#I dream of a world in which a rich person decides to become my patron

[a-dinosaur-a-day]

how many video game ideas do you even have?

an incomplete list of the bajillion video game ideas I have had over the past ten years (if you want verification, @raptorcivilization is usually the schmuck I pitch to) that I can't do because I lack infrastructure and resources:

a redo of the eyewitness dinosaur hunter game for the modern era (but obviously without the eyewitness brand) - so a 3D virtual museum environment with an on-site dig that brings dinos back to life. would include the history of birds after the end-cretaceous.

a redo of the magic school bus explores the age of dinosaurs game (doesn't have to be associated with magic school bus, a cute kulinda protag will work fine) - so a point and click game where you go to different environments, learn about the history of life, play mini experiments and mini games to learn, etc.

a museum tycoon game (why the fuck doesn't this already exist) (I have an elaborate system in my head that would include ethical collection and museum reputation as important factors)

prehistoric photo safari - you go back in time to different ecosystems and take pictures of various things you're asked to take pictures of, like "a pennaraptoran preening" or "a tyrannosaur family group" that kind of thing

an aviary zootycoon/planet zoo esque game - basically you're creating a zoo but it's only birds. I'm not bitter about planet zoo, no, whose asking.

or just another zoo simulator that's a better spiritual successor to zoo tycoon than planet zoo is, so it would include aquatic and extinct stuff like the zoo tycoons always did >_> also more birds

the same idea as above but now it includes fossil/extinct birds too, you're welcome

a game where you go back in time and gather prehistoric life and bring them back to the present and try to recreate extinct ecosystems, with an emphasis on ecosystem dynamics

similarly, an ecosystem simulator like tyto-ecology except... better. and still being developed. and mostly focused on extinct ecosystems.

a stardew-style farming game but you're ravens in a post-human world, creating a new society from scratch. as birds.

a bajillion different @saurian-game - like games set in different environments including the Manda Beds of the Triassic, the Jiufotang Formation of the Jurassic, literally anything other than the red beds of the Permian, Fossil Lake in the Eocene... the list goes on

domesticated Kulindadromeus sheephearder game (@paleopinesofficial you can just steal this idea and put it in your game, that's fine)

fossil stories - basically you live the life of different extinct animals based on their fossils, so dueling/fighting dinosaurs and stuff like that. it would be your basic choose your own adventure story type dealio.

a dinotopia video game. that's it. that's the entire concept. maybe something like simcity or the sims but in dinotopia. there's something there.

jewish themed stardew valley (this isn't dinosaur/bird or prehistoric life related, I'm just annoyed at the christonormativity in stardew [why does xmas exist in this alternate universe] and want to make a jewish version out of spite)

pet parrot simulator. mainly so that people who love parrots but really can't care for them can play the game. also so people who are thinking of getting a parrot can play the game and find out if they really can take care of one. I recognize pet simulators exist but they're never really accurate when it comes to parrot care.

I know I have more but these are the best ones. The ones I come back to the most are the museum tycoon game, the prehistoric photo safari game, and the redo of the magic school bus dino game; and @raptorcivilization is keeping the dream alive for the remake of the eyewitness game.

[marksinn]

Passion Project: Inspiration

I don’t think I’m starting at the beginning with this post. Keep your eyes peeled for later posts that explain what I’m doing and why.

After a month of thinking about, sketching and painting designs, I have finally done something. Essentially, recently watching two films has pushed me into action, and a part of me is ashamed to admit it. There isn’t a word count or any typesetting to curtail my thoughts here, so strap in.

When I created this brief I figured I’d draw a million wee skateboards, colour a few of them in, then fling my favourites into Adobe illustrator and make them look good. From there I would take the 5 best up to the skatepark and ask some of the patrons there which designs stood out to them. Next, I would adapt the three front-runners and create sweet PhotoShop mockups that would show what my designs would look like as skateboards. If I had the time, inclination or money by the end of the project, I would have the design laid onto a real skateboard (I’ve been looking to buy a new one for some time) and then be proud of myself.

So I’ve drawn some wee skateboards. Then I started upscaling the designs onto the floorboards of my loft:

This was an exercise to let me see how small things need to be adapted to be blown up. Skateboards can have any level of detail that you like on them, I hadn’t considered this until I was trying to draw a semi-perfect triangle for the traffic cone, or until I was using chalk to recreate four cubes. It’s also been fun to work with different media on chipboard - I have learned that most kinds of pencil, paint, chalk and charcoal do not like being used on chipboard. Decorating paint, however, has no such issues. Thanks, Dulux!

And so, with a few of these under my belt, I decided to try some digital designs. So I jumped into Illustrator and totally ignored my sketchbook, coming up with three designs that were all inspired by the day I had just had. The top design, I’ll focus on last, for reasons that will become apparent (unless you follow me on Instagram, where you’ll already know that it’s an absolute hit, with over 19 likes already!). I was told by a guy at the skatepark that he likes decks with very basic designs, just a colour or two, nothing overly detailed. Another skater told me that he often likes the basic wood background with one small emblem or sticker just beside the wheels.

The duo-tone design felt nice, I’m usually one for over-complicating things. I definitely have an attitude of “If there’s more in it, there’s a greater chance someone will find something they like”. The first colour choice put my girlfriend in the mind of a hand-bag she had seen photographed in the arms of Carrie Fisher - it was designed to look like a Prozac pill. So I changed the colours up, and added the separating black lines and textures to give it some subtle character. I then went full meta with the Minimal design. And, if I’m being honest, I’m incredibly happy with how it looks like a wee character. Expect to see that making a comeback in the very near future. But the top design is what really got me going. 

I’ve recently been watching...

...Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, and have been loving Miles Morales’ multiple hobbies of graffiti, mixing beats and saving his neighbourhood from a variety of dangers. 

I then went to the cinema to see In The Heights, telling the tale of the Latin community during a blackout in North Manhattan. I found myself wrapped up in the romance, tribulations and music of the cast, and was felt oddly proud of Lin Manuel Miranda - who wrote this as a stage-musical while he was in college, had a modicum of success with it, then went on to create Hamilton, one of the most important musicals of our time. With the success of that particular show taking the entire world by storm, he was given the opportunity to make his old, relatively only semi-popular play into a blockbuster film. You can’t help but be inspired by someone like that.

I often find towards the end of a film I’m inspired by the characters’ journeys: be that from zero to hero, from lonely to loved or from rags to riches. Then I walk out and carry on with my normal life doing normal things. And as the hero of the story’s dreams all came true in the closing minutes (sorry for the spoiler, but it’s a musical, they rarely end in despair), a thought floated across my mind:

I’m utterly sick of being inspired

Now, to my credit, I did figure out in the car home that ‘tired’ would be a far more fitting and rhythmic word to use in this sentence, but this was a mentality that I found resonated really strongly with me. I’m very good at being inspired, I think most people are. We hear stories of people starting their own business, achieving some sporting brilliance or overcoming a personal hurdle and we say “Wow, isn’t that inspiring?” or

“It really inspires you to go out and make a difference!” or

“They are such an inspirational speaker!”

Then we go off about our day, not acting on the inspiration, and, for the most part, remaining uninspired. So I decided to act. 

I did some very quick research (/acquiring of images of graffiti) in order to get the right shapes and textures to create a spray paint effect in Illustrator. I did some very quick research (/confirming the colours) of South American flags, taking the blue and red used in flags of the home nations of Miles Morales from Spider-Man and Usnavi from In The Heights. And I created the top design.

YES! I had been inspired and I had drawn a wee picture to show that - I had acted on my inspirations!

Then I looked to my left and spotted three, blank skate decks that I had bought on a whim from Re:Ply (a wonderful wee company who do a great deal of charity work supplying boards to people who need them, selling boards to people who can afford them, and for a very reasonable fee, providing unusable decks to people who want to use them for artistic purposes). I realised I hadn’t acted on my inspiration, I had just drawn a few pictures of skateboards with the eventual aim of PhotoShopping them onto other pictures of skateboards.

So I took myself...

... into the city centre with a shoddily prepared speech: “I’m looking for some cheap, small cans of spray paint. I’ve no idea what I’m doing, or if I’ll be good at it, so don’t want to invest too much into this.” Hiding behind this self-deprecating shield I barged into multiple art-, pound- and model-shops and pleaded with the staff to help a young idiot out. Amazingly, a very kind shop assistant pointed me in the direction of Fat Buddha, a clothes shop I’d always ignored as it seemed a bit to “...” for me. I don’t know what it seemed, but I knew it wasn't my kind of shop. Happy to prove me wrong, the guys in there were super helpful and they helped me buy my first cans of spray paint. 

Now I’d spent money...

... and as a skinflint, that meant I had to get use out of my purchases. I had tricked myself into being inspired. Inspiration led me to the drawing, inspiration had led me to buy decks and the paint, now inspiration had to make me spray paint.

I’ll stop yammering on now. Essentially, I had planned on creating some analogue designs then digitising them (I’m guessing I should do a post on my brief, yeah? Might just upload the PDF to save me talking more), but then I found that I was doing the complete opposite. Genuinely accidentally. I had played with a few typefaces from various websites to get fonts that represented the ideas I wanted. The top one was semi-stolen (I can’t use the word ‘inspired’ any more in this post) from the end credits of In The Heights. The larger font is something of a nod to inspirational quotes you see on Facebook or on glittery frames in B&M.

I printed those out and cut them into stencils (very impressed that my digital boards have been drawn to a workable scale, thanks Maths). And after putting down a tack-layer (GRAFFITI JARGON (I think)) I sprayed the whole lot in blue.

Next, I tried to get a little fancy. Using cardboard blockers to create straight lines I added stars* (borrowed from the Puerto Rican flag) and made the bottom stripes vaguely reminiscent of America’s Old Glory.

I peeled the lettering off, and I’d done it. I may have to explain the overtly-negative inspirational quote to people, but to me it’s a clear sign that there’s no point in just being inspired, and that’s all I wanted.

A weight I didn’t know I was carrying was lifted from my shoulders. The plan was to possibly end up with a self-designed skateboard. And now I have one.

*Yes, I know they’re crosses.

[fantasyinvader]

So, I decided to finally do it. A long post comparing Edelgard to one of my favorite literary characters, If you even just skim my usual writings, you’ll know who.

Elric of Melnibone is a fantasy character by Michael Moorcock. His saga is often touted as the birthplace of dark fantasy, and has been massively influencial on geek culture in general. It actually served as the basis for Law and Chaos in the first edition Dungeons and Dragons...where Elric was briefly canon before a legal dispute with a company wanting to make their own Elric game. Warhammer is another thing influenced by Elric, and it’s hard not to see where Shin Megami Tensei may be influenced by the saga as well.

I once talked about the influence Elric may have had on Dany from ASoIAF, and since Edelgard is often compared to Dany I figured I could do this as well. The following is just some points of comparison between the two, from me to you.

Empire

Edelgard is the Emperor of the Adrestian Empire, which has existed for over 1000 years. However, it has seen considerable decline over the centuries. While it’s rule once covered the entire continent of Fodlan, now it is one of three countries after people broke away from it. A book in the Shadow Library presents the Empire as very decadent in it’s past, and would use execution as a form of entertainment. This is a historical novel and possibly not factual, but it’s presence suggests this wasn’t an uncommon view of the old empire until recently considering it was Seteth who banned it. Part of it’s decline can be rooted in it upholding some traditions, such as the Crests, from antiquity. It’s rise to power stems from working with the Nabeteans, dragons in a human form. It’s royal lineage claims lineage from one of those dragons, Seiros, though her being a dragon is not something people know. Instead, she is seen more as a saint who helped found the Empire, though she instead runs the Central Church rather than lead the Empire..

Elric was the Emperor of Melnibone, and ancient Empire that ruled the known world for over 10000 years. However, it is a shell of what it was once was. Over the last thousand years it’s influence has waned due to it’s decadence and the hedonistic nature of it’s people. This has led to humans carving out their own kingdoms, the Young Kingdoms, with that time and as of Elric’s reign they have even chanced raiding it’s last city of Immyr. Melnibone is a very beautiful place but this only serves to contrast the cruelty of it’s people. They’re sadistic hedonists, to the point abusing slaves is a regular childhood passtime. Despite worshiping beings of chaos though, Melnibone is committed to a strict adherence to it’s hierachy and traditions. Part of it’s rise to power had to do with it’s relationship with dragons, who helped them conquer the world in such a manner that humans are instinctually afraid of dragons because of it. Another factor is their relationship with Arioch, a lord of chaos who acted as their patron though Aricoch hasn’t been present in Melnibone in a long time.

Views on the Empire

Edelgard sees the Empire as one that has declined, and she wants to restore it to prominence. A big part of this is doing away with the Church and the current system of nobility, instead implementing a system where power is instead gifted to those deemed of merit by her. She also aims to reclaim the lands of the Kingdom and the Alliance. Her whole gig is that she will make people follow her own beliefs. Depending on the route, she may be successful or lead the Empire to it’s destruction.

Elric saw the decline of his Empire, seeing it as a result of it’s decadence. Elric originally left Melnibone in order to venture into the Young Kingdoms, hoping to learn about justice (an alien concept to his people) from humans as Elric wished to rule Melnibone as it had never been before. According to Fortress of the Pearl, Elric intended to create an advisory council filled with people of different nations. This council would share their various perspectives with Elric, who would consider them before making his own decision (Elric does recognize he lacks common sense in some regards). He wanted to restore his empire, making it a beacon of goodness to the world while also caring for the weak.

The Childhoods that Shaped Them

This is one of the harder sections to do, since Edelgard's backstory is full of holes and the implication that she is lying. But the basic version is that as a child, Edelgard was taken from her father and (possibly fabricated) siblings to the Kingdom when a civil war broke out in the Empire due to her father's attempts to consolidate power. Edelgard was kept in isolation for two years, spent the third with Dimitri and then was taken back to the Empire. There, she was experimented on by TWSITD who made her stronger, and it also caused her hair to turn white. Edelgard blames the nobility and the Church for this, saying it's all because of the society she lives in and begins to plot conquest in order to change it.

Elric's mother died during childbirth, which made his father a distant figure in his life. Elric was also born a weak albino, incapable of even standing if not for sorcery and potions. As  a result of this weakness, the young prince ended up spending more time studying in preparation for taking the throne. In his studies, Elric learned about concepts that had long been forgotten by his people. Stuff like justice, guilt, mercy, and how your actions can cause trouble for others. This caused Elric to become a more kind and gentle Melnibonean, but as a result of this he was alienated from most of his people for they could not alien and distant to them. Elric's training made him a masterful swordsman (but not to the same extent as his cousin Yrrkoon) and the most powerful sorcerer Melnibone had seen for generations. Through his dream quests, he relived the adventures of his ancestors. He doesn't remember these quests though (and they would have been big warnings to what was in store for him), instead only taking the magical knowledge they learned with him. As a result of successfully completing these quests, Elric was deemed his father's successor over Yrrkoon.

Allies

One of Edelgard's chief allies is the group known as Those Who Slither in the Dark. The same people who experimented on her, calling her their greatest creation. They provide her with aid in her war in the form of weapons and destabilizing her future targets. However, Edelgard does not like them for obvious reasons and plans to take them out. She is using them to further her own ends at the moment, providing them resources in order to reap the benefits. TWSITD are also implied to be aiding/manipulating many other groups in pursuit of their own goals.

Edelgard also has Hubert and Jeritza. The former is willing to kill anyone he feels is a threat regardless of Edelgard's orders, the latter is a mentally ill man she has weaponized. There are various other allies as well, but it's weird. In CF, she'll cry for two up and comers in her army in a show to gain sympathy. But she'll also toss her former classmates into danger and show no reaction to their resulting deaths. Even Hubert, who has been her longest serving ally. She also dismisses his contributions, saying she never had anyone to support her like Dimitri (in Azure Moon) had.

Elric has Arioch, the patron god of his people. Arioch is a lord of Chaos, also known as the Knight of the Swords. He lends Elric his aid at various points, but it's always a matter of when he chooses to do so. If Elric is doing something Arioch doesn't want him to do, then he will not answer his call. Aricoch calls Elric his favorite Melnibonean and his slave, Elric invoking his help give him more presence and power within the world as well. This is part of Arioch's plans, but during the final war Elric rejects the side of Chaos and slays Arioch's physical body, banishing Arioch (who exists in many bodies across the multiverse) from ever stepping foot in Elric's world ever again. Chaos is also shown to aide others in pursuit of their goals

Elric also has various friends, chief among them is Moonglum. Moonglum is a thief and mercenary, in addition to someone with less of a conscience than Elric himself! Moonglum does chase after riches, but has issue with Elric's methods. Moonglum will sell slaves for a profit and, in one instance, killed a giant Elric had worked out an agreement with because fate said that the giant would be slain. During the course of his adventures, Elric loses all those he holds dear. This helps fuel a deep sense of self-loathing within him.

Pride

Edelgard is a very prideful person, to the point many would call her arrogant. As such, she will not sway from the goals she sets for herself. Even if her army is defeated and she herself is facing her executioner, she will not back down. She is even willing to throw away her humanity in this regard.

Elric's (out of universe) nickname is the Proud Prince of Ruins. Despite his self-loathing, he will not kill himself due to his pride. It is also for this reason that Elric will not allow anyone to kill him. In addition, he's also fighting the influence of Stormbringer (his black runesword). To quote Blue Oyster Cult, Elric doesn't want to be a “red-eyed, screaming ghoul.” In addition, while he serves Chaos he makes it clear he does not want to be their plaything.

Goals

Edelgard claims that her goal is to dismantle the Church of Seiros and the Crest Nobility System, freeing mankind while also creating a system where people of merit are appointed to power. However, there are many hints that her real goal is the conquest of Fodlan, unifying it under her uncontested rule. After that, she intends to have her underlings take out TWSITD from the shadows.

Before the fall of Melnibone, Elric wanted to rule his Empire as it had never been ruled before. To this end, he left his throne to journey out into the young kingdoms. He intended to learn from humanity subjects such as justice. However, after Yrrkoon usurpted the throne and Elric lead human raiders in destorying his own empire, Elric wandered the world searching for answers.

See, as a being of Chaos Elric held a certain worldview. There was no master plan of the universe, there is no order but what we force upon the world. Bad things happen just because, so there isn't any reason for Elric not to do as he wishes. The fall of Melnibone is actually a pivotal moment to Elric, who had before believed in questioning his use of his own power and restraint. For instance, he allowed Yrrkoon to live before despite being a traitorous son of a bitch because Elric believed he was so much more powerful than his cousin, and allowing him to live showed that. Now Elric had taken up a more hedonistic lifestyle common with his people. Elric's travels see him seek out any form of proof though that there is a great will at play, for Elric is willing to accept that because it would mean his suffering had reason.

Towards the end, Elric tries to avoid his destiny. See, the Lords of Law had long since planned out Elric's life in pursuit of their goal. Believing there to be a greater power that willed this, they set up Elric to be their tool during the final war. The world, heavily influenced by Chaos, would be destroyed and Law would be able to rebuild it as a safer one for mankind (should mankind come into existence again). Elric tried to avert fate and win the war against Chaos, but in the end he failed. The world was warped and a reset was the only option.

The Ends Justify the Means

In pursuit of her goals, the game makes it out that there is very little Edelgard wouldn't do. Conscript an unwilling populice to fight for her? No big. Destablize other nations or attempt to assassinate heirs before the war starts? Yawn. Work with TWSITD? From before the game began. Using monsters that they made out of people? Sure, she says she doesn't like it and would stop it if she could, but she doesn't as there's mention of their usage in CF.

It's all wrapped up in her attempts at spreading misinformation. She is shown to lie and keep people in the dark in order to support her war. She makes herself look like the hero in this case, but the clues are blatantly there if you take even one step outside her narrative. She is viewed not as a liberator, but a conquerer. And it's hard to get a grasp of what she herself believes, since due to her manipulative nature every word out of her mouth is suspect.

While Elric will attempt to do the right and honorable thing at times, his nature as a Melnibonean (be it blood or being raised in such a culture) has made him a pragmatist. As such, there is very little Elric wouldn't do in order to obtain victory.

Burn a half-million not-Dothraki alive with napalm spitting dragons? Okay. Sustain himself on the souls of those slain by Stormbringer? He finds it distasteful, but it gives him power that he's addicted to. Summon demons who will rip out the souls of his enemies, flinging them to the wind so they may never know peace? Standard practice. Force a man to attempt to eat a giant pearl while pouring poison down his throat to wash it down? The dude deserved it. Single-handedly commit a massacre in such a manner survivors suffer PTSD? That was the price they payed for the Pearl.

Elric doesn't try to justify his actions though. He doesn't claim moral high ground, in his own words he may have slain dictators and sorcerers, but did so with means equal to that which was already there. Not to mention, he does recognize the sheer number of good people who die because of him since he often overlooks collateral damage. Elric fully realizes just how evil his actions are, he's haunted by what conscience he does have, and he world around him recognizes this as well. People fear him, hiring Elric as a mercenary is akin to inviting your own doom. Hell, when he was trying to lead humanity against the forces of Chaos his past acts caused the people of the Souther continent not to give their support (which may have turned the tide at that point of the war).

Despite this, Elric has been shown to free slaves, save children and stop rapes because he wishes to. This is in spite of his own culture, which used slaves, would use cannibalism as a punishment. In addition, while Elric can be cruel (boyhowdy can he be cruel), he is never cruel without cause. You have to piss him off pretty bad in order to get a nasty death. In addition, Elric is shown to repay kindness as best he can.

The reason why I did this was I compared Elric to Dany before, and how he might have influenced her. People compare Edelgard to Dany all the time, so I wanted to put her against Elric. Honestly, once I began writing I keep coming up with more and more stuff. Edelgard has a lot in common with Elric, I could go on. How they're both short-sighted and make dumb decisions, or how Edelgard is known for being unemotional while Elric, when he's performing his evilist of actions because otherwise he's either a dramaqueen or theatrical, can commit atrocities without emotion or hate. But I'm going to stop here for now. Let me know what you guys think.

[tomhollandish]

Always Like This

A/N: After maybe two years of never writing anything, I’m back for @pparkerwrites writing challenge! This is my magnum opus, clocking in at 14k, and it’s inspired by Studio Ghibli’s Whisper of the Heart, The Louvre by Lourde, the prompt “I wish we could stay like this forever”, and my own anxiety about finishing college and growing older.

Summary: As you begin wrapping up your final year in college, you have some wishes, fears and regrets. This is the story of how you overcame all of them, with a little help from your friends. Platonic!Avengers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, mentions of past Bruce Banner x Reader and Quentin Beck x Reader (Yeah, I know,)

Warnings: Cursing, Mentions of (public) sex, and the reader being an anxious wreck

Word count:  14k (my bad)

                                         *            *            *            *

There is a tap once, twice, three times against the plastic cubicle, but your attention is elsewhere. As you breathe heavily, you can still see the black and white pages of your latest research endeavor printed underneath your eyelids. You swim in the words, trying to pick out what you can even comprehend when the rapping becomes less gentle.

“’Tis some visitor,” you recited, mumbling out the lines of a poem you’d once memorized. “Rapping at my chamber door.”

“It’s campus police,” the visitor said, and you fumbled to sit up properly. The harsh florescent lights made your eyes bleed, and the ugly khaki uniform of the man hovering over you was just as terrible a sight.

“Fuck,” you cursed, and then upon realizing that you just cursed in front of an officer (a glorified security worker, but you weren’t about to take pot shots right now), you covered your mouth. “I’m sorry, I just–”

“I just need your ID.” He smiled politely and you squirmed under the gesture.

“Right.”

You found it wholly ridiculous that this man was carding you in your campus library at—what time was it? —three in the morning as if you could be anyone other than a student. No sane person would be doing this without reason, and even so your reasons were wearing incredibly thin as your shitty bachelor’s degree grew closer into your clutches.

A bachelor’s degree in English? What will you even do with that?

Doesn’t matter what it’s in. It just matters that I’ve got it.

You didn’t want to spend four years doing something you hated. (With your bullshit Liberal Arts Program, it was really only two years of English, but who was counting?) You thought it would be easy to just pick up some desk jobs that would pay the bills once you graduated. But then you decided to grow noble and have an ambition and things rapidly changed.

The officer handed your card back to you. His eyes flitted over to the mess of a work station you had, before giving a pitying smile. “Long night huh? Haven’t seen you stay here this late in a while.”

Goosebumps ran up your arm. You tried to play it cool, painting on a smile as you wracked your brain for familiarity. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”

“No, not really. I’ve been working this shift for maybe two years, and you’re on this floor a lot at night. I just, uh, remember you.”

“Uh,” you blinked, unable to answer. The odds of this guy remembering you were like, twenty thousand to one. And while you were a regular patron of the third floor (it is the film section after all) it seemed unlikely that someone could pick out your face.

The guard seemed to understand that he’d stumped you, so he scratched the back of his neck sheepishly and moved on. Still stunned, you stared back at the pile of books across the table and groaned at the thought of continuing. It was late, and you had class at ten the next morning. The very class you were doing all this work for.

You sighed deeply and pondered whether or not to call it a night—it was only the third week of the fall semester and you were already working like a dog. There was a terrible feeling in your gut that if you didn’t save your energy for later, it would bite you in the ass.

Settling for checking out one last book, you scribbled down its call number and pulled yourself out of the mini cubicle, heading for the stacks. As you made your way you noticed that there were really only a few other people with you, many of them with their heads ducked into textbooks or laptops, engrossed in their own worlds.

The people began to fade away as the rows and rows of books dominated the room. You looked up and down between your notebook as you stomped through sections, passing anatomy, then biology before glancing at American literature. You ducked down one row, fingers grazing every book as you mumbled the call number under your breath, afraid it would escape you.

Finally, you knelt down, wincing as your knees cracked audibly in the quiet library. Sitting on the bottom shelf like it had been waiting on you for eons was the book in question; an innocuously black bound book, the title in plain white letters on the spine. A library reprint. You opened it, just be sure it was the exact copy you were looking for, when you realized something.

Someone had annotated this copy. Your school didn’t charge damages for writing in library books, but this person seemed to have written paragraphs worth of content between margins and on blank pages. It was the kind of analysis that could only belong to someone taking it very seriously; perhaps a fellow film studies major.

But the writing wasn’t mesmerizing because it was insightful, rather, it was because you recognized it. You stomped your way back to your seat with purpose, looking for the other companion novel; a newer, cleaner, bigger book and yet, as you flipped the pages you caught glimpses of the handwriting—legible, but obviously a quick scrawl. The e’s were always connected to the letter after it, and the m’s were hardly definable squiggles, but it was still nice to look at.

As you’d combed your way through these books, you’d found their handwriting more than once. They usually echoed the sentiment you’d been trying to capture, but they had done so first. It had discouraged you at first, thinking yourself a simple copy-cat, but it later comforted you that someone shared your ideals.

It was wishful thinking to wonder about them. Useless and distracting.

You still entertained the thought.

The whole trip back to your dorm, you busied yourself with thoughts of them–their major, if they had graduated already or if they were still here; what if you shared a class with them, or better yet, if you knew them? Your mind filled with romantic possibilities as your body took you through the process of getting you home—a maneuver you could pull in your sleep.

Once at home, you forgot all the formalities of bedtime routines and simply stripped down, crashing straight into bed. Sleep would overcome you in any moment, but in your last fleeting moments of consciousness you dreamed of flipping pages and handwriting.

                                           *            *            *            *

If college were a racket, you’d be fucking rich.

You’ve been at the same shit for nearly two decades, and still you felt like you were the absolute best at it. Sure, you weren’t top of the class (probably not even close) but your professors loved you and other students made the effort to know your name. You weren’t the obnoxious teacher’s pet, nor were you class clown, but people acknowledged your existence, which was honestly more than you could ever ask for.

It was moments like these when you thought twenty thousand a year (all in loans!) might have been worth it; you were talking with your professor—whom you called Kyle with the ease of an old friend—after class about some nonsense that had happened over the weekend, about the movies you had watched recently, and about school.

You felt a strange bittersweetness as he began to talk about your undergraduate thesis again, bringing up all the regalia that your presentations entailed. Maybe he noticed your sudden hesitation at the topic, because he stopped speaking and hummed.

“You’ve already started working on it, haven’t you?” It was a confirmation, but there was still a layer of trepidation to his voice you couldn’t decipher. You nodded, but it didn’t disappear. “You’re far more prepared than the others.”

“I’ve been thinking about this since sophomore year,” you confessed. “It’s nerve wracking, thinking about the presentation, but I like the topic.”

“When you blurted out your thesis during the first meeting, I think everyone wanted to kill you,” he laughed. “But as I’ve gotten to know you, I’m not surprised at all. You always know what you want.”

There was a lull then—a moments hesitation where you wanted to bluntly correct Kyle and tell him that you didn’t actually know what you wanted, but the words wouldn’t come out. Instead you smiled, and took that silence as a good place as any to end the conversation and quickly walk out of the room as the reality of your situation crashed back into you.

Staring at the tiles beneath your feet, you tried not to trip over your own mental leaps. Everything came folding in on itself as you thought of the upcoming semesters like the end of an era; the last of your eighteen years of education. Anxiety crept up your spine like a chill, and you felt yourself gripping your books tighter to keep from shaking.

And them something jammed into your shoulder, hard, the books in your hand spilling all over the floor. You grumbled to yourself, thinking you’d clumsily walked into a wall, but then you heard “Um, hello?”

Fear struck your heart as you turned to face someone: a boy, looking at you with knotted brows and his arms open with the expectation of an apology. Your fear turned to annoyance as you studied details like his tiny, low ponytail, his navy-blue blazer and the copy of The Sound and The Fury clutched in his hand.

You looked back at his face, painted with clear annoyance and spat out a half-assed, “sorry,” topped with a fake smile. His animosity was near palpable as he heel turned and kept walking, leaving you to pick up your things alone. You muttered under your breath angrily.

“Asshole, English Major Prick.”

                                          *            *            *            *

It was ironic to call the boy you’d bumped into earlier an asshole, considering who you spent your time with.

Your Monday/Wednesday afternoon schedule ended with a late as hell lunch with some old friends. Emphasis on old, because you were pretty sure after your major switch you had nothing in common with these men anymore.

“And what I’m telling you,” Tony Stark punctuated with a wave of his hands, “is that there’s no way Beck’s design would even theoretically work, let alone should Dr. “MIT graduate” allow him to continue with this completely doomed to fail idea.” He pointedly took a bite of the (likely now cold) pasta he’d spent ten minutes raving over before spitting it out onto a napkin. “God, what the fuck is up with this cafeteria?”

“Maybe if you would shut up for ten seconds, your food would still be warm.” You never had any clue what the self-proclaimed genius was ever talking about. It was a wonder you considered him a friend still, but even his annoying tendencies couldn’t break the brotherhood you all had from sharing the shittiest dorm on campus freshman year. You felt like you still owed Tony a debt for killing that roach in your shower all those years ago.

“I agree with Y/N, for once.” You side eyed Strange, wondering if there was some sort of punchline, but then he gave a nod of solidarity. “You’ve been complaining about this guy non-stop.”

“Beck is just,” Tony banged his fists on the table, shaking every one of your trays. “So infuriating. Y/N, how did you ever fuck this guy?”

“Stop,” Bruce says, his arms hovering over his drink and other objects that might fall over. “Tony, I’m begging you to let this go.”

“See, even Bruce admits he’d tired of this. Can we move on please?”

“Oh? Tired of me bring up your ex in front of your ex?”

“Tony, knock it off,” Bruce warned, but there was no threat in his voice. Tony dropped the subject, but still looked at you with a mischievous glint in his eye.  

“Or do you have any exciting developments in…what is it you do again?”

You threateningly held out your fork towards the engineering major and he flinched. “I’m about to major in murder if you don’t Shut. Up.”

The three science majors stopped their babbling and hurriedly shoveled their food into their mouths. You sighed into your cup of powered lemonade. While you were used to Tony’s jabs, he was right: your future felt inconsequential next to their aspirations. But you would be damned if you let either him or Stephen Strange know that you felt that way.

Bruce laced his fingers together and fidgeted for a moment. You turned to him, and he smiled nervously. “So, how’s your paper coming along?”

There was another awkward pause as you sipped your drink, trying to come up with something impressive or dramatic enough to hold their attention. And then you rolled your eyes at the thought. “Well, I’m at the part of the process where I sit in the library until my mind goes numbingly blank from staring at an empty word document or director interviews or companion books and then I go home and never sleep.” You said honestly. This earned a laugh out of Tony.

“English Majors: They’re just like us!” he joked.

“That fact that you think college majors are equivalent to high school cliques is very telling of your immaturity,” you sneer at Tony. He throws a fake smile at you—not that any of his smiles are ever real.

“Psychoanalyze me all you want, Dickinson,”—his habit of calling you whatever writer came to his mind was also telling— “But the fact is, the three of us are more like each other than we are to you. It’s just facts.”

You looked to Bruce for a moment. Like always, he was on the same wavelength as you—he averted his gaze the moment you two locked eyes. “Be that as it may, we’re still friends somehow.”

“‘Somehow’ being the operative word,” Strange spoke under his breath. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Not my fault the three of you are giving into society’s capitalist ways and are only in it for the money.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tony says, dropping his fork in his barely touched food. He purposefully scoots his chair back with a grating noise and you wince at the sound. “Y/N, I can’t handle you when you’re like this.”

You huffed. “Now you know how we feel about you all the time.”

“I’m done with this discussion. Strangelove, Brucey,” he acknowledges his friends by their stupid nickname before rolling out. Strange sighs before following his lead, but Bruce stays put.

“He’s sensitive about that.”

You shrugged. “Then maybe he should try going into a career that helps people instead. No ones making him become a money mongering executive.”

“You know what his dad is like.”

“Yeah, rich.”

Bruce dragged his hands down his face, but there was a chuckle underneath his exasperation. “Your coldness is honestly so incredible. Aren’t writers supposed to be compassionate?”

“I am compassionate,” you stated defensively. And then, more flippantly, “Just not to rich industrialists who steal from the middle class.”

You laughed when Bruce shook his head at you. “You’re unbelievable.”

“So are you,” you said, nudging his shoulder with your own. There was nothing in the gesture, not like there used to be. “I mean, you want to be a nuclear physicist, or whatever. Ain’t nothin in that but prestige and your name on same wall.”

“You know that’s not what I want.” He used that voice, the one you’d become intimately familiar with towards the end of your relationship. “I just want to pursue something I’m passionate about. Isn’t that what you want too?”

The fruit under your fork slid out and rolled across the table. Both of your eyes followed it as it fell out of sight, and then you said nothing. Bruce sighed.

“I didn’t mean too—”

“Yeah you did.”

The buzzing of your phone jolted you two out of the tense moment. You lifted it up, seeing a message from Steve. You felt Bruce’s eyes peering over at your phone.

“You got to go?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll walk you there.”

“No, Tony’s probably waiting for you outside. He’ll just follow both of us if you don’t go with him.”

He pursed his lips, caught between a rock and a hard place. He looked up at you as you prepared to leave.

“I really didn’t mean it.”

“Even if you didn’t, you’re right.” It wasn’t hard to admit anything to Bruce, even after everything. “You’re damn good at it too.”

He tried to swallow back his bashful smile, but there was still a shimmer of it in his eyes. “You’re good at what you do, too.”

“Well, after four years, I’d fucking hope so.”

Bruce laughed through his goodbye, and you reveled in that small victory as you booked it to the art building.

                                        *            *            *            *

Perhaps it’s the creative part of you, but a piece of your heart fully adored that decrepit, godforsaken building. The elevator was broken, the hallways were a rotating gallery of amateur and professional projects, and it always smelled like some sort of chemical, but the building has charm.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Steve stopped in his tracks to look at you when you said that. He’d been guiding you through the labyrinth known as Bauer Hall with a well-trained quickness. He resumed it after the initial shock of your statement wore off. “You’re a real romantic, you know that?”

“I do,” you said, knowing there was no way to defend yourself from such a true statement. “But so are you.”

“There’s only so many things I can romanticize, and I have to say, Bowser Hall ain’t one of them.” You laughed through your nose at the ridiculous nickname. “Besides, I’m all romanced out.”

Steve walked through a room lined with canvases bigger than the both of you. In different corners students painted in different styles, with different elaborative brush strokes that revealed their subjects in a matter of moments. Someone’s music played from a wireless speaker, but you imagined everyone had tuned it out.

Steve lead you to his station, which was currently covered with photos of you. It was embarrassing to see yourself plastered all over his desk, but as you studied to pictures closer, you became enthralled.

“Is it narcissistic to compliment how awesome these looks?” Awesome didn’t even encapsulate the emotion. Not by a long shot. Over the summer Steve had approached you about featuring in his senior art show pieces, and you’d shot preliminary photos. He couldn’t guarantee that he’d paint you given the complexity of his idea (as well as his own perfectionism) but now he was promising that he would paint you.

So, you stared down at the photos, remembering the how he’d climbed onto your roof at night and shined a flashlight taped with blue gels through your window and you tried not to laugh. The fruits of that night where in your fingertips, and you were struck at how much more somber your face looked on a physical photo than it had on the camera that night.

“It’s not narcissistic considering Nat took the photo,” he said, leaning over your shoulder. He rummaged through the stack before he pulled out a specific picture. “I think I’m going with this one.”

“Of course you are,” you poked fun at him, but you actually did like that photo. The light that shined across your eyes was blue, but you were shrouded in a hazy purple. It was a close shot, with your hands framing the expression on your face that was equal parts haunting and beautiful. Steve had been trying to capture those hard-to-explain moments that crossed people’s faces, and yours had been the most agonizing. In his words.

“With most people it takes forever to get the shot. You got it in one.” There was veiled concern in his statement, but you’re a master of words. You drop the photo and step back from it all, looking at Steve.

“Wasn’t hard,” was all you told him. Steve took the photo and tacked it up to a ready to paint canvas.

“I’m thinking about using these two as well.” Steve handed you two other photos of different subjects, only one of which you really know.

“When’d you take this?” You flipped over the photo Sam, his face caught precisely between elation and realization. Steve took it gingerly before sitting back on his stool. You wished he could paint the look of utter longing that plagued his own blue eyes.

“He got the deployment letter that morning,” Steve explained. His voice was low as he talked through the lump in his throat. “I asked him to pose for me, because I knew when I saw his face that I wanted to capture whatever the hell it was I just saw.”

“He’s used to being your guinea pig. I’m sure he liked knowing he’s the inspiration for your project.”

“He’ll probably hold it over my head ‘till I die,” Steve managed a laugh, but it was hollow. The sigh he took afterwards could have cracked his ribs.

“It’ll be a great gift, you know? A huge photo of his favorite thing—himself.” His laugh this time was slightly more genuine. You’d have to take it.

“Who’s this?” You showed Steve the second photo, one of a man whose face was marred with the shadow of blinds, his eyes looking back as if it pained him to. Nat was a wonderful photographer, and Steve had an amazing vision, but you knew Steve well enough to know that whoever this was, the look was all his own.

“Oh, that’s Buck,” he said easily, and you lean forward as a gesture to elaborate. “Bucky, my best friend?”

“Not ringing any bells.”

“Hmm. You probably don’t know him because he was in Prague the semester we became friends.” Steve had been part of your freshman dorm nightmare, but he lived on a different floor than the rest of you. You didn’t get to know him until you realized Nat was a mutual friend.

“Did he spend a whole year there?” You leaned forward and stared at the picture, trying to find any recollection of this guy. “Cause it’s been like, a year since then.”

“No, but he did have an internship when he came back, I’d forgotten about that.”

You dropped the photo, feeling jealousy prickle down your arms. “Wow. Busy guy.”

“He tries to keep himself busy. Otherwise he looks like that all the time.” You understood the implication. You pinned the photos next to each other and contemplated just how Steve was going to recreate them in all their glory. He seemed to have the same thought, because he ran a hand through his hair.

“It really will take me all semester, but I’m excited.” He bounced on his feet. “I think I’ve found my thing.”

“Your thing?”

“Yeah, my niche, I guess,” he shrugged, but his excitement was contagious. “It’s good to be excited about something again.”

“I’m glad you love your project, because it’s going to turn out amazing,” you assured him.

“Thanks. I started Sam’s painting already and it wore me out. I think I’ll start on Buck’s next. Sorry,” he shot you an apologetic grin. “I’m just tired of looking at the same colors.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me for anything,” you said earnestly. “I totally get it. In fact, I think I’ve taken a long enough break on my own work.” You backed away from the blank canvas and glossy photos, feeling claustrophobic all of a sudden. “It’s no masterpiece, but.”

“Hey, your writing is always incredible. I read that paper you wrote about the mis-en-scene of Art Cinema.” He recited with your work with such ease, it made you blush. “You’re really good at writing., Y/N.”

“You remembered.” You tried to laugh off the little swell of pride in your chest. “You’re sweet, Steve, but this is a lot more than a three-page writeup.”

“If it’s yours, it’ll be great. What’s your thesis again?”

“The politics of monster movie horror films.” When you told him, Steve shook his head with a proud grin.

“See? That’s brilliant!”

“It’s been done before—”

“Everything’s been done before. But you haven’t done this. You’re smart, you love movies, and you’re the most well rounded, analytical person I know. You’ve got this.”

You wanted to run back and give him the clingiest hug of your life, but instead you swung bashfully on the doorframe. “Thank you for your support, Steve, but I have to at least write it first.”

He waved you off. “Fine. Go, be great.”

You felt something unidentifiable rise in your stomach as you left, the knot only growing bigger and bigger until you reached the library. You wanted to exhale it out of your chest as you pushed the up button in the elevator, but it stayed stuck in your throat instead. You decided to leave it be as you settled into one of the plastic cubicles on the third floor, your home for the foreseeable future.

                                           *            *            *            *

Anxiety. That had been the feeling.

It gnawed at your stomach and in return you gnawed at your lip, thinking about Steve’s success as an artist and Bruce’s summer spent applying to grad schools. The future was in sight for both of them while yours was blocked by your laptop screen, showing you the three pages you had done out of the twenty you needed.

Angrily, you slammed the computer screen down and shoved it into your bag. The buzzing overhead light made red spots dance in your eyes even when you closed them, so you figured it was time for a break.

And by “break”, you meant spending the fifteen minutes between your apartment and the library trying to reword the sentence that had been bugging you over and over again. You were so out of it that when you opened your apartment door you were in shock of all the people sitting in your living room, despite having seen all their cars parked out in front.

Someone’s greeting went whizzing by you, but it’s only after the door slammed shut did you piece together that it was Pietro. The rest of the group chorused “Hi Y/N” with varying levels of enthusiasm.

“Hey, sorry they’re so loud,” Wanda pulled her cardigan close when she crossed her arms, smiling uncertainly at you. “I won’t have them here too late.”

“Nah, they’re fine,” you brushed off, slipping out of your uncomfortable shoes. You hated the fall—it always encouraged your terrible habit of style over function. “I’m just here for a quick costume change then it’s back to the ol’ grind.”

Normally Wanda would chuckle at your ridiculous phrases, but she creased her brows when she continued talking. “Actually, we were thinking of grabbing some food. Pietro’s bulking, or doing some other stupid diet and Viz thought we could go back to the diner. You know, the one on the corner of 11th?”

Oh, you knew the 11th street diner. It was the premier spot; you’d been there on dates, 21st birthdays, celebrated there after long arduous projects, and gorged on fries after movie marathons with Peter. The sheer mention of the diner was enough to make you swoon, and Wanda was likely exploiting that weakness.

So, when you sighed, her eyes lit up. “I’m sorry,” you said, watching as her shoulders deflated. Your heart broke at the sight. “I have to work on this paper. It’s—”

“Your senior thesis, I know, but. Y/N when was the last time you ate?”

You had the audacity to look defensive. “I ate with Bruce and Tony earlier today.”

“I saw Bruce and I asked him. He said you only ate a bowl of fruit and some lemonade.”

Snitch. “I wasn’t hungry.”

“You need to take a break from your work or you’re going to burn out.”

The sound that came out of your mouth was harsh and condescending. “I’m already a burnout, Wanda. I’ll be fine. Have fun at the diner.” You dodged the rest of her questions by slipping into your room and closing the door. As you hurried into a sweatshirt and old jeans, you heard the gang walk out of the house and leave you in silence. You checked to see if the apartment was empty before grabbing your things and locking up.

You planned on daydreaming the rest of the way back to the library, but the sound of a bicycle following you made your hair stand on end. When you turned to see who it was, you relaxed the grip on your pepper spray.

“Fucking hell, Parker,” you chastised as the teenager as he hopped off his bike and came up to walk beside you. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“You looked like you were going to shank me,” he laughed, falling into stride with you. Regardless of his own destination, Peter would always ditch his own path to walk with you, day or night. The night part was incredibly sweet and chivalrous. “Where are you going anyways?”

“Library,” you said curtly. You were tired of explaining yourself. “You?”

“Came back from MJ’s, I’m heading home.” Peter still lived on campus due to his scholarship, and frankly, you were a little envious. It would be amazing to live seven minutes from the library again.

“How is the new girlfriend?” The smile in your voice made Peter roll his eyes.

“MJ’s fine. She’s in abnormal psych and she hates it because it’s too basic for her.”

“Ugh, yeah I took that class. But it’s a prerec for—”

“Psychopathology,” you two said simultaneously. “She told me.”

“If she wants, she can have my old notes from the class.”

Peter quirked his brow. “You still have them?”

You shrugged. “I keep all my old notebooks.”

“Why?”

The question was simple, but you felt yourself pondering the answer for longer than you’d care to admit. Why did you keep all that old stuff? You never went back and studied any of it, so it was essentially junk. Yet you treasured it like a childhood keepsake.

“I don’t know,” you lied, completely aware that you felt exposed by Peter’s question and embarrassed by the real answer. “I thought they’d come in handy one day. Looks like I was right.”

Peter looked at you, and it struck you how similar the expression was to the one Bruce had given you earlier. When he’d asked you about passion and doing what you wanted.

He seemed to drop the topic, because when he opened his mouth again, he said, “I don’t think she needs it, considering how much she loves that kind of stuff, but thanks for offering.”

You only hum in acknowledgment, spending the rest of your walk together listening to the cars passing by and the soft clicks of Peter’s bike chains; sounds that had plagued you since sophomore year.

After this year, you’d never hear them again.

You bit your lip to keep from sighing. Peter would surely ask you what was wrong, but you couldn’t admit all this to him. He had way too much on his plate, between his honors scholarship, his biochemistry major and his job running the Photo Lab, it was a wonder he even spent time with you.

There was no way to tell Peter you missed him without spilling your guts, and you were too tired and too scared to say it. So instead you made a joke when you parted ways, and spent too much time in your head worrying about what you should’ve said.

And if you’d been paying attention instead, you wouldn’t have bumped into someone for the second time that day. This time the person had spilled all their books, a large stack of hardbacks that scattered in the doorway.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry,” you said, not looking them in the eye. You crouched down to help them pick up their books, but when you placed The Essentials of Faulkner into someone’s hand, you looked up.

The blue eyes were soft on yours for a brief moment before recognition sparked in them. The man furrowed his brows before standing to his full height, which towered over you even when you stood too.

“You again,” he said, arrogance still pronounced. The English Major Prick.

Your blood pressure seemed to spike with anger. “Hey, I said I was sorry.”

“I’m mostly just shocked at my odds,” he said. “I must be the unluckiest person in this whole university to get knocked over by the same spaced-out girl twice.”

“One,” you glared, “I didn’t knock you over, my shit fell the first time. Second of all, you could also avoid me, ya know.”

“Oh, so this is my fault?”

“Hey,” a third party cut through your arguing. Someone walked around you two, flicking his middle finger at the both of you. “People have to fucking walk here.”

“Mind your business, asshole!” you whisper-yelled, and at the same time the English Major Prick said “Take a fucking hike, buddy!”

You were about to stare at him, but he was already disappearing into the pitch blackness. You shook off the encounter and headed back up to your regular post on the third floor.

Determined to actually get farther than before, you treaded through the floor stacks, searching up and down for the theory books you needed. One such book you found on your first stop, flipping through the index to find the pages you were looking for. A flash of blue caught your eye, and marked all over the page was the mysterious handwriting, like in the books from before.

“Huh,” you said, wondering what the odds were that you had checked out the exact same books as this person. It was unbelievable, and quite fantastical, if you were honest, but here it was; their handwriting in your hands once again.

“I wonder if I’ll find you, mystery person,” you lamented, before closing the book and carrying on.

                                           *            *            *            *

Weeks passed by in a similar haze: you would spend your days pretending to take notes while in reality you were highlighting sentences in articles, re-wording paragraphs and rearranging structures in your head. Mid-terms came and went, stringing you out even further. Time was unraveling at the seams, only stitching itself together when you needed to know what day it was or where to be.

Everyone around you seemed to be planning for something though; whether it was grad school or lining up jobs, or even something as simple as graduation, their eyes were on some far away prize while you could barely visualize waking up the next day.

Kyle noticed this. “You look awful,” he’d said, after he begged you to stay and talk after class. You rolled your eyes.

“Is that all you wanted?”

“No,” he said pointedly. “But it is concerning. You’ve been working on your paper?”

‘Working’ was both an understatement and a gross misuse. “I’ve been staring at the screen wondering why it doesn’t sound like I know it can.”

“That’s the dilemma of the author,” Kyle chuckled, but you were too numb to respond. “Tell you what. When you come in for your advising,”—he put emphasis on the word because he knew you hadn’t signed up for a time slot yet— “bring your essay and I’ll edit it. Sound fair?”

“You know it’s still a first draft,” you whined, mostly to hide the dread that bubbled in your throat.

“I know, and I expect it to be rough. But I know you’ve been working hard, so let me help you out. Please.” He added the extra please to sweeten the deal, and it had worked. Which is how you ended up outside of his office, contemplating which spot to take when something caught your eye.

It was blue ink, the m’s and n’s nothing but little scribbles, the capitol J hanging well below the line. It was familiar, so familiar that you fumbled around in your backpack for the research book you’d been carrying around with you, the one that held mystery persons notes.

You held up the defaced text, looking between the scrawl on the page and the name written on the line. It was exact match down to the ink, and you gasped in elation.

“I found you,” you whispered, making a squeal of delight. “I actually found you, James Buchanan.” You squinted, reading the name in the slot. Your excitement died down as you tapped your finger to your lips.

The name didn’t ring any bells. You didn’t expect that you would know the mystery writer, but the fact was, you shared an advisor. You pressed your fingers to the name as if it would disappear before your eyes.

“You complicate things,” you told it, as if somehow, they could hear you, feel you. Maybe they could.

“I’m no shrink, but talking to pieces of paper is definitely on the spectrum of insanity.”

His voice couldn’t scare you, even if it was so sudden. An office door closed, and Thor looked at you in amusement. He looked better than you last remembered, considering you hadn’t seen him since he had told his father—the college professor—he was dropping out.

“What are you doing here?” you straightened up, facing him with a beaming smile. He mirrored the expression.

“Talking to dear old dad about some things,” he took a few steps way from what you presumed was his father’s office. “Checking in on Loki.”

“How is the snake these days? Haven’t heard from him since you left.”

“I suppose there really is no reason for Loki to speak to any of you anymore.” Thor side eyed you. “Not that he shouldn’t.”

Thor’s departure had been a curveball in your sitcom-esque life up until that point. He was the connective tissue in your helter-skelter friend group; smart, compassionate and charming, he’d taken all of you out of your fussy shells and made you relax in ways you didn’t even realize you needed to.

And then, just like that, he was written out, and in his absence the void grew and grew until you didn’t feel like friends with anyone anymore.

It hadn’t been Thor’s fault. He’d done it for himself, and you were proud of him. You just wished it didn’t make things so goddamn complicated. So different.

You couldn’t dump that on Thor. “Yeah, well, he’s probably busy freaking out over the LSAT to even remember we exist.”

“God, it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen!” Thor laughed. “I have all these videos of him cramming and falling asleep on the dinner table. I once picked him up and put him back in bed and Hela filmed the whole thing.”

“Shut up,” you said, a maniacal grin forming on your face. “Odinson, don’t lie to me.”

He wasn’t lying. The two of you laughed loudly in the hallways as you watched Thor lift Loki like he was a little girl into his arms and proceed to walk through their house, Hela snickering behind them. You were bracing yourself against a wall trying not to howl, while Thor held no such qualms about letting his booming laughter fill the silence.

It registered somewhere between your fourth gasp for air and Thor’s winding down laughter that someone had opened a door. And then, in a low, pointed voice they said, “Hey, people are trying to study in this lounge.”

You tried to hold back your laughter, but Thor’s insistent giggling kept a smile on your face. “Sorry,” you said behind your hand. “We didn’t realize—”

The smile slipped off your face when you looked up, seeing the angry pout of the English Major Prick staring back at you. His eyes glanced between you and Thor, leaned cozily up against a wall and laughing at something private. Embarrassment coiled in your stomach.

“Didn’t realize the lounge was right there. Sorry.” You averted your eyes. Thor had stopped laughing at this point, turning to you with an expectant look. You nodded and waved goodbye, noting the look he gave the English Major Prick as he walked past him.

And then he turned his accusatory stare back to you. “Was that Thor Odinson?”

“Yeah?”

“I thought he dropped out.”

“So what if he did?”

“What’s he doing hanging around the English department?”  

You crossed your arms. “His father is a professor here, smartass.”

“Oh.” All his malice seeped out as his shoulders deflated. The two of you stood awkwardly facing one another. It had been a long time since you’d bumped into him that day (twice), but you’d started to see his face everywhere. Out of the corner of your eye in the stairwell or sitting on a table in the school café you’d catch brunette hair and distant, sad eyes.

They were never that way when he looked at you. It was probably the anger.

“Read any Faulkner, lately?”

You wanted to fucking die. It was lame as hell, but he didn’t seem like he was leaving anytime soon and you just had to break this tense air.

“What?”

“Every time I see you, you’re reading Faulkner.”

He looked away for a moment and you banged your head against the wall when. You muttered stupidstupidstupid to yourself while he chuckled.

“You’re paying too much attention to me, mystery girl.”

The nickname made you perk up you head. “Mystery girl?”

It was his turn to look embarrassed. “Uh, yeah,” he stammered. “That’s what I’ve been calling you in my head.”

He seemed to realize what he’d said too late. You sucked in a breath to calm down the nerves that felt like they were frying all over your body. “You think about me, huh?” It didn’t sound cheeky like you wanted it to—it sounded almost hopeful.

“You left quite an impression on me. Literally, my shoulder is bruised.”

You hummed. “Better than what I’ve been calling you in my head.”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“Oh, you really don’t want to know, buddy.”

He was out of the lounge now, leaning on the door frame and fully facing you. “But I really, really do.”

You smiled down at the ground, partly because you were about call this boy a prick to his face, but also because he was smiling at you for once, and he looked rather sweet when he curled his hair behind his ears.

“English Major Prick.” His eyebrows shot into his hair and you had to put your hand over your mouth to stop laughing. “I told you you didn’t want to know.”

“No, no, it’s—” he scuffed his shoes against the ground. They were well shined oxfords with scuff marks on the very tips. “I deserve that.”

“So, we finally agree on something.”

The bashful smile he gave was infectious. “Well, I’d prefer you not refer to me as that.”

“Who says I’ll be referring to you at all?”

“Well, you do think about me.”

It shouldn’t have affected you as much as it did, considering you knew he did the same. And yet your reaction was textbook flustered. “I mean—”

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“My name,” he continued. “It’s Bucky. Bucky Barnes.”

Oh shit. Oh no. “You’re Steve’s friend?” It came out as a question because you were suddenly terrified. You had been off-handedly telling Steve about this guy for the better part of the semester and now you knew he was his best friend but you were also—no, you were not falling for this guy you barely knew.

But you did feel something in this stupid little interaction. Especially when you saw a new expression on his face—surprise.

“You know Stevie?” Stevie. Cute.

“Yeah, he’s—I, huh.” You took a minute to gather your thoughts. He was patient about it. “I modeled for him? You know, for his senior exhibition.”

Something crossed his face before he said, “Oh,” in a tone that was supposed to be surprise, but sounded like something else. “You’re the girl he’s painting.”

God, this could not be any more complicated. “Yeah, I am.”

The conversation came to a full stop, and from behind Bucky a familiar bearded face popped out, looking for him. “Hey, Barnes, don’t leave me hang—” Quentin Beck’s entire face went pale when he saw you, muttering out a “sorry,” before disappearing into the lounge.

Bucky whirled around, and you didn’t expect the wide eyes he gave you. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Get Quentin to shut up?”

You snorted and he shushed you, but it was no use. The two of you broke into suspicious giggles, trying desperately to be quiet.

“It’s a long story. One you don’t have time for. Quentin will set this building on fire if you don’t pay attention to him.”

Bucky bounced his shoulders against the wall. “You’re probably right.”

You stood there dumbly for a moment, not meeting one another’s gazes until Bucky cleared his throat.

“I guess, um, I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah.” You turned around on your heels so you wouldn’t have to see him anymore, but also to hide the stupid, childish grin you got from thinking about bumping into him again.

                                          *            *            *            *

You found yourself thinking about Bucky Barnes at the most inopportune, and rather inappropriate times.

You were never going to make a move on him; he was smart and well rounded and Steve’s best friend, three things that intimidated you into only confessing your feelings in drawn out day dreams. In your head he would always say yes, but there were many other discrepancies between your head and real life.

For example, in your head your essay was a masterpiece, but on paper you weren’t so sure.

A strange assembly of people sat around your table to read your magnum opus: Nat, Bruce, Wanda, MJ and Pete all flipped through the copies of your first fifteen pages, highlighting and scratching in notes. You had decided to stay with them and answer any initial questions, but it got very quiet very quickly as they became absorbed with your writing.

To keep from bursting with anxiety, you’d let your mind drift, thinking of the earlier days when this might have been a dinner party, or maybe even one of Tony’s house parties. And then you remembered that Steve had been to those too, but on the peripheral of everyone else. And if Bucky was his best friend, he must have been on the fringe as well. What it would have been like if you’d known him then…

Their insistent chittering interrupted your daydream, so you engaged them by saying “Something you want to share with the class? Peter, MJ?”

Peter shrank back at your raised eyebrows while MJ’s bored look persisted. “I was just telling him that I think your topic has been done before.”

You instantly remembered why the younger girl intimidated you so much. MJ seemed to read your face, because she continued: “I like your take on it though. You break it down in new ways, but you don’t dumb it down for your readers.”

“Okay, okay,” you repeated. There was nothing you could do with praise except keep your paper the way it was, but that wouldn’t help you write the remaining pages. “Everyone else? Thoughts?”

Nat kept scribbling down something in the margins while she spoke, never looking at you. “Your argument is well thought out, and your choice of movies reflects it really well.” She added one last embellishment before smiling up at you; small and genuine, but gone in a flash. “I might even add in one more film if you can.”

You breathed out to keep your elation under control. Had you seriously pulled this off? And so far away from the deadline? “You think so? Like the theory doesn’t feel like an afterthought?”

“Not at all. It feels like you’ve developed it pretty well. It’s solid.” Bruce complimented. His smile was warm and there was a twinkle in his eyes when he slid your paper back to you. “It’s a pretty good paper.”

The elation disappeared, replaced with a cold rush of fear. “Is that all? It’s just good?”

Your panic must have been alarming, because everyone tripped over themselves to console you.

“I like the part where you call the films low-key racist.”

“Thanks, MJ.”

“Yeah, you picked some good movies. You should use Jurassic Park.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a monster movie,” Peter explained this like you were stupid, and hadn’t just write fifteen pages on the ethics of monster movies.

“It doesn’t, it’s not—”

“It doesn’t work. No one wanted to fuck the T-Rex, Peter.”

“Can we focus on my theory and NOT on fucking T-Rex’s?”

Wanda came to your rescue. “Y/N, the theory is sound. It’s a well-constructed paper, with very minor issues—”

You wanted to tear out your hair. “What issues? You guys haven’t said anything!”

“Hey, hey,” Bruce came out of his seat and walked around you, placing his hands on your shoulders. Your short breaths became a sigh as you let him soothingly rub out the tension. You hadn’t been this close to Bruce in a long time, not since you two broke up sophomore year. But he could still read your anxiety like a book.

“Calm down. We know this paper is important to you.”

“I won’t graduate without it.”

“But you did a great job.” The occupants of the room smiled at you, and they felt honest. “You picked us to read it because we wouldn’t lie to you, right?”

You nodded. Bruce really did know you well.

“This is a great paper. Your teacher will love it.”

Bruce had never lied to you, but it didn’t mean he was infallible.

Kyle had a strange look on his face while he read your paper. A couple of times you’d broken away from your daydreams (usually about Bucky—you really did think about him in your worst times) and caught him whispering questions to himself or underlining furiously. You caught words being written in bold red ink and your heart dropped out of your stomach.

“Y/N this is,” he started, but was unable to finish. “It’s rough.”

“It’s my second draft, Kyle.”

“I know,” he was trying to use a calmer voice, but he was strained. “But it’s very early, and if you go back and fix some things, I think it’ll make more sense.”

“It doesn’t even make sense?!”

“Hey.” His tone was firm against your hysterical whine. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

His hands were laced across his desk as he looked to you pointedly. Your words died in your throat. There wasn’t anything you could tell him, there was no reason your draft was shitty. It was all you, all in your head, everywhere except on the page where it needed to be.

When you didn’t answer Kyle sighed. “You know you’re one of my favorite students, right?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“No, it does matter.” He was offended, you could hear it. Offended, concerned, and angry.

“You’ve never gotten higher than an A- on your papers. Not in my class. But you’re extremely smart and I know you can read my comments, so I’m just wondering why you think it’s okay to waste my time—and your hard work—not changing your essays when I tell you to.”

You felt like a scolded child. Tears pricked in your eyes, but you held it together. Just not enough to speak.

“Everything is here, but it feels like you’re holding back. Like you can’t see the bigger picture, and that’s not like you. So, I’m asking you, right now, why you’re afraid to put everything in this essay.”

“I—” your voice was thick with emotion. He knew you were on the brink of collapsing, and he sat back, defeated.

“This paper isn’t the same as all the others. You can’t get an A- and go. As you go farther in academia things change, and you have to step it up. You’re a senior, Y/N.”

“What if I don’t want to be?”

You weren’t sure how that thought slipped out of your mouth, but Kyle sat up when it registered to him what you’d said.

“That’s just how it is. Are you…are you scared of that?”

Your heart rattled in your chest. The obviousness of his accusation hit you like a freight train, and Kyle could tell he was right.

“Y/N,” he started, but you stood abruptly, snatching the paper off his desk. “Y/N, wait.”

“I’m sorry, professor, Kyle, I just—” you left it at that before bolting, shooting down the stairs and storming out of the building. The tears came dripping down your face and you crumpled, breathing heavily like you’d never had air before.

It was utterly humiliating. Passerbys would look at you and remark in hushed tones, avoiding you like the plague. You wanted to scream about how normal this breakdown was, but it didn’t feel normal.

He’d seen through you like glass and shattered you twice as easily. Everything was raining down too fast, and there was no way to stop it.

You were shaking so hard that when a hand came to rest on your shoulder you hardly felt it. “Whoa, Y/N?” came Peter’s warm, boyish voice. “Hey, hey what happened?”

He slid next you, curling his arm around your back and forcing you to lean on him. You did so with very little protest. His heart beat was steady as he coddled you, and through bleary eyes you could see Ned Leeds squatting to look you in the eye.

“Hey, do you want to talk about it?” His voice was so soft, like he was talking to a baby. The thought made you laugh.

“I’ll be fine in a minute. I’ll just, bounce back up and it’ll be like nothing ever happened.”

“You don’t have to pretend, Y/N.”

“Yes, I do Peter,” you sighed, feeling another round of tears prick at your red rubbed eyes. “I have to, or else everything will come fucking crashing down—”

“Hasn’t it already?”

The statement pierced through your sobs like an arrow and you glared at Peter. Even through watery eyes you managed to take him aback.

“I’m not going to sit here and have you fucking patronize me, Parker!”

“Fine then, let’s go somewhere else.”

“Like where?”

Peter didn’t exactly smile, but his mischievous look was enough to ground you. “Somewhere the entire campus can’t see you have a breakdown.”

                                          *            *            *            *

Now that winter was approaching, the sunsets crept up earlier and earlier until by 7 pm the sun was already set, and twilight brought out the first twinkle of stars. Peter led the way up the scaffolding stairs to the sloped roof of the creative sciences building, despite having the afterhours key.

“I wanted the nostalgia of sneaking up here,” he told you, tossing his backpack over the highest point of the building and hauling himself up. The two of you helped Ned and the walked over to the best vantage point on the entire campus.

This far from the city, and with the lights out in most of the buildings you could see the stars wink into existence. It felt like lifetimes had past since you were last up here—it was Thor and Valkyrie who’d imparted this knowledge on you and you’d kept it confined within your friend group ever since.

The three of you laid down, backpacks under your heads like pillows. The only sounds were of the wind in your ears or the cars down below. You breathed deep to clear your lungs, and you hiccupped out your last sob.

“My professor says I’m afraid of change.”

There was a shift on either side of you as Peter and Ned simultaneously sat up and stared.

“He said that?” Ned asked incredulously. “Like, to your face?”    

“No; he kind of asked me, I guess? I don’t know. He fucking read me.”

“Are you scared?”

Peter’s voice was as uncertain as you felt. No, that was a lie—you’d know this for quite some time now. You closed your eyes, letting it all wash over you.

“I wish we could stay like this forever.”

“You mean crying over a paper that’s worth all of your grade and contemplating jumping off a roof?”

You laughed outwardly and loudly at Ned’s response. “No. Well, Maybe.”

“Elaborate.”

“I want to always be in college. It’s been the most stressful, chaotic, stupid crazy time of my life and I just,” you opened your eyes to face the truth. “I don’t want to give it up. I don’t want to leave all of you, some of us scattered in the wind, the rest of you left behind. I want us to stay like this forever: sitting on the roof and counting the stars and pointing out constellations we don’t even know the name of. Laughing in the diner until midnight and screaming on the streets every time we jaywalk. Drunken house parties, movie marathons. This era, forever.”

There was a moment of silence after your confession, and you dragged your hand down your face. “Sorry, that was—”

“That was sooo poetic,” Ned told you, reveling in your embarrassment. “How long have you been holding that in?”

“Y/N,” Peter said seriously. “You can’t just fail your classes and bomb your senior thesis and stay in college forever.”

“That wasn’t the plan.”

“You sure? Because it’s all going according to plan.”

“Peter, what if I’m not ready to leave?” You sat up to face him. “I’ve been going to school my entire life, and now I’m just supposed to walk out and be an adult? I never thought I’d even make it past the age of sixteen, let alone do all this! What if I can’t do it?”

“You think any of your friends are ready? You think Bruce, or Wanda or Steve are just, full fledged adults, ready to take on the world?”

They hadn’t even occurred to you. The mention of them felt like a slap in the face.

“God, for someone so smart, you’re really stupid. None of us are ready for whatever the hell is out there. We never were!” His voice had that pain in it, the one that shouldn’t belong to someone so young. “We all wish it could be crazy fun teen shit all the time, but we have to move forward. And we have to do it together, so we don’t leave each other behind. That means you have to move on.”

“Damn,” you let his words sink in. “When did you get so wise?”

“Sophomore year,” he said precisely. “When I had a mental breakdown over chem class and you told me the exact same thing.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You told me that the crying and the failing happened to everyone, but that I couldn’t dwell on it and stay stagnant. I had to be the best version of my myself, and that included moving forward from my mistakes.”

You remembered that moment. Peter had been curled up against the wall of his tiny, dirty dorm room and you, Bruce and Tony had coaxed him out with the promise of ice cream and you knew for the first time in your life that you always wanted those boys in your life. You smiled at Peter.

“Sneaky trick, Parker.”

“I learned from the best.”

Your phone buzzed against the roof and you picked it up before it rattled off the edge. Wanda had called three times, and she was calling again.

“Hello?”

“Where are you? Peter said you were crying?”

You shot a look over at the brunette and he played dumb. “Yeah, I was.”

“Well I was worried about you! You usually come home and change by now, or at least tell me you’ll be late but…” her voice morphed into concern. “What happened?”

You didn’t want to be at home right now. In fact, you didn’t want this night to be like all the others—with you laying in bed until your mind finally shut down. You turned to Peter and Ned and mouthed a question, to which they nodded vigorously.

“Hey Wanda, I was thinking we could get some food and catch up. Say, 11th Street Diner?”

She grappled for words before giving a snort of disbelief. “You’re a heart attack, you know that?”

“Meet me at 8.”

                                          *            *            *            *

Wanda had brought everyone—and by everyone you meant her usual motley crew of Clint Barton, Nat, her boyfriend and her brother. They were all wreaking havoc in different sections of the diner: Pietro, Peter and Ned were outside filming skateboarding tricks while Vision was taking his sweet time picking something at the jukebox. Nat and Clint had taken seats at the bar to get their food faster, leaving you and Wanda sipping your shared milkshake. Strawberry, like you both liked.

“Wanna hear a secret?”

“Tell me.”

You two used to do this when you realized you hadn’t talked in a while. You’d tell her something no one else knew, because she was both your roommate and the best at keeping secrets. So, you leaned over and whispered into her ear about the time you gave Quentin Beck a hand job in the corner booth of this very diner, and she sucked down her drink to keep from screaming with laughter. Or possibly disgust.

“How long have you been keeping that in?” Pink liquid still escaped her mouth and you handed her a napkin.

“Since we dated.”

“Do you regret it?”          

“While I never want to do it again, no, I don’t.”

“It’s breaking the rules, but can I ask for another secret?”

You tilted your head. “‘Fraid I’m all out.”

“Not quite,” she said coyly. “What happened, when Peter said you were crying?”

You watched the ice in your drink while you swirled your straw and monotonously recounted the events of your disastrous advising meeting and the roof with Peter and Ned. Wanda’s face fell into its usual pensiveness.

“Is he right?” The question was leading, but you fell for it regardless.

“Yup. Peter and I have established that my subconscious is sabotaging my paper.”

“I always knew you’d be your own worst enemy.” She wasn’t not smug when she said it, but the sip of her milkshake is. You snatched the glass yourself and she pouted.

“You’re right, I just hate hearing people say it.”

“Well, it’s because you’re always in that big brain of yours.” She prodded her finger on your forehead, like fuckin E.T. “And your overly romantic heart.”

“God, you’re like the fourth person whose told me that.” You counted them on your fingers. “You, Bruce, Q, and Steve. That’s entirely too many.”

“Five,” Nat interrupted, walking up to your table with Clint in tow. “I’m saying it now. Also, Bucky Barnes has been staring at you for ten minutes.”

A shot of adrenaline went through your heart. “Bucky Barnes? Where?”

“He’s at the bar, alone, so I suggest you do something about it.”

Wanda looked at you expectantly, then leaned out of the booth to get a look at him. You hissed at her to stop, but her mouth curved into a satisfied grin.

“Well, he sure is handsome. I wouldn’t mind if you ditched us for him, but you’ll have to tell me the details of this later. After you properly explain the Quentin hand job thing.”

“The what now?” Nat’s stoic face broke into one of pure shock, so you found it a good a time as any to escape the tension and enter…new tension.

Bucky turned his head to act like he wasn’t overtly staring at you, but you’d caught the sight of his eyes going wide. You sat on the stool next to him and waved off the server before leaning over the counter.

“You know I can see you even though you aren’t looking at me, right?”

He seemed to be ready for the confrontation now, because when he swiveled around there was confidence painted on his face. He opened his mouth but you stopped him in his tracks.

“Actually, before you say anything, do you want to get out of here? We have an audience.”

He looked behind you to see three sets of eyes peering over the booth you’d just left. He huffed before placing exact change next to his plate and standing up. You followed suit, snatching a few fries off his plate and flipping off your friends.

When you two stood on the curb of the diner, he confessed, “I walked here, so, there’s really nowhere for us to go.”

“Oh.” You realized it was the same for you, but you tried to hide your disappointment with a smile. “That’s okay. We can walk.”

So, you did. When you told him you’d go anywhere but the library, he seemed surprised. “You like, live there.”

“So it would seem. I’m just not really in the mood to do any work tonight.”

“Oh, so it’s one of those days.” He said it so knowingly, and you realize that he is also an English major, and a senior.

“Yeah, I’ve been working on my senior thesis.”

“No shit,” he said, but without the condescension. In fact, he’d been perfectly civil. “Same here.”

He talked about how he was taking Southern Literature because it was dark and surprising. His paper was on the Southern Gothic, and how that idea had moved on to other aspects of modern American ideology. Bucky moved his hands when he talked, his broad shoulders going up and down. He was wearing a blue bomber jacket that you liked because it caught the light from the street lamps nicely.

“What’s yours on?”

“Oh,” you came out of your thoughts abruptly, unsure of what he’d said. “Well, I specifically study film—”

“That makes sense.” He blurted out, and you creased your brows.

“What do you mean?”

He hissed out something to himself. “Nothing, it’s just when you’re on third floor sometimes I see you watching the weirdest shit and I wonder ‘why is she doing that in the library?’”

It took a minute for you to fully understand the implication. “You’ve seen me around?”

He rolls his head with a laugh. “You’re hard to miss.”

This was news to you. You’d flown under the radar for quite some time, never having joined any clubs or sports people could recognize you from. You’d gotten a few compliments on your outfits in the past four years, but nothing you thought could make you known.

He was very good at making your stomach turn into a mosh pit of butterflies. You felt not exactly vulnerable, but strangely delicate around him. Like you were floating on air.

So, to quell that feeling, you replied. “I’d beg to differ.”

“I’ve seen you around the library since, what, sophomore year? You’re always on third floor, you walk in like you own the goddamn place.” He smiled down at the ground when he talks about you. It was the cutest thing in the world to watch him curl his hair behind his ear and smile at you sideways.

“You never noticed me.”

It was true, you hadn’t. “I try to pick through my memories and find you. I feel like I’m retroactively learning about you.”

“Thinking hard?” It’s an accusation you’re okay with, because he was bashful, not arrogant when he said it.

“Maybe.”

You swayed when you walked beside him, thinking you could listen to his stories for hours. At times you felt like you were boring him, because the stories of Austria and internships were large compared to your freshman dorm party memories, but he laughed like he’s never been more entertained in his life.

“I wish I’d talked to you earlier. Gotten your name from your lips before anyone else had said it to me.”

Your eyes widened. “I never told you my name?”

He shook his head, and the hair came out from behind his ears. “No. that day I told you mine, was it the first time you’d heard it?”

“Maybe. I think Steve just calls you ‘Buck’.”

“Steve talked about you first. And then when I became friends with all his adjacent buddies, they talked about you too. And then, of course, when I went back to Quentin that day, he told me.”

“God,” you groaned. “What did he say about me?”

“That you’re smart and crazy and kind. He would say your name like it was cursed and enchanted all at once.”

“And my friends call me romantic,” you rolled your eyes.

“I’ve been branded that too. But I don’t mind it so much. There’s worse things to be.”

“Like what?”

“Like an English Major Prick.” He emphasized that last consonant and you hid you face in your hands.

“You won’t let me live that one down, huh?”

“Maybe. If I like the way you say my name, I might consider it.”

There was a split second where you realized how fragile the moment was; one wrong step and it was broken on the floor like humpty dumpty. You thought of your professor pegging your fear of change. Peter’s words echoed in your brain and you felt like you were jumping off the roof when you said:

“Bucky Barnes, you smooth son of a bitch.”

He smiled, brighter than the moon. All at once, everything that was ever certain was shattered, but you leaped over it and left it behind.

                                           *            *            *            *

Steve called you in one last time about two weeks before the showcase. You were scribbling over the words written by the mystery writer (James, you affectionately called him) while Steve wiped sweat from his brow. And incidentally, paint in his hair.

Tapping your leg to the beat of whatever pretentious song, you were too engrossed in your ‘work’ to hear Steve say “You look happy.”

“What?” you screamed over the music.

He turned it off and sat next to you with a smug look you disliked. You pushed his face away and he only laughed, that big almost fake sound you knew was real.

“Seriously, you’re so empathic that whatever your feel, I feel. And today’s goin’ great.” He gestured to the painting that was supposed to be you, but all you saw were swirls of paint. You took this to mean things were going well.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged. “I had a rough week last week, but things are getting better.”

“Did you talk to your advisor again?”

“Yeah.” Kyle had spent the better part of an hour picking apart your thesis in ways you couldn’t have even imagined. By the end of it you’d had at least three pages worth of new material, but still a hell of a way to go. “Kyle and I worked it out.”

“That’s good. You know my advisor’s freaking out about my work? He thinks it’s too complex.”

“It’s just faces.” It sounded dumb to say, but that was the way you saw it.

Steve picked up your chin. His fingers were wet and cold with paint. “You’re not just a face, Y/N.”

“Ah!” you screamed as lilac rubs off on you. “Let me go, paint monster!”

You dropped your book into his lap as you ran around looking for the sink. Steve’s laughter subsided as he looked down, puzzled at the writing that swirled around the pages of the library book.

“Hey, Y/N?” he called out, but you’re preoccupied with wiping paint off your neck. “Y/N?”

“What?”

“Where’d you get this?”

“The library, doesn’t it say that on the spine?”

“But this hand writing,” His voice tapered off.

You exchanged the book for the rag and assessed James’ words. “I’ve been curious about it too. It was in like, all the books I checked out, isn’t that wild? And—get this—it belongs to some guy named James Buchanan, and we have the same advisor. Isn’t that crazy?”

Steve looked like he was trying to say something, but he eyes turned towards the door as someone knocked twice.

“Yo, punk? You in here?” Bucky’s voice carried into the room. When he walked in, he immediately paused, taking stock of the two of you staring at him.

“Oh,” his voice wavered and a nervous smile appeared. “Hey.”

Steve’s eyes cut to yours, and you feel immense pressure. “Hi, Bucky.”

“Hey, Buck.” Steve’s voice is a bullet, and Bucky turned to him, automatically annoyed. “Y/N has this book I think you’ve read.”

“Oh, which one?” He crossed the room in easy strides, and you were helpless in the situation you thought Steve was orchestrating. When you handed it to him his eyes lit up in recognition as he flipped through it.

“Holy shit, I really wrecked this one, huh? Good thing the university really doesn’t give a shit.”

You were having trouble processing what he’s said. Steve had gotten up wordlessly, but there was a particularly blank look on his face as he avoided your eyes. You turned back to Bucky, who was fondly reading over James’ words.

“Though Scott himself does not adhere to Weaver’s interpretation, the fact still remains that the tension between the Alien and Ripley,” he trailed off with a stunned look. “I was a regular old critic, huh?”

Your eyes nearly popped out of your skull. “You wrote that?”

He was startled at the way you raised your voice, and answered cautiously. “Yeah, like, years ago. For a film class I took.”

You reeled back at the information. You fought the urge to open your backpack and ask him if he’d written in all the other books, but that couldn’t—how could he be—

“I checked out, like, seven books from the library this semester and they all have the same handwriting in them. And then, I found out that it matched to a guy named James Buchanan—”

“Barnes,” He finished.

“What? No. That’s not what I saw.”

“That’s my name. James Buchanan Barnes.”  

You sat there dumbly, your eyes narrowed in thought. There was no fucking way that he’d written in all these film books. In every single one you’d painstakingly read with romantic ideals and dreaming of who it’d belong to and how you’d meet. The fantasies were crumbling around you, leaving you in the dust.

Bucky’s face was earnest though. Steve was silent behind both of you, painting away like your worlds weren’t colliding.

“You. Okay,” you restarted. “If your name is Bucky,”

“Doll, it’s a nickname—”

“Let me finish.” You ignored the ‘doll’ part and tried to Sherlock your way through this. “If everyone you know calls you Bucky Barnes, why did you write ‘James Buchanan” on Kyle’s sign-up sheet?”

Bucky settled into the stool Steve had been sitting on. “It’s a joke between the two of us. He thinks it’s funny, so I humor him when I can.”

“Okay but, the books are companion pieces for films, I thought you were an English lit major?”

“I am, but I took Intro Film sophomore year.”

“What? With who.”

“Kyle.”

You thought back to two years ago, when you’d been new to the world of film, and you’d met Kyle for the first time. You’d aced that class with flying colors, quickly becoming one of his star students. Coincidentally, so was Quentin Beck, a cock sure boy who got into arguments over any little thing with you. The two of you were the most outspoken in the class, and you never paid much mind to anyone that wasn’t him. But there had been other people that would wait after class for a moment with the professor, and it was in those memories that you recalled him.

Brunette hair, but far shorter. Crystal blue eyes and impeccable clothes. Bucky.

“That…you were in that class? But I never—”

“You never noticed me.” His voice was resigned and so was his smile. He’d told you this before, that he’d seen you around before, but you never imagined he’d known you since sophomore year. “I remembered you from all the way back then: you had long, shiny, impeccable hair and this glint in your eye whenever you talked. Which was a lot. You could dazzle the class just by breathing. And I sat rows and rows behind you, and never spoke. There was no reason you would have ever seen me.”

There was a wavering sadness in his voice, and for a moment, Bucky looked exactly as he did in Steve’s portrait: haunted by the past, unable to fix it.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why am I just now figuring out that you’re the boy of my dreams?”

There was music playing in the background that hadn’t been there before; a cozy, soft melody by one of Steve’s favorite artists. It matched Bucky’s breathlessness as he gazed at you with a tilted head and eyes full of hope. A far cry from just seconds before.

“What did you say?”

“I’ve been thinking about this mysterious ‘James Buchanan’ who’s written exactly what I think, and has seen all the same movies as me. And I’ve been wondering what he’s like, or if he’s nice, of if he’d ever even like me if I met him.”

A coy smile stretched across his face. “Well, what is he like?”

“He’s,” you blanked for a moment, trying to tone down all the wildly romantic thoughts you’ve been having ever since you’d met Bucky Barnes. You decided to risk it all and tell him the truth.

“He’s very smart; he reads Faulkner but think Hurston has more heart. He dresses like he already has his PhD but it looks good on him. He’s sweet but extremely romantic, which is okay because I could listen to him talk for hours. He’s a bit of a prick, though.”

He hung his head back when he laughed at the last part, and you felt your heart swell tremendously. He wasn’t mocking you. He was agreeing with you. You knew this to be true.

“Well, do you think he does like you?” Bucky suddenly became serious. He was nervous.

“I don’t know, does he?”

“Can you two just fucking kiss already?”

Bucky threw something at Steve, but you couldn’t tell what. In the moment he threw it you were laughing, but once it’s over his hand slid onto your face and pulled you into a kiss. Your eyes closed when you felt it, and he tilted his head to keep you occupied. Otherwise you would have heard Steve triumphantly yell “yes!” behind you two.

Bucky rested his forehead against yours. His blue, blue eyes were so much lovelier this close. He whispered, “I think he does.”

You kissed him quick, once, then twice, then sighed contentedly. “Good. I like him too.”

“Well I for one am happy for them.”

This time you see a wet paintbrush beam for Steve’s eye. “Less talking, more painting, punk!”

                                          *            *            *            *

Bucky is lost in thought when the door to Kyle’s office opened. There was a low chatter between two people and he looked up to see Kyle propped up in the door was as you spoke to him. You were dressed up nicely in a tweed coat that matched his own.

Kyle’s eyes rested on the chair Bucky sat in and he perked up in recognition. “Oh, James,” he said, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, were you waiting for me?”

“No, not you.” He stood up and brushed out the wrinkles in his shirt before coming to your side. You gave him a quick smile before turning back to your professor, whose face was openly shocked.

“Oh,” he said in a dubious, but delighted voice. “So, this is happening.”  

“We’re going to the senior art exhibition to see our friend’s graduation project,” you explained, looking rather annoyed at the two men. “We’re both in one of his paintings.”

“Together?” he asked, a bit of scandal in his voice.

“No,” you droned, shutting it down. “Mind your business.”

“You’re both my advisees, this is my business.”

“Good night, Kyle,” you said pointedly, turning around and marching down the hall. Kyle sent a congratulatory wink at Bucky, who acknowledged it with a salute.

As he caught up with you, he handed back a thick essay, riddled with blue ink and yellow highlighter. You added it to another similar essay, one with exclamation points and significantly less marks.

“How’d he like it?” Bucky made conversation as you two trekked across campus. Winter made the nighttime seem even darker, but the two of you glowed underneath the street lamps.

“He loved it. Said it was infinitely better, and then apologized for the millionth time for making me cry.”

“What did he say about the part about Ripley and the Alien?”

You shot him that crazy grin, the one that looked unbelievably beautiful as you approached the traffic lights. Your face was highlighted in red and Bucky thought of the painting you two were about to witness.

“He didn’t say a thing. I should have cited you on that.”

“I’m not a published writer.”

“I know. But one day when you are, I can tell people I gave you your start.”

Bucky laughed, mostly to keep his heart from beating out of his ribcage. Crazy, crazy girl.

You two entered the exhibition hall and traded your backpacks for flutes of fake champagne. The room was lighted lowly, the works of art brandished with bright lights to show off their artistry. You two walked through still life paintings and abstract canvases, marveling some he understood and other’s that made him think.

“Art’s not my forte,” he confided. You hummed, taking a lofty sip.

“Mine either. But they’re gorgeous.”

You floated down the hall as if pulled by a string, and Bucky noticed what you were hung up on.

Steve’s paintings were hanging in a trapezoid shape, and when you walked closer, they seemed to engulf you in color. To your left was Sam and to your right was Bucky, but you stared dead ahead at yourself.

Bucky had seen the painting early, per Steve’s request. He’d helped him move them from his apartment, and had seen the three of you looking very somber and one another.

You were silent as you examined the pieces, and Bucky strode right up to your side.

“So, what do you think?” you started. “I know art isn’t your forte.”

“She’s gorgeous.”

You hummed, pointing to your right. “I like this one better.”

He rolled his eyes. “What do you like about it?”

“His eyes; they’re so expressive. I remember being moved when I saw the reference picture. It’s haunting, but ethereal.”

This wasn’t poking fun now, you genuinely meant it. Bucky tilted his head.

“I was thinking about the future.”

“But you’re looking back.”

“Isn’t that ironic?” There was no humor in his voice. “I was thinking about how it could be the last time I ever modeled for Stevie, done everything at his beck and call, whatever the fuck he wanted. How it was my last year to do something impressive, something memorable. How I had,” he eyes looked to yours for a flash, but you caught his meaning. “Wishes. Regrets.”

Your hand snaked up his back and rested on his shoulder. The touch burned and comforted him all at once. “Do you still have them?”

“Some of them. Not all of them.” He gave you a smile and a quick kiss. Not you.

“Good. That’d be a shame. These three deserve to be happy.”

“They look so beautiful when they’re upset, though.”

“Don’t they?” you sighed and laid your head on his shoulder. “They should hang them in The Louvre.”    

“They’d shove me in the back.”

Steve’s voice echoed from your left, and Sam strolled up with him. He stared at his own giant face, all mellowed out with blues and pinks.

“This face deserves to be in every museum. Front and center.”

“God, I did not miss the sound of your voice,” Bucky groaned.

“And I didn’t miss your sour attitude Barnes, and yet here we are. Y/N, remind me again why you’re with this loser?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. He’s had a crush on me for a looong time,” you drawled, lacing your hands together when Bucky rolled his eyes. “Decided to give him a shot.”

“I’m glad you did. Now he can finally stop talking about you with that look one his face.”

“What look? You mean that one?” Sam pointed to the portrait.

“That same exact one.”

“I’m leaving.” Bucky marched back the way he came, with you, Sam and Steve laughing at his heels. He tried to turn away and hide his smile, but everything was falling into place very nicely. All those wishes and regrets withered when he walked back to the entrance and found all their friends gathered loosely on the street.

Bucky had never been part of a friend group so large, but they cheered at his arrival. You greeted everyone in different ways; shoving Peter light heartedly, hugging Bruce and telling Tony to fuck off. They walked as a pack down the street to the 11th street diner, stupid, young and infallible as they all jaywalked, hollering like they were committing murder and not a minor traffic offence. In the hilarious chaos your hand found Bucky’s and you ran like hell, racing Pietro though you two knew you would lose. He kissed the back of your hand. Tony gagged.  

He wished they could always be like this.

[gamer--grill]

Catherine: Full Body game review. Spoiler alert!

Catherine: Full Body is a recreation of the original game Catherine made in 2011 by the game company Atlus, the same creators of the Persona games. It's a very story oriented platform puzzle game and follows the story of a man who's questioning his life and relationships.

Plot

So the story follows a man named Vincent Brooks, age 32, as he struggles with his hesitancy to commit to his girlfriend of 5 years Katherine and with the terrifying nightmares that plague him. At the very start of the game we meet Rin, formaly known as Qatherine, as she's running from her stalker in the streets. Vincent saves her and finding that she has amnesia and doesnt know anything about herself, she gets a job at the Stray Sheep playing piano, she is also Vincent's new neighbor.

2nd, we meet Catherine, a young, sexual blonde who comes into the Stray Sheep and has a drink with our protag. Vincent gets drunk out of his mind and in the morning he wakes up with Catherine naked beside him. He freaks the fuck out and here starts the love square as he struggles to hide his infidelity from both Katherine and Catherine while dealing with his growing affections for Rin.

Gameplay

The real meat of this game is in the nightmare segments. Every night you're transported to a world where you have to climb a tower of cubes before they fall out from under you and you become a heaping plate of sheep meat. And what they don't tell you about the puzzles is THEY ARE HARD, OH MY GAWD! If you play on hard or even normal be ready to throw your controller out the goddamn window and question your life choices bc if puzzles aren't for you then you're gonna have a bad time.

The game's puzzle segments have improved greatly with an additional difficulty setting called Safety where it's impossible for you to die, there's no timer so the floor doesn't fall out from under you, and you have an auto play and skip options so if you're feeling lazy you can have the game play its self or just skip the puzzle entirely. There's also a back camera so if you need to climb to the back of the puzzle you can actually see what you're doing instead of scrambling around like a sheep with its head cut off. The trap blocks are also disabled in Safety mode. After you get to the top of each block tower you'll come to a platform where you can save, talk to people and buy items that help you climb (they bring down your score of you use them fyi.) After that you'll get into a confessioanal booth where you'll be asked a question where you'll have to answer either 1 extreme or the other. This is the main thing that will determine the outcome of the game. This game has multiple endings and depending on what you choose that will decide the ending that you get and the paths you take. There's a total of 14 endings in this game including alternate endings that are exclusive to Catherine: Full Body so this game makes up for its relatively short play time by having high replay value. They've also added new questions to the game so it won't be the same questions that you answered if you played the original Catherine.

There's an option called Remix where there's entirety new kinds of blocks in the puzzles to deal with, I didn't play that but it looked intersting.

Other than the nightmare parts of the game, you spend you're time at the Stray Sheep drinking, talking to you're friends, bar patrons and Rin. You freqently get txts on your phone from all 3 of the girls and unlike the original game you get phone calls now and pics from all of the women, not just Catherine 😈😈. The best thing about the bar is that it's entirely optional. There's no extra fluff you need to slog through. You can just skip entirely passed it if you don't feeling like drinking or talking but it's all so atmospheric that you'll want to do it. Plus drinking more helps you move faster during the puzzles so bottoms up, bitches. 🍸🍺🍻🍷🍹🍶

Character's

I'm only gonna cover the love intrests bc they're the only ones who matter really.

Qatherine (Rin)

Oh. My. God. I can't even begin to tell you how good her story is. Her genuine innocence, kindness and sincerity help Vincent greatly as he deals with the traumatic nightmares and his relationship problems. Early on we can really feel the affection that he has for her and it seems completely natural that they would fall in love. In fact later in the game he kind of admits that he did fall in love with her. This is how good it was, when I messed up and didn't give the right answers for her path to be unlocked I was so pissed off when the cutscene finally came that I would have shouted at my screen if my dad hadn't been sleeping next door to me. Rin also has a unique place in the game. Unlike the other 2, she actually appears in the nightmares and helps you by playing her piano. That added comfort she gives Vincent really adds to her relevance and pefectly supports the way to a loving relationship should you choose to persue one. She's the most fulfilling love option. She's also not human. Or a girl.

Katherine

Katherine is already your long time steady gf when the game begins. Mature and sensible, she almost resembles a mothering role with the protag. She's always worried about him and his drinking habbits and how clean his apartment is. But she's not without her soft side either. She brings him cake and wants to persue a deeper commitment with him. She's very smart and ambitious but also quite understanding when it comes to Vincent's bumbling clumsiness. She truely wants the best for him and their relationship. This is expanded by the memories that are shown to you about their early relationship when they first fell in love. Which didn't happen in the original game. She represents the security and familiarity that comes with having a long time relationship.

Catherine

Catherine isn't actually a human at all. She's a succubus who was brought to specifically temp the protag into a steamy affair. She's described as "his dream girl" and represents the fantasy and freedom that people secretly crave. She's appears unassuming and innocent on the outside but is actually very shrewd and aggressive as shown when she beats the shit out of Vincent in the bathroom of the bar if you choose to break up with her. She also threatens to kill you early on if you cheat on her. She's very emotionally vulnerable and actually falls in love with the protag as the game progresses. If you break up with her she'll beg to stay with you, stateing that "I just wanna be your girl." And that she's ok with you marrying some one else. Then she cries. Then beats you up. It's all very hilarious and strange. Also no one else can see her except Vincent which leads to chaos near the end of the game. Her endings are actually pretty nice so give her some consideration.

Graphics

As this is a ps4 game, it goes without saying that the graphics are better than the original. The cematics really have the polished Persona 5 look to them. The colors are super bright and vibrant it's like a feast for your eyeballs, I just love it. When you do get a loading screen, which isn't often, you get blasted with that signature vibrant pink and the title screen has a whole new look to it. The style is there and I am here for it.

Interesting stuff

These are just things I personally found awesome.

In the begining, the hostess Trisha (she explains the whole story and presents it to you as a soap opera) aknowleges that this game is the new better version of the first.

The cubes with faces on them open their eyes when you stand in front of them.

When you reply to txts in the bar, you don't have to cycle through options anymore, just scroll and select.

There's Persona music on the bars jukebox including the opening song to Persona 5

There's Persona 5 Easter eggs. Just look around. 😉

There's a rich Muslim dude who you get to talk to on the platform after you climb the puzzles so if you're concerned about "representation" it's there.

Overview 8.5/10

Catherine: Full Body is an intersting, unique and stylish game that brings a fresh new concept to gaming and I really recommend it. It's strange and it does what it does and it does it well bc it's not trying to please or pander to anyone. The story is good and the style is showy and I love it.

I hope that you enjoyed this review and that your gamming experience is a little better.

[immawritethat]

Missed Connections

(Somewhat connected to this piece I half-wrote last year and have been thinking about since) Anyhow, this the workshop draft of a short story I wrote for class, and I just think it’s v neat and wanted to share!

----

Dolores Lopez spent much of her free time inside museums, but today she was here with a purpose. The building was much younger than many of its contents—an oblong Art Deco styled building, trimmed with golds and chevron and all those other lovely elegant things. The atrium stretched to the full height of the building, dwarfing all patrons as if to say “You are inferior in the grand scheme of history; there may be no one to tell your tale lest ye gain the wealth and notoriety seen here!”

Or perhaps Dolores was simply projecting.

The first time she’d visited this particular museum was in the second grade, back when she wore her dark brown hair in two simple plaits—well, until two of the boys in class decided a few months later it was a stroke of comic genius to cut one off with a pair of scissors during class—back when her complexion still held a rich, golden undertone to it instead of a sickly yellow tinge, and back before she had to squint through thick, round glasses that later had her teased for looking far too much like an owl. It was so long ago she couldn’t remember exactly what they had been there to study—maybe something about the Native Americans or Columbus or vaqueros, but that wasn’t what made an impact.

She remembered, once they had been given time to look about the museum freely, taking one glance at an old World War II nurse’s uniform from the travelling exhibit and bursting into tears. A grief she had never been introduced to flooded forth, having seen no death in her lifetime, and pulled her underneath its tide. Something had been sitting inside her, buried deep underneath everything she knew of herself. The chaperone overseeing her had ended up taking her outside to calm down, asking what had happened. She had never quite been able to explain it, and lied that her stomach hurt when pressed for an answer.

As she aged, Dolores noticed more and more of her life out of the ordinary.

There were the vivid dreams, showing flashes of lives both mundane and horrific. They varied in topic, but often continued on at some point or another, as though a new episode had finally aired. Sometimes there were flickering shadows of a cobblestone hearth, and other times the sparking battlefields on the edge of the Euphrates. The most common ones brought Dolores into a living room decorated with floral wallpaper, a gramophone playing a song she later discovered was Vera Lynn’s “We’ll Meet Again.” In some dreams, she sat with another girl, a few years older, playing with rag dolls whose threads unraveled and only just remained stitched together so they wouldn’t have to hear the wailing of an upset child. In others, they were older, seated beside the radio, listening to whatever the statesman had to say on the state of drought and war and the economy.

Sometimes she sat alone, patching up old skirts and trousers, with little more than the hum of the wind to bring her company.

Only now was she beginning to understand what those dreams meant.

“Dolly Lopez?” The silvery voice came from behind Dolores, along with a gentle tap on the shoulder, pulling her focus back to the present. She turned, and an aged tension lifted from her body. Remington Siegel stood half a foot taller than her, dressed in a rather interesting combination of neon prints which stood out even more against his dark skin, looking nothing like the person that she had missed, but feeling every bit the same.

Dolores swiped the tears from her face, clearing her throat to compose herself. “You kept me waiting,” she said.

“I never meant to.” Remy put his arms across her shoulders, pulling her into an awkward side-hug. “Should we sit somewhere? Or is there an exhibit you’re fond of?” He paused for a moment, face screwed up with thought. “You weren’t the one with a stamp collection, were you?”

Dolores scrunched her nose. “I don’t remember much, but I definitely don’t remember that.”

Remy only shrugged. “Another lifetime, then. It’s tough to keep them all separated, you know.”

Dolores’s gaze fell down to the messenger bag hanging from his shoulder, stuffed with loose, crumpled papers on the verge of falling out. The weight of the binder in her arms seemed to double.

“Maybe the café?” He suggested, in hopes of breaking the silence. “It was a long flight from Newcastle, and I haven’t eaten much since—too busy trying to get a hold of myself.”

“Of course! Sorry, I got lost in my own head.” Dolores stepped to the side, gesturing forward. “Honestly, I’m just still a bit shocked you’re really here—five months of Twitter DMs and now? Bam! You’re just…here.”

“Well, that’s one of the many plusses of being the only grandchild of wealthy grandparents—they’re willing to spoil me at the drop of a hat. Well, that and I have spent far more time doing this.” He gestured his bag forward. “Maybe I’m not half as organized, but I’ve got it mostly-kinda-sorta figured out. Seeing me in action should help you out a lot.”

Dolores nodded, offering a soft mm-hm, but her eyes were clouded and far off. He hadn’t brought it up. She knew they had talked about it plenty through their messages, but it felt strange to not mention it. Wrong, even. But this was the third time he’d done this—he’d even approached her about it all. Maybe there was some taboo about it she was unaware of.

Maybe it didn’t mean as much to him.

She listened to Remy ramble on about his research methods preferred databases through the halls, around the line of the café, and even for the first few minutes seated at the table. She asked questions from time to time, but ones which were only half engaged—Oh really? How long did that take? How did you come up with that? She spent far more time shouting in her own head to get over her worries and ask something with more meaning.

“You’re dying to ask something.” It was a statement, rather than a question, delivered between a mouthful of muffin and a sip of tea. “The hesitant look in your eyes—go on, don’t be shy. I didn’t come all the way out here to buy five dollar muffins and be half-listened to.”

Dolores averted her gaze, focusing on the instead on a photo of an aged Victorian doctor, apparently one of Remy’s most notable memories, who looked up at her with a stern warning to mind her words carefully. She wiggled the straw in her tea aimlessly. “No, no, I’m alright!” She forced out a laugh, the way she had practiced on plenty of bad dates throughout plenty of lifetimes. “I’m just a little—”

“Look, Dolly—If you tell me you’re star-struck again, I’ll just have to ask you what’s wrong and that’s never a fun conversation.”

Dolores took in a short breath and sighed, deflating in her chair. “I was just…hoping maybe we could talk a little more about…” She pressed her lips together, failing to hold back her true thoughts. “Us? What we were, what we went through. I mean, God, it’s hard enough to find someone who remembers at all, let alone someone you shared that history with! Let’s talk about the fact that you were Betty and I was Judith and that we’re only seeing each other again now nearly eighty-goddamned-years later in two totally different bodies and from two totally different places!”

Ceramic clinked against the table. Dolores pulled her fist back towards her chest, face flushed from her outburst. She hadn’t meant to get that worked up, hadn’t meant to hit the table.

Remy leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs, and drew out a sigh. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, frowned, and then fixed his gaze back on Dolores. “You know that fun little saying War is hell? It’s not too far off.”

Dolores scooted her chair closer to the table, so that her belly pressed against the cool laminate. She hunched forward, so that he wouldn’t have to speak any louder than was required between the two of them.

“I try not to remember being Betty. I know you remember a lot of the good things, but you were the little sister. It was my job to make things seem fun and happy for you, even when Dad lost his job during the Depression and when the neighbors started getting shipped off left and right when the war started.” Remy paused. He suddenly found the particular soda stains on the floor particularly interesting, and focused his gaze there. “I know I signed up to be an Army Nurse because I was exhausted playing nanny for you. You were thirteen, I figured you’d be fine if I was gone for a bit. I could see the world, and meet some boys.”

He let out a whistle, low and long, like the groan of a dropped bomb. “Boy, oh boy did I meet plenty. You see things you couldn’t imagine happen to a human body treating a warzone. They kept me with diseases, mostly, not trauma.”

Dolores nodded. She knew how the story ended—Betty had contracted TB, died before the war even ended, and left her sister—had left her—without so much as a final goodbye.

Remy shrugged his shoulders, and returned to his previous position. “I’d love to say I remembered the good things, Dolly, but I’ve got all the ugly. Well, mostly.” He pulled an envelope from his bag, yellowed with time and creased with deep wrinkles. “I barely remember writing it, but I guess it was never posted. It was found in a box with some other nurse’s stuff, some old friend of mine—er, Betty’s—who’d passed, apparently.”

Dolores’s hands shook. It was so worn it had become soft, and the half-finished address was hardly legible at this point. “And it was definitely from…?”

Remy nodded. “It’s yours. Sorry it took so long to get here. But, hey, look at it this way: we got to say hello again instead of goodbye.”

Dolores’s lips quirked up into a smile. She left the envelope closed, and placed it inside her binder for later. She’d waited for it this long, anyway. “Hello is much nicer than goodbye, isn’t it?”

[keyofjetwolf]

Elisabeth: Kitsch

SO EXCITED TO DO THIS ONE. This didn’t wind up being my favourite song from the musical, but I think it comes a very respectable second. The Interplay between the history and the FEELING of history is so interesting to me, the way that we soften the edges to fit the things we’d rather learn.

Perhaps more than any other, this is Lucheni’s song. He fulfills his usual role, bridging the scenes with the relevant high points, but it’s in this one where I feel he shines brightest. And that’s true, despite the fact that the Takarazuka and Essen versions come at it in very different ways with very different messages. Even with the lighter and less critical spin on the song, this is Takarazuka Lucheni at his cheeky best.

And as for Essen Lucheni, his anger for the aristocracy is perhaps outdone only by how much he hates each and every one of us for buying what they sell.

Both are great versions of the song, particularly in the story that they’re choosing to tell. SO COME LET US EXPLORE

Even just a cursory viewing of the two performances show how dramatically different they are in what they’re telling. The most important information we need to learn is how Hungary is becoming Austria-Hungary with Franz Joseph and Elisabeth as its rulers, so in this, both versions are the same. Both also, in a very broad way, look to strip Elisabeth of her mystique somewhat, but with very different ideas of what that means.

The Takarazuka version is almost entirely focused on Elisabeth’s beauty and her obsession with it. As I’ve been watching the two versions much more closely for these posts, it’s a recurring trend I’ve noticed where the Takarazuka makes changes. The song in the cafe, for example, has the patrons commenting specifically on her waist size and diet. (My guess is that this is a cultural choice meant to highlight something specific about Elisabeth, but I don’t have that perspective to extensively comment on it beyond noting it, and how those changes affect my personal relationship with the songs.)

Elisabeth, Takarazuka Lucheni tells us, has assigned diplomats throughout the world to send her pictures of their stationed country’s most beautiful women.

“She knew well that beauty fades and strength fails.” It’s a great line and probably the most critical the Takarazuka version gets of Elisabeth. Though I have to note that it comes right before discussing how Sophie is still in control in Vienna, and coupled with how Sophie will be shown fading shortly, I wonder if the line isn’t as much commenting on Elisabeth’s strategy against her rival as it is awareness of the expiration date of her own primary weapons. POR QUE NO LOS DOS

We also have this, which is wonderfully cynical and true.

It’s also a brilliant example of how Takarazuka Lucheni delivers that cynicism: slyly, like he’s sharing an in-joke with us. OH THE RICH AND POWERFUL WE SURE KNOW WHAT THEY’RE LIKE DON’T WE THOSE SCAMPS

This entire number in the Takarazuka version is ITSELF a fantastic example of the kitsch it sings about. The ladies are in hilariously overdone “national” costumes that border on offensive. They parade back and forth, representing everything but saying nothing, much like the gesture of Austria “joining” with Hungary. I still can’t decide if I think this was an intentional turn by the creators adapting the musical for Takarazuka, or a delightful side effect, but it’s a spectacle and I enjoy it either way.

The Essen version, though. The Essen version is here to slaughter everyone and it is gloriously full on its shit.

Essen Lucheni comes out swinging and socks you right across the jaw AS YOU WELL DESERVE. Much like Takarazuka Lucheni, he begins by interacting directly with the crowd. He’s not taking photographs though, not capturing the moment, he’s handing out fliers. I don’t know what the cards were, but I hope hope hope they were advertisements for what was on sale in the theater lobby. Either way, in the act of handing something out and the audience members taking it, we’ve become part of the performance. We’re complicit now, we’re willing customers.

Without pause, Lucheni begins. He sings before a dark backdrop, the inside of the cathedral where all the action is taking place. We can’t see, as those gathered at the actual moment would be similarly excluded. BUT WE’RE STILL HERE. We’re near the significance, and that’s good enough. We buy a token, proof that history happened near us, a cheaply made lie that assures us that we mattered.

Lucheni would rather sell us the truth, but we’d never buy it.

The Essen actor for Lucheni is really incredible. He’s not as likable as the Takarazuka actress (WHO AMONG US COULD), but he’s also not trying to be. What he is is darkly funny, devastatingly insightful, and FURIOUS. Even knowing that Lucheni will kill Elisabeth, I spent most of the Takarazuka version actively looking for the point at which he “turns”, a specifically placed marker for the murderer we know he will become. I never found it. OH I SPECULATED A LOT. There was nothing to find, though. It wasn’t seamless so much as it was a switch flipped, and suddenly Lucheni was a sniveling minion keen only to do Death’s bidding.

There’s never a question in the Essen version. I completely believe that if Elisabeth appeared in front of him at any point in the story, he’d shank her again, every single time, with whatever he just happened to have on hand. Nothing but a Playbill? THAT’S FINE I’LL MAKE IT WORK.

But as I said earlier, Lucheni’s rage is wide and deep enough for us all. “Kitsch” is doing several things, but none so much as it’s yelling at humanity past, present, and future, for lifting Elisabeth (and any rich powerful fuck really) to this level of uncritical, adored deification utterly removed from who and what she truly was.

ELISABETH IS STILL ON SOCKS AVAILABLE FOR PURCHASE IN THIS THE YEAR OF OUR LORD TWO THOUSAND AND NINETEEN

“People only hear what they want to hear,” Lucheni says in disgust, “and so what remains after some time from beauty and from shit, from dream and reality...”

A quick aside to say how much I love the background lights coming up briefly on Lucheni’s “Kitsch!” cue to reveal all the spectacle we’re not part of. But it’s a glimpse, a tiny taste to entice us to come back next time.

I feel I could keep pulling stuff out of this performance forever, but there are a great many more scenes and songs to go through yet. I’ll leave this here, then, the Essen version of this song. It’s just over three minutes, and even without more context than I’ve given in this post, I think it’s well worth your time to check it out.

There’s one more thing I feel it’d be disingenuous of me to not comment on, which didn’t quite hit me until partway through this post. I’ve said a few times now, how the Takarazuka version is the same play, but also really not. It goes out of its way to pull a lot of the complexity from Elisabeth as a person and a character, and in overall tone is generally uncritical and much lighter, choosing to primarily become a fairy tale style love story. There are several conversations that can be had in that, about that degree of story alteration, where the line is between history and fiction, how far that line can be bent, and a dozen other topics.

This thought isn’t anywhere near that deep, don’t worry. But I do think it’s extremely interesting how the Takarazuka version of Elisabeth is, in nearly every single way, the "heartfelt, sweet, and sensible” thing Essen Lucheni is furious with us all for doing in “Kitsch”.

And finally, I love how the Essen version includes this moment of intense self-awareness. What a good fucking song.

KITSCH!

[puttingfingerstokeys]

retirement fund

Nanowrimo day 18 Featuring Allister Corsiva and Mathias Carver (OCs) and a Nasty cameo Dark urban fantasy, vampires Original world with the lovely @dangerduchess Unfinished and unedited

“Darkstar CS-6, report.” The head of the council’s personal, human disposal squad stood before her subordinates, sharp eyes on each one, measuring them up and down and finding each wanting. But that was her way. They were used to it. No one flinched. 

“Ma’am,” came the response from their leader, a beanpole of a man with a baseball cap, a profusion of tattoos, and a look of unapologetic insolence which radiated outward from him without having said a thing beyond acknowledging he’d been called to attention. “All unauthorized siring has been eliminated, target and progeny. Ma’am.”

“Good enough, Carver. Take your squad and get some rest. I’d give you downtime if I could.” Her face was a mask, passive and unimpressed, but again, that was simply her way. Cull Squad Six was the best Darkstar had to offer, was given only the most difficult jobs, and had never lost a man. They saluted and, with a sharp about-face, relieved themselves of her presence. 

“We stayin’ on site?” One of the members asked the one called Carver. 

“Yeah,” he responded, a little sourly once they were out of earshot, “you heard ‘er. We’re on-call.”

“We’re always on-call,” complained another, tossing their hands in the air. Carver shooed everyone off. Only one member stayed nearby, a tall man with angular features, dark hair, and eyes bluer than the sky. 

“You gunna bitch too, Superstar?” It was not clear if this nickname was flattery or derogatory. That the man did not react to it suggested little. The corner of his mouth twitched minutely, but other than that, he remained impassive. 

“No reason to,” he said finally with the light trace of an accent, possibly English. “I’m married to m’job.” 

He had a mumbling way of speaking which might have been difficult to parse, were Carver less accustomed to dealing with it. He and his team had been hunting together for a few years now, however. They moved as a well-oiled machine, almost as if they were one cohesive being. Everyone was pivotal to this machine and communication was vital. When it had become clear this particular teammate had neither the intention nor, perhaps, the ability to change his speech patterns, the team simply adjusted. 

“Ah, the ol’ ball-and-chain argument,” Carver shot back, seeing if he could get a rise out of the man. He could not. 

“Y’know… sortuva… death do us part deal,” confirmed the man, rubbing the side of his prominent nose with his ring and middle finger. He looked as if he had not slept in days, but Carver thought nothing of it. That was just the way he looked. 

“And she doesn’t even put out,” lamented Carver dramatically. “C’mon, let’s get some chow.”

They walked side-by-side down the hall of the Darkstar headquarters, feeling the crushing weight of all that earth above them and pretending it did not bother them. The building was positioned deep underground, facilitating easy transport here and there for their patrons, a powerful group of vampires known as the Council. Working for vampires and hunting them had seemed like an impossible concept at first, but as time wore on, the need for it and the reasoning behind it became clear. 

Vampires, as it happened, had laws of their own. Those laws needed to be carried out and upheld by someone. In the case of the death of fellow vampires, one of those laws was that vampires were not permitted to harm their brethren. The law said nothing of the human kill teams that were sent in to break up illegal siring activities, more often than not ending the reign of a particularly bloodlust-filled upstart who decided they were too good for the rules. 

Bloodsuckers wanna pretend they’re playing nice, so they put a stake in my hand, Carver thought bitterly, heedless and uncaring of the presence of any telepaths in the area, that’s just fucking fine. He, like all the other Darkstar hunters, had a personal bone to pick with vampires, in general. That some of them were funding his very pronounced bloodlust and hatred for their kind mattered little to him, or to them. The situation was ideal. He was not allowed to kill without restriction, but the Council kept Darkstar well-supplied with missions. There was always some minor, despotic vampire who styled themselves a lord or baroness, feeding indiscriminately and siring with reckless abandon, flouting this law or that, in need of culling. 

Even the word “cull” came across as pretentious, as if it sought to disguise itself. Call it what it is, Carver thought to himself. Contract killings, right? On the other hand, something that was not alive could not be killed, could it? He thought about this a few moments as he and his companion moved down the hall toward the sounds and smells of the 24-hour cafeteria, generously provided by their employers and manned by vampires on the council’s shit-list, or so Carver thought.

“Mathias,” his companion grunted, touching his elbow and gesturing. “There’s Nasty’s squad… most of ‘em anyway.”

Carver—Mathias being his first name—craned his neck to see around his companion’s tall, narrow frame and hissed through his teeth. “Yeesh,” he added after a moment, “like they’ve been through a fuckin’ meat grinder, huh Al’?”

 The one called Al’, likely short for something, nodded but did not allow his eyes to linger. In fact, he was even now doing his best to steer Mathias away from the four hunters who evidently remained of the 4th Cull Squad. Their leader, a tall, lanky fellow with a 1980s aesthetic rivaled not even by the 80s themselves, sat at a table with his three fellows, saying nothing, making quick work of dinner, but clearly not enjoying it.

They were still spattered with gore, but no one said a thing to them about it. No one but Mathias—or he attempted. With preternatural speed, his partner—whose full name was Allister—snagged his arm and tugged him forcefully toward one corner of the room. Mathias protested.

“They’ve been through the shit, mate,” warned Allister, whose Down Under accent made itself known as he hiss-whispered at his friend. “Don’t push it.”

Mathias cursed vehemently and creatively under his breath, but did not defy the wisdom of his compatriot. Instead, they turned their attention to dinner. The menu was varied, high-quality, and always fresh.

“Darkstar,” Mathias crowed, “where every meal is your last.”

“…it isn’t death row, y’know,” Allister pointed out, examining an apple and then biting into it. He relished the flavor like a man who had not tasted such rich fair in his entire life.

“Not with that attitude,” Mathias shot back, choosing macaroni and cheese. Allister rolled his eyes at the fare on the man’s plate. It was a mystery how Mathias was still so slender, given what he ate. He really did treat every meal like it was going to be his last. In a way, he did have a point, but Allister chose not to dwell on that. The life of a contract-bound vampire hunter was a dangerous one; no one would have debated that, but at the very least, they had access to the latest in firearms, armor, weaponry of all shapes and sizes, and surprisingly comfortable accommodations. In fact, for being underground, the facility had the feeling of a high-rise superstructure, like a casino-hotel. It had definitely been designed for comfort in mind, and why not? These people, these human hunters, were doing the council a sizeable favor. The least they could do was make certain their employees were comfortable.

They found a table presently, Allister making certain it was as far away from CS4 as possible, so that Mathias could not bandy insults with their leader. He had a way about him, an abrasive sort of mannerism that pushed away all but the very dedicated and even then, sometimes it was a stretch. If Allister had not been dealing with him for this long—ten years had positively flown by—he might have taken off long ago due to the man’s “rough exterior”. Truth be told, Mathias had prickly insides, too.

On a few occasions, he had allowed those insides to slip out and Allister had been able to piece together the man’s story. It was the same as everyone else’s in this secret division of vampire-paid hunters, some tragedy or other had taken friends, family, lovers, had dashed hopes and dreams of the future to so many shards of glass that rattled around in the survivor’s heart, cutting them, leaving scars, and making them hard. In that way, they were all the same. 

“D’ya know where they sent Nasty’s crew?” Allister asked this knowing full well Mathias wanted to talk about it, if not with him, then with the aforementioned crew and that, he knew, could end in disaster. Mathias was an A-class hunter; it was as if he had been born to fight vampires. In a fight with another hunter, however, he was spaghetti, at best. 

“Someplace in Siberia, near his hometown,” responded Mathias. “That’s the rumor.”

“So that’s his… retirement fund, then?” 

The retirement fund was an affectionate way of naming the mission which led the Darkstar hunters back to the bloodsuckers who had destroyed their lives, the ultimate revenge mission. Not every hunter got the chance, as the cull squads were usually fairly efficient when a blatant killing occurred, but every once in a while, one of the greedy, bloodlust-driven bastards actually got away. If they ran that far and that fast for that long, chances were, they had to be bad news. Killing something like that earned a Darkstar hunter their freedom from service. This was not a job from which one simply walked away, so earning that privilege, either through quantity or difficulty, was the goal of anyone who had been in more than a few years. 

That being said, earning one’s “retirement fund” was made difficult by more than just the vampire’s age. It was also considered highly dangerous to go after one who had missed their target the first time; there was said to be a mark of blood on the survivor, drawing them inexorably toward the bloodsucker’s fangs. These sorts of sayings and old wives’ tales were little more than urban legends to guys like Mathias, until he met the man’s gaze across the room, the one Allister had called Nasty.

Their eyes locked and all at once, like a lightning strike, Mathias Carver understood. He swallowed hard and stood, pushing away from the table. Allister watched him go, not attempting to stop him, not needing to do so. He knew what was about to happen, like a strong gut feeling but with a vivid projection behind his eyes when he blinked. He watched, then, as the movie played out.

Carver stuck his hand out to the hunter named Nasty, who stood, grabbed it, and embraced the man. They held fast to each other for a time, then pulled back and exchanged a few quiet words. Allister went back to his meal and waited for his companion to return. When he did, he was different, somehow, softer. 

“Is ‘e taking it, then?” Allister’s question was a barely audible mumble. 

“The Gift? Ah… he didn’t say. I… dunno, man. Would you?” The Gift, as it had been named, was the official terminology for accepting the bite and change of a greater vampire, transforming a Darkstar hunter into one of them as the ultimate and final payment for their services. They could no longer hunt, but if eternity appealed to them, it was open for their perusal. 

“No,” said Allister, shaking his head. “Eternity’s no life.”

Not many hunters took what was offered.

[geek-patient-zero]

Part 1, Chapter 3 (Pt. 1)

Or: Mage Chat at The Club Diabolique

Blood War: Masquerade of the Red Death Volume 1

This chapter features a scene most V:TM fans will be familiar with: important vampires meeting in a seedy nightclub to talk about vampire shit.

Thanks to some reckless driving, Dire McCann arrives at Club Diabolique’s front door at exactly midnight. We also learn that he has a late-model Chrysler, but since I’m not a car guy I don’t know if that means anything about him as a character.

Originally an abandoned warehouse, the building had been converted into a disco by several ambitious young capitalists ten years earlier.

There were still discos in 1984? Wait, when did Xanadu come out?

When that craze had died, so had the club. It passed through several hands and incarnations before being bought by the present owner, Oliver Pearson. After several months of extensive interior designing, the nightspot had reopened with a new name, The Club Diabolique, and a new attitude. Converted into a Gothic-Punk haven, with live music, a huge dance floor, and an exclusive “Members Only” upper level, the bar had quickly developed into the hottest place to be in town.

It wouldn’t be a Vampire: The Masquerade story without a shady nightclub in there somewhere. This one, despite its Gothic-Punk theme, has a mixed crowd of patrons. Most importantly are the vampires, as Alexander Vargoss holds court in that members only area, but obviously none of the mortals in the club know about them.

There were rich, middle-aged businessmen wearing expensive suits, accompanied by much younger women dressed to kill in skin-tight designer dresses and five-inch heels. Club Diabolique catered to mistresses and expensive ladies of the evening, not wives. Morals and inhibitions were checked at the door.

I have a hard time believing this club could remain the hottest nightspot in town for very long if they cater to creepy old stiffs cheating on their wives. It’d hurt the club’s image with the rebellious young goth generation the club’s theme is supposedly catering to. Speaking of, we of course have some goth kids. Most of page thirty-one is spent describing them.

They were punks with an attitude.

You can tell this was written in the 90′s because the word “attitude” here doesn’t really mean anything.

Generation X-ers without much money and without much hope, they felt cheated by a world spoiled by their elders.

The kind of subculture that doesn’t mind hanging out in the same club with creepy middle-aged businessmen and their mistresses, right?

This line could also be a good way to describe how many neonates, newly-Embraced vampires, might feel towards their sires and the older vampires. You can easily make a comparison between these fledgling vampires and the disaffected mortal youth they once were, and the connection could both say something about them and help them maintain their humanity when everything else about vampire life, nature, and society is pressuring them to be monsters. But Blood War is one of those V:TM stories that doesn’t focus on neonates.

Their quest for identity had led them down some strange paths.  Searching for meaning in a meaningless world, they turned to the 19th-century Gothic traditions for inspiration. Their look was a mix of black leather and Victorian finery.

A look that probably clashes with the “without much money” description. One disadvantage goths have when it comes to image, compared to punk and grunge, is that being able to afford their fancy outfits out them as suburban middle-class. There’s a whole paragraph describing their look, but I’m assuming you all know what goths look like.

McCann sympathized with the Goths. Most of them were bright, sensitive young men and women trying desperately to cope with a world of diminishing returns. Lonely and bored, they had created a whole new subculture based on a romanticized view of decadence and death.

After that “goths are punks with Attitude® “ line I was expecting the descriptions for goths to be Weinberg talking about how weird the youth of today is mixed with misconceptions like that they worship the devil or something. But this was pretty good. Their disaffection and feelings of hopelessness might be exaggerated, but that’s justified given the World of Darkness’s generally bleak setting. And there’s no mention of the music scene the subcuture came up around, but I don’t think McCann’s much of a modern music person, so it makes in-character sense. And if it’s not perfect, who are we to judge? How many of you on this hellhole of an internet know the goth subculture as anything other than a meme and a fetish?

The most relevant thing about the narration’s description of goths is their view on (the pop culture version of) vampires, and how that clashes with reality. It’s what you’d expect.

Many of them, not realizing the bitter truth behind the legends, fantasized about becoming vampires. Sometimes it happened, turning their dreams into nightmares.

[...]

Their view of the undead came from erotic novels and movies, not the Kindred. As he strolled past them, he uttered a silent prayer that they forever remain ignorant of the truth.

Aw, that’s sweet of McCann. Maybe under that master schemer detective persona beats the heart of a big old softie. Well, no, not at all, but despite being secretly really old he isn’t a dick about young people.

Club Diabolique has a doorman who’s described as “a giant of a man,” even compared to Dire McCann, who is merely big.

Dressed in undertaker’s garb, he exuded an air of restrained menace. This was Brutus, nicknamed the Arbitrator of Souls. In more mundane terms, the ex-wrestler worked as the doorman.

I wonder, does he have that nickname because goths are over-dramatic, or because vampires are over-dramatic?

Brutus is one of those unbribable club doormen who picked who can get in based on a certain criteria beyond “is the person old enough to be here” and “is this guy gonna start shit if he gets inside?” Thing is, no one knew how Brutus decided who gets in and why, and since he’s a huge scary motherfucker no one asks. Given some of the patrons, and the fact that Brutus is one of Vargoss’s ghouls, I’m guessing he judges based on who looks like they have the tastiest blood.

McCann doesn’t have to worry about Brutus, though, since they both know he has an appointment inside. There’s two paragraphs describing the club, but since the plot doesn’t spend any time here, just know that the music’s too loud to talk over and everyone’s there to dance, drink, and sin. And the band playing is called the Children of the Apocalypse, which McCann finds darkly amusing given the news he received last chapter.

Instead we’ll skip to upstairs, at the door to the member’s only area, guarded by a young “looks-eighteen-but-is-actually-a-hundred” vampire named “Fast Eddie” Sanchez, named so due to his skills with a knife. McCann asks him what’s up, and we learn that Vargoss’s guest is “some big shot Tremere sorcerer” and that “word on the street is that bad times are coming.” McCann says that it sound like a good reason for Eddie to keep his knives sharpened.

“I always keep my knives ready, McCann,” said Eddie, seriously, as the detective walked past him and into the next room.

You notice how that quote’s in italics? There’s several different instances in this chapter where lines are randomly written in italics and I have no idea why. The first thing I assumed is that it’s a subtle way of showing that a vampire is using a speech enhancing discipline, like maybe Eddie’s using a Presence power here to sound more intimidating? That’d explain lines of dialogue, but there are lines by the narration that’re randomly in italics too. You can see that here, since the description of McCann walking into the next room is also italicized along with the dialogue. I have no idea what the writer was doing here, and this is the only chapter where this happens.

McCann describes the members only vampire part of the club:

There were a dozen round cocktail tables scattered about the private chamber, with perhaps fifteen Kindred and twice that number of ghouls present. A small bar served whiskey for the ghouls and blood, both human and animal, for the Undead. Neonates, recently embraced vampires, worked as the waiters.

One criticism I’ve heard about the earlier versions of the Vampire: The Masquerade tabletop game is that players, despite being big tough vampires with cool powers, are usually railroaded into being neonates doing low-level schmuck work for the actually powerful Count Dracula level vampires, rarely in a position to do much politicking or even hunting. Superpowered errand boys instead of, you know, vampires. These poor waiters here reminded me of that, though in the tabletop’s defense I doubt you’re expected to work a minimum wage job instead of something more exciting and action packed. In the end, it depends on the storyteller. Also, as the book goes on, I think it unintentionally makes an argument for why campaigns about elders and methuselahs might not be the best idea.

To the rear of the room, on a small raised stage, an undead trio of jazz legends were playing some of their greatest hits for a small but appreciative crowd gathered nearby.

I hope those poor bastards aren’t Toreador, but given that they’re just playing their greatest hits about sixty years after their embrace...

Alexander Vargoss hated rock music and refused to have it in his domain.

Unlike McCann, Vargoss is not down with the youth of (about forty years ago up to) today and hates their “rock” “music.” I was also going to ask why Vargoss holds court in a room over a place he can’t stand, but I figure since he’s a Ventrue he’s compelled to follow the money regardless of where it leads. The member’s only area’s soundproofed, anyway.

They kept the noise outside, and, sometimes, held the screams inside. Humans other than McCann had entered the private chamber. But he was the only one who had ever left alive.

Kindred can drink from humans without killing them, so either the humans killed here are Masquerade threats being dealt with discreetly, Vargoss is a low Humanity bastard, or everyone in the club has bad luck with frenzy-stopping dice rolls.

A stunning redhead was singing with the band tonight. Wearing a green sequined dress that sharply delineated a near-perfect figure, she possessed a deep, syrupy voice that blended in perfect harmony with the three musicians.

Of course she’s hot.

McCann’s never seen the singer before, but she looks “vaguely familiar”, so he asks one of those vampire waiters who she is. Turns out she’s a ghoul belonging to a Toreador named Iverson, whose been visiting St. Louis on business for the last month and is sitting nearby watching her. We’re also reminded by the narration that Toreador are known for their “obsession with the arts.”

“He watches her real, real careful. Doesn’t like anyone else taking an interest in the lady. Can’t say I blame him. She’s good.”

“She’s terrific,” said McCann. “I’m surprised he’s left her mortal. Having her as his childe would really boost his prestige in the clan.”

“I think he’s worried she might lose her sultriness if Embraced,” replied the waiter.

See? Even the Toreador know their art sucks.

The waiter advises McCann to stop gawking and get over to Vargoss’s table. Vargoss is getting impatient and that flashy Around the World in Eighty Days style “arriving at your destination at the exact time” entrance only counts if you arrive in the exact room you’re supposed to meet in. So, somewhat unceremoniously given that this is the Prince of St. Louis, McCann walks over to Vargoss’s table, apologizes for being late, and that’s that. The Prince is there, sitting with his back against a brick wall because he’s paranoid about attacks from behind, along with his bodyguards, ~*~The Dark Angels~*~ Fawn and Flavia, at either side of him, and their guest, a little rat-faced Tremere wizard. We get more random italics.

“You delayed our conversation until this kine arrived?” the wizard snarled at Vargoss, making it quite clear he considered McCann a step below a monkey. The Tremere Clan were not noted for their social graces.

The Tremere guy’s an asshole. No surprise there.

Vargoss seems to ignore him and asks McCann what he thinks of the singer, who we learn is named Rachel Young, but his “icy tone” implies that the wizard’s bad manners have offended him as a host, and the wizard realizes this and shuts up. We also learn that a “closely trusted Tremere councilor” had tried to betray Vargoss a few months ago, but McCann uncovered the plot and stopped him, so Vargoss is especially pissed at he Tremere’s sudden dickishness and general presence.

After some banter about Rachel Young, during which she meets McCann’s gaze from the stage and smiles enigmatically at him, Vargoss chews the Tremere out, warning him to watch his manners or else. He also says that McCann is no ordinary human.

The Prince showing off his pet human, thought McCann sarcastically.

And now the random italics are showing up halfway through sentences. What’s with this? Was there no editor?

What makes McCann “no ordinary human” to Vargoss has nothing to do with his detective skills. Instead, McCann traces “a certain proscribed cabalistic phrase” on the table, presumably with his finger but I’m not ruling out a nearby spoon. The letters he made glow red for an instant before disappearing. It’s not very impressive given the vampire powers we’ll see elsewhere in the story, but it’s enough to prove that McCann is magic. And one of the biggest conversation derailers in the franchise.

“You’re a mage?” he whispered. “Of what tradition?”

“Euthanatos.” replied McCann, naming the infamous Death cult. Several of their number cooperated with the Kindred, lending credence to the detective’s lie.

Hoo boy, mages.

Mage: The Ascension is another game that’s part of the World of Darkness franchise. I can’t tell you much about it since I’d only ever been interested in V:TM. But from what I’d been able to understand from online chat, there’s one important thing to keep in mind when it comes to mages in relation to Vampire: The Masquerade.

You should NOT. TALK. ABOUT MAGES IN RELATION TO VAMPIRE: THE MASQUERADE.

Mages tend to be way, way more powerful than vampires thanks to having fantastic cosmic reality warping powers or some shit. They’ve also got technology. The Technocracy, which I’ve seen get brought up a lot, have orbital mirrors that can create sun-powered space lasers, and goddamn space travel. On top of the obvious power level arguments this’d cause, the nature of mages tend to lead to more “high-minded” concepts like the nature of reality and finding a way for all of humanity to “Ascend.” Compare that to the Kindred’s pettier goals like hiding their existence from the average mortal, manipulating each other, and seeking individual power. When there’re all these factions of magic mortals reshaping reality and burning things with sun lasers in space, it makes the Kindred and their petty earthly squabbles seem pretty damn stupid and unimportant.

So when you’re chatting about Vampire: The Masquerade, bring up mages at your own risk, unless you want to cause long derails about what the mages would do, how they could solve any big problem for vampires without even trying, why they wouldn’t get involved, how something contradicts the lore of one of the two franchises, why are the Antediluvians a threat in the first place when the Technolocracy can sun laser them from space (and they actually do this to one, read up on The Week of Nightmares), and of course, why someone’s pet vampire can totally beat a mage in a fight. And lore dumps. Pages of ‘em.

Hell, I’m derailing right now, and this post is long enough. Back to the story.

The rat-faced Tremere, shocked and more than little scared to have insulted a mage, apologizes, introduces himself as Tyrus Benedict, and assures that he meant no disrespect to McCann or his “order.” We also get this little bit.

Like most Kindred, he was extremely wary of mages. Those beings foolish enough to cross magicians usually ended up perishing in peculiar fashion. Including the Undead.

Also remember that the Tremere used to be mages, so that’s a another group of even more dangerous people who’d like to stick a foot up the Tremere’s asses.

McCann’s trying not to laugh at the easily fooled vampire. See, he’s lying about being Euthanatos. He isn’t even a mage. He just knows a few simple “parlor tricks” like creating glowing red runes with his finger/spoon to fool vamps like Vargoss and Benedict here into thinking he’s a mage.

The Kindred were masters of deceit and deception. Yet they much too easily accepted the unbelievable when confronted with the obvious. They saw complications where none existed. It was a basic character flaw that Dire McCann understood and exploited quite effectively. And had done so, in various guises, over the milennia.

So. He’s at least a thousand years old, but he’s mortal, not a Kindred. He knows some minor magic, but he’s not a mage...

Also, I’m not seeing how “I’m a Mage, I can do magic” is any more complicated than the truth here.

Vargoss and Benedict have some “blood cocktails” (the whiskey here’s too smooth for a big tough guy like Dire McCann, and the twins, edgelords that they are, prefer drinking from the source) and they finally get down to business. The Camarilla elders sent Tyrus to St. Louis to inform Vargoss of current events in the former Soviet Union. Why Vargoss is important enough to bother informing I don’t know, but McCann has to find out somehow, so here we are.

It all started about three years ago, a year before the prologue.

“...at the height of Boris Yeltsin’s unexpected rise to supreme authority in Moscow, all communications with the Kindred inside the former Soviet Union ceased. In the period of a few days, an Iron Curtain of silence descended across Russia. It was as if the Earth itself swallowed up our brethren.”

According to the wiki, this was called the Shadow Curtain.

The European Ventrue and Toreador clans sent some spies into Russia to find out what’s going on, but none returned. Vargoss doesn’t find this very mysterious.

Vargoss shrugged. “Obviously it was a Sabbat takeover. The Brujah elders in Moscow underestimated the discontent among their kine. Their puppet rulers spent too much money on weapons and not enough on food. Without a strong leader like Stalin to keep the commoners in line, discontent and anarchy flourished. The fall of the government, and the Brujah with it, was inevitable. No mystery there. We saw it take place on television.”

How topical for the early 90′s... I have some opinions about Vampire: The Masquerade’s use of historical and current events, and how vampires were involved with them, but that’ll wait until I get to a more offending example toward the end of the book.

Vargoss thinks that the Sabbat, experts at staging revolutions, caught the Brujah unaware and took over. Benedict says the Camarilla elders thought so too, but their spies within the Sabbat revealed that they lost a half dozen of their own people when the curtain fell. They sacrificed dozens of “packs” to break the “barrier of silence,” but they got nothing. Whatever’s causing the Shadow Curtain is stronger than both the Camarilla and the Sabbot. Vargoss asks what could be stronger than the Camarilla, and Benedict answers. Still in italics, of course.

“The Army of Night,’ said Tyrus Benedict, his voice rising in intensity. An unholy band of demonic Kindred belonging to no clan, they are allied with the forces of hell. The fiends belong to the brood of the most feared sorceress of all time—the Hag, Baba Yaga.”

No, not him.

“She awoke from torpor several years ago and has now reclaimed Russia as her own. Armageddon approaches. The Nictuku are rising!”

The legendary Baba Yaga’s a vampire in this setting, the one responsible for the Shadow Curtain, and yet another one of the Nictuku. When Benedict mentions Armageddon here, he doesn’t just mean because some old and cannabalistic methuselahs are waking up just to annoy them. The rising is said to be a sign that Gehenna, the end of the world for vampires and mankind, is starting.

Again, the Nictuku are 4th generation Nosferatu, completely loyal to their sire, the Antediluvian Absimiliard. And Absimiliard apparently hates his descendants, since he was a vain handsome bastard before Caine cursed him and the ugly little rat people living in the sewers remind him of his curse. It’s said that when the Nictuku rise, they’ll wipe out the later generations of Nosferatu, just as their sire wants. Except, funny enough, for Baba Yaga here. She’s apparently a rebel among the Nictuku, and is said to even be the direct vampiric ancestor of all modern Nosferatu, done just to piss Absimiliard off. Seems she just wants to gain power for herself, which is what she’s doing in Russia.

In short: If the Nictuku are rising, they’re probably going to do Absimiliard’s bidding. And if they’re rising, maybe Absimiliard is stirring too. And if he’s beginning to rise, so are the other Antediluvians. And if that’s happening, boom. Gehenna. Everyone’s fucked.

Going according to Camarilla policy, Vargoss angrily denies that the Nictuku (and what they represent, though that’s left unsaid) exist, that they’re just myths “invented by the Nosferatu elders to frighten their rebellious childer.” But turns out Benedict has photographic evidence. He hands over some photos, informing Vargoss that many bothans Tremere wizards met the Final Death getting them. The Sabbat and the rest of the Camarilla couldn’t figure out what was going on in Russia, but somehow the sneaky fuck blood magic clan managed to get pictures of the cause.

McCann doesn’t get to see them, and thus neither do we. But Vargoss tells us all we need to know.

Vargoss’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the photos. Raising up one particular picture, he showed it to Fawn and Flavia. “She has teeth of iron and six-inch claws,” he stated in hushed tones. “Just as the legends claim.”

It’s enough to shut down any more “Nictuku aren’t real” talk.

McCann, meanwhile, notices that Benedict hadn’t said anything since he revealed the photos, which, come on McCann, it’s not even been a minute. But this is supposed to hint that something’s off, because Benedict is staring at the stage with Young and the jazz trio. Who’ve stopped playing.

Suddenly, they hear Young scream.

McCann and the vamps at the table (except Benedict, the wimp) jump up and face the stage, forming a neat little group action pose that’d make for good promotion material if this were a visual media and not a book.

In one hand, he gripped his machine gun pistol, ready for action. At his side were the Dark Angels. Each of them held a pair of short swords they were capable of wielding with deadly efficiency. Right behind them stood Alexander Vargoss. The Prince of St. Louis was no coward.

Says the book after specifically describing him as standing behind the other three. But, alright, I know what Weinberg’s going for.

“Who in hell’s name is that?” whispered McCann ... “What in hell’s name is that?”

Time to meet the bad guy.

Tall and gaunt, a lone figure dominated the center of the chamber, a few feet in front of the stage. It had not been there a moment ago. Somehow, it had materialized out of thin air. That was what the Tremere wizard had seen. It was a magical feat that challenged even the most powerful of Kindred.

You sure he didn’t just reveal himself after deactivating Obfuscate? Or turn into an animal, sneak in, and change back at a dramatically appropriate time? Or-

The newcomer wore a single garment consisting of a ripped and tattered shroud held tightly in place about his body with moldering white bandages. His chalk-white face was that of a long dead corpse. Ancient, decaying skin stretched tightly across a hairless skull. Paper-thin lips, a beak-like nose, and hollow, gaunt cheeks combined in a look of utter malevolence. Huge unblinking eyes, like the black pits of hell, took in all those in the chamber.

A creature of blacks and whites, streaks of brilliant crimson marked his face, his hands, and his arms. Hands and fingers glowed ghostly red. The bright scarlet of fresh blood. There was no question in McCann’s mind that here stood the Red Death.

And his body seems to be generating great heat, and not in the fun wrestling terminology kind of way.

The floor surrounding the walking corpse sizzled. The vinyl bubbled like lava beneath the creature’s feet. Waves of superheated air rose around the figure, giving it an eerie, unearthly vagueness. The Red Death blazed, but did not burn.

Fire’s a fatal weakness for vampires, and that presumably goes for heat so intense it should make things burst into flame too. If you’re playing the tabletop game, you gotta roll to see if your character will freak out and run from fire or not. So this corpse-looking guy generating heat that can melt the floor with no harm to himself is a big deal. Benedict and McCann hype him up a bit more for good measure.

“In three hundred years I have never seen its like,’ muttered Benedict, still seated. ‘How can such a monster exist?”

McCann wondered the same thing. And he based his observation on a much greater span of time.

Vargoss speaks up, trying to live up to that “no coward” description from earlier.

“Who are you?” The Prince’s voice rang like a bell through the silent chamber. “And how dare you violate the traditions and enter my domain without permission?”

“This is how you face the devil straight up, McCann, you wuss.”

The figure raised its head until its eyes glared directly at Vargoss. “I am the Red Death,” the monster declared in slow, deliberate tones. “I go where I want. Your petty territorial claims mean nothing to me. My will is the only law.”

We’ll stop here for now, with McCann and the vampires about to take on the titular Red Death. He acts tough and yeah, he made quite an entrance, but in the end, who knows? Maybe McCann and the vamps’ll do alright.

[fyeah-namjin]

Hi!!! I'd like to ask you if you have any Namjin fic recommendations for us? Thank you very much for sharing the love for Jin and Joonie! 💜

Hi~ I love your blog! I was wondering what your favorite namjin fics are? Have a fantastic 2018! - anonymous

hello anons~ I hope you both have a great year ahead and thank you so much for loving the namjin blog ^^!~ i had to think for some time in how to answer this and these are all the ones i can rec that i really love. Also, personally I’m a huge bottom!Jin fan (in all Jin ships) so all these fics are bottom!Jin.. I’ll add “mature” in the ones where there’s smut included but some of these don’t necessarily have that. I hope these are fine so far ^^

the shaman and the exorcist (angst. ongoing): Seokjin doesn’t believe in ghosts. Namjoon does believe in ghosts.

The Most Beautiful Moments in Life and What’s Loved Most in this World (college au. ongoing): Kim Namjoon is stuck with the obnoxiously good-looking, obnoxiously wealthy, and obnoxiously sociable Kim Seokjin for a music project worth 40% of their grade.

They Say it Takes a Village (But I Think I Just Need You) (ongoing. abo verse): It has been one thousand three hundred and eighty-four days since he’s last seen Seokjin. Not that he’s counting or anything.OR The day Namjoon meets two little boys that he didn’t know existed and everything that happens after.

let’s not hurt anymore (so much angst u cry, au, homophobia): They don’t talk about it, and usually no one thinks to ask. But if you did, Namjoon and Seokjin would tell. 

Fate Led Me To You (Now Let Me Love You) (abo verse): Seokjin did not believe he’d ever have a happy ending. How many happy endings did you ever hear an unmated Omega with a child have?

beta tau sigma (college au): A collection of events occurring within (and without) the walls of the Beta Tau Sigma fraternity house.

Can I Get Your Dewey Decimal Number? (librarian au. humor): Seokjin loved working at the library, but some patrons got on his nerves. Take, for example, the grown man who sat in the corner every day and leeched off of the Wi-Fi.

all you need is love (and pink) (au, humor): Most people only have one miniature angel or devil riding on their shoulders to serve as the physical manifestation of their conscience. Poor Namjoon has five, and they’re all telling him the same thing: “fucking talk to him god dammit what the fuck is wrong with you”

listen to my heart (can you hear it sing) (abo verse, mature, angst): Seokjin wasn’t his, but he was still as every bit of ‘his’ as the rest of the wolves in the pack, and Namjoon was going to have to learn to live with that.In which Namjoon constantly, to everyone’s disappointment, fucks up.

Light of my life, fire in my loins (be a good baby, do what I want) (mature, mafia au): Namjoon exudes power in everything that he does.

I Dream in the Shape of Your Mouth (college au): Seokjin spends a lot of time in the library. Now, Namjoon does too.

hapless (mature, abo verse): Seokjin’s heat comes a little early but Namjoon is still there to help him through it.

an interruption (mature): Namjoon needs to focus, but Jin has other ideas. Also how difficult is it to be emotionless while discreetly getting head under a desk? Kim Namjoon is about to find out.

trouble in paradise (angst): Bangtan have to do a cute concept, which isn’t nearly as much fun as it sounds.

charmed (fantasy au, angst?, fluff): "So you’re not going to eat me?“ Seokjin asks, just to confirm.“Why would I eat you?”“Because you’re a dragon,” Seokjin says slowly, because it should be obvious, despite Namjoon not looking very dragon-y at all. Namjoon looks unimpressed. “I may be a dragon, but I’m not an animal.”

three’s company (mature, +yoongi): Namjoon might be able to physically dominate Seokjin, but he can never seem to get Jin as beautifully pliant and submissive as Yoongi can.

get on your knees (say pretty please) (mature, au): Seokjin hates Namjoon, and then of course, the two of them get stranded on a cabin in the middle of nowhere.

claimed (mature /no smut/, abo verse, angst): Kim Namjoon is a dud. He accidentally falls in love anyway and time goes by.

a sugar coated pill and a pick me up (mature, fluff, humor, they switch but my petty self skipped the part where jin tops LOL): Namjoon refused to acknowledge him. What the fuck was this guy’s deal? Was he really that bitter that his six-year-old just lost a soccer game for six-year-olds?

heart of war (omega verse, ongoing?): For the protection of his people, Prince Seokjin has to marry his fiancé’s killer: the alpha king of the most ruthless and feared kingdom in all the lands with a reputation of being a cold blooded monster on the battlefield.

superb (humor, au): Namjoon is the God of Destruction, as well as the caretaker of three kids, and his kitchen nearly burns down thanks to his attempts to cook an egg but thank god, Kim Seokjin - his saviour, his superhero, his God of Kitchen - lives right upstairs. 

love doesn’t cost a thing (au): In an act of rare stupidity, rich executive’s son Kim Namjoon decides to live like the middle class for a week. The only good part is the manager of McDonald’s.

When Push Comes to Shove, Bribe Him with Ass (mature, abo verse): Namjoon was abstaining sex from Jin just because he’s afraid of hurting Jin or the babies. Can you guess how Jin responds to the this?

trust (mature, +jungkook): “Do you trust me?” Namjoon pulled back and stared down at the older man, gaze serious.

awake (angst): All Seokjin needs to do is write his solo song for the album. All Namjoon needs to do is be a leader to his hyung. And all they both need is something in the future, something beyond the words, something unspoken, hanging in the future.

deal with a demon (mature, incubus au): A Friday night hangout in a bar. A rumor about a sex demon killing people. And a bunch of guys who doesn’t believe in it. Too bad that the incubus is already onto one of them…

you are beautiful in every way (mature, fluff): When Jin gets hurt, and starts to question his value, Namjoon is there to show him just how valuable he is.

over the city with blinking lights, i’ll take you. (mature): Namjoon is rich and he likes to spoil Seokjin with love, sex and ice cream. And they’re both madly in love.

you’re beautiful (au, fluff): Jin was tired of hearing the same thing from men.

foiled again (mature, humor): Five times Namjin get interrupted while having sex, and one time they don’t.

if life was a love song (humor): Soulmate AU where whatever song you have in your head, so does your soulmate; plus you and your soulmate have the same favourite song, and when you meet it plays out loud.

bullets (spy au): Seokjin gets captured in a mission, and there’s no way Namjoon’s going to let him just become a statistic.

getaway (mature, domestic au): “Jesus, Namjoon, please stop,“

bet you won’t (mature, humor, college au): Taehyung dares Seokjin to take a selfie while having sex with Namjoon, and the group chat ends up getting more than it bargained for.

in case of emergency (mafia au, humor): In Case of Emergency (ICE): a program that enables paramedics, police officers, and hospital personnel to contact the next of kin of the owner of a cell phone in order to obtain important medical or support information.

grapefruit (mature): "Grapefruit is actually the best way to describe my situation. Bitter and sweet. But mostly enjoyable.” Fox!Jin verse.

look here (don’t run away) (mature, abo verse): hoseok was late and seokjin was desperate. an alpha came in and really, he didn’t have much choice.

nothing is worthless (mature /no smut/, angst): The moment a person is born into the world they are given a superpower. 

till death do us ‘part (angst, major character death): Namjoon and Seokjin are trapped on the bottom of a sunk ferry.

pack mentality (mature, abo verse): Namjoon is possessive.

Are you an EQUATION? Cuz I would love to SOLVE YOU (mature, humor, college au): “None of my friends are good at math and I need a tutor but you are very intimidating”

[viewfromthedrumstool]

View From The Drum Stool #49

Saint Etienne European Tour, Part I

Albeit not fully recovered from the American tour, the drum stool beckons me back for another run with Saint Etienne. This time it’s Europe: we’ll start with some Scandi dates, head home for a week, and then do a second run south from Helsinki.

All too early on a frosty autumnal Monday morning we meet in east Oxfordshire, five persons and enough keyboards, guitars and musical equipment to open a shop. Our ride to the airport is with friendly South-African taxi driver ‘DimiPapaUk’ who, when he isn’t driving customers in his cab uses it to host ‘taxi raves’ which he broadcasts live on the Internet. (Catchphrases include “Love, peace and muthafuckin’ chicken-grease” and “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh SHIT!”). His YouTube channel is really worth a look…

There’s an extensive (and intrusive) renovation being undertaken at Luton airport which makes the process of passing through the facility painful and uncomfortable. Like a gallstone. We locate the rest of our party on a concourse littered with sleeping families and workmen heaving: it’s a scene from a news report put to a soundtrack of pneumatic drills and circular saws.

Beyond security the nomads and crowds loiter, the type of people that you don’t seem to find anywhere else and I wonder whether they’re actually travelling anywhere or whether Luton airport is simply the place these people come to quietly exist, freed from citizenship, like Tom Hanks in The Terminal.

Most of the flight (2 hrs) I spend sleeping or reading (Cider With Rosie) and eventually we touchdown in Copenhagen to be met by our man-on-the-ground Leuven.

He looks more like he belongs at sea than in the music industry, decked in thick woollen jumper with a magnificent scar on his cheek and at least two teeth missing. I sit up front with him in the rental van for his guided tour of the city as we make the short journey to the venue. He’s an enthusiastic host and a knowledgeable tour guide, if only he didn’t insist on poking me constantly with his calloused sea fingers every time he speaks.

“Hey man look at all the copper roofs!” A jab to the chest.

“37% of our citizens cycle to work!” He digs at my rib.

“Check out this church - it’s non-denominational!” He bruises my wind pipe.

I make a mental note to sit in the back next time.

One of the interesting and unusual things about Copenhagen is that they have the worlds second-oldest still-active amusement park slap bang in the middle of town. Tivoli opened in 1843 and because of the limitations in space most of the rides go up and down more than they go round and round. But there are still four rollercoasters, including a wooden one that’s so old an attendant has to ride in the front carriage and operate the brakes with a lever!

The venue, Pumpehuset, is also right in the centre of town and as we roll up outside a woman waits by the stage entrance, autograph book in hand ... I recognise her! It’s the same autograph-hunter as greeted the arrival of Man Without Country in town some years back! She must have quite a collection by now.

It’s been a long day but when show time comes around we’re all excited to play together again. Given the hysterical crowds we became accustomed to Stateside it was no surprise that the Danish audience demonstrated their enthusiasm somewhat more tastefully, though they were many in number and long may that remain.

We’re staying right across the road at the Hotel Ascot, a mere stumble away after the inevitable post-show back-on-tour merriment. It’s a civilised lodging, despite some confusion over stray knickers we’ve been finding under beds and on the stairs ... maybe there’s some Scandi-noir murder mystery situation in our midst and we should be paying more attention to these saucy clues...

Breakfast is vast and a welcome change from the tasteless beige of the American hotels (I almost always skipped). Fully fuelled - and with a boiled egg in the pocket for mid-morn - we board the van and venture first east, crossing the Øresund Bridge into Sweden and then turn north.

Above us sore enormous flocks of birds in giant V formation, sometimes hundreds in number, their aerodynamic choreography a site to savour and we crane our necks to get a sight of them out of the van window.

Suddenly everything starts to look distinctly... Swedish.

Our fellow road users are positively glowing, their skin a deep orange of questionable origin. And given the number of Burger King restaurants that litter the E6 road north to Gothenburg they’re also surprisingly slim.

In a service station we find a chocolate called a Plopp and another called a Kex. They’ve a way with words the Swedes, I’ll give them that.

Almost all of the vehicles on the road are Swedish-made Volvos too, their lights beaming out come day or night in accordance with Swedish law. The road is bordered much of the way by great slabs of rock covered in subtle shades of moss and I’m sure some rich autumnal hues linger beneath if only for a decent glimmer of sunlight. It’s beginning to dawn on me how unrelentingly dark it is up here. It’s only October but already the sun doesn’t get high into the sky and the type of light that breaks through the clouds is an impotent powerless one.

The backstage at ‘Stora Teatern’ in Gothenburg is welcoming - albeit forgivably IKEA - with the kind of rider I spent most of the US tour dreaming of. EU riders are famously good - there are fresh vegetables, plentiful fruit, cheese and cured meats, boiled eggs, weird and wonderful chocolates, snacks and interesting breads, freshly brewed coffee, and of course the obligatory houmous. (Early in my career a promoter told me if there’s ever no houmous on the rider something is very very wrong, advice I’ve carried with me since). After soundcheck we also find two iced buckets full of wine, Cava and organic beers and cider, which are tasty and preferable over a mass-produced (or even micro-brewed) American effort any day.

The venue itself is among the most grand and impressive I’ve had the pleasure of playing. Originally opened in 1859, the theatre has a large floor, dress circle, upper circle, grand circle and boxes. But the entire audience are seated and once settled into the first song it’s surreal to look up and see them sat there, so serene, several hundred pairs of eyes peering up expectantly and a peal of polite applause after each song. It reminds me of the opening scenes from Wes Anderson’s The Life Aquatic.

Gerard is suitably attired for such a grandiose venue in a dashing suit with ruffled Beethoven shirt. It’s particularly fitting for the glorious baroque intro to Whyteleafe and in the dim light of the stage his black sleeves become invisible and the sight of his cuffed hands dancing across the keyboard reminds me of Thing from the Addams Family.

Albeit clearly enthusiastic, the seated crowd are slow to stir and it’s wonderful moment when a solitary girl on the front row gives in to primal urge and stands to dance through the final few songs. Thankfully by the encore I’m the only one still seated and they’re rewarded with a spirited rendition of You’re In A Bad Way.

The hotel is a boutique Italian affair and they offer check-in with cheese in the form of a huge Parmesan block which patrons are encouraged to pick at while they wait. It’s fair to say they’re enthusiastic to have Saint Etienne come to stay, and they produce an LP from behind the reception desk for the band to sign. Not only do they also furnish all of our rooms with handmade chocolates, but generously decide not to charge our party of 12+ people for dinner - no meagre act considering Scandi prices…!

The following morning and we take to the road once more for the 5+ hour journey from Gothenburg across to Stockholm. The rain today is persistent and I have to keep wiping the window to remove the misty condensation that keeps forming.

Having barely been here before I had high hopes for a haul of memorable photos - perhaps Sarah by a fjord, a panoramic Scandi city scape or Bob and Pete in an epic Nordic vista. In reality there’s been so little in the way of mere colour since we arrived, and the journey is again notably devoid of any hue: even at 1pm there’s barely enough light in the van to read a book. I’m starting to crave a bright colour: perhaps a firey orange or a rich red.

(In desperation I try changing my specs to a different pair but it makes no difference.)

Todays gas station discovery is a CD called RASTERBILLERSHITS Vol.2. But as intrigued as I am to know what a Rastterbillershits sounds like, everything is expensive in Sweden of course and I wasn’t prepared to stake the £22 to find out.

Instead I plug into my iPad where there are albums of Eagles songs and a playlist of country music from our recent tour of the USA ... it’s difficult to comprehend that mere weeks ago we were in sunny California - the cultures couldn’t be further apart (other than the abundance of Burger Kings). I settle on Black Celebration by Depeche Mode instead.

After what feels more like 50 hours we finally disembark at ‘Sodra Teatern’, and enter a labyrinthine venue of meandering corridors, claustrophobic catacombs and anti-chambers too numerous to keep track of. Unable to find anything that constitutes a music venue I find myself instead stumbling into a kitchen deep in the heart of the operation. A sous chef busy shaving cucumbers is pleased to have a companion - he shouts some things in Swedish, poses for a photo and directs me down some stairs, through a passageway and I eventually emerge into the backstage.

The rider tonight includes some interesting additions including a repulsive-looking repulsive-tasting appropriately-named Swedish sweet called Salt Skum. Ever the experimental eater, Pete tries combining it with other rider-items (banana, carrot stick, cheese) in a bid to make to find a companion flavour that might make it more edible but to no avail.

After soundcheck we’re led up to a restaurant on the top floor where we’re served four courses of nouvelle vegetarian fare. It’s utterly delicious and a somewhat more successful attempt at flavour fusion that combines, at various times, coconut foams, raw mushrooms, nuts and spices, and a slice of hot pineapple, all served on clay plates.

I hadn’t seen anything of the crowd before we walked on stage and though I’d heard the show had sold well it was a pleasant surprise to walk on and find a room packed to the rafters, bursting with excitement, people up the stairs and on the balcony, necks craning just to get a glimpse of the action.

It’s another fine show and a great way to end the first short leg. The band are in fine form these days and we’ve come a long way (in every sense) since the tentative first promotional dates of the Home Counties campaign.

It’s been a whirlwind of a trip, enjoyable as always and I look forward to returning to Sweden and Denmark in the future. But the grey’d aesthetic was disappointing albeit atmospheric and I don’t hold out much hope for those few times that I did pull the trigger on my Pentax.

It’s still raining when we return to the airport the following morning. But when the plane takes off we rocket up through the clouds into a pastoral blue sky and a burst of pure golden sunlight comes streaming through the starboard porthole, bathing the cabin, flooding my retinas and laying to rest any woes, cravings and longings.

Alas, part two of the EU Tour will follow … here’s hoping for some more sunshine!

Until then,

M

[papermoonloveslucy]

LUCY, THE SHOPPING EXPERT

S1;E20 ~ February 17, 1969

Directed by Jack Donohue ~ Written by Milt Josefsberg and Al Schwartz

Synopsis

Craig gets a part-time job in a supermarket to earn money to buy a surfboard. At the same time, Lucy is giving Kim some valuable lessons in smart shopping. When the two accidentally converge, chaos ensues - naturally!

Regular Cast

Lucille Ball (Lucy Carter), Gale Gordon (Harrison Otis Carter), Lucie Arnaz (Kim Carter), Desi Arnaz Jr. (Craig Carter)

Guest Cast

William Lanteau (Mr. Sherwood, Supermarket Manager) first appeared with Lucille Ball in The Facts of Life (1960). In addition to an episode of “The Lucy Show,” Lanteau did four episodes of “Here’s Lucy.”  He is best remembered for playing Charlie the Mailman in the play and the film On Golden Pond (1981).

Mr. Sherwood is the winner of the Golden Can Award for his shelf arrangements.

Ernest Sarracino (Mr. Nicoletti, Produce Manager) played the Judge in “Lucy and the Runaway Butterfly” (TLS S1;E29), also directed by Jack Donohue. This is the first of his two episodes of “Here’s Lucy.”  His screen acting credits span from 1939 to 1994.

Although never actually referred to as Mr. Nicoletti, the character is credited in honor of Louis Nicoletti, a long-time member of the Desilu family who was the assistant director of “Here's Lucy” from 1968 to 1969, including this episode.  In addition to making on camera appearances on “I Love Lucy” and “The Lucy Show,” there were two characters named after him on “I Love Lucy.”  Here the character is played as a stereotypical Italian fruit vendor and speaks in Italian to Lucy: “You make-a da dent?  Dat's-a 39 cents!”  

Irwin Charone (Mr. Garfield, of the Nippy Whippy Whipped Cream Company) made five appearances on “The Lucy Show.” The expressive character actor also did an equal number of “Here’s Lucy” episodes. He died in January 2016 in Maplewood, New Jersey, at the age of 93.  

The restaurant patrons and supermarket shoppers are played by uncredited background players.

At the start of the episode Kim brings home ethnic foods because the grocer Mr. Goldapper recommended them.  This is an inside joke as Goldapper is Gary Morton's real last name.   Gary Morton's loud guffaw can be distinctly heard on the soundtrack throughout the episode.

Craig says he knows all about the facts of life since he was seven because he watched “Peyton Place.” Based on a 1956 novel, “Peyton Place” was a primetime soap opera that aired on ABC from 1964 to 1969. The title has become synonymous with the personal problems and scandals of small-town life.  It was mentioned several times on “The Lucy Show” including in “Lucy and Joan” (TLS S4;E4) which also took place in a supermarket.  

Instead of “Peyton Place,” Harry says he regrets wasting his time watching “Captain Kangaroo.”  “Captain Kangaroo” was a children’s television series that aired weekday mornings on CBS from October 1955 to December 1984. The Captain (Bob Keeshan, above right) would tell stories, meet guests, and indulge in silly stunts with regular characters, both humans and puppets. Captain Kangaroo was previously mentioned on several episodes of “The Lucy Show.”  

Gale Gordon's monologue about the birds and the bees is nearly four minutes long and gets a round of applause from the studio audience. It is highly unlikely that teenage Craig would let him go on so long when all he wants is $100! 

There is a poster in the supermarket featuring pumpkins and pilgrims so this episode was likely filmed in November 1968.

While most of the prop canned goods look like actual products, the cans of Chef Claudio's Ravioli Dinner look like something contrived by the Desilu prop department.  It is likely a tribute to director Claudio Guzman, who started with the company in 1958 and directed 15 episodes of “The Lucy Show.”  He was best known for his association with “I Dream of Jeannie” (1966-70).  Curiously, although they are visible on camera, they are never referred to in the dialogue – or at least it didn't make the final cut.

Some sample 1969 supermarket prices:

Cantaloupe Melons are 39 cents each.

Strawberries are 50 cents a pint basket.

Medium Eggs are 53 cents a dozen.  

Lucy says the store puts the nicest looking strawberries on top of the basket, but underneath “things can be as rotten as the Harper Valley PTA”!  “Harper Valley PTA" is a country song written by Tom T. Hall that was a hit single for Jeannie C. Riley in 1968. Riley's record sold over six million copies.  The song lyrics tell the story of a woman who is accused of immorality by her daughter's junior high PTA and how she gets her revenge on her hypocritical accusers. The song later gave life to a film (starring Barbara Eden) and a failed television series.  

When Lucy is sloshing the cans to hear how full they are, the clerk asks if she expects to hear Lawrence Welk.  Lawrence Welk (1903-92, above) was a musician, accordionist, bandleader, and television impresario, who hosted TV’s “The Lawrence Welk Show” from 1951 to 1982. Welk was mentioned several times on “The Lucy Show” and also on “Lucy's Birthday” (S1;E8).  Welk will play himself on a 1970 episode of “Here's Lucy” (above, with Vivian Vance). 

Later, when Lucy is holding up the eggs to the light, he tells her they are eggs, “not the Hope Diamond.” The Hope Diamond is one of the most famous jewels in the world, dating back almost four centuries. It is housed in the Smithsonian Institute.  

Lucy is never able to control nozzles and hoses – even on the tip of a can of whipped cream.  The end of the episode is actually a good excuse for a cream pie fight – without the pies!  

A banner in the supermarket advertises a “Storyland Sale” - whatever that may be!  The same banner was used in a supermarket in “Lucy and Joan” (TLS S4;E4).  

Lucy Carmichael also hangs around several different supermarkets to buy a lot of cans of Bailey's Beans for her get-rich-quick scheme in “Lucy the Bean Queen” (TLS S5;E3).  

In this episode, Kim says about her Uncle Harry: “Compared to him, Jack Benny is a regular Diamond Jim Brady.”

On “The Lucy Show,” Lucy Carmichael says to Mr. Mooney: “Compared to you, Jack Benny is Diamond Jim Brady.”  

Comedian Jack Benny (1894-1974, inset right) was a frequent guest star on both shows. His comic persona was that of a skinflint who had every penny he ever made. The same evening this episode first aired, Lucille Ball appeared on Benny’s birthday special on NBC. James Buchanan Brady (1856-1917, inset left) was a real-life millionaire and philanthropist who was fond of jewels (hence the nickname). Brady was first mentioned in “The Business Manager” (ILL S4;E1).  

Craig says he learned the facts of life at age seven while watching “Petyon Place.”  If Desi Arnaz Jr. and Craig are the same age (15 or 16), he would have to have turned 7 in 1960.  “Peyton Place” didn't start airing until 1964. If this were true, the character of Craig Carter would be just 11 or 12 years old!

Craig asks his mother for $100 for a surfboard which Lucy decides against as an unnecessary luxury. However, in “Lucy Visits Jack Benny” (S1;E2), Craig packs his surfboard (much to Lucy's dismay) for his weekend in Palm Springs. 

The precariously stacked display of oranges is built on a slanted surface to allow the oranges to more easily tumble to the floor.  The gag works by the collapsing the structure on which the oranges are arranged on cue – probably a by a stagehand hidden under the table.

Most of the items in the dairy case have their brand name labels conspicuously taped over. Conveniently, the brand name labels on the canned goods are too small for the camera to pick up, so they aren't obscured.

When the whipped cream spray lands on the end of Mr. Sherwood's nose, Craig takes a cloth and wipes it off. Irwin Charone ad libs the line “Never mind my nose.”

“Lucy, The Shopping Expert” rates 3 Paper Hearts out of 5

This is a very colorful episode full of lots of physical gags and some broad acting from the supporting cast. In the middle of the chaos, Gale Gordon delivers a meandering 4 minute monologue about the birds and the bees - literally.  A contrived ending feels forced.  

[sunset-wishes-upon-hill]

Scent Chapter 2 (Previously known as Human Scent - Batman FF)

She wondered just how a person like Jonathan Crane didn’t lose his license. She might not have had any professional training on counseling, but she was sure some of the things he said or acted during their session were unethical. He loved intimidating her and focusing on her ‘fear’ that held her to the place she was in. She had asked after their first session if she could opt out on the counseling sessions or at least changes her therapist. Emma, although good-hearted and meant well, Anne knew she probably thought her ungrateful with the way she seemed to throw away the help that many people in her situation could not afford.

His probing seemed to worsen; its intensity was becoming increasingly disturbing. It was as if he was singling her out of many people within the hostel for his own sadistic amusement. She wished she could leave the hostel, that way she won’t be pressured into these counseling sessions which was only prolonging her pain.

Many times she wondered if she should just jump in front of the train or jump down from the highest building she could find because she knew she probably won’t ever go back to her world and if that was the fact, then she didn’t want to live anymore; but there was a small hope – futile as it may be – that maybe, just maybe, if she waited out, she can somehow, by whatever miracle, get back to her world. It was thoughts like that prevented her from making that jump. Or cut.

But her memories of her life back in her world were fading; an elusive dream now. Her crying episodes weren’t getting any better and she decided to set out and get back her stolen wallet. She didn’t care if he kept everything he took, as long as he was willing to hear her out and at least give back the family picture she had in her wallet. That’s all she wanted. All she needed.

With Emma’s permission and curfew set to 6 P.M, she headed out of the hostel. Anne made sure she memorized any outstanding building near the hostel, wrote the hostel address on her palm in case she lose track and repeated the directions she took.

Trying to memorise the direction she took while trying to remember where Emma said she was found was really trying her memory. She became lost a few times but she worked up the courage to stop a local-looking passing-by pedestrian to ask for the direction. The hostel was situated in The Narrows, the worst and crime-riddled part of Gotham. It was a side of large, wealthy city that the famously rich and privileged wanted hidden and under the radar from their little bubble wrapped world.

When she did arrive at her ‘home’, it had already been staked a claim by another rough sleeper who treated her with hostility at the potential threat to his now home. She understood his protectiveness of his home and so left him in peace after a brief questioning and vague answers. The man that assaulted her, she remembered, made his way down and she followed the very same rocky path, making sure to carefully examine the alleys and hidden corners.

Anne’s stomach rumbled and her legs muscles twitched in protest for rest as exhaustion took over. She had no idea how long she walked but she couldn’t find the man she only had a brief glimpse to. It was probably over 6 P.M too. She toppled against the wall, burying her face in her arms and letting out wail at the injustice she’s been given. She didn’t know what she did to deserve this punishment, certainly there were much more people out there that deserved this than a girl with low paying job living the life to the best she could.

“Anne?” She heard a familiar voice from the distance.

Anne’s head jerked up slightly at the sound of her name, but she pretended she was trying to shift her head to a more comfortable position when her brain matched the voice to the face.

“Anne, I know you heard me.” He had taken to forgo the formality during their second session, because he knew just how much he bothered her with using her given name with such familiarity.

She wiped away the tears with her hoodie sleeves and gathered the courage to look up.

He smirked as his eyes met her blood shot eyes, “What are you doing out here so late? It’s unsafe.”

She stood up, dusting the dirt from her jeans, “I just came out for a fresh air. I’m going back.”

“It’s late and dangerous for a lone woman to walk all the way back to the hostel, Anne.” He said, “Get in the car, I’ll drop you off.”

“No.” She said it too quickly.

“Anne, you’re safer with me than you are out there.”

She doubted that. “I’m fine.”

“Anne.” His voice grew hard and cold, lined with irritation, “Get in, or I’ll make you.”

Don’t let him control you, the voice said to her. She began to walk the opposite direction his expensive car was facing. She could hear the car moving and screeching to a halt as it made a harsh U-turn before speeding slightly to stop at few feet in front of her.

The psychiatrist stepped out of the car and opened his passenger door before approaching frightened Anne. She stepped back as he stepped forward, then his arm lurched out and caught hers’ in harsh grip.

“Anne, get in the car. Listen to your therapist.”

“I don’t want you as my freakin therapist!” Her protest was weak and futile against the man’s naturally superior physical strength as he effortlessly dragged her onto the passenger seat, buckled her seat belt, tightening it taut in warning and shut the door and made his way to his own seat.

“Now, Anne, we’ve been making great progression. You need my help.” He reasoned, buckling his own belt.

Anne buried her face in her hands, wishing the man would just disappear into oblivion. Then sound of shuffling, and he was speaking on someone over the phone.

“Hello, Emma? This is Dr. Jonathan Crane,” He paused, seemingly letting the woman over the phone speak, “I have Anne here with me, I’ve found her lost in the street…yes, she’s safe. I’ll drop her off at the centre.” He pressed the end call button and tucked his phone inside his suit.

“Can you tell me why you were here out so late?”

Anne took the time to compose herself before she said anything – at least in front of him she had to think before speaking.

“I-I was just looking for my stolen wallet.”

“And you thought going around the dangerous street, alone, was a good idea?”

“I..I just wanted my wallet back.”

“And you weren’t afraid something..unpleasant might happen to you?”

“I just want my wallet back.”

“What’s in the wallet that is so important to you?”

“My family photos.”

His car stopped in front of an unfamiliar building, not the shelter he told Emma he’d drop her off at. Anne’s breath hitched and her hands on her laps felt clammy with sweat.

“Where are we?”

“You haven’t had dinner right? I thought it’d be better if I give you back to Emma with full stomach than an empty one. Besides,” He checked his watch, “The dinner time is over back in the centre.”

“I’m not hungry.” She adamantly said, then her stomach growled as soon as it left her lips and she could not believe out of all possible situation, her body decide to betray her in utmost possible cliché way.

“Perhaps in your mind, but your body says otherwise.” He tilted his head to her stomach, “My treat.”

By the time Anne came back to her senses, she was sitting on the dinning bench as he ordered the food for her. She really didn’t know what made her such an amusing toy out of others. It was clear he was toying with her.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” He questioned while maintaining that cryptic smile, eyes darkening.

“I said I don’t need any help, but you keep on forcing me to attend the sessions.” She answered, although it was a very indirect way of responding to his question.

“Some needs persuading.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need counseling; I don’t need you.”

“I’m the psychiatrist here, Anne,” Reminding her, with emphasis on that single word, to remind her of her standing, “I’m only doing what’s best for you.”

“And forcing me to partake in something I don’t want to do is ethical?” She retorted, eyes narrowing in challenge.

“Sometimes, under certain circumstances with certain patients, ethicality must be bent for the sake of their well-being. I, as your therapist, am bound to that duty.”

“I’m not crazy; I can think clearly!” She slammed on the table, earning worried glances from the servers. They were the only patron in the small diner and when she caught his subtle insinuation, she had lost some of her composure. She wasn’t crazy, she was just confused and alone and scared and frightened by what she was going through. Who wouldn’t be, right? If they found themselves transported into some movie or comic or whatever dimension this was, who wouldn’t be so..unnerved?

“Is everything alright?” Their server asked, holding plate of the food and tension in her face. The white haired Asian lady, plump, tanned in white-and-red checkered knee length dress gave her the glance that she knew something was not right and she was willing to get help.

“She had a bad day. I’m her therapist.” The psychiatrist intervened before Anne could say anything further, swiping out his hospital staff ID to the waitress. Immediately, the concern on the woman’s face melted away and replaced with look of fallacy as she seemed to re-assess the situation between the pair.

“Oh,” The waitress smiled in relief as she put the plate of burger in front of Anne and coffee in front of the doctor, “Right, that’s unfortunate… I hope you feel better, sweetie. Enjoy your food.”

Anne attempted a smile but it came out as a side lopped frown, there was no point of getting angry at someone who had nothing to do with the root of the cause. As someone who worked in customer-orientated service before, she was always careful how she acted toward them.

“Thank you.” She bit big, making sure to chew slowly so that she won’t have to speak and he won’t ask.

He silently sipped his coffee, eyeing her every movements, measuring her every little quirks as if trying to figure her out like one would in some sort of overt observation experiment. She felt like some rat in a cage and him, a scientist who placed various stimuli inside the cage to try and pry out specific reactions from her.

“Do you remember anything about your family, Anne?”

She stopped chewing and started to cough. He pushed the orange juice toward her with his knuckle. Anne gulped down the dry food, nearly spitting out the drink as another fit of cough overcame her.

What does she say? What can she say?

“I-I think so.”

“Think so?”

“I have flashes of them. Sometimes.” It was true, she had flashes of them but those flashes were becoming blurry now. It wasn’t a matter of remembering, more of forgetting. She was afraid her lies, her greatest fear would become true the longer she was here. She needed to get out of here.

She was lost in thought when she asked him, “Are you done with your coffee?” She piled up her plates, putting used fork and knife on top as she gathered up his empty cup and used tissues to placed it next to her cutlery and wiped down the table. She had worked as a waitress before she got a new job at the city library few months before she came to this world and it had become a habit of cleaning plates up in convenient way for the waitress to take them away. He took in the habit, but made no attempt to point it out.

“Let’s go, I’ll drop you off.” He said, sliding out of his seat after putting a twenty dollar note on the table. The burger and the coffee probably cost him ten dollars and it wasn’t everyday you’d see someone leaving a ten dollar tip, particularly in a place like this.

The rest of the car ride was spent in silent. She was grateful, at least. Finally, a long overdue peace she deserved.

She must have fallen asleep; a hand was shaking her awake as she felt the coolness of the outside temperature on the window she was leaning into. Her mouth was probably gaped open the whole journey. How embarrassing.

“We’re here.” He said, “You travelled quite far.”

She wordlessly got out of the car, heading into the hostel when she heard him call her from the window of his car.

“I’ll see you soon, Anne.”

She ignored him and entered the hostel.

[airoasis]

A rich life with less stuff | The Minimalists | TEDxWhitefish

New Post has been published on https://hititem.kr/a-rich-life-with-less-stuff-the-minimalists-tedxwhitefish/

A rich life with less stuff | The Minimalists | TEDxWhitefish

Translator: Bob Prottas Reviewer: Leonardo Silva My name is Ryan Nicodemus, and that is Joshua Fields Millburn. And the two of us run a internet site called: "theminimalists.Com", and at present we wish to speak to you about what it manner to be a part of a neighborhood. But first, I wish to share a narrative with you about how I became rich. Suppose your life a yr from now — 2 years from now — 5 years from now. What’s it going to appear like? Suppose a life with much less: less stuff, less muddle, less stress, and debt, and discontent.A life with fewer distractions. (telephone phone ringing) Dude, you’re joking correct now. Proper? Dude, we’re looking to provide a talk. (mobilephone mobile continues ringing) Sorry about that. Now, think a life with more: extra time, extra meaningful relationships, extra development and contribution. A lifetime of ardour unencumbered by way of the trappings of the chaotic world round you. Well, what you are imagining is an intentional lifestyles. It’s now not a ultimate life, it can be no longer even an easy lifestyles, but a simple one.What you’re imagining is a rich life, the style of rich that has nothing to do with wealth. You already know, I used to believe wealthy was once incomes $50,000 a year. Then once I began mountain climbing the corporate ladder in my twenties, I speedily begin turning fifty grand. However I did not think wealthy. So i attempted to regulate for inflation. Perhaps $75,000 a yr used to be wealthy. Possibly $90,000. Perhaps 6-figures. Or might be proudly owning a bunch of stuff, probably that was rich. Good, whatever rich used to be, I knew that once I received there i might ultimately be joyful. In order I made more money, I spent extra money, all in the pursuit of the American dream, all in the pursuit happiness. However the nearer I bought, the further away happiness was once. Five years in the past my entire lifestyles used to be exclusive from what it is today. Radically special. I had the whole thing I ever desired.I had everything I was alleged to have. I had an impressive job title with a legit enterprise, a triumphant profession managing enormous quantities of workers, I earned a six-figure revenue, I bought a flowery new automobile every couple of years, I owned a large three-bed room condo, it even had 2 dwelling rooms. I have no concept why a single man needs two residing rooms. I used to be dwelling the American dream. All people around me said I was once positive. However I was only ostensibly effective. You see, I additionally had a bunch of things that were difficult to see from the outside. Even though I earned some huge cash, I had lots of debt. However chasing the American dream rate me a lot more than money. My lifestyles used to be stuffed with stress, and anxiety, and discontent. I was once depressing. I could have regarded effective, but I certainly failed to think positive. And it received to a factor in my life the place I didn’t be aware of what was once most important anymore.But one thing was once clear: there was once this gaping void in my lifestyles. So i attempted to fill that void the equal approach many humans do: with stuff. Plenty of stuff. I was once filling the void with patron purchases. I bought new automobiles, and electronics, and closets full of highly-priced garments. I purchased furnishings, and steeply-priced residence decorations. And i consistently made definite to have the entire cutting-edge gadgets. Once I didn’t have enough money in the financial institution, I paid for highly-priced meals, rounds of drinks, and frivolous holidays with credit cards. I used to be spending cash turbo then I earned it, attempting to purchase my technique to happiness, and i notion i might get there sooner or later eventually.I mean happiness needed to be somewhere simply around the corner, correct? But the stuff didn’t fill the void, it widened it. And considering that I didn’t be aware of what used to be major I continued to fill the void with stuff, going extra into debt. Working difficult to purchase matters that weren’t making me blissful. This went on for years. A terrible cycle: Lather, rinse, repeat. By my late twenties, my lifestyles on the outside seemed satisfactory. However on the within, I used to be a spoil. I used to be several years divorced.I was unhealthy. I was stuck. I drank, quite a bit. I did drugs, quite a bit. I used as many pacifiers as I could. And that i endured to work 60, 70, often eighty hours per week, and i forsook one of the most important aspects of my existence. I barely ever proposal about my health, my relationships, my passions. And worse of all, I felt stagnant. I without doubt wasn’t contributing to others, and i wasn’t growing. My lifestyles lacked which means, reason, ardour. In the event you would have asked me what I used to be captivated with, i’d’ve appeared to you love a deer in headlights, "What am my ?" I had no concept. I was residing paycheck to paycheck, dwelling for a paycheck, residing for stuff, living for a profession that I did not love. But I wasn’t really living in any respect.I used to be depressed. Then, as I used to be approaching my thirties, i noticed anything one-of-a-kind about my nice friend of twenty-whatever years. (Laughter) Josh seemed blissful for the first time in a relatively long time — like real completely satisfied, ecstatic. However I failed to fully grasp why. We had labored side through part on the same enterprise for the period of our twenties, both mountain climbing the ranks, and he had been just as miserable as me. Anything had to have changed. In addition, he had just gone through two of probably the most complicated movements of his lifestyles. His mother simply passed away, and his marriage ended, each within the equal month. He wasn’t presupposed to be happy. He without doubt wasn’t presupposed to be happier than me. So I did what any just right quality friend would do. I took Josh out to lunch, I sat him down, and i asked him a query: "Why the hell are you so comfortable?" (Laughter) He spent the next 20 minutes telling me about some thing called minimalism. He talked about how he spent the last few months simplifying his lifestyles, getting the clutter out of tips on how to make room for what was once truly foremost. After which he introduced me to an whole community of individuals who had done the equal factor.He introduce me to a guy named Colin Wright, a 24-yr-historic entrepreneur who travels to a brand new country each 4 months, carrying with him the whole thing that he owns. Then there used to be Joshua Becker, a 36-year-ancient husband, and father of two, with a full time job, and a auto, and a condo in suburban Vermont. Then he showed me Courtney Carver, a forty-year-ancient spouse, and mother to a teenage daughter in Salt Lake city.And there was Leo Babauta, a 38-12 months-historic husband, and father of six in San Francisco. Even though all these individuals have been residing appreciably distinct lives, persons from special backgrounds, with kids, and families and one-of-a-kind work occasions, they all shared at the least two matters in usual. First, they were dwelling deliberate, significant lives. They were passionate, and reason-pushed. They seemed so much richer than any of the so-known as rich guys I labored with in the corporate world. And second, they attributed their meaningful lives to this factor called "minimalism." So, me being the main issue-solving guy that i am, I determined to become a minimalist correct there, instant. I looked up at Josh, I excitedly declared: "alright man, i’m going do it, i am in. I will be a minimalist. Now what?" i do not want to spend months paring down my gadgets like he had. That was excellent for him, however I wanted rapid outcome. So we came up with this thought of a packing get together. We decided to p.C. All my property as if I have been moving, and then i might unpack handiest the gadgets I wanted over the next three weeks.Josh actually helped me box up everything: My garments, my kitchenware, my towels, my tv’s, my electronics, my framed graphics and art work, my toiletries, even my furniture, the whole lot. After 9 hours, and a few pizza deliveries, the whole lot was packed. So there Josh and i have been, sitting in my 2nd dwelling room, feeling exhausted, watching bins stacked halfway to my 12-foot ceiling. My apartment was once empty, and everything smelled like cardboard. Everything I owned, every single factor I had worked difficult for over the last decade was sitting there in that room.Simply packing containers, stacked on top containers, stacked on top containers. Now each and every field was labeled so i’d know where to go when I needed a targeted item. Labels like "living room," "junk drawer #1," "kitchenware," "bedroom closet," "junk drawer #9," so forth and so on. I spent the next 21 days unpacking only the items I needed: My toothbrush, my bed and mattress sheets, the furnishings I definitely used, some kitchenware, a toolset, simply the things that delivered worth to my existence. After three weeks, 80% of my stuff was once nonetheless sitting in those containers, just sitting there, unaccessed. All these matters that had been alleged to make me completely happy, they weren’t doing their job.So I made up our minds to donate and sell all of it. And what? I began to believe rich for the first time. I began to feel rich when I received the whole thing out of the best way. I made room for the whole lot that remains. A month later, my entire standpoint had converted, and then I idea to myself, "maybe some people could to find value in my story — in our story." Joshua: So Ryan and i did, i assume what anybody would do, we began a blog. (Laughter) We called it "the minimalists", and that was once 3 years ago. Then some thing strong happen, fifty two people visit our internet site in the first month. Fifty two! I realize that might sound unremarkable at first, but that intended that our story was resonating with dozens of persons. And then different strong matters began going down. Fifty two readers turned into 500, 500 grew to be 5,000 and now more than 2 million men and women a year learn our phrases. It seems that, whilst you add value to people’s lives, they’re lovely eager to share the message with their friends, and their family, to add worth to their lives. Adding value is a common human intuition.Actually, that’s why we’re here at present. A few years in the past, Ryan and i moved from Ohio to Montana. And what we discovered right here used to be an entire neighborhood of men and women, folks who weren’t frequently wealthy, however who have been rich in one other manner. We discovered so many humans who were willing to make contributions beyond themselves. And that is what makes an actual group: contribution. And so we’d like to encourage every person to take a look at your everyday lives. Take a seem at whatever eats up the majority of your time. Is it checking e mail, or fb, or observing television? Is shopping on-line, or at retail shops? Is it working difficult for a paycheck to purchase stuff you don’t want, matters that is not going to make you completely happy? Now it is no longer that we suppose that there’s anything inherently improper with material possessions, or working a 9-to-five — there’s no longer. All of us want some stuff. We all must pay the expenses, proper? It’s simply that, once we put these things first, we are inclined to lose sight of our actual priorities.We lose sight of life’s motive. And so might be getting some of the excess stuff out of the best way, clearing the litter from our lives, can help us all center of attention on, good, the whole thing that remains, matters like well being, relationships, growth, contribution, neighborhood. Thanks. (Applause) .

[batterymonster2021]

A rich life with less stuff | The Minimalists | TEDxWhitefish

New Post has been published on https://hititem.kr/a-rich-life-with-less-stuff-the-minimalists-tedxwhitefish/

A rich life with less stuff | The Minimalists | TEDxWhitefish

Translator: Bob Prottas Reviewer: Leonardo Silva My name is Ryan Nicodemus, and that is Joshua Fields Millburn. And the two of us run a internet site called: "theminimalists.Com", and at present we wish to speak to you about what it manner to be a part of a neighborhood. But first, I wish to share a narrative with you about how I became rich. Suppose your life a yr from now — 2 years from now — 5 years from now. What’s it going to appear like? Suppose a life with much less: less stuff, less muddle, less stress, and debt, and discontent.A life with fewer distractions. (telephone phone ringing) Dude, you’re joking correct now. Proper? Dude, we’re looking to provide a talk. (mobilephone mobile continues ringing) Sorry about that. Now, think a life with more: extra time, extra meaningful relationships, extra development and contribution. A lifetime of ardour unencumbered by way of the trappings of the chaotic world round you. Well, what you are imagining is an intentional lifestyles. It’s now not a ultimate life, it can be no longer even an easy lifestyles, but a simple one.What you’re imagining is a rich life, the style of rich that has nothing to do with wealth. You already know, I used to believe wealthy was once incomes $50,000 a year. Then once I began mountain climbing the corporate ladder in my twenties, I speedily begin turning fifty grand. However I did not think wealthy. So i attempted to regulate for inflation. Perhaps $75,000 a yr used to be wealthy. Possibly $90,000. Perhaps 6-figures. Or might be proudly owning a bunch of stuff, probably that was rich. Good, whatever rich used to be, I knew that once I received there i might ultimately be joyful. In order I made more money, I spent extra money, all in the pursuit of the American dream, all in the pursuit happiness. However the nearer I bought, the further away happiness was once. Five years in the past my entire lifestyles used to be exclusive from what it is today. Radically special. I had the whole thing I ever desired.I had everything I was alleged to have. I had an impressive job title with a legit enterprise, a triumphant profession managing enormous quantities of workers, I earned a six-figure revenue, I bought a flowery new automobile every couple of years, I owned a large three-bed room condo, it even had 2 dwelling rooms. I have no concept why a single man needs two residing rooms. I used to be dwelling the American dream. All people around me said I was once positive. However I was only ostensibly effective. You see, I additionally had a bunch of things that were difficult to see from the outside. Even though I earned some huge cash, I had lots of debt. However chasing the American dream rate me a lot more than money. My lifestyles used to be stuffed with stress, and anxiety, and discontent. I was once depressing. I could have regarded effective, but I certainly failed to think positive. And it received to a factor in my life the place I didn’t be aware of what was once most important anymore.But one thing was once clear: there was once this gaping void in my lifestyles. So i attempted to fill that void the equal approach many humans do: with stuff. Plenty of stuff. I was once filling the void with patron purchases. I bought new automobiles, and electronics, and closets full of highly-priced garments. I purchased furnishings, and steeply-priced residence decorations. And i consistently made definite to have the entire cutting-edge gadgets. Once I didn’t have enough money in the financial institution, I paid for highly-priced meals, rounds of drinks, and frivolous holidays with credit cards. I used to be spending cash turbo then I earned it, attempting to purchase my technique to happiness, and i notion i might get there sooner or later eventually.I mean happiness needed to be somewhere simply around the corner, correct? But the stuff didn’t fill the void, it widened it. And considering that I didn’t be aware of what used to be major I continued to fill the void with stuff, going extra into debt. Working difficult to purchase matters that weren’t making me blissful. This went on for years. A terrible cycle: Lather, rinse, repeat. By my late twenties, my lifestyles on the outside seemed satisfactory. However on the within, I used to be a spoil. I used to be several years divorced.I was unhealthy. I was stuck. I drank, quite a bit. I did drugs, quite a bit. I used as many pacifiers as I could. And that i endured to work 60, 70, often eighty hours per week, and i forsook one of the most important aspects of my existence. I barely ever proposal about my health, my relationships, my passions. And worse of all, I felt stagnant. I without doubt wasn’t contributing to others, and i wasn’t growing. My lifestyles lacked which means, reason, ardour. In the event you would have asked me what I used to be captivated with, i’d’ve appeared to you love a deer in headlights, "What am my ?" I had no concept. I was residing paycheck to paycheck, dwelling for a paycheck, residing for stuff, living for a profession that I did not love. But I wasn’t really living in any respect.I used to be depressed. Then, as I used to be approaching my thirties, i noticed anything one-of-a-kind about my nice friend of twenty-whatever years. (Laughter) Josh seemed blissful for the first time in a relatively long time — like real completely satisfied, ecstatic. However I failed to fully grasp why. We had labored side through part on the same enterprise for the period of our twenties, both mountain climbing the ranks, and he had been just as miserable as me. Anything had to have changed. In addition, he had just gone through two of probably the most complicated movements of his lifestyles. His mother simply passed away, and his marriage ended, each within the equal month. He wasn’t presupposed to be happy. He without doubt wasn’t presupposed to be happier than me. So I did what any just right quality friend would do. I took Josh out to lunch, I sat him down, and i asked him a query: "Why the hell are you so comfortable?" (Laughter) He spent the next 20 minutes telling me about some thing called minimalism. He talked about how he spent the last few months simplifying his lifestyles, getting the clutter out of tips on how to make room for what was once truly foremost. After which he introduced me to an whole community of individuals who had done the equal factor.He introduce me to a guy named Colin Wright, a 24-yr-historic entrepreneur who travels to a brand new country each 4 months, carrying with him the whole thing that he owns. Then there used to be Joshua Becker, a 36-year-ancient husband, and father of two, with a full time job, and a auto, and a condo in suburban Vermont. Then he showed me Courtney Carver, a forty-year-ancient spouse, and mother to a teenage daughter in Salt Lake city.And there was Leo Babauta, a 38-12 months-historic husband, and father of six in San Francisco. Even though all these individuals have been residing appreciably distinct lives, persons from special backgrounds, with kids, and families and one-of-a-kind work occasions, they all shared at the least two matters in usual. First, they were dwelling deliberate, significant lives. They were passionate, and reason-pushed. They seemed so much richer than any of the so-known as rich guys I labored with in the corporate world. And second, they attributed their meaningful lives to this factor called "minimalism." So, me being the main issue-solving guy that i am, I determined to become a minimalist correct there, instant. I looked up at Josh, I excitedly declared: "alright man, i’m going do it, i am in. I will be a minimalist. Now what?" i do not want to spend months paring down my gadgets like he had. That was excellent for him, however I wanted rapid outcome. So we came up with this thought of a packing get together. We decided to p.C. All my property as if I have been moving, and then i might unpack handiest the gadgets I wanted over the next three weeks.Josh actually helped me box up everything: My garments, my kitchenware, my towels, my tv’s, my electronics, my framed graphics and art work, my toiletries, even my furniture, the whole lot. After 9 hours, and a few pizza deliveries, the whole lot was packed. So there Josh and i have been, sitting in my 2nd dwelling room, feeling exhausted, watching bins stacked halfway to my 12-foot ceiling. My apartment was once empty, and everything smelled like cardboard. Everything I owned, every single factor I had worked difficult for over the last decade was sitting there in that room.Simply packing containers, stacked on top containers, stacked on top containers. Now each and every field was labeled so i’d know where to go when I needed a targeted item. Labels like "living room," "junk drawer #1," "kitchenware," "bedroom closet," "junk drawer #9," so forth and so on. I spent the next 21 days unpacking only the items I needed: My toothbrush, my bed and mattress sheets, the furnishings I definitely used, some kitchenware, a toolset, simply the things that delivered worth to my existence. After three weeks, 80% of my stuff was once nonetheless sitting in those containers, just sitting there, unaccessed. All these matters that had been alleged to make me completely happy, they weren’t doing their job.So I made up our minds to donate and sell all of it. And what? I began to believe rich for the first time. I began to feel rich when I received the whole thing out of the best way. I made room for the whole lot that remains. A month later, my entire standpoint had converted, and then I idea to myself, "maybe some people could to find value in my story — in our story." Joshua: So Ryan and i did, i assume what anybody would do, we began a blog. (Laughter) We called it "the minimalists", and that was once 3 years ago. Then some thing strong happen, fifty two people visit our internet site in the first month. Fifty two! I realize that might sound unremarkable at first, but that intended that our story was resonating with dozens of persons. And then different strong matters began going down. Fifty two readers turned into 500, 500 grew to be 5,000 and now more than 2 million men and women a year learn our phrases. It seems that, whilst you add value to people’s lives, they’re lovely eager to share the message with their friends, and their family, to add worth to their lives. Adding value is a common human intuition.Actually, that’s why we’re here at present. A few years in the past, Ryan and i moved from Ohio to Montana. And what we discovered right here used to be an entire neighborhood of men and women, folks who weren’t frequently wealthy, however who have been rich in one other manner. We discovered so many humans who were willing to make contributions beyond themselves. And that is what makes an actual group: contribution. And so we’d like to encourage every person to take a look at your everyday lives. Take a seem at whatever eats up the majority of your time. Is it checking e mail, or fb, or observing television? Is shopping on-line, or at retail shops? Is it working difficult for a paycheck to purchase stuff you don’t want, matters that is not going to make you completely happy? Now it is no longer that we suppose that there’s anything inherently improper with material possessions, or working a 9-to-five — there’s no longer. All of us want some stuff. We all must pay the expenses, proper? It’s simply that, once we put these things first, we are inclined to lose sight of our actual priorities.We lose sight of life’s motive. And so might be getting some of the excess stuff out of the best way, clearing the litter from our lives, can help us all center of attention on, good, the whole thing that remains, matters like well being, relationships, growth, contribution, neighborhood. Thanks. (Applause) .

[techietrends]

Back in 2008, as the global financial crisis was only just beginning to tear at the fabric of the U.S. economy, entrepreneurs in San Francisco were already hard at work on potential patches.

This was the beginning of what’s now known as the gig economy. Companies like TaskRabbit and Thumbtack — and Handy, Zaarly, and several others — all began by trying to build better marketplaces for buyers and sellers of services. Their timing, it turns out, was prescient.

In snowy Boston during the winter of 2008, Kevin Busque and his wife Leah were building RunMyErrand, the marketplace service that would become TaskRabbit, as a way to avoid schlepping through snow to pick up dog food.

Meanwhile, in San Francisco, Marco Zappacosta, a young entrepreneur whose parents were the founders of Logitech, and a crew of co-founders including were building Thumbtack, a professional services marketplace from a home office they shared.

As these entrepreneurs built their businesses in northern California (amid the early years of a technology renaissance fostered by patrons made rich from returns on investments in companies like Google and Salesforce.com), the rest of America was stumbling.

In the two years between 2008 and 2010 the unemployment rate in America doubled, rising from 5% to 10%. Professional services workers were hit especially hard as banks, insurance companies, realtors, contractors, developers and retailers all retrenched — laying off staff as the economy collapsed under the weight of terrible loans and a speculative real estate market.

Things weren’t easy for Thumbtack’s founders at the outset in the days before its $1.3 billion valuation and last hundred plus million dollar round of funding. “One of the things that really struck us about the team, was just how lean they were. At the time they were operating out of a house, they were still cooking meals together,” said Cyan Banister, one of the company’s earliest investors and a partner at the multi-billion dollar venture firm, Founders Fund.

“The only thing they really ever spent money on, was food… It was one of these things where they weren’t extravagant, they were extremely purposeful about every dollar that they spent,” Banister said. “They basically slept at work, and were your typical startup story of being under the couch. Every time I met with them, the story was, in the very early stages was about the same for the first couple years, which was, we’re scraping Craigslist, we’re starting to get some traction.”

The idea of powering a Craigslist replacement with more of a marketplace model was something that appealed to Thumbtack’s earliest investor and champion, the serial entrepreneur and angel investor Jason Calcanis.

Thumbtack chief executive Marco Zappacosta

“I remember like it was yesterday when Marco showed me Thumbtack and I looked at this and I said, ‘So, why are you building this?’ And he said, ‘Well, if you go on Craigslist, you know, it’s like a crap shoot. You post, you don’t know. You read a post… you know… you don’t know how good the person is. There’re no reviews.'” Calcanis said. “He had made a directory. It wasn’t the current workflow you see in the app — that came in year three I think. But for the first three years, he built a directory. And he showed me the directory pages where he had a photo of the person, the services provided, the bio.”

The first three years were spent developing a list of vendors that the company had verified with a mailing address, a license, and a certificate of insurance for people who needed some kind of service. Those three features were all Calcanis needed to validate the deal and pull the trigger on an initial investment.

“That’s when I figured out my personal thesis of angel investing,” Calcanis said.

“Some people are market based; some people want to invest in certain demographics or psychographics; immigrant kids or Stanford kids, whatever. Mine is just, ‘Can you make a really interesting product and are your decisions about that product considered?’ And when we discuss those decisions, do I feel like you’re the person who should build this product for the world And it’s just like there’s a big sign above Marco’s head that just says ‘Winner! Winner! Winner!'”

Indeed, it looks like Zappacosta and his company are now running what may be their victory lap in their tenth year as a private company. Thumbtack will be profitable by 2019 and has rolled out a host of new products in the last six months.

Their thesis, which flew in the face of the conventional wisdom of the day, was to build a product which offered listings of any service a potential customer could want in any geography across the U.S. Other companies like Handy and TaskRabbit focused on the home, but on Thumbtack (like any good community message board) users could see postings for anything from repairman to reiki lessons and magicians to musicians alongside the home repair services that now make up the bulk of its listings.

“It’s funny, we had business plans and documents that we wrote and if you look back, the vision that we outlined then, is very similar to the vision we have today. We honestly looked around and we said, ‘We want to solve a problem that impacts a huge number of people. The local services base is super inefficient. It’s really difficult for customers to find trustworthy, reliable people who are available for the right price,'” said Sander Daniels, a co-founder at the company. 

“For pros, their number one concern is, ‘Where do I put money in my pocket next? How do I put food on the table for my family next?’ We said, ‘There is a real human problem here. If we can connect these people to technology and then, look around, there are these global marketplace for products: Amazon, Ebay, Alibaba, why can’t there be a global marketplace for services?’ It sounded crazy to say it at the time and it still sounds crazy to say, but that is what the dream was.”

Daniels acknowledges that the company changed the direction of its product, the ways it makes money, and pivoted to address issues as they arose, but the vision remained constant. 

Meanwhile, other startups in the market have shifted their focus. Indeed as Handy has shifted to more of a professional services model rather than working directly with consumers and TaskRabbit has been acquired by Ikea, Thumbtack has doubled down on its independence and upgrading its marketplace with automation tools to make matching service providers with customers that much easier.

Late last year the company launched an automated tool serving up job requests to its customers — the service providers that pay the company a fee for leads generated by people searching for services on the company’s app or website.

Thumbtack processes about $1 billion a year in business for its service providers in roughly 1,000 professional categories.

Now, the matching feature is getting an upgrade on the consumer side. Earlier this month the company unveiled Instant Results — a new look for its website and mobile app — that uses all of the data from its 200,000 services professionals to match with the 30 professionals that best correspond to a request for services. It’s among the highest number of professionals listed on any site, according to Zappacosta. The next largest competitor, Yelp, has around 115,000 listings a year. Thumbtack’s professionals are active in a 90 day period.

Filtering by price, location, tools and schedule, anyone in the U.S. can find a service professional for their needs. It’s the culmination of work processing nine years and 25 million requests for services from all of its different categories of jobs.

It’s a long way from the first version of Thumbtack, which had a “buy” tab and a “sell” tab; with the “buy” side to hire local services and the “sell” to offer them.

“From the very early days… the design was to iterate beyond the traditional model of business listing directors. In that, for the consumer to tell us what they were looking for and we would, then, find the right people to connect them to,” said Daniels. “That functionality, the request for quote functionality, was built in from v.1 of the product. If you tried to use it then, it wouldn’t work. There were no businesses on the platform to connect you with. I’m sure there were a million bugs, the UI and UX were a disaster, of course. That was the original version, what I remember of it at least.”

It may have been a disaster, but it was compelling enough to get the company its $1.2 million angel round — enough to barely develop the product. That million dollar investment had to last the company through the nuclear winter of America’s recession years, when venture capital — along with every other investment class — pulled back.

“We were pounding the pavement trying to find somebody to give us money for a Series A round,” Daniels said. “That was a very hard period of the company’s life when we almost went out of business, because nobody would give us money.”

That was a pre-revenue period for the company, which experimented with four revenue streams before settling on the one that worked the best. In the beginning the service was free, and it slowly transitioned to a commission model. Then, eventually, the company moved to a subscription model where service providers would pay the company a certain amount for leads generated off of Thumbtack.

“We weren’t able to close the loop,” Daniels said. “To make commissions work, you have to know who does the job, when, for how much. There are a few possible ways to collect all that information, but the best one, I think, is probably by hosting payments through your platform. We actually built payments into the platform in 2011 or 2012. We had significant transaction volume going through it, but we then decided to rip it out 18 months later, 24 months later, because, I think we had kind of abandoned the hope of making commissions work at that time.”

While Thumbtack was struggling to make its bones, Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest were raking in cash. The founders thought that they could also access markets in the same way, but investors weren’t interested in a consumer facing business that required transactions — not advertising — to work. User generated content and social media were the rage, but aside from Uber and Lyft the jury was still out on the marketplace model.

“For our company that was not a Facebook or a Twitter or Pinterest, at that time, at least, that we needed revenue to show that we’re going to be able to monetize this,” Daniels said. “We had figured out a way to sign up pros at enormous scale and consumers were coming online, too. That was showing real promise. We said, ‘Man, we’re a hot ticket, we’re going to be able to raise real money.’ Then, for many reasons, our inexperience, our lack of revenue model, probably a bunch of stuff, people were reluctant to give us money.”

The company didn’t focus on revenue models until the fall of 2011, according to Daniels. Then after receiving rejection after rejection the company’s founders began to worry. “We’re like, ‘Oh, shit.’ November of 2009 we start running these tests, to start making money, because we might not be able to raise money here. We need to figure out how to raise cash to pay the bills, soon,” Daniels recalled. 

The experience of almost running into the wall put the fear of god into the company. They managed to scrape out an investment from Javelin, but the founders were convinced that they needed to find the right revenue number to make the business work with or without a capital infusion. After a bunch of deliberations, they finally settled on $350,000 as the magic number to remain a going concern.

“That was the metric that we were shooting towards,” said Daniels. “It was during that period that we iterated aggressively through these revenue models, and, ultimately, landed on a paper quote. At the end of that period then Sequoia invested, and suddenly, pros supply and consumer demand and revenue model all came together and like, ‘Oh shit.'”

Finding the right business model was one thing that saved the company from withering on the vine, but another choice was the one that seemed the least logical — the idea that the company should focus on more than just home repairs and services.

The company’s home category had lots of competition with companies who had mastered the art of listing for services on Google and getting results. According to Daniels, the company couldn’t compete at all in the home categories initially.

“It turned out, randomly … we had no idea about this … there was not a similarly well developed or mature events industry,” Daniels said. “We outperformed in events. It was this strategic decision, too, that, on all these 1,000 categories, but it was random, that over the last five years we are the, if not the, certainly one of the leading events service providers in the country. It just happened to be that we … I don’t want to say stumbled into it … but we found these pockets that were less competitive and we could compete in and build a business on.”

The focus on geographical and services breadth — rather than looking at building a business in a single category or in a single geography meant that Zappacosta and company took longer to get their legs under them, but that they had a much wider stance and a much bigger base to tap as they began to grow.

“Because of naivete and this dreamy ambition that we’re going to do it all. It was really nothing more strategic or complicated than that,” said Daniels. “When we chose to go broad, we were wandering the wilderness. We had never done anything like this before.”

From the company’s perspective, there were two things that the outside world (and potential investors) didn’t grasp about its approach. The first was that a perfect product may have been more competitive in a single category, but a good enough product was better than the terrible user experiences that were then on the market. “You can build a big company on this good enough product, which you can then refine over the course of time to be greater and greater,” said Daniels.

The second misunderstanding is that the breadth of the company let it scale the product that being in one category would have never allowed Thumbtack to do. Cross selling and upselling from carpet cleaners to moving services to house cleaners to bounce house rentals for parties — allowed for more repeat use.

More repeat use meant more jobs for services employees at a time when unemployment was still running historically high. Even in 2011, unemployment remained stubbornly high. It wasn’t until 2013 that the jobless numbers began their steady decline.

There’s a question about whether these gig economy jobs can keep up with the changing times. Now, as unemployment has returned to its pre-recession levels, will people want to continue working in roles that don’t offer health insurance or retirement benefits? The answer seems to be “yes” as the Thumbtack platform continues to grow and Uber and Lyft show no signs of slowing down.

“At the time, and it still remains one of my biggest passions, I was interested in how software could create new meaningful ways of working,” said Banister of the Thumbtack deal. “That’s the criteria I was looking for, which is, does this shift how people find work? Because I do believe that we can create jobs and we can create new types of jobs that never existed before with the platforms that we have today.”

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