra, was the worst of it; she would attempt to provoke her often, would scream, fight, threaten, sob, but isabela was unmovable entirely. she was dead to the world.

the opposite of love, to lyra, was never hatred, it was indifference, and isabela was completely indifferent to her.

it’s the only thing lyra could never forgive.

she ran away often throughout her childhood, and as her sixteenth birthday neared, she finally left for good; she ensured she wasn’t found. they disinherited her within the year upon receiving notice from the family of one of her highschool girlfriends that she was visiting them ( an unintentional betrayal, but one that prevented her from making the mistake of contacting anyone from her old life again ). they sent her an official letter forbidding her from contacting them or returning home, swearing her off and stating that they did not recognize her as their daughter ( though, since she was a minor at the time, the only legal aspect was her removal from their will ).

lawrence would tell his colleagues and friends years later that he did what was necessary because he was afraid of her, that he truly believed she had the capacity to kill him for the inheritance. it was a ludicrous claim; for all of his insistence that she was like him, scheming, manipulative, opportunistic, incapable of feeling, all she ever wanted was to be loved and accepted by her family. she did not want to be a monster, she was simply told she was one all her life. she began to believe it, and, ultimately, she chose to become it.

still, she would have forgiven lawrence everything, in the end, if he’d ever cared to ask. she loved her parents, and later she hated them, but she could never be indifferent. she could never be like them. that, perhaps, was why they never loved her.

THE SEEDS

she loves her chosen family desperately. faith is her best friend and the sister she never had, and though their form of enmeshment makes them occasionally toxic, they truly do love each other; jacob is her mentor and trainer in her role as the judge, they’re quite close; joseph she has perhaps the most tumultuous relationship with because of his concerns about her intemperance and the way she and john indulge each other, but she respects him and understands him in a way john does not — she does not personally seek his approval or fear his rejection, so she views him more objectively. later, of course, they’re all that’s left, and while john will always be the person closest to her heart and the most important part of her life, joseph is the second.

she does make overtures to befriend ethan, but she is only an amplifier of his feelings of isolation and resentment towards his father; no matter what he does, the loyalty of both the flock and his father will always lie with lyra, and that is difficult for him to accept. despite joseph leaving new eden in his hands, ethan is under no illusions about the fact that lyra stayed behind to watch him, and her presence undermines him at every turn, regardless of her intent — she is the de facto leader, for reasons he will never fully understand, and he resents her for it.

john is her whole heart. he’s her soulmate. having him, however briefly, makes everything worth it to her in the end; she can’t ever regret it, no matter what it cost her; she tells poppy that “god gave him to me, and for that, i forgive [god] all the rest.”

what factions or organizations are they a part of? What ranks and titles do they hold?

prior to hope county, none; lyra is her own contractor and the center of her own networks.

with the project, lyra serves as the judge; she serves as a sorter, an intel gatherer, a judge of the worthy and unworthy, oversees the realm of the damned; she shows those who are submitted to her judgement their true selves and allows their choices and actions to speak to their character and determine the fate. after all, who is she to judge?

post-collapse, she leads new eden in practice, though not in title, in joseph��s absence.

how do they fit into their “story”?

lyra is the judge of eden’s gate and a seed by marriage. she’s a career serial serial killer and conartist come to hope county seeking refuge after a murder gone wrong; she is a damned woman, and the project is her last resort. she’s the sealbreaker, the lamb, and the wrath of god. in terms of far cry 5 canon, she replaces the deputy as the prophesized hell that followed, though she never has any allegiance but to the project; hers is a cautionary tale in that, in their attempts to avoid the fate joseph foresaw for them, the seeds ultimately bring ruin upon themselves. there’s no junior deputy in her canon; they called in sick the morning of the arrest.

where do they currently live? what’s their place like?

before hope county, lyra was perpetually on the move seeking targets, as her lifestyle demanded; after joining the project, she lives at the seed ranch with her husband.

post-collapse she lives in new eden until the arrival of the highwaymen brings joseph back to oversee it. she retakes prosperity and lives in what’s left of her old home until her death.

how do they eventually die?

she and john get hopped up on rads!bliss on their 70th wedding anniversary and put each other into mutual cardiac arrest. yeah, they fucked to death, what about it. this is the only way either of them ever die. shaggy finds them in a final insult to him.

lyra dies at forty-three — seventeen years later than she’d have liked — after taking a knife between the ribs via her nephew. while that’s the wound that technically does her in, the reality is that it was probably survivable; lyra had been dying for a long time, physically and emotionally broken by the holy war, though she put on a convincing front for the sake of joseph and the flock. she kept herself going until she had done her duty by new eden and fulfilled her purpose, bringing the shepherdess that was promised to the flock; she tells poppy that she’s her sacrifice, and she’s finally free to go back to the grave where she belongs. she does, happily; letting go is a relief.

[ariainstars]

Star Wars: Fatalism Against the „I Wish” Moment

Here it goes again, the question as to why The Rise of Skywalker sucked. Sigh. It just can’t leave me alone, can it?

After the first two chapters, honestly, I was expecting the sequel trilogy to become as good (or almost) as the original one. But precisely the last chapter set the seal on one of its worst problems: the lack of agenda. 

I love musical theatre. And one of its most beautiful sides is that it teaches you so much about storytelling. Now what makes a story, a character truly compelling? The conflict. Without a conflict, something that has to shift the narrative from A to D going through B and C, nothing makes sense. And in a good story, the conflict is set up right from the start. We meet someone and we are supposed to identify with them due to their agency. 

  Heroes With An Agenda 

To name an example, there is “Into the Woods”, one of my favorite musicals which retells some classic fairy tales with own interpretations and unexpected twists; and it opens with an iconic ensemble number called “I Wish”. (If you’re unfamiliar with it, you might want to check out the 2014 film.) We get to know a bunch of people who all want something, and we follow them through the narrative as some of them get their wish (though not exactly the way they expected it); then are confronted with the backlash, the consequences, the price to pay for the things they wanted. 

With Star Wars now belonging to Disney, it is only legitimate to make a few comparisons with Disney movies.

In The Little Mermaid, Ariel’s song is “Part of That World”, setting up her character as someone who wants for something that fascinates her: the world of humans.

Quasimodo, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, wants to leave his tower and live among other humans, even if only in for a day.

Belle from Beauty and the Beast is introduced to us explaining how she wishes to explore the world outside of the small village she’s living in.

A somewhat disappointing Disney heroine was Merida in Brave: despite the films’ title, the story fails at making its protagonist compelling due to her lack of agenda. Merida knows what she does not want, i.e. becoming like her mother, because she’s a different kind of girl: but she does not know what she actually wants from life. It is quite fitting that in the end she manages to restore and improve the relationship to her mother but does not really change her, or her family’s or her kingdom’s situation. Merida does not grow up. Her story is nice enough, but not really compelling.

Disney “princesses” are often criticized for wanting nothing but a partner from life, and sometimes settling down with a man even if that was not their main goal at the start. But we have e.g. Moana, a girl who wants to help her family and her people and to restore balance in nature. Not surprisingly, her story is interesting and convincing.

Antiheroes With An Agenda 

Perspective is hugely important for a narrative: authors can use it in order to manipulate the audience’s perception of a story in order to make us identify with someone although he is a negative character. Two examples I came across with lately are Joker (Arthur Fleck) and Hannah from the Girls TV series. Both these characters have personal agendas that in the end don’t get their fulfilment. 

We know from the beginning that Arthur will become the Joker, but the film follows him and his social background so closely that we watch everything from his point of view, which makes us sympathize with him despite what he becomes in the end. 

Arthur is poor, mentally ill, in charge of a sick mother, friendless; but he believes he can make a great breakthrough as a comedian. He is at the bottom of the social scale and still believes he can make it to the top; it is only all too clear that he is deluded and that none of the people he admires would move a finger to help him. Though he becomes a criminal, his story is a tragedy; he was born and raised under circumstances that hardly offered him room for a simple, satisfying life. His dreams were all he had. Which is why we feel with him, even if from a moral standpoint we know we shouldn’t. 

Hannah is a toxic personality if I ever saw one onscreen; but she officially is the protagonist, she’s female who wants a career, she has “friends”, she is “sexually independent”, so as female viewers we will automatically identify with her, or at least try. (Personally, after a while I came to the conclusion that about 75 % of the other character’s problems would quickly find an end if they simply shot Hannah and buried her without a funeral, with a few silver crosses to make sure she never comes back.) 

However, Hannah is not from a poor family, she has an education, she has friends. She has things she wants, nothing she desperately needs, like Arthur needs employment or medication. Her whole attitude is subject to her desire to become a famous writer, so her story is about exploring and observing other people’s weaknesses, often even eliciting them for the worse. I find it interesting that when we learn how she first met Adam, he caught her stealing. Apparently, Hannah never understood that you can’t simply take but also have to give something back. Their relationship is so typical for the story because it looks like Adam is using her (mostly sexually), while she is using him in order to make “experiences”, playing with his feelings instead of giving him the chance to grow and mature into a responsible man. Girls always had a bleak undertone; but by manipulating our perspective making her the pivotal character, the authors made us care about Hannah although she is someone who did not deserve it in the first place.

My guess: what makes these two antiheroes in the first place, from a moral perspective, is perhaps the fact that both feel entitled to their dream and won’t settle for less. Disney heroes usually get their wish fulfilment because they go through the moment of openly and innocently admitting their dreams without Arthur’s or Hannah’s latent arrogance.

Now to Star Wars... The Classics

One of the reasons why we so easily identify with Luke Skywalker in A New Hope is because he is introduced to us as someone who dreams. He has a personal wish - leaving his home planet, meeting new people, living adventures and contributing to the future of the galaxy. The “Binary Sunset” scene is not iconic without reason: in a musical, this would have been the moment where he would have broken into song. 😊

Don’t kill me, but Disney’s Hercules reminds me a little of Luke in his first grand scene: he also looks at a sunset, saying that he would go most anywhere to find where he belongs. (Maybe Lucas knew well why he sold the rights to Star Wars to the Disney studios of all places.)

This continues through his other two films: Luke always has a strong agenda. He learns the ways of the Jedi through Obi-Wan (who interestingly never actually questions whether he wants that at all) and Yoda, but his first priority always are his friends. Saving who he loves is what drives him on all of the time, even if this may seem foolish at times - like traveling all alone to Bespine where Han and Leia are kept hostage, or wanting to save his father although he is a dangerous criminal. 

  Star Wars In-Between

Rogue One and Solo are well-made, interesting films, too, because the protagonists know what they want. The Clone Wars is one long story explaining Ahsoka’s development from a Jedi to someone who relinquishes the Jedi’s ways. The Mandalorian wants to follow “The Way”, i.e. his code of honor, in order to help as many war foundlings as he can. This is what you need to do in order to make a story compelling. 

  Star Wars Prequels 

One of the weaknesses which I see to this day in the prequels is that we so rarely witness someone’s personal agenda; the stories are more driven by the plot than by the persons. A few desires are hinted at and never pursued. 

“I’m going to be the first to see all of them” (the stars). - Anakin in The Phantom Menace

“At last we will reveal ourselves to the Jedi. At last we will have revenge.” Darth Maul in The Phantom Menace 

What became of Anakin’s desire to explore the galaxy? And revenge from what, if you please? I can understand that the Sith were a byproduct of the Jedi’s rejection of the Dark Side, their weaknesses all projected unto them: but this also is never explored. 

What did Anakin, Padmé, Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon etc. want, after all? When did they ever say or show clearly what they wanted, and what they would do for the purpose? Qui-Gon wants to train Anakin by will of the Force, Obi-Wan wants to train him because Qui-Gon asked him to. The Jedi want to keep the status quo of the Republic and the Jedi Order. There is no actual heart-felt wish from their side. The only person relentlessly pursuing his aims is Palpatine, the mastermind behind the stage. 

Padmé has her political aims, but they are not a really personal agenda for her. She wants to help people who were enslaved or hungry or otherwise suffering, but she does not know such situations from own experience. Her personal wish is having a family, but in her case it is not as passionate as in Anakin’s, who had lost the only family he had with his mother. Add to this that the scene where she talks with Anakin about this desire of hers was unfortunately cut out from Attack of the Clones. 

The compassionate and protective Anakin wants to keep the ones he cares for safe. Interestingly though, the films rarely show us his perspective, we usually rather see other people reacting to him; and since the Jedi always brainwash him not to “let his personal feelings get in the way”, Anakin comes over more as a whiny brat than as a conflicted human being we can sympathize with.

Revenge of the Sith is, though a terrible story, a very well-made film and emotionally very demanding because Anakin finally takes his destiny into his own hands. But it is also not very satisfying, because he wants to prevent things from happening and doesn’t actually have a definite, positive aim in mind. Still when he speaks to Padmé on Mustafar he tells her that he would overthrow Palpatine for her and rule the galaxy according to their wishes; but even in this moment he sounds insecure and confused, and his ideas are everything but clear. 

  The Sequels

The same procedure all over again. Finn wants to get away from the First Order, but where does he want to go? It is only hinted at that he wants a girlfriend (“Do you have a boyfriend?”), and not thematized again. Poe already is a Resistance fighter from the start, no personal aim there either. Rey wants her family back: she does nothing but waiting. On Takodana, we literally see her running from her fate after her vision with the Skywalker legacy sabre. In The Last Jedi, she says she needs someone to show her her place. She says to Luke that she is afraid. Again, she has no agenda.

Kylo was pursuing Luke, but why? What exactly had happened between uncle and nephew before the fatal night at the Temple, why was Kylo’s resentment so deep? He killed his father because he was coerced; he did not actually want it. Later he wanted Rey, but why, if she was almost always aggressive towards him? 

The Last Jedi finally seemed to make up for all of these lacks. Rose was such a powerful character because while she always did everything in her power for the cause, she never forgot or let go of her personal feelings and desires, like keeping Finn safe, inspiring hope in the Canto Bight children, freeing the fathiers. 

The moment Rey ships herself on the Supremacy, Ben kills Snoke and then both team up against the Praetorian Guards is so powerful because both of them, at last, have an agenda, and they pursue it together. It’s a moment of relief for the audience, what we had been waiting for all along: finding out what all of this was about - the Force working in balance. Naively, many of us then assumed this trilogy would be about Ben and Rey finding balance and a happy ending together.

Then The Rise of Skywalker made our frustration flare up again. Rey wants to become a Jedi because Leia expects her to; she kills Palpatine because he wants her to do it; the voices of all Jedi encourage her… great. No personal agenda all over again. Ben saves her from death because he loves her, very well. Then he dies. Han, Leia and Luke all wanted him to come “home”, i.e. back to the Light Side, and they died for the purpose. It seems wanting something is dangerous in itself in this galaxy. And Rey ends up alone on Tatooine. Again, what does she want there?

So It Was All... Fate?

Han, Leia and Luke were much more compelling characters than Rey - their aims were sometimes misguided, but at least they had them and they were clearly defined. Even Palpatine has an aim: it is veiled (typically for him), but it is there. He knows that his spirit will live on in the person who manages to kill him. So, he is still more powerful than Rey. It looks like Rey defeated him, but the truth is that he used her naïve faith that she could erase him by killing him in order to reach his own aim: living on in a younger, more innocent person who believes that being a “Jedi”, she is doing the right thing. 

We may of course argue that the Force is behind all of this; but as intriguing as the Force is, it is not a person. When we follow a story, we want living persons to think and feel and suffer and be hopeful and joyful for. It is all very well if characters want different things or maybe want the wrong things; but at least, their wishes ought to be understandable, and if they don’t come true, we would like to know why, instead of being left with... “reasons”. It is hard to identify with a character if we never learn what drives them after all. I daresay it would be more satisfying to see them pursue an aim and fail, than never to understand what they’re about, what their heart’s wish is. 

I have argued over and over that the ways of the Jedi, i.e. sacrificing everything to a cause, and individual aims are naturally opposite to one another. If there will ever be Balance, future Force-sensitive creatures must find a way in between. But again, this is not openly said and the audience has to either resign to the fact that the films are badly made, or to scavenge them for months searching for messages. Of course, there is nothing wrong with using ones’ own brains. But I would like to leave a cinema after a Star Wars film feeling satisfied. The Rise of Skywalker did not only leave many questions unanswered; in many instances, it did not even start posing the questions.

“Into the Woods” is not a story with a happy ending. One of its messages is that you need to be careful about what you wish for, but I think that’s all right if the moral implications of getting one’s wish are explored. Which with the Star Wars prequels and sequels was not the case - people suffer and die for decades, and in the end, the story goes nowhere. The events of the prequels took place because “they were meant to”; same with the sequels. Anakin turned evil because it was his fate, his grandson the same because it was fate, Rey took over the Jedi mantle although she is not in the least suited for it, but it was her fate so we have to accept it. No wonder everyone is disappointed. 

Star Wars saga, what do you have in store next? After more than 30 years, I dearly hope, someone who actually has an aim and purses it this time. And doesn’t have to die in the process, thank you very much.

[alter-chara]

Review of Joker 2019 by someone with Psychosis

Joker 2019 is a critically acclaimed movie that came out in late 2019, however, I have some problems with how Psychosis was portrayed in the movie. So what was good? What was bad?

The Good-

The movie is strikingly Beautiful. There are several parallels to earlier points, and it gets straight up poster worthy near the end.

It does properly show Anxiety and Depression, and not in a negative light.

Medication is, at first at least, not portrayed as a "fix it all".

It also properly shows how underfunded and mishandled mental health facilities can be.

Also Arthur (The Joker), gets hit by cars three times during the movie. The first one was supposed to be sad, but the other two just felt relieving after all the shit he's pulled.

Now onto the Bad.

First, the Story

From a story perspective, It is never clear if you are supposed to like Arthur or not. Whether you are supposed to agree with him or not. There's not even a specific "His ideas are right but his execution is flawed." Instead, the movie tends to flip flop between him being unlikeable, scary, and wrong, to a victim, sympathetic, and even right. There is no clear logic about how you're supposed to feel about him, and it comes across as a lazy attempt to write a morally grey character.

Secondly, Framing.

Horror Music is often played during the moments where Arthur's psychosis is discussed. This is most noticeable in an early scene where Arthur sees his Therapist, and his Journal is brought up. He doesn't show it right away, and he starts laughing and bouncing his leg. This is clearly setting up the scene to be viewed as a frightening moment for the audience, and the payoff...? Arthur shows his journal and it has a joke about him being suicidal.

Horror music is also played during a clear psychotic break where he starts to have the hallucination/delusion, and his handwriting is messy and erratic.

Horror Music, for the last time, is played during the moment that the delusion is revealed, and Arthur has broken into his "love interest's" house. It is left vague if he killed her or not.

At best, this is a misstep in trying to make him sympathetic by using ill fitting music, or, at worst, this is a clear attempt to make these moments frightening, by use of sound design.

Thirdly, Inaccurate Symptoms.

There is *one* good delusion scene , and it is at the beginning. Arthur has a delusion about him being noticed and of importance to the talk show host of a show he enjoys. It is clear that this is a fantasy, and the delusion is of being important to this host.

The rest of the delusions? Painful to watch in their execution. Mainly the one about his love interest.  The hallucinations are way too clear and human. They speak like a person, they interact like a person, and there isn't any difference between them and the actual person until the end. This is likely done to prevent people from seeing the twist until the end, however, this would have worked better if they made it clear these were fantasies, and not actually happening. Instead they go the Hallucination route, where she is a Hallucination the whole time. This makes less sense, and is inaccurate to how hallucinations actually work.

Another inaccuracy to these delusions is that they are not distressing. They do not cause Arthur any mental stress, and, if anything, they are shown to be GOOD as long as they last. Delusions are scary as hell to the person experiencing them, but it is instead shown as scary to everyone around them. There is even a scene where the hallucination encourages Arthur's homicidal behavior. Can you get any more stereotypical?

Fourth, Psychosis is used to mean Abusive

His mother is mentally ill with Delusional Psychosis and Narcissistic Personality Disorder. (Slight aside, NPD is a highly stigmatized disorder of it's own, and is often blamed for abuse. In most cases, people with NPD are abuse victims, and are often actually at risk of being manipulated, which makes this worse.) She adopts Arthur, who was abandoned, and, due to her delusions, is unable to prevent her son from being abused. It is important to stress here, she is, at the same time, being physically abused by the same person.

And the movie says?

It's her fault.

First off, if this happened, CPS should have taken Arthur away from BOTH parents, and put him in foster care again.

Secondly, Arthur does not come to this conclusion himself. It is laid out, in hospitalization forms, that it is her fault. And the movie, does not argue against it.  It's supposed to be another nail in Arthur's coffin. Another person who hurt him, and another awful person in the world. In the movie's world, Arthur is not made out to be in the wrong for this, and neither is the hospital, or the police, or the news papers that cover the story as "Woman lets her son be abused".

Yes, neglect, and failure to protect a child is abuse, however, it is wrong to paint a mentally ill abuse victim, as completely responsible. There is no similar consequences for the main abuser, who perpetrated all these crimes against Arthur and his Mom. We do not hear his name, we are not told if he is alive or dead, and we do not even hear if he has been arrested.

Fifth, Mental Illness as demonized, and as a prop.

In the hospital scene where Arthur gets his mom's paperwork, there is a patient writhing, strapped to a bed. The situation is not at all portrayed as wrong, just the patient, who is specifically put there in order to cause unease in the audience.

When Arthur kills his former colleague, he tells him that he is off his meds and he feels great. And then he kills him. This perpetuates the stereotype that Mentally Ill people off their medication, are dangerous. We'll just ignore the horrible side effects Anti-Psychotics have (Especially in the time frame, 1980s, that this is shown in), and just say "Medication good, Unmedicated People Dangerous"

Arthur is also shown as being just seconds away from "snapping" and killing people at any moment. I should not have to explain why showing your mentally ill character like this is a bad thing.

The Psychotic Breaks are always shown as Freeing to Arthur, and dangerous to everyone else. Once again. Not how it works.

There is also the "What do you get when you cross a mentally ill loner with a society that doesn't care" scene, where the punchline is that he shoots the talk show host and says "You get what you fucking deserve"

While this could be an attempt at saying that Mentally Ill people not being taken care of leads to undesirable outcomes, it just ends up coming across as "If we don't treat the mentally ill, they will become violent and kill people"

Then there the whole idea that none of this would have happened if Arthur wasn't given a gun.

Thank you for the blatant scapegoating of Mentally Ill people for murders. We are more likely to be victims than the general populace, and no more likely to commit crimes.

Lastly.

They used a pedophile's music for their most iconic scene, the dance down the stairway that Arthur is often seen walking up in his lowest moments. Even if the Pedophile was not paid royalties for his work in the movie, people who were fans of this scene will seek his music out, and possibly buy it without knowing.

Don't use a pedophile's music in your movie.

In Conclusion

Joker sets out to be a movie about Mental Illness while doing the absolute bare Minimum to actually portray it accurately. Much of this could have been cleared up by research and talking to people affected by the disorder. It fails both as an attempt to make a morally grey character, and in being an accurate portrayal of the mentally ill. 

3 out of 100 stars, one star for each time Arthur got hit by a car.

[aislinceivun]

Not super relevant just yet, but I thought I’d put out a feeler.

I don’t have high hopes, given the volume and the… hmm, shall we say, niche pairing, but. Does anyone feel like selling their soul beta reading an absolute beast of a DekuMight fic? If so, please DM me.

Currently sitting at 10/23 chapters, 145k. (You thought I was kidding about the volume? I wasn’t. I’ve been tackling this monster for over a year and the end is still far away.) I’m devoting December to do a first round of edits, and then the first half will theoretically be ready for proofing.

Summary, content warnings – do read them, this has some heavy stuff! – and excerpts under the cut.

I’m an ESL writer so I always feel more confident when a native speaker checks my SPaG. (That said, I’m going to start publishing this eventually whether someone volunteers or not :D)

Thanks!

Relationship: Midoriya Izuku/Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Midoriya Izuku & Todoroki Shouto

Tags: Underage, Drama, Angst, Romance, Slow Burn, Age Difference, Cross-Generation Relationship, Student-Teacher Relationship, Awkward Crush, Pining, Dubious Morality, Bad and Questionable Decisions, Touch-Starved, Guilt, Self-Esteem Issues, Mental Health Issues, Body Dysmorphia, Medical Conditions, Chronic Illness, Inko is a Badass Mom, Endeavor’s A+ Parenting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Friendship, Queerplatonic Relationship, Missing Scenes, Canon Compliant until the end of the Remedial Course Arc, (just y’know - with romance and smutty bits), Adolescent Sexuality, Sexual Tension, Awkward Sexual Situations, First Time, Dom/Sub Undertones, Dubious Consent as in: Izuku is 16 when he starts having a sex life, he may or may not be below the age of consent in your eyes depending on where you’re from, and Toshinori is pushed far beyond his comfort zone, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Summary:

If Izuku hadn’t fallen in love, they would still orbit around each other. They would have gone on growing closer as mentor and protégé, confidants, friends; the easy bond between them brimming with trust, care and devotion. With time, Izuku might have come to view him as a parental figure.

But Izuku fell in love.

And so he tugs on that bond – not to pull him in by force, but to show him that he is wanted.

The bond twists out of shape, and the earth keeps turning anyway.

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

Experts from various chapters that I think show their dynamic and the general feel of the story pretty well:

“See, this kind of thinking is exactly why I fiercely believe that you’ll be a much better Hero than I ever was.” All Might smiles, and finally it’s something genuine and soft. “Fifteen years from now on, people won’t even remember All Might anymore, his deeds forgotten after the stunning brilliance that is his successor.”

Izuku shakes his head. “That’s not happening. You are a legend! People look up to you, respect you, love you! You’ve inspired entire generatio–”

“Ah, but it’s not really me they love. It’s the Hero I created. The Symbol of Peace, the Pillar of Hope… They have no idea ‘All Might’ is just a front for a pitiful man who has no idea what he’s doing most of the time and commits mistakes left and right.” He pointedly raises a brow. “Like not realizing his precious student is ready to self-destruct to make him proud, for example.”

“People would feel the same way about you even if they knew the truth,” Izuku insists, ignoring the quip. “Maybe they’d be shocked at first, but it would pass. I’m sure of it. And even if you’ve made mistakes, that doesn’t negate all the good you’ve done as a Hero. Saying ‘it’s not me, it’s the Hero I created’… that’s so stupid! There’s only one you! It’s not like– it’s not like you’ve tricked people!”

“I did trick them. I’ve never been completely honest, always presented a front. What they love is the idea of All Might – the idea of someone good and righteous and infallible. Not the sad, sick old man hiding behind it. And I can understand why. I mean…”  He gestures at himself with a smile that’s more like an embarrassed grimace. Izuku would claw it off his face if he could. “The real me is hardly the hope-inspiring beacon of light they expect the No. 1 Hero to be. One day soon, the truth will come out, and believe me, kid, no one will claim to love All Might after.”

Izuku is speechless. His throat is tight, his chest is hot… His core feels bruised.

He hates this. He hates, hates, hates it when All Might gets like this. A part of him wants to cry. Another wants to grab the man and shake him until he sees sense.

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

It’s his fault, isn’t it. Surely, there had been signs. Red flags. Looking back, he can spot them now… But Toshinori was so delighted to have made such an intimate connection, so relieved to have someone accept him fully that he didn’t stop to think about the potential consequences. Someone his age shouldn’t have been so eager to become friends with a teenager, let alone one who thought of him as an idol. He should have realized earlier that what they had going on wasn’t proper.

Was he so desperate for companionship that he forced it on the boy? Was it his neediness that led Midoriya to warp their connection into something it’s not, something it cannot be?

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

I love you so much, Izuku thinks with despair. Whenever I see you walk by in U.A., my throat constricts. At this point, I’ll need a heart transplant by the time I’m twenty because it’s constantly on the verge of bursting and that can’t be healthy.

The other day, I dreamt about a villain who had the ability to age people up or down. She used it for evil things – turning her enemies into fragile old people or helpless babies. I knew it was bad, but I approached her and begged her to age me up anyway, even at the cost of losing decades of my life. The scariest part of this is that even after I woke up, I wasn’t convinced I wouldn’t do the same in real life.

They say first loves rarely last. That they are sweet and innocent. But that can’t be right, because what I feel is harsh and painful, and I don’t see how it would be possible to feel more. If this monstrous thing in my chest is just a “fleeting, gentle first love”, then surely the all-encompassing true love people speak of would actually kill me?

I love you, and I wish I could show that without hurting you.

I wish. I wish. I wish. Getting to know you, receiving your trust and friendship, being allowed to study at U.A… I should be the happiest I’ve ever been. But I just keep wishing for what-ifs.

The one thing I don’t wish for is for these feelings to go away. Despite everything, I don’t regret being in love with you.

How nice it would be, if I could tell you these things out loud. If you’d be embarrassed and flattered and maybe just a little bit happy instead of fearful and worried.

Izuku swallows around the lump in his throat and doesn’t say a word.

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

The beeping has him stressed out and sweating within seconds. Then the line clicks, and Toshinori stops breathing.

“Hey.”

He’s never heard Midoriya sound so small and shy. He’s always been larger than life, brighter than a supernova.

Toshinori swallows before confessing, “I don’t know what to do. How to handle this.”

A sigh on the other end of the line. “That makes two of us.”

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

Alternate summary: troubled “crippling self-esteem issues, my old friend” area man and besotted “horny on main” teen try to figure their shit out across 300k or more, panic only for about 80% of that

[ladyfogg]

May I? - 3/?

May I? - 3/?

Fic Summary: Ensign Faith Diaz struggles to hide her mental illness from her fellow shipmates aboard the Enterprise until an intrigued Data goes out of his way to try to understand her behavior. At his insistence, Faith tries to figure out what she's truly passionate about and eventually seeks the professional help she needs. Fic Masterpost.

Fic Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Data/Female OC

Warnings: tw: depression, tw: anxiety, fluff, friends to lovers, eventual smut

Data went back to his work.

Before that day he had not had a conversation with Faith and after two he found himself more puzzled than before. 

When Geordi had spoken of the ensign, he had mentioned her tardiness and overall dismissive demeanor over the last few weeks. Data could not comment on the tardiness but he had not found her to be dismissive unless questions were directed at her own well-being.

The fact that she used the Jefferies Tubes as a way to escape during her rotation was troubling. Handling stress in a fast-paced environment was essential to any position within Starfleet. If Faith could not handle the stress, how had she gotten as far as the Enterprise?

Data scanned Faith's Starfleet personnel file and found nothing of significance. She had adequate marks in the academy and had served on another vessel before the Enterprise. Her transfer orders included a glowing recommendation from her previous superior officer. 

Data concluded that something must have happened in the time between her last posting and her current one. If her behavior had changed once on the Enterprise, then it stood to reason the Enterprise was the issue. He had several hundred theories but not enough evidence for a clear hypothesis.

Switching his main focus, Data finished the project he had been working on and decided it was the best time to dream before the night ended. 

He climbed into bed, dimmed the lights, and closed his eyes. 

He was in a forest. A dense forest, thick with vegetation. It may have been daylight but he could not tell through the canopy created by the massive trees around him.

Data walked forward, listening to the crunching of the leaves under his shoes. It was the only sound he heard which was strange. Forests had animals did they not? He should be hearing birds at the very least. 

"Data."

His name was whispered and he turned in the direction it came but saw no one. He kept moving forward.

"Data."

This time the whisper came from a different direction. Yet still, he saw no one. At first. The harder he stared, the more the plants began to twist and change, winding themselves into a distinct shape. He took a step closer for a better look.

"Data!"

This time the voice with louder, right behind him. Data spun around and came face-to-face with Dr. Soong.

"Father?"

Dr. Soong smiled. "I'm surprised you found this place so quickly, son," he said. "I didn't even program it. It developed on its own when I added your dream function."

"What is it?"

Soong looked around, a mysterious glint in his eye. "The unknown, Data." He turned Data around and suddenly there was an archway of branches and vines, unintelligible whispers beckoning him forward. "The unknown."

Then he pushed Data through.

Data sat up. In the months since he began dreaming, he had cataloged over one-hundred and fifty dreams. In ninety-two percent of those dreams, he had found himself on the Enterprise while the remaining eight percent took place in various locations he had visited throughout his life.

This was the first dream where the location was fictitious. He was not sure how to interpret what he saw. Was Dr. Soong there or did his brain create his image as a "guide" of sorts? 

Data was required on the Bridge, which left little time for him to dwell on the matter. He would have to examine the dream another time, perhaps during his session with Counselor Troi the next day.

He reported to his station on time, as always. 

The planet they were surveying had no life forms and the previous day's excursion to the surface yielded nothing special. 

"What are your thoughts, Number One?" Captain Picard asked.

"It's like I said in my report," Riker responded. "There were a few structures but they were empty, seemingly abandoned years ago. No idea who made them but whoever did couldn't be found."

"Any reason why they were left?"

"I'm assuming it was due to the atmosphere. We were down there for a short time and even then it became difficult to breathe. We just barely managed to leave before storms rolled in."

Picard studied the screen thoughtfully before he sighed. "Best move on then. Data, set a course for the next planet in this system."

"Course set. We should arrive in fourteen hours and fifty-two minutes," Data announced.

"Thank you, Mr. Data. Engage."

And so they moved on.

Data's shift ended hours later and he retired to Engineering to continue his improvements with Geordi.

"Hey, Data, glad you're here," Geordi said when he arrived. "I need your help."

"Certainly. With what?"

"Here, let me show you."

Geordi led Data to the assistant engineer's console where a piece of machinery was physically out of place. It did not interfere with the console's function. Yet it was still troubling.

"Interesting…" Data said. "This reminds me of what Faith found yesterday. There is no reason for this unit to have been disassembled."

"No there isn't." Geordi raised his eyebrow. "Two pieces of Engineering machinery physically moved in less than twenty-four hours? I don't like those odds."

"It is extremely unlikely such occurrences are random."

"But what could cause such a thing?" Geordi asked. "These things are heavy. It would take at least three people to move them, maybe four. And that's if you detach it from the wall."

"The reasoning is also unclear," Data said. "I suggest running diagnostics on both units to ensure they have not been tampered with."

Geordi nodded in agreement. "I'll start on the one Faith was examining. By the way, thanks for taking care of her. Things could have gone south fast if you weren't there."

"It was no trouble," Data said. "Geordi, may I ask you a question about Faith?"

"To tell you the truth, Data, I don't know much about her."

"It is about her work. You said her performance has been lacking in the last few weeks?"

Geordi crossed his arms, leaning against the wall in the process. "More like months. When she first joined there wasn't an issue. I mean, she worked a little slow but still got the job done. Now she seems...I don't know, distracted. She's been late multiple times. Sometimes I ask her to do something and it takes hours, or she gets side-tracked and forgets. She's also had a bit of an attitude." He frowned. "Why? Was she rude to you?"

Data shook his head. "I did not find her rude. Although, I am curious about her behavior."

"What do you mean?"

"She injured herself but was reluctant to seek medical attention. Even when she was bleeding."

Geordi's dismay turned to concern. "That is troubling. Well, I know she's been ordered to rest per Dr. Crusher. Maybe she just needs a break. We haven't had shore leave in a while and who knows when she had a break on her last ship. I guess I never considered she may be overworked."

"It is possible. She was particularly unconcerned regarding her own safety. As her superior officer, I thought you should know."

Geordi stood up straight and adjusted his uniform. "Thanks, Data. I'll keep that in mind and will keep an eye on her when she gets back."

"That would be wise."

Satisfied the matter was settled, Data took a seat at the center terminal to begin to work. A few moments later Geordi joined him. 

"Data?"

"Yes, Geordi?"

"Why the sudden interest in Faith?"

Data stared at him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"You seem particularly concerned about her."

"Should I not be?"

"I'm not trying to discourage you. I think it's great. I guess I'm just curious."

"I am as well."

A sly smile spread across Geordi's face, though Data was not sure why. "Is that so?"

"Yes." Data studied him for a moment. "Judging by your tone you find this amusing."

"Maybe a little."

"May I ask why?"

"I've never known you to show such fast interest in a woman before."

"Ah. You think my interest is sexual in nature."

Geordi snorted with laughter. "Well, is it?"

"It is not. You of all people know I do not have any feelings, let alone sexual ones."

"It doesn't have to be sexual. You can just want companionship."

Data considered Geordi's point of view. "Currently I only wish to understand what Faith is going through. However, I have found our brief interactions pleasant enough, if not confusing."

"Confusing?"

"Yes. Her reactions to certain topics. For example, at times she will be conversing with no issue but when certain subjects come up she shuts down or grows defensive."

"That's not new to you, Data. You've been around plenty of people who don't want to share what's on their minds."

"I am aware of that, Geordi. But this is different."

"How?"

"I do not know. Hence the curiosity."

Geordi still had a slight smile on his face, almost as if he knew something Data did not. "As your friend, all I ask is that you be mindful of your questions. You may not feel, but Faith does. And she may not appreciate the extra attention." He picked up his tricorder. "I'm going to go check that console. Let me know if you need anything."

Data frowned as he watched Geordi walk away. Faith had approached him the previous evening and had even apologized for snapping at him. She did not seem bothered by his interest, only frustrated by the repeated question of her well-being. Data planned to avoid asking that particular question in the future, especially with Geordi's warning.

The more he learned about humans the more he grew confused. Yet, his resolve to be like them never wavered. If anything it strengthened as he hoped to fully understand them someday.

He and Geordi worked for several hours, exchanging thoughts about the latest mystery and reviewing the results of the diagnostics. In Geordi's initial sweep nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Still, the staff was told to keep an eye out for anything that seemed physically out of place. 

"I need a break," Geordi announced, rubbing his forehead. "My brain feels like mush and I still have some calibrations I have to run. Why don't we call it a day and meet up in the morning? Start fresh."

"Good idea. I need to feed Spot and I would like to work on my painting."

"Well, enjoy. I'll see you tomorrow."

Data took his leave, heading for his quarters. Spot greeted him when he arrived, meowing and curling around his legs. 

"I know it is time for your dinner," Data said, making his way to the replicator. 

After making sure Spot was fed, Data turned to his paint supplies. There was an abstract painting he had been working on for a number of weeks, but when he reached for the canvas, he decided he did not want to work on it. He wanted to start something new.

Data propped a fresh canvas in his easel and carefully selected several paints for his palette. His thoughts focused on the dream he had and he found himself painting the lush forest, dark and mysterious with beams of light attempting to peek through the canopy.

When he was finished, he stared at it for some time, reliving the dream vividly. There had been something in the underbrush before his father had appeared. It nagged at him, tugged on his mind until he propped up another fresh canvas.

Without hesitation, he dipped his brush in brown paint, mixing it with a small amount of white to lighten it some.

Then he began to paint.

Data was capable of computing multiple thoughts and actions at once, yet often limited them when he painted. He had been told creative endeavors required your full attention and he made it a point to follow said rule. 

Often he knew exactly what he wanted to paint and what techniques he needed to implore to achieve his goal. 

This time, it was different. This time, his hand seemed to have a mind of his own, gliding across the canvas in sure, deliberate strokes. It took Data a moment to register what he was actually painting.

Two light brown eyes stared back at him from the canvas. There was no face, no skin, just the eyes framed with long dark lashes. 

Faith's eyes.

Data lowered his brush, staring at what he had done and unsure of why he had done it. It was supposed to paint the vines and leaves, twisting together. Not this. He considered stopping but the urge to continue was strong. So he did not fight it. 

He added more white to the brown mixture until he was able to match her skin tone, filling in the blank spots on the canvas. 

Fresh brown paint was squeezed onto the palette, and this time Data added a drop of black, darkening it to match her hair. The eyebrows came next, thick and dark, with a small imperfection in the left one, no doubt leftover from a faded scar. 

Last was her hair, escaping its braid as it swirled around her face. It was not until her image was complete that he finally added the vines he had been attempting to recreate. Various shades of green wove together, twisting just as they appeared in his dream. They blended into her face, almost as if they made her.

Hours had passed by the time Data lowered his brush, staring in awe at the image he had managed to produce. It was nothing like he had ever painted before.

"Most curious."

[bangchanshehe]

The Boogeyman pt. 2

Summary: You were constantly having the same reoccurring dream over and over again and your friends told you that it meant nothing. But as your nights became more strange as days passed by you knew that it was more than a dream. much, much more. You tried every night to stop the bizarre dreams from occurring in the same sequence to try to find out more about who or what was controlling them. But when you came face to face with the demon in your dreams in real life, you realized that what he had been telling you all along was true. There is no escape.

??? X Reader

Word Count: 3k

The rest of your morning passed as usual. You made your coffee at 6:30 am sharp, you did your hair and makeup and got dressed and made your way to work. The only difference between your morning and other people’s mornings is that you had only slept for 6 hours. You sighed to yourself once you were parked in the work garage and checked your reflection in the rear view mirror.

Fucking eye bags. You cursed under your breath.

You could tell that physically the lack of sleep was starting to get to you. You no longer had naturally dewy, well rested skin. Your eye bags had grown exponentially, and your mood. Most of all… your mood had taken a turn for the worse.

In your precinct you were always known as the most serious investigator, but lately a few co-workers had added some extra vocabulary to your name. detective “bitch-face”, was your favorite as of yet. You gathered up your bag, threw your keys and phone inside and held onto your coffee cup with a death grip as you prepared yourself for another day of mind-numbing work.

You had barely clocked in and sat your things down at your desk when your boss called you into his office. You rolled your eyes and mentally shifted into your role as a well mannered subordinate, before you stalked off to his office. You knocked twice on his glass door before welcoming yourself in.

“you wanted to see me?” you asked him with a straight face although you knew what he was calling you into his office for

“yes, take a seat y/n” he commanded in an authoritative tone

You obliged him and tried to make yourself comfortable in the stiff chairs.

“I know that you are having some trouble in dealing with the suicide cases y/n.” he started and you let out a sigh “I think that we need to put this case to rest not only for our sake but also for the family’s sakes” he leaned forward at his desk and spoke softer to you “simply put there is nothing further to investigate, and there is no sign of foul play in either of these women’s cases.”

You knew that the correct and polite thing to do would be to agree with your boss, but you had a hunch that you couldn’t get rid of. And you knew that if it was you in those women’s shoes, that you would want for someone to try their best for you.

“all do respect sir, ill have to disagree” you started “I’ve spoken to the families and neither of them mention mental illness or indication of suicide. Their work life, social life and financial stability was solid. There was no reason for those women to have motivation to take their own life. I’ve already –“

“let me stop you right there” your boss interrupted you mid-sentence. “we don’t know for sure that these women weren’t suffering from any mental illness. We cant say that they didn’t commit suicide just because they were perfect on paper.” He shook his head in disagreement

“sir, I’ve spoken with the medical examiner and they say that there is no sign of natural death….” You gave him a stern look and he gave you one back “these women essentially just dropped dead. Nothing in their system, nothing wrong with their health. It doesn’t make any sense!”

“I want you to dismiss the case.” He said firmly

“if either of these women were your daughter or wife, would you want someone else to just dismiss the case sir?” you asked him

He paused for a long while giving you a pointed glare before finally looking down at his desk and back up at you again. “y/n, I am going to give you one more week to work on this case. Either you bring me more evidence that this was a homicide by that time, or we dismiss the case. Is that understood?” he asked you

“yes sir! I appreciate it sir!” you said with a small smile, happy that you had talked him into giving you some more time.

You walked out of his office with more motivation than ever to help these women and their families. You made your way back to your desk, unpacked your files and looked back over their cases, starting with the basics.

Looking over the autopsy results the women seemed to be perfectly healthy beings with nothing in their system other than an sleeping aid.

You didn’t find that the fact that they might need help with falling asleep strange, but if you were going to produce results by the end of the week you had to cross all of your t’s and dot all of your I’s. starting with a call to a medical examiner.

You picked up the phone and dialed the examiner less than hopeful to find anything of significance but unwilling for the case to be dropped without finding any further answers.  

“hello, this is examiner song speaking. How can I help you?” a friendly and familiar voice answered

“Hi, Mr. Song this is detective Y/N speaking. I have a few questions for you in regards to the double suicide case. Are you free right now?” you asked him as friendly as possible hoping it would gain you the favor

“oh! Sure ask away!” he said as chipper as ever

“I see from the report that both of the women were both using a sleeping aid and I was wondering if the dose that they had in their system was typical and if you had any other information on this medication?”

He hummed for a moment “the amount still left in the blood stream was pretty typical for a sleep medication, particularly if they had taken it that night. There doesn’t seem to be any signs of drug abuse or abnormalities. However, I don’t know too much about the medication other than its prescription and you have to have some serious sleep insomnia to get prescribed it.” he mentioned

You quickly scribbled down the name of the drug on a piece of paper and thanked the examiner before you hung up the phone. Looking back over the files for the women you quickly look up their family physician’s number only to find that the women both go to the same doctor.

You wrote the number down underneath the name of the medication and stuck in on your computer monitor. You highly doubted that it was a strong lead to pursue since doctor song said the levels look normal and decided to save it for later.

You restlessly looked over your notes and files calling anyone who you think would have any additional information on the women, before you finally noticed that it was close to 11.

You pulled out your phone and text your best friend who was a practicing therapist in your area. You had met her because of work and ever since then you were glued to each other. You smiled to yourself remembering how comfortable it was for the two of you when you had first met. It was like you had just met your best friend who you hadn’t seen for a while and had a ton to catch up on.

The entire reason that you were there to begin with was because you were injured on the job and was told to go as a part of probation until you were “better again”, which was short for do your required 3 appointments for an hour and you’ll be cleared to be back on the force again. But the two of you were so close that you met often after your standard three meetings. Only this time you often met at a bar, after business hours for the both of you.

Hey, want to get Mexican food for lunch around 12? You sent here knowing that she was done with her standard 10-11 appointment. You had looked away for only a moment before you had heard your phone vibrate.

ABSOLUTELY! I have the craziest story to tell you when I get there! Get ready!

You laughed quietly at her text. She always had some crazy story to tell you about her clients. Was it technically legal for her to do so? No, not really. But she was at least responsible to change the names and places in her stories so that at least identities were protected. Plus, since she worked strictly with more upscale clientele, she heard a lot of stories about wild affairs, extravagant parties and occasionally a celebrity gone bad.

You locked your phone and put it down on your desk hoping that within the next 45 minutes you’ll be on a better track then you currently were.

  “so you would never believe what happened today!” your friend started off excitedly from across the table, drink in hand “my typical 10 o’clock canceled on me today… whatever, no big deal. But come 9:50ish I get this message from the receptionist that a certain very attractive celebrity wanted to book a same day appointment with me if at all possible. So I’m all ‘hell yeah! Get his ass in here!’ and when he came into my room he told me this story about how he drunkenly married a woman from a foreign country, spent the next three amazing weeks with her in paradise and now she’s gone and he’s completely torn apart from it” she said like it was the wildest news she had ever heard

You stared at her from across the table wondering where she was going to go with her story. Unamused or impressed with what she was telling you

“and I mean like full blown ugly crying in my office over this girl. He pulled out his phone and showed me a picture after picture of her proclaiming that she was the most attractive woman he’d ever met. And eventually at the very end he said that he had received a message from her saying that she was pregnant with another man’s child and wanted to be with him to raise the baby” she stopped to take a breath “I mean the poor guy was really losing his marbles over this chick. But as he’s walking out of the building I literally see him eye fucking some chick and then without a word she just gets into his car and they drive off together to do god knows what!” she finally finished

You raised your eyebrows at her and gave her a look of disbelief. You wouldn’t have believed your ears if it weren’t for the fact that you had some of your own run ins with celebrities or word of celebrities in her office.

“that’s so crazy!” you said confused over such behavior.  “hey I have a question for you about a medication and I have no clue if you’ll actually know anything about it.” you said pulling out your sticky note with the name scribbled across the top

She leaned over to look at the name and immediately perked up. “oh yeah I prescribe that pretty often to patients who need help sleeping.” She said before looking up to you “why? Are you looking into a new sleep medication?”

You sighed and put the note away. “well I found it through a case and had never heard of it, so I figured I’d ask. Is it any good?” you asked her

She scoffed and giggled “it’s the best thing that anyone has invented since bread.” She said “fuck all of the older sleep medications. This one is the best. Plus… there’s a little more that goes into it than just getting the drug from a store. You take a questionnaire and they give you an at home test so they can create it to be designed more for what you need.”

Your eyes went wide and you sat back in your chair happy to hear about how good the medicine was. Whatever the price was you would be willing to pay for a decent night’s sleep again.

You pulled out your phone and googled the drug, and scheduling was much simpler than you thought, you made an appointment for 5:30 so you could go straight after work.

“thank you my sweet, sweet friend. I’ll see you later!” you said with a smile on your face shoving one last tortilla chip in your face before you ran to your car so you could get back to the office on time.

  The rest of the shift went by terribly slow and you were actually itching to get out of your chair come five o’clock. You had done literally everything that you could have to cover your basics with the case but everything seemed to run into a dead end.

You quickly packed up your belongings and raced out the door so you wouldn’t be late for your appointment. You were as giddy as a school girl to find something that might finally help you feel like a normal human being again. and as soon as you pulled up to the offices for the drug you smiled.

Utopia Inc. you read to yourself, before getting out of the car and walking towards the doors.

Once inside you were impressed with how comfortable and yet clean the offices were. You took a seat in a chair and began reading over the paperwork and questionnaire.

Are you getting more than 5 hours of rest? No.

Do you have trouble falling asleep? No.

Do you have trouble staying asleep? Yes.

On a scale of one to ten how would you rate your average nights rest? 4

Are you currently using any other sleep-inducing medications? No.

What is the average time that you sleep in one night? 4-5 hours

You sighed as you looked over the remaining questions. You couldn’t even remember the last time that you had a decent nights sleep and you were more than anxious to have that back. But the questions were a little dull. You were hoping that the questions would be a little more in depth than the traditional sleep surveys you’ve done in the past.

As you filled out the remaining few questions your name was called by a nurse and you quickly stood and approached her.

“please come this way miss Y/l/n” She said opening a door and walking down a long hallway full of doors. She stopped in front of a office and held the door open for you “ go ahead and have a seat, and the doctor will be ready in just a moment”

You thanked her and took a seat in the stiff looking chair. You read the posters on the walls and looked around the room while you waited, bored and nervous all at once.

Knock, knock.

Your head snapped up and a friendly looking man walked into the room.  He peaked his head into the room and gave you a warm smile before introducing himself.

“hi y/n! my name is Jongho and ill be taking care of your sleep test and diagnosis.” He held out his hand for you to shake and you accepted with a smile “I already looked over your questionnaire and it looks like you have some symptoms of severe sleep insomnia” he explained

“which I have some good news and some bad news with that. Unfortunately there is no cure for sleep insomnia, however after we run some sleep tests on you we can get an idea of what kind of medicine you need to regulate your sleeping patterns” he explained to you very calmly and coolly.

Knock, knock.

The two of you turned your head to see who the new intruder was in the room and you were surprised when you saw a very attractive man walk into the room with a bright smile. Jongho was surprised as well by the new guest in the room and looked back over to you with a smile only to give the man a curious glare.

“hello my name is Hongjoong!” the man said extending his hand “ill be assisting doctor choi”

“y/n” you said taking his hand

You couldn’t help but notice the strange way that the physician looked to the man before he looked back at you with an awkward smile. For some reason it made you feel unsettled

“right, so all you have to do is turn on this device and put it on your finger as you sleep for the next week and it will record all of the information that we need. From there once we look at the reports we will form a diagnosis and get you the perfect medication to help you out. Re-testing can occur at any time if you feel that the diagnosis was incorrect and you need a different medication. Any questions?” he asked you with a smile

You shook your head and jongho smiled back at you. He gave you a bag with the necessary equipment and a packet with questions and answers on insomnia. He scheduled an appointment for a week from now and you were completely ready to go home. He shook your hand one last time before you left the office and on your way out Hongjoong stopped you.

He handed you a business card and you accepted it.  it was simple with his name, email and phone number  on the card. “please don’t hesitate to reach out if you have any questions or difficulty during the tests”

You looked him over once more noticing how differently he was dressed compared to doctor Choi who was in a white medical gown and business casual clothes. He was wearing a suit that looked like it cost a fortune and he had the air around him like he was a man who didn’t work with people all day long. he seemed impatient, guarded and utterly too perfect.

you smiled at him once before leaving the long hallway and entering the reception area once more. happy like a child on Christmas you carried the box to your car and set it down carefully in the passenger seat as if it were a precious treasure. You looked back up at the building one last time before you pulled away and smiled. Hopefully this would be the answers to your prayers and help you start a happier and healthier chapter in your life.

[emperorsfoot]

Inconvenient Arrangements chapter 4. 

Hordak and Entrapta continue to be the least romantic couple in the universe. 

Meanwhile, we get another flashback of Keldor and he’s all like

...

The royal gardens of Eternos were very different from the Imperial gardens on Horde World. While the gardens of the Imperial palace were filled with bushes and grasses from all over the universe, carefully tended, tripped and shaped to be aesthetically pleasing, and impermanent and replaced after every bad storm, the gardens of Eternos looked almost wild. Tall trees with thick trunks and dense branches, ground vines climbing out of the beds and up the walls, flowers of every variety growing wherever they pleased as if just allowed to take root wherever the wind blew their seeds. Hec-Tor was not used to something that was supposed to be part of a royal property looking so… unplanned.

The Prince sneezed, wondering if he was allergic to something in the gardens and if an epinephrine would react adversely with his medications.

Next to him, Keldor yawned. Board. His intended was board of his company. Not that Hec-Tor found the other Prince particularly riveting either. They had little in common and little to talk about aside from their pending nuptials and one could not fill an entire afternoon of contract mandated bonding discussing how much you hated said contract forcing you to bond. Keldor looked behind them at their escorts. The robotic diplomat Dylamug, and a Gar warrior named Sy-Klone. They both looked about as board and uninterested as Hec-Tor and Keldor felt.

Noting just how disinterested their chaperones were, Kedor grabbed Hec-Tor by the hand and pulled him off the grass-grown gravel path.

“Wha-!?” Hec-Tor was about to demand an explanation for the sudden action, but Keldor placed a blue hand over his mouth.

“Shh!” He hissed, ebony hair falling in front of one pointed ear. “Follow me.”

Keldor began to climb up a vine-entangled tree with low-hanging branches and dense leaves to hide them from view. But when he saw that Hec-Tor was not immediately following him, he grabbed the other man’s hand and practically had to drag the Horde Prince up. They sat on a one of the boughs, Keldor leaning around the trunk to make sure their escorts were not suspicious. As far as he could tell, they were laughing at the idea that Keldor had dragged Hec-Tor off for a bout of pre-nuptial… affection.

“What are we doing up here?” Demanded the Imperial Prince.

“Don’t you wanna get outta here?” Keldor asked.

Well, actually, yes. Hec-Tor did want to get off of Eternia and away from this arrangement. But Brother really wanted Eternia for some reason and to get it, Hec-Tor had to marry Keldor. So he could not leave. A fact he could not believe he had to remind his fiancé of . “What we want is immaterial in this matter.”

Keldor only rolled his dark eyes and tucked a strand of hair behind his delicately pointed ear. “Wow. They’re got you really well trained.”

“I beg your par-!” Was insulted, but the offense quickly turned to dismay as Keldor pushed him backwards and Hec-Tor found himself suddenly falling.

The sound he made was not Princely or dignified.

Eyes wide, talons clawing at –a wall. What he thought was a bush or part of a hedge maze, was in fact a vine-covered wall, and he was falling down the outside of it. Talons cut through leaves or scraped over exposed patches of stone, until he was able to finally gain purchase on a vine strong enough to hold him. Hec-Tor clung to the wall as if it were the only solid thing in existence.

Keldor slid down next to him, but more controlled. “First time ditching your keepers?”

“What have you done!?” Hec-Tor demanded.

“I told you. We’re getting out.” His intended scoffed as if this should have been obvious. “Don’t tell me you were actually having fun on our ‘quiet and leisurely stroll through the gardens’. He slid down the vines a fraction of a meter, expecting Hec-Tor to follow him. “C’mon. I’ll show you the real Eternia!”

Hec-Tor looked up at the wall, gauging the distance he’d already fallen. He could climb that easily. Get back inside the castle, go to Horde Prime and made his brother see that this Prince Keldor of Eternia was not a suitable partner for a member of the Imperial family. But after he pulled himself up a little short of a meter, he began to feel woozy, the warning of an on-coming faiting spell, and decided that he would rather be much, much closer to the ground. Hec-Tor followed Keldor’s example and used the vines to slide down the wall.

Their boots touched ground in a narrow alley behind the castle. It stank of city waste and there were vermin skittering over the stones. Hec-Tor leaned against the wall and breathed in the noxious air, hoping the dizziness would pass without him losing consciousness in the middle of a filthy ally.

“You having a panic attack or something?” Keldor asked.

Hec-Tor cast a sideways glare at him. Crimson eyes glowing in the dim ally.

Keldor did not seem the least bit impressed. Apparently, Hec-Tor was not very intimidating when he looked –and felt- like he was about to pass out. Keldor grabbed his hand again. “C’mon. There’s a bar I like down this way.”

Hec-Tor could not drink alcohol. It reacted badly with his medications. But he also could not pull away when Keldor dragged him down the ally and around a corner.

They came out on a semi-crowded street full of a diverse variety of Eternian races and alien visitors. It was more people than Hec-Tor had ever been around at one time and he suddenly felt inexplicably anxious. He held tighter to Keldor’s hand and closed the distance between them, almost pressing his whole body against the other man’s side.

“You afraid of getting lost or something?” He teased.

“I am unused to… this.” All of this. Being in a crowded street. People not automatically making space for him and giving him a wide birth out of respect. Defying protocol, evading their chaperones, and stealing out of castle grounds. All of it. Hec-Tor was unused to all of it. What kinds of things did they teach their Princes on Eternia for Keldor to even know how to do this!? Never mind actually do it.

The other man only laughed. Keldor seemed to do a lot of laughing at him and Hec-Tor was concerned by the fact that he did not hate it. “C’mon, we’re almost there.”

He pulled Hec-Tor into a dimply lit tavern that stank of stale grain, alcohol, and the funk of perspiration from a vide and diverse variety of organisms. Hec-Tor had to cover his nasal cavity with his hand. It was rank and offensive to smell. How anyone could drink anything from this place was a mystery to him.

Keldor dragged them both right up to the bar, laid two silver coins on the counter, and grinned at the bartender when she asked how old they were. “Old enough to be married.”

(The age of consent on Eternia was younger than the legal drinking age.)

The bartender continued to glare at them. So Keldor slowly placed a gold coin on the table along side the silver. The silver coins were placed in the bar’s till, the gold coin disappeared into her pocket, and two tankards of some frothy grain-alcohol replaced them on the counter. “Just don’t make any trouble.”

Keldor gave a mock gasp. “Trouble? Me? Well, I never-!”

The bartender rolled her eyes again. “I know who you are, and I have Man-at-Arms on speed dial.”

Another gold coin was placed on the bar counter.

“But silly me forgot to charge my com last night.”

Grinning, Keldor pressed one frothing tankard into Hec-Tor’s hands and led him to a table in the middle of the room.

Hec-Tor sniffed the drink cautiously. “I cannot drink this.”

“Sure you can!” Keldor insisted. “Just put it in your mouth and swallow.”

“I mean, it will make me very, very ill.” Hec-Tor clarified.

“Yeah…” Agreed the other man. “But you’ll have a lot of fun first!”

Setting his tankard down on the table, Hec-Tor pushed it away from himself. “I would like to go back to the castle now.”

Keldor was already chugging his drink. He had a froth mustache when he lowered the tankard. “Aw, but we only just got here! I haven’t even gotten into a bar fight yet.”

Hec-Tor raised a baled brow at him. Princes were not supposed to slink down narrow allies, or get into bar fights with common drunkards. He opened his mouth to remind Keldor of this fact, and also made a mental note to inform Brother of this little escapade as evidence that the engagement should be called off and the alliance with Eternia sealed some other way.

But he didn’t get the chance to.

At that exact moment, a large Qadian came up to their table. A dark scowl on his feline face, arms crossed over his chest with disproval. “You, Gar,” he hissed, “you’re at my table.”

“Never mind.” Keldor smirked at Hec-Tor, “I’m right on schedule.” He turned around to face the cat-like alien –although, to Keldor he wouldn’t be an alien, Qadians were native to Eternia- “I am? I’m so sorry, I had no idea this was your table, Mr. Torg Sisters Wholesale Furniture Warehouse! That is your name, I assume, as it’s the only name written on it.”

The Qadian’s whiskers twitched asymmetrically. “You can’t sit here, Gar.”

“I can’t?” He gasped, as if truly and honestly shocked. He looked down at his chair. “By the Goddess! It must be a miracle. Look! I’m sitting! Here!”

Losing patience quickly, the Qadian grabbed Keldor by one of the belts crossed over his chest. “Listen, you Blue Bastard, we don’t want your kind here!”

Hec-Tor shot to his feet. No one grabbed a Prince like that! At least, in the Empire, no one would dare!

“What kind is that?” Keldor asked, not appearing to be intimidated by the hostile feline. “Gar, young people, or someone who can hold his liquor probably better than you.”

“Let him go.” Hec-Tor commanded, putting all the regal command of his station into the words. For half a second, to his own ears, he sounded just like Brother. A Horde Prime. Commanding, and strong. He stood up. Then immediately felt the same faintness from a few minutes ago when Keldor pushed him over the castle wall. But he tried to ignore it.

“And what are you supposed to be?” Scoffed the Qadian, unimpressed.

Not many people outside of Horde World actually knew what members of the Imperial Family looked like. They were so many generations removed from the original Horde Prime, and each suffered physical defects that sometimes altered their appearance, that none of them looked like the clones of the Horde military.

“I am a-“

“This is my fiancé, uh… Hordak!” Keldor cut him off before Hec-Tor could announce that he was a Prince of the Horde Empire and that Keldor was Prince Keldor First Born to the House of Miro. Apparently, that would spoil his fun. “Hordak, sweetie, say ‘hi’ to the nice kitty.”

Hec-Tor frowned.

“Are you making fun of me!” Demanded the Qadian. He did not appreciate being called a ‘kitty’, anymore than Keldor appreciated being called a ‘blue bastard’.

Keldor only smirked. “I’m usually making fun of everyone.”

With a hiss and a snarl, the Qadian threw Keldor at the table.

He caught himself on its edge and used it for balance while he ducked a fast punch from the Qadian.

Hec-Tor, acting more on impulse rather than any conscious strategy, picked up the whole table and threw it at the Qadian. The feline alien had to jump to dodge the projectile furniture. His fur all puffed out, he hissed again.

But the action brought on another wave of dizziness. The physical exertion just a little too much for him. Hec-Tor’s vison blurred as his body did what it had been threatening to do almost all day. He passed out.

He didn’t get to see the rest of the fight. He wasn’t sure what happened, exactly. But when he came to again, he was slung over Keldor’s back like a sack, and the other man was carrying him down the same ally they’d first dropped down into from the castle wall. Hec-Tor groaned.

“You’re awake.” Keldor put him down. He had a swollen lip and a bruise on the side of his face, but nothing was bleeding and all his teeth were still there. “Wasn’t that fun!”

“We got into a fight!” Hec-Tor was not fully recovered yet and getting worked up was not what he needed right now, but this Prince Keldor was… wild. He examined himself for injuries. Apart from the familiar soreness that came from laying on a hard floor, there were none. They must have ignored him once he passed out.

“Fighting is fun.”

“Fighting is for clones.” Hec-Tor corrected. He massaged the sides of his head. His vision was still a little blurry. “Why are you even getting into fights anyway? You’re not a warrior. I was told you’re a sorcerer!”

Keldor only shrugged. “Two things can be true.”

“I should not have helped you.” Hec-Tor shook his head.

“But I’m glad you did.” Keldor told him. “You’re supposed to be able to depend on your spouse. Married people should help each other.”

…

Contract mandated bonding time with Entrapta was just as much of a whirlwind as his first few months with Keldor, but in a different way. Entrapta did not push him over walls, or drag him to seedy bars in the slums, or get into bar fights with the absolute scum of the planet. Entrapta insisted he take her on a tour of the shieldwall that ran the perimeter of the city.

She wanted to walk the narrow service shafts the maintenance workers used to keep it in working order. She wanted to see the gear housings that lifted and lowered the shield for a storm. She wanted to examine the turbines that collected the storms’ energy. She wanted to watch the generators in action, powering the city with the raw power of the harsh world they lived on.

The interior of the shieldwall was almost as dirty and grungy as the outside. Rust on the exposed pipes, painted signs and safety markings sanded down to the base metal they were painted on, discolored wall panels, dust collecting in the corner where the wall met the floor.

But Entrapta seemed to be having the time of her life.

Wearing those baggy overalls again, looking like any other maintenance worker, several of the regular staff assumed she was an intern or a new-hire before they saw that she was in the company of an Imperial Prince. Hec-Tor had counted five people so far, who had approached Entrapta to ask her where she was assigned. Was she lost? What was she doing at this part of the wall? etc., before they noted Prince Hec-Tor Kur trailing behind her, his spine straight, and arms clasped behind his back. A perfect pillar of Imperial discipline and command. Then the stuttering and near incomprehensible apologies would start tumbling out of their trembling mouths.

Entrapta seemed oblivious to this, however. The moment she was approached by anyone who actually worked there, she would bombard them with questions. How many people per shift did it take to maintain the wall? How many shifts per day? Were they all skilled workers? What was the most common problem that occurred working on the wall? What steps did they take to address these reoccurring problems?

That actually wasn’t that bad. It was about what Hec-Tor was coming to expect from her.

Then she stretched out a tendril of her prehensile hair and lifted herself up onto one of the large pistons that lifted the wall and the shieldwall staff all nearly fainted. Entrapta swung from piston to piston, and between gears, examining the moving parts –that were currently not moving- of the shieldwall. It was actually a little refreshing to know that Entrapta was shocking and uncomfortable to other people as well as him.

Most people, when they visited Horde World and wanted to tour the shieldwall, they wanted to ride hover bikes along the top and see how many laps they could do around the city in a day (the max to date was one and a half). See just how tall it was, how far into the dessert they could see, how small the buildings of the city looked from on top. Or see how many members of their species they could fit standing shoulder-to-shoulder across its width. But all Entrapta wanted to do was measure the cogwheels that could crush and kill her if they suddenly started moving.

She was nothing if not unique. Hec-Tor could give her that. Brother certainly had a talent for finding the most unusual partners possible for him.

Hec-Tor yawned, mouth stretching wide, displaying sharp crimson teeth. It felt like they had spent the whole morning here. He checked the chronometer on the wall. They had spent the whole morning here. It was afternoon now and Hec-Tor would need to take his medications.

“Entrapta.” He called to her.

“Just a second!” She answered. Swinging from one impossibly large piece of machinery to another.

“Princess Entrapta.” He tried again, putting stress on her title in an attempt to remind her that she had duties and responsibilities to attend to and could not spend all her time on leisure pursuits and hobbies.

Swinging on her hair again, she did a seemingly unnecessary mid-air summersault and landed directly in front of him.

Gosh! She was so short! Standing on her feet, without her hair adding any height to her, Entrapta barely came up to Hec-Tor’s sternum.

“Did you need something?” She asked.

“It is time we break for lunch.” He informed her without inflection.

“Oh. I’m not really hungry.” She shrugged with her shoulders and made a dismissive motion with her hair.

Entrapta struck him as the kind of person that –when they were interested in something- would continue to focus their attention on that thing and ignore meals or not notice that they were even hungry at all. That, however, was not an attitude anyone in his family could afford. Every single Kur –including Imp, the most healthy of all of them- relied on medications and supplements, the vast majority of which had to be taken with food. Hec-Tor could not afford to skip a meal, and since they were required to spend time ‘getting to know each other’ before their wedding, she could not afford to skip a meal either. After they were married, she could do, or not do, whatever she wanted. But, for right now, she had to follow his schedule as strictly as he himself did.

“But I am.” Hec-Tor informed her. “We will break for lunch then you may return to your study of the shieldwall.”

“Oh. I’m pretty much done here.” She announced, much to Hec-Tor’s frustration. If she was already done, why did she make it seem like she didn’t want to leave?

Lunch was served on an observation deck atop the wall.

The servants quickly set up a collapsible picnic table, covered it with a table cloth brought from the palace, and laid out the meal that had been prepared ahead of time. Complete with a covered ceramic cup that contained the battery of pills Hec-Tor had to choke down three times a day.

Entrapta seemed to ignore the table setting and the meal, however. Her attention was focused on the view. Finally, a normal thing visitors did when they came to Horde World. Admire the view.

The previous day’s storms had thrown up the sand into many high-peaked dunes. Heat waves could be seen rising off the sides where Horde World’s yellow sun glared down on them, baking the already burnt sienna landscape. Frost could just barely be seen sparking in the dark shadowed side where the suns could not reach. Horde World was a planet of extremes.

“It’s really amazing anything managed to thrive on Horde World at all.” She exclaimed. “I mean, apart from the dragon-roaches and the super-bacteria.” Her gloves were pressed up against the observation glass that enclosed the deck. “What’s the ambient temperature outside right now?”

“Inside the city, or out in the desert?” Asked Hec-Tor.

He selected several of the tiny items of food the kitchen staff had prepared for them. It took eight of them to equal the size of a normal bite of food for him. Why did the kitchen staff make them such tiny food? The morsels were so small, in fact, that he barely had to swallow. With something already on its way to his stomach, Hec-Tor tipped his dose of medications in his mouth and washed them down.

“The city has climate buffers that regulate the temperature, right?” She asked. “That’s how people can walk around without freezing in the shade or getting cooked in the sun. But what’s the rest of the planet like?”

It took him a couple of swallows to completely clear his throat of water and medications. Then another moment to remind his body that it was not choking and did not have to trigger the gag reflex. He took another sip of water just for good measure. “The average daytime temperature in direct sunlight is over 500 degrees Kelvin.” He informed her. “Two-hundred seventy degrees Kelvin in the shade.”

“That’s so wild!” Entrapta did a theatric little twirl, her hair spiraling around her. She flopped down in the empty seat provided for her and popped a morsel of tiny food into her mouth. “Horde World is like one of those planets that doesn’t have any atmospheric layers. Nothing between it and space to buffer the solar radiation or insulate the landscape. But it does have an atmosphere. We’re breathing it right now! And it’s not like the city is under a dome or anything. It’s just dummy harsh outside.”

Reluctant though he was to admit it, Hec-Tor did have to agree that Horde World was unlike any of the other –inhabited- planets he’d been to.

“The planet’s previous owners did irreparable damage to its environment. So much so that they changed the climate to be completely inhospitable to their breed of life.” He grabbed another handful of tiny food portions and shoved them in his mouth, just to be sure there was sufficient food in his stomach with his medications. “What is Etheria like? I am sure it is… mild, compared to Horde World.”

Tapping her chin with a strand of hair, Entrapta thought. “Well… I wouldn’t call it ‘mild’. It’s certainly more diverse than Horde World. But Etheria has got its own extremes. The Northern Reach is a permanently frozen tundra. I guess you could call it an Ice Cap. Then the Crimson Waste is a lot like Horde World, a vast desert, dry, hot, no surface water, it just doesn’t have your temperature extremes.”

“And Dryl?”

“We get a lot of weather in Dryl.” She answered distractedly, picking up two tiny morsels and popping them into her mouth one at a time. Then washing them down with a carbonated sweet drink Hec-Tor refused to taste.

“And what does that mean?” He raised one bald brow, confused.

“Dryl is mostly a temperate zone.” She supplied. “We get all four seasons and all the weather that comes with them. Snow in the winter, rain and storms in the spring, absurd humidity in the summers, thunder and lighting in the autumn, lots, and lots of lighting, I swear, the mountains add extra charge to the atmosphere! –then back to winter snow!”

“That does sound like… a lot of weather.” He agreed, not knowing what else to say.

“I spend most of my time in my lab, but I’m told it can be fun.” Entrapta informed him. “Skiing in the winter, rafting in the spring, camping in the summer, festivals in the fall. I’m not much of an outdoors person, but if you are you might like it!”

“I…” Because of his condition, Hec-Tor preferred not to do anything too strenuous if it could be avoided.

Skiing and rafting sounded absolutely terrible to him. Camping was a word that had different meanings to different people he found. For his family, ‘camping’ was rouging it in a slightly smaller palace or castle with limited servants and fewer amenities. That was not what the word camping meant to the vast majority of other people Hec-Tor met. And fesitvals… Hec-Tor had mixed experiences with festivals. Experiences ranging from ‘we just have to light the brazier, then we can go home’, to ‘I just bought these two pills off some guy, let’s pop ‘em and see what happens’, and everything in between. (Attending festivals with his brother and attending festivals with Keldor were two very different experiences.) The outdoor activities of Dryl did not sound appealing.

“When I am not working I usually spend my free time servicing or improving upon my armor.” An activity that was also spent indoors.

Entrapta instantly perked up. Fuchsia eyes focusing on him with an intensity he was unused to. Showing an unfettered interest in him –not his planet’s technology or adaptations, but him- for the first time. “Oh? Did you design your own armor? Are you an engineer? Robotic designer? May I take a look at your armor to see how you’ve integrated the prosthetic tech into your organic body?”

Her interest was almost too intense for him and Hec-Tor found himself physically leaning away from her. “We manage our own… defects.”

She blinked at him, not fully comprehending. “You mean, you came up with that design to manage your condition all on your own? And maintain it all on your own? No one heled you. Even when you were a child? C’mon. You can’t expect me to believe that you don’t take care of Imp, or Horde Prime doesn’t take care of Prince Zed! Everyone needs help sometimes! And married people should help their spouses.”

[nclkafilms]

The reality we decide to ignore

(Review of ‘Joker’. Seen in Nordisk Film Biografer, Aalborg on the 6th of October 2019, in Biffen Art Cinema, Aalborg on the 8th of October 2019 and at home on the 11th of January 2020.)

What do you get when you cross a comedy director with no previous directing experience with other genres with one of Hollywood’s finest character actors and the perhaps most famous and notorious comic book villain? When that director is Todd Phillips (of ‘The Hangover’ and ‘Road Trip’), the actor is Joaquin Phoenix and the villain is Batman’s The Joker, you get one of the most surprising film achievements of 2019. ‘Joker’ is a gritty, poignant and surprisingly profound character study that is telling us much more about the society we live in than it does about Batman’s arch enemy. As such Joker becomes a haunting reflection of a society in which virtues such as love and empathy have been long forgotten and replaced with fear, division and egocentricity.

In the film, we follow Arthur Fleck, who works as a clown-for-hire while he lives at home taking care of his ill mother, Penny. Arthur is in psychological and medical treatment for a - to us - unknown mental illness. He dreams of becoming a stand-up comedian and as we are quickly shown in a dream sequence he also dreams of being acknowledged and feeling valued; in this particular day dream: by his idol, talk show host Murray Franklin. But this version of Gotham - set in what seems to be the early 80’s - is no place for dreaming. Garbage strikes have been going on for weeks, the streets are being overrun by thugs and ill-adjusted citizens in line with an increase in the split between the top and bottom of society. In the opening credits, Arthur is attacked by a group of young people, but it is him who gets in trouble for losing a sign rather than them being punished for their attack. As Arthur points out: things are getting crazier out there. What follows is a thought-provoking and morally challenging journey to the bottom of Gotham City.

The main attraction in ‘Joker’ is Joaquin Phoenix. The character of The Joker has produced some amazing performances from Jack Nicholson and, especially, Heath Ledger, and it must be quite the role to take on for any actor. Phoenix puts himself right up there with the best, though, with a manic, nuanced and deeply human portrayal of Arthur Fleck. His physical transformation and performance alone is awe-inspiring: not only did Phoenix lose a lot of weight, no, he manages to infuse Fleck with a crippled physicality that mirrors his mental state. The way he runs, the way he laughs and the way he stares. It all highlights the state that Arthur is in. 

The idea of giving Fleck a physical condition that causes him to laugh in certain situations is clever, and Phoenix takes it to the next level in the scenes where this laughter causes him physical pain or alienation from his surroundings; his eyes convey a different story than his laugh and it is deeply fascinating to study. However, it is in the gradual change from being socially awkward and unresting to becoming more calm, more cynical and more unpredictable, that Phoenix truly manifests his qualities. The scene in which he calmly goes from panic and despair to an almost trance like dance in a worn down and darkly lit public bathroom is as beautiful as it is alarming; one of the single most memorable scenes from any film in 2019. A scene that is only made stronger by the beautiful score - but more about that later.

While ‘Joker’ is Phoenix’ film, it still boasts a high quality gallery of supporting roles with brilliant performances from Robert de Niro as talk show host Murray Franklin, Brett Cullen as Thomas Wayne, Frances Conroy as Arthur’s mother Penny, Glenn Fleshler and Leigh Gill as Arthur’s colleagues, Shea Wigham and Bill Camp as two police officers and finally Zazie Beetz as Arthur’s neighbour, Sophie. Common to them all is that they all highlight different aspects of how society - in Arthur’s eyes - is letting him down. Murray mocks him on live tv, Wayne distances him and everybody beneath him, Penny neglects him, the police hunts him and Sophie is not the girlfriend he imagines her to be. The fascinating thing here is, though, that Phillips is telling the entire story from Arthur’s perspective. He is not a narrator per se, but with him being present in every scene it is clearly his version of the story and, as such, he is highly unreliable if we are looking for the objective truth. And to be fair, I do not think that is what the filmmakers set out to do either. Here, the important truth lies both in Fleck’s imagination and reality and as such the ending is very fitting even though it has caused a lot of criticism for being a “cop out”.

In stead, Todd Phillips and Scott Silver want to give a voice to the people who are being shut out of society. The people we tend to look away from or distance ourselves from on the bus. The people who we laugh at when their weird mannerisms or actions are filmed and exposed on TV. The people who governments often find it easier to ignore or talk down to in stead of reaching out to or accommodating. The people who sadly sometimes end up causing unbearable tragedies. It’s a daring choice for Phillips and Silver to write their screenplay with this perspective but it pays off by creating one of the best films of the year.

This, of course, demands more than a brilliant ensemble as well as a daring director and screenwriter. When it comes to the quality of the crafts, ‘Joker’ is also right up there with the best of 2019. The cinematography is stunning as it really manages to show us the devastation of the state Gotham City is left in, but also in the way it centres on and helps Phoenix’ performance. Let me once again highlight THAT bathroom scene and the films use of mirrors. The film’s cinematographer, Lawrence Sher, rarely leaves Arthur out of sight whether it is in intimate close-ups or montages through the city. Equally as impressive is the production design, which manages to make Gotham feel alive and very real; dark and gritty when we are in the streets and colourful and exuberant when we are among the top of society. Additionally, you have to raise your hat to editor, Jeff Groth, who has created a tightly composed film from an excessive amount of material as Phoenix did a lot of different versions of each scene.

The most impressive aspect of the film’s technical aspect is, however, the score by icelandic Hildur Guðnadóttir. Her score is haunting to say the least with its deep and towering string sections combined with an ominous vibe that makes the score sit heavy on your shoulders as if it is the burden carried by Arthur. Guðnadóttir worked with Johan Johansson before his death and you can hear his influence, but make no mistake! Guðnadóttir is an artist on her own terms; her score has a unique sound that has landed her nominations at all the major awards and for which she hopefully will receive numerous wins too. The next strongest thing in the film after Phoenix’ performance. The score blends perfectly with the great overall sound design and it is perfectly balanced with the well-picked songs such as “Smile”, “That’s Life” and “My Name is Carnival”. I cannot count the times I have listened to this soundtrack since watching the film the first time.

I have seen the film three times now and I have been really unsure whether it was a 4,5/5 or 5/5 film, but considering it has stayed in my head for many days after every viewing, I have to say that I see it as a masterpiece. A film that I would never have expected to see from Todd Phillips. ‘Joker’ is a ruthless and brutally honest depiction of some of the deepest issues in modern society and a grim look at the possible consequences! From its core (Phoenix’ electric and mesmirising performance) it forces us to look at, to acknowledge and to reflect upon and discuss issues that popular culture and governments are normally too afraid to face and handle. In such, the entire discussion about the film in America is nothing but ironic and poignant. The film does in no way glorify violence or murder, nor does it convey unambiguous sympathy towards Arthur and his ultimately repulsive actions. 

What it does, however, is that it dares to show us the person - the human being - behind the tragedies and horrific events that sadly are becoming more and more “normal” in the world today. The people in the periphery of society that we are letting down when medical centres are closed, when we don’t support them, when we expect them to behave like everyone else. That is tough to watch, and it is - of course - easier to just condemn these people as clowns or cheer on a caped crusader as he battles this evil. But in ‘Joker’ there is no Batman, there is no cartoonish villain, there is no looking away. There are only humans and their nuanced nature.

5/5

[dark0angel13]

Battle Scars: Chapter Two

Natsu…

His name is like smoke on the wind, dissipating before he can put a name to the voice as he takes in his surroundings. It’s chaos. He can see Gray, face red with fury while he grips Natsu’s uniform like his life depended on it. His voice is shrill and Natsu winces at each syllable as it resonates through the air.  

Out of his line of sight another voice booms, sending a shiver racing down his spine. He can’t focus enough to hear the individual words spoken but the tone of it has his heart skipping into over drive. He knows this voice, could pick it out anywhere, but for the life of him he can’t remember a face to go with it. It’s female— strong and authoritative— barking commands like its second nature without losing its softness, and he feels at peace when he hears her speak.  

Natsu…

His name echos around him again and the scenery changes like a flash of lightning. Gray is gone and he’s left staring up into a blindingly white ceiling. He’s freezing, and the smell of antiseptic permeates the air. His body feels heavy and his head light as a new face comes into view. Don’t worry, the man says with confidence, I’ve got you now. Natsu can only nod frantically because speaking seems impossible as a mask is placed over his mouth. The smell is atrocious, making him cough before his vision begins to blur.  

“Natsu.”

His vision snaps into focus and his eyes settle on the woman before him, her look of concern trained on him and it’s a moment later that he realizes that he’s clutching the chair tight enough to rip the leather.  

“What?” His question hangs in the air like he doesn’t realize he had mentally checked out of his body and she sighs.  

“You were lost in though,” she crosses her legs and twirls the pen in between her fingers and for some reason he can’t place, Natsu feels exposed. “Did you remember anything?”  

“Explain to me again why I’m doing this?” He wills his muscles to relax but it only helps so much.  

“Because in cases like yours, when there is severe trauma, remembering how it happened and working through it can help you to cope with the reality of it all.” She speaks matter of fact and he has to resist the impulse to roll his eyes. Reality of it… it’s almost laughable.  

“I remember everything just fine Doc,” he snaps, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. “If anything I’d rather forget about it.”  

“Natsu,” Lucy speaks for the first time this session and for some reason it grates on his nerves. “There are days where you forget where you are. This is going to help-“  

“I don’t need you butting in,” He turns on her in an instant, fury flashing through his eyes, “you’re the one who came along with me. If you don’t like how I deal with it, then you can leave.”  

Lucy winces like he’s hit her and looks away, leaving him feeling hollow inside. Why was he so fucking angry?  

“Natsu I don’t think you mean that.” He turns to the shrink and scoffs.  

“So what do I mean then?” He crosses his arms.  

There’s a moment where she thinks and the way she stares right through him is off-putting.  

“I think you appreciate her worrying about you, but because you don’t yet know how to cope with the loss, your lashing out at the people closest to you in hopes of feeling anything other than the emptiness inside you.”  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’s defensive but averts his eyes. He knows exactly what she’s talking about.  

“How many times have you gotten into it with Gray? Or Erza?” She presses, and Natsu tries to sink further into his chair.  

“He’s gotten into a few fist fights with gray over the past few months, and when he speaks to Erza… it never ends well. That’s what got him a court martial.” Lucy’s voice is soft but to Natsu, it’s like explosions going off in his head and his nails dig into his arms. Why does she get on his nerves so damn much? He’s supposed to love her right?  

“Your file says you were medically discharged about two months ago, how have you been taking it?” The woman changes direction and looks to Natsu expectantly.  

“How do you think I’m taking it? It fucking sucks. I was good at what I did, and they kick me out for something stupid like that? After all I did?” He’s shouting now, flashes racing through his mind before it goes blank.  

“I think you’re taking your anger and frustration on the situation, out on lucy who is only trying  to help you. Gray as well.”  

“Gray is still active duty. He’s still overseas, doing the job I was supposed to be doing.” He snaps and out of the corner of his eye he can see Lucy flinch.  

“Do you remember what we talked about in your first session?” She changes direction again and he raises a brow. “About the five most stressful situations a person can experience?”  

“Yeah,” He grumbles. “Death, divorce, illness, job loss, and moving I think you said.” He’s honestly surprised he even remembered that much.  

“Good,” she smiles, “Do you remember what I said after that?”  

“No.” His answer is quick.  

“Humans are creatures of habit, of routine. We live our lives day by day, content with the commonality of doing the same things over and over. It gives us a sense of control over our lives. When that routine is interrupted or changed altogether, we behave differently. We lash out at those closest to us, or even withdraw from society completely. In some rare cases, it’s a combination of both.”  

It’s all coming back to him now, as he sits there listening to her ramble on.  

“It’s not uncommon to feel guilty for the events that happened to you under that extreme stress. It’s normal to feel angry or upset at the situation. It’s not okay, to unleash that frustration and guilt onto your loved ones. That’s why you were told to continue therapy Natsu. we’re doing this in hopes to get to the root of your anger and guilt so you can return to a normal life.”  

“Return to a normal life?” He laughs, “I lost my leg! I can never return to a normal life.”  

“My mistake,” she corrects herself, “I meant to say return to as normal as one can get in your situation.”  

“You wanna know why I feel so angry? So guilty?” He leans in and grips the knot in his pants where it’s tied off. “Because I should be over there helping Gray. I should be fighting for my country, not rotting away at home. I should be chasing down terrorists in Afghanistan, not going to fucking therapy. I’m a soldier!”  

“You’re not a soldier anymore Natsu,” Her words are matter of fact. “You need to realize this and come to terms with it or you’re never going to be able to move on.”  

“Fuck this,” he stands and grabs his crutches, “I don’t need to sit here and listen to this bullshit.”  

“Natsu wait-“ Lucy stands hurried.  

“Have you been using the prosthetic?” It’s a question that stops him in his tracks and his grip on the crutches tightens until his knuckles turn white.  

“He hasn’t gotten fitted for it yet…” Lucy has his blood boiling. How dare she butt into his business like that. He wants to yell, he wants to scream at anyone and everyone, but her warm hand on his back has a calm washing over him in waves and he takes a deep breath.  

“I recommend you do that sooner rather than later Natsu.”  

“What’s the point? It’s not like I can go back into the army. What is there to my life now?”  

“Soldiers have returned to the service with prosthetics before Natsu, it’s not unheard of.”  

“You have me,” he feels Lucy lean against his back and it takes all his strength to stay upright. “We have our life together remember? We’re getting married…” she leaves the sentence open and he feels his heart clench. It’s like she’s giving him an out and he hates himself for pushing her to this point.  

“Yeah,” He reaches for the hand on his shoulder, “we’re getting married. I promise that if nothing else.”  

“I’d like you to work on expressing your feelings more this week. Try talking about your last tour with Lucy, and please get fitted for the prosthetic. It will help make walking easier. I’ll see you next Thursday.” She smiles and stands, holding her hand out for him to shake and part of him is still angry, but another part, somewhere deep down inside him, he feels a little better.  

“Thanks Doc.”  

“Also, please call me if you have any more night terrors.”  

“Will do.” He nods.

-

-

-

“How does that feel?”  

“It feels fine I guess.” Natsu isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to say to a question like that.  

“Trust me Natsu, when you’re walking on it all day, you’re going to care how it feels now. The fitting is the most important part,” the tech trails his fingers over where the prosthetic meets his leg and Natsu swallows hard. It’s still sensitive to the touch. “I need to know if you feel any pinching or discomfort with this on. If need be we can adjust it.  

“There’s no pinching,” he looks down and instantly regrets it. The sight of his missing leg paralyzed him every time and he feels his heart skip into overdrive. “It’s cold though. And I feel it poking me on the inside.”  

“I can fix that,” the tech smiles and removes it to smooth out the interior seam before placing it back on. “Better now?”  

“Much.”  

A FEW WEEKS LATER…

“I said I can do it!”  

There’s a loud crash as Lucy collided with the wall, a gasp of shock echoing in the room before Natsu’s anger dissipates and he realizes what he’s done. There’s a moment of awkward silence while she looks to him with shimmering eyes before her composure solidifies and he’s left winded by the lifelessness coming from her.  

“Lucy I’m-“  

“Save it,” she snaps, pulling herself upright before shoving his prosthetic at him. “You want to do it alone, be my guest.” She’s gone before he can respond and he’s left staring after her dumbfounded.  

Way to go, moron. He’s always fucking things up. It’s why Gray no longer speaks to him, it’s why Erza refuses to be in the same room with him unless there is alcohol. It’s why his relationship is so strained he’s afraid another incident will send Lucy packing. And it’s all his fault.  

“God dammit!” His fist hits with enough force to dent the drywall, but he feels no pain. He doesn’t feel anything anymore; hasn’t for a while now. Everything is a struggle. Getting up is a struggle, getting dressed is a struggle. Being alive is a fucking struggle, and every day he has to fight back the urge to just end it all.  

He hears the front door slam and as the sound reverberates throughout the small apartment, he winces. When had it gotten this bad? The question hangs in the back of his mind but for the life of him, the answer remains a mystery.  

He looks down, his fist clenching. It’s all his fault. If he hadn’t lost his leg, if he had never enlisted in the first place, he wouldn’t be in this mess.  

“You’re a failure,” he chides himself. “You’ve always been a failure and you always will be. Every time you have something good going, you have to fuck it up. Typical Natsu Dragneel.”  

His phone buzzes on the nightstand beside him and his heart skips a beat. Was it lucy? His face deflates when he recognizes the number. No, it’s not lucy.  

“Yeah,” He goes by way of answering. No sense in keeping up formalities. “Dragneel.”  

“You missed physical therapy this morning.” It’s not a question.  

“I forgot about it.”  

“Bullshit Natsu,” the anger in the voice makes him wince. “You missed last week too.”  

“I had a therapy session last week.” Which he didn’t go to either. Not like it was helping anyway. An aggravated sigh meets his ears.  

“Where are you now?”  

“Where do you think I am?” He retorts.  

“I swear to God-“ she cuts off and he can hear her cursing to no one in particular before her voice comes back into focus. “I’ll be there in five minutes. You better be dressed.” The line goes dead before he can think of an excuse to deny her.  

“Fuck,” now he has to get dressed.  

He’s struggling with his prosthetic when he hears the door open and he mentally prepares himself for the shit storm he’s about to endure. She’s shouting before she even walks into the room.  

“This place is a mess!” Of course she goes for that first, “when’s the last time the dishes got washed?” He hears her puttering around and the clinking of glass echoes.  

When was the last time the dishes got washed? He can’t remember. He hobbles out a few minutes later to find her elbows deep in the sink and he sighs.  

“You don’t have to do my dishes Mira,” part of him feels guilty, but the other part is grateful. Lucy was usually the one who cleaned but since his return she’s been pulling extra shifts to help keep up with the bills. Money was a rare commodity of late.  

“If I don’t do them who will?” She turns on him, “you make Lucy do everything around here on top of her working her ass off to keep the bills paid. You could show a little more appreciation ya know.” She really wasn’t pulling any punches this time.  

“What can I do?” He asks heated, lifting his pant leg, “I only have one leg!”  

“That’s no longer an excuse and you know it!” She’s in his face in seconds, her hand wiping across his cheek before he can even react.  

“I work at the VA Hospital Natsu, I’ve seen cases much worse off than you. You still have one good leg. I’ve worked with vets who don’t even have that!”  

“I’m not like them!”  

“You’re God damn right you’re not,” she counters. “They still treat their loved ones with human decency. They don’t take their anger out on them! They came back from their trauma stronger. They didn’t let it swallow them whole.”  

He has nothing to respond with because she’s right. He really is a piece of shit. The past few months have been nothing but him yelling at lucy, at Grey. At everyone around him because he only feels pity for himself. Poor Natsu Dragneel, he lost his leg overseas.  

“It’s not easy…”  

“News flash,” her eyes harden. “Life isn’t easy. What happened to you was tragic yes, but you have a chance to continue on and live your life, I know a lot of soldiers who never got that chance.”  

His shoulders sink and he sighs again.  

“Let’s go,” She starts for the door.  

“Where to?”  

“You’re late for physical therapy and I’m not going to stand here and watch you destroy yourself and everyone around you.” She grips his arm tightly, “you’re going even if I have to drag you there kicking and screaming.”  

He should have know better than to ask. 

END

Just a little something I threw together. I do hope you all enjoy this and stay tuned for the next installment of this shit storm that I call a fic.