#Spectr Magazine

[monochrome-dundee]

Important pictures

(MAD Magazine — Story by Desmond Devlin, Art by Glenn Fabry—Yes that Glenn Fabry—Colors by Melvin Coznowski)

(Variant Cover by Dave Gibbons and John Higgins)

[evilhorse]

Alter Ego magazine #175

[jamesbondlexicon]

The stunning, and sadly underutilized, Monica Belluci helping promote Spectre on the November 2015 cover of lui magazine.

[trnsocial]

WIZARDS The Podcast Guide To Comics | Episode 2000.5

SO MUCH fun as we continue our exploration of Wizard 2000! Adam gives his review of the Garth Ennis Punisher series, the madness of a crazy superhero mash-up character, the Top 10 Most Desolate Comic Book Futures, a profile on Wizard Editor In Chief, Pat McCallum and so much more. Plus we share more details about our ARMORED 1/2 Kickstarter campaign. See it for yourself at this link…

[bestiarium]

Am Fear Liath Mór, or the Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui [Scottish cryptid]

The high passes of Ben MacDhui – the second largest mountain in Scotland – are haunted by tales of a mysterious creature that supposedly stalks hikers. Usually it is described as an impossibly tall, grey spectre, thereby earning it the name ‘Am Fear Liath Mór’, meaning ‘the big grey man’.

The story starts in 1891 with professor Norman Collie of the Royal Geographic Society, who happened to be a passionate hiker as well. The professor had just climbed the cairn on the summit of Ben MacDhui when he heard something that vaguely sounded like footsteps. I should mention that this area is notoriously misty, so you can imagine how easy it is for a lone hiker to get anxious when hearing strange noises.

The footsteps continued, but they were oddly spaced: for every ‘step’ the professor heard, he himself took three or four. It was as if this mysterious spectre was taking giant leaps or had huge legs. Eventually the professor was overtaken by panic and fled. Much later, in 1925, he recounted his tale and shared it with the newspapers, who were eager to publish and often exaggerate the story of a supposed monster or cryptid living in the Scottish mountains. At the time, the mystery creature was dubbed ‘the Ben MacDhui Ghost’ in the media.

Afterwards, multiple people came forward with claims about the mountain ghost, some of which were believable (hearing unidentified sounds) and some were more fantastic (Richard Frere and Peter Densham claimed to have had a conversation with an invisible, psychic creature).

Richard Frere would later claim that while he was hiking on the top of the Ben MacDhui, he had an unshakeable feeling that someone else was there with him, and he would hear a strange high-pitched noise that seemed to come from the soil beneath his feet.

Frere also gave a physical description of a creature he claimed to have seen (but it is difficult to verify whether this is the oldest actual ‘sighting’ of the supposed ghost): a large, brown creature was seen swaggering down the mountainside. It stood about 20 feet (6m) tall, was covered with short brown fur and had a disproportionally large head supported by a thick, muscular neck. It had broad shoulders but walked upright and did not resemble an ape.

Interestingly, only a single sighting happened on a nearby mountain, rather than on the Ben MacDhui itself: in the 1920’s, Tom Crowley, the president of the local Moray Mountaineering Club, claimed to have seen an apparition while descending from Braeriach to the Glen Eanaich. It was a very tall, misty grey figure with a humanoid shape, albeit with long legs that ended in strange talons (described as resembling fingers more than toes) and a head with pointy ears.

Dr. A. M. Kellas, himself a famed mountaineer, also claimed that a giant grey humanoid creature haunted the mountain. Among the many supposed sightings, I am uncertain which one is actually the oldest description of the ‘Grey Man’ as a tall, grey spectre, but it is certainly the most popular one. The grey apparition had cemented itself as a local cryptid and urban legend and many more supposed sightings followed.

Though it is often claimed that the creature is connected to ancient Scottish or Celtic mythology, this is most likely false. Gray Affleck, the author of ‘The Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui’, attempted to research this link but could not find a single connection with actual Highland mythology.

In 1958, the June edition of ‘Scots Magazine’ told the story of Alexander Tewnion’s 1943 expedition to the mountain. While he was descending the mountain, a giant grey shape suddenly loomed over him. Having none of this bullshit, Mr. Tewnion immediately pulled out his revolver and fired three bullets at the thing. The mysterious apparition seemed not to notice, however, and kept walking towards him, upon which Tewnion fled.

Sources: Barrie, A., 2005, Sutton Companion to the Folklore, Myths and Customs of Britain, The History Press, 480 pp. Gray, A., 2013, The Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui, Birlinn, 183 pp. (reviewed edition, first edition published in 1970) (image source 1 : Attila Nagy on Artstation) (image source 2: ManthosLappas on Deviantart, ©Fear Liath)

[xxthewolvenstormxx]

Happy Ten Year Anniversary Friends At the Table!

Moonrise in ghosts - Jean Dubuffet | Camille Monet On Her Deathbed - Claude Monet |Ghosts of UFA - Richard Hamilton | Orfeova Smrt - Emil Filla | Ghost Dance (The Vision of Life) - Ralph Blakelock | Introduction. Picture from the magazine Vampire - Boris Kustodiev | Death Knight - Salvador Dali | Death of the Striker - Vasile Dobrian | Mitsukuni Defying the Skeleton Spectre Invoked by Princess Takiyasha - Utagawa Kuniyoshi | Lace and Ghosts - Victor Hugo

[queeranarchism]

Feel like this should be getting some more attention.

"Now, an investigation by the Guardian and the Israeli-based magazines +972 and Local Call can reveal how Israel has run an almost decade-long secret “war” against the court. The country deployed its intelligence agencies to surveil, hack, pressure, smear and allegedly threaten senior ICC staff in an effort to derail the court’s inquiries. ...

It is this spectre of prosecutions in The Hague that one former Israeli intelligence official said had led the “entire military and political establishment” to regard the counteroffensive against the ICC “as a war that had to be waged, and one that Israel needed to be defended against. It was described in military terms.”

That “war” commenced in January 2015, when it was confirmed that Palestine would join the court after it was recognised as a state by the UN general assembly. Its accession was condemned by Israeli officials as a form of “diplomatic terrorism”. ...

On 16 January 2015, within weeks of Palestine joining, Bensouda opened a preliminary examination into what in the legalese of the court was called “the situation in Palestine”. The following month, two men who had managed to obtain the prosecutor’s private address turned up at her home in The Hague. ....

“If Fatou Bensouda spoke to any person in the West Bank or Gaza, then that phone call would enter [intercept] systems,” one source said. Another said there was no hesitation internally over spying on the prosecutor, adding: “With Bensouda, she’s black and African, so who cares?” ....

after the ICC had opened a full investigation into the Palestine case, Gantz designated Al-Haq and five other Palestinian rights groups as “terrorist organisations”, a label that was rejected by multiple European states and later found by the CIA to be unsupported by evidence. The organisations said the designations were a “targeted assault” against those most actively engaging with the ICC. ....

A core ICC principle, known as complementarity, prevents the prosecutor from investigating or trying individuals if they are the subject of credible state-level investigations or criminal proceedings.

Israeli surveillance operatives were asked to find out which specific incidents might form part of a future ICC prosecution, multiple sources said, in order to enable Israeli investigative bodies to “open investigations retroactively” in the same cases.

“If materials were transferred to the ICC, we had to understand exactly what they were, to ensure that the IDF investigated them independently and sufficiently so that they could claim complementarity,” one source explained."

28 May 2024

[moociaoafterdark]

From my "Ferrus can get infected with the Flayer Virus" posting and reading through the short story that inspired this AU/theory, I had been reminded just how... fucking horrifying an awakening Necron complex is from non-Necron POV. Most people have no clue what Necrons are and how they even work, so it makes the description of newly awakened legion on undead machines, described as nightmares that surpass even those of the Warp, that much more horrifying.

The ragged band of surviving acolytes, now at half-strength, clustered around the inquisitor in a defensive cordon. The Death Spectres bolstered them, anchoring their position with their power-armoured presence. Achairas used his last two magazines to assist his brothers in dispersing the surrounding onslaught, stepping out of the defensive ring to slash down any creature that managed to come through. And then, just like that, the assault was over. The remnants of the xenos simply phased out of reality, and those still standing disappeared back into the tunnels they’d come from. The rushing water subsided, and Achairas lowered his sword. Any respite they might have gained was short-lived as a tectonic shudder lurched the entire chamber, and the dull humming grew in intensity. ‘The tomb…’ Vemek’s servo-skull chattered, emerging from its high hiding place. ‘Something is happening. My readings indicate more and more of the superstructure seems to be coming online…’ ‘Coming online?’ Astolyev growled, signalling the group to advance with due haste. ‘Yes, the other parts of the ruin are… powering up.’ ‘Then we make haste,’ Achairas commanded. ‘Whatever this structure is, we cannot allow it to awaken! Its threat is clear enough. We must end this!’

The tunnel converged into a larger passage, angling steadily down. More scarabs flitted to and fro, most of them avoiding the advancing group. The cavernous hexagonal hall continued on for a great distance, its end lost in the emerald gloom. All the while, the humming grew louder and louder, and the quakes grew in intensity and frequency, hobbling those not blessed with the stability granted by power armour with each tremor. More phantom auspex blips followed, but the device was rapidly becoming unusable, flickering in and out from moment to moment. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have long,’ Vemek’s servo-skull chirped. ‘Immense power fluctuations det–’ The crackling voice was cut off suddenly as the entire chamber shook, and a deafening roar echoed from further down. Several of the acolytes staggered and fell, their balance stolen by the seismic activity. All of the prisms and luminescent nodes on the floor and walls flared, painfully illuminating the darkness. Achairas’ auto-senses adjusted almost immediately, as did the acolytes’ photo-visors. An energy surge disrupted everything, and for a moment, his vision became crackling static, and his power armour seized up. Thankfully, its internal dampening systems quickly compensated. ‘Vemek?’ Astolyev called over the din of the tremors, shuddering as his own augmetics similarly restored functionality.

‘Status report!’ There was no response, and moments later Vemek’s servo-skull clattered to the ground, its delicate circuitry evidently fried. ‘Throne of Terra, let’s move!’ the inquisitor shouted, and the group advanced, jogging down the massive tunnel towards the newly growing source of blinding jade at its end. The tunnel led them into what could only be the heart of the tomb, an open space of staggering size. More than half a mile across, the chamber resembled an amphitheatre of massive proportions. It was an inverted ziggurat, the ceiling soaring hundreds of feet above them. Massive pylons loomed in concentric circles around a central, colossal obelisk rising to a quarter of the height of the cavern. The obelisk was covered in gleaming geometric runes and prisms burning with the brightness of green suns. Even Achairas’ auto-senses could not adjust, and he was forced to look away. Millions of scarabs moved about in a wanton manner, scuttling along the walls and descending steps. More of the sinuous mantis constructs darted about while arachnoid machines the size of light tanks drifted between the smaller pillars jutting up everywhere. Achairas saw packs of metallic humanoids stalking about below, some draped in tattered flesh, others not. They seemed to chitter and claw at each other in fits of madness. It was some advantage as, at this distance, they had yet to notice their intruders. ‘This is it!’ Astolyev called over the distorted vox-net, gesturing at the central obelisk. ‘The power source!’ Beams of energy lanced from the contained emeralds to immense prisms set into sockets on the walls, each a blinding solar flare that sent waves of heat and static resonating through the entire chamber. Around the obelisk, at the dead centre of the inverted ziggurat, was an elevated ring, and Achairas’ magnified vision noted four more metallic skeletons working on panels within its interior. They were adorned differently, with elaborate crests, and were slightly smaller and more hunched than the xenos they had fought. ‘Inquisitor, can you assess what we are seeing?’ Achairas shouted into his vox. Astolyev’s answer was interrupted by another sudden lurch and an increase in gravity, sending everyone but the Space Marines sprawling. Even the Death Spectres were hobbled. Surging gravity was a sensation Achairas knew all too well. The tomb was rising. Somehow.

[a-sketchy]

considering yosuke's character is based largely on internalized societal values and toxic masculinity, how do you think he would be like as a cis girl? i feel like he would be hyperfeminine and probably to the point as a typical mean girl and the other possibility in my head apart from that is being a femcel who resents other women for managing to be pretty, get a boyfriend, etc since yosuke would quote on quote 'fail' in 'womanly' roles. but im curious for what your intepretion would be

ooooh, interesting question! i think first of all, the way in which yosuke is ostracized would change, so the way she reacts to it would change, at least somewhat. i don’t think cis girl yosuke would be hyperfeminine or a mean girl cause both of those things are very social, they’re only really acceptable if they’re what your clique are doing, and yosuke doesn’t have a clique. my interpretation is probably closer to your second option, though i think she’s more inclined to envy and self-deprecation more than resentment.

i think femininity wouldn’t “come naturally” to girlyosuke, so she’d overcompensate and double down on anything she can perform, say heterosexuality. like how i believe canon yosuke is more interested in women as an extension of masculinity, i think cis girl yosuke would be more interested in men as an extension of femininity, but those dynamics aren’t quite parallel. pursuing men isn’t performing acceptable femininity. not pursuing men isn’t acceptable femininity. there isn’t really an acceptable femininity at all, no comfort of doing it right. i think girlyosuke would still have an interest in fashion magazines, just womens fashion. so she’d parrot the same kinda “guys like girls who” shit, especially as justification for her own taste lmao, but she wouldn’t then use that to be hyperfeminine herself, cause trying too hard to be pretty/attractive to men despite being plain will get her figuratively murdered, socially, especially when she’s already in a precarious position as the face of the thing that everyone loves to hate. i mean, not trying hard will also result in her ostracism, but that’s the baseline. girlyosuke is so dire. she’s even more like saki. she’s simultaneously put on a pedestal and degraded as the princess of junes. i think she’d be pretty desperate for any friendship she can get, while resenting the town that shuns her.

honestly girl yosuke is just yosuke + misogyny. vast swathes of her deal are the same just flipped, then reconsidered how she would be seen by the society around her keeping in mind misogyny.

the things i think would most change are her relationships to those around her, depending on if they’re also cisswapped or not. girl yosuke with guy yu is (superficially) uninteresting like every romance in p4, except it would be like a romance in p4 even if the writing around it wasn’t p4, you know? cishet souyo is inescapably very persona 4. it’s plucked straight out of yosuke’s dreams. the comphet + bisexuality combo… dire. a guy she genuinely likes coming along willing to tolerate her? she’d think him a saviour. it’s fun to think about. but if yu’s also a girl then it’s as it is in canon + internalized misogyny, which is also very fun.

the most interesting thing that i think would change is girlyosuke’s relationship to saki, chie, and yukiko, if they’re also girls. with saki it’s that they’re then very very similar, and without the looming spectre of heterosexuality (other than what’s peddled by yosuke lol) i think saki might be a fair bit more open to her. girlyosuke would still like-like saki. and saki would still find the way she desperately clings to her annoying and etc. but they might be closer than they were in canon, which of course would make what comes next worse. in this situation, i think you could get girlyosuke’s shadow explicitly acknowledging that which shall not be named (bisexuality), which is awesome and could have lasting effects on her character arc compared to canon yosuke. with chie and yukiko, i think girlyosuke still wouldn’t necessarily fit in with them, especially with her penchant for heteronormativity and acting stupider than she is, but they’d be more sympathetic and not outright hostile to her. (also, it’s neither here nor there, but imagine the homoeroticism of girlyosuke saying the exact same shit she says about them in canon. fun.) three people that tolerate her starting out the story is pretty sweet, but they also all come with caveats, and she wouldn’t feel safe being attracted to them as she is, so.

[metalcultbrigade]

Blue Öyster Cult - Agents of Fortune. 21/05/1976

Agents of Fortune is the fourth studio album by hard rock band Blue Öyster Cult, originally released in 1976 through Columbia Records.

The album went platinum and peaked at number 29 on the Billboard pop album chart, while the single "(Don't Fear) The Reaper" reached number 12 on the pop singles chart in 1976, marking the band's biggest hit. Rolling Stone magazine named it the best rock single of 1976. It was the band's most critically acclaimed album, along with Spectres in 1977. It was also voted one of the ten best rock albums of the year it was released.

The band's concerts also became a major attraction during this time, largely driven by radio exposure for the single "(Don't Fear) The Reaper."

[vintagegeekculture]

Murphy Anderson cover featuring the Spectre dueling his opposite number, Shathan the Eternal. It is one of the few DC Comics to visually depict the Prophet Muhammad, which Islam generally views as being in bad taste.

The Spectre, a vengeful force created by Superman creator Jerry Siegel after he was mugged one night, was one of the last of the 1940s heroes to be revived in the 1960s, mainly because as a ghost of a murdered police officer who rose from the grave for revenge, he was at odds with the hyper-rational, atomic age pulp scifi informed DC Comics created by former scifi fandom members. Even here, Shathan the Eternal is less a traditional devil and more similar to a quantum physics and other dimensional take on demons, reminiscent of John Carpenter's approach in Prince of Darkness which mingled Satanism with particle physics.

Pulp fans will recognize two different references to pulp scifi, as per the course in 60s DC Comics, created by former fandom members:

The title "Beyond the Sinister Barrier" is a reference to the 1930s pulp novel "Sinister Barrier," by Eric Frank Russell. Because it was horror/fantasy as opposed to the typical hard science demanded of his audience, John W. Campbell created the pulp magazine Unknown specifically to publish it, possibly the best fantasy magazine of its decade.

Shathan the Eternal is a reference to the Shaver Mystery (one of the most bizarre incidents in scifi fandom history and a very recent and strange controversy at the time of this publication), which featured a villainous giant devil by that name.

[strawberrybasilsorbet]

Jilytober Day 9

Finished this @jilytoberfest story a little late again! This microfic went in a darker/sadder direction than I expected (CW for funeral planning), but I really like it. Hope you enjoy!

October 9th Prompt: "You literally checked your phone 3 seconds ago"

"Sirius Black."

Lily picked at her roast beef. James bounced his leg, looking at the mirror in his palm.

"Sirius Black. Padfoot. Sirius Bl—"

"He said that he'd call you when he got home," said Lily. "James, the food is getting cold."

Lily, her fiancé, and the spectre of Sirius Black sat in the kitchen of her three-room flat, allegedly eating supper. The man himself was off someplace in London, sneaking into his brother's funeral.

After a pause, James turned to face the table, setting the mirror upright against his glass. He spooned some potatoes onto his plate and took a bite. "It's good," he said.

"Thanks." And they fell again into uneasy silence.

There had been no announcement in the Prophet, but — through some pure-blood whisper network that was opaque to Lily — the Prewett brothers had heard. A small service, family only. Closed casket.

Sirius had claimed to be looking for an answer: whether his brother's body had simply been mutilated beyond repair, or whether the rumors were true, and the House of Black hadn't been able to recover a body at all.

James hadn't wanted him to go. He was convinced that Sirius's Death Eater cousins would discover and attack him, and had told him so, repeatedly. When this line of persuasion had failed, James had tried to insist on coming along as backup, but Sirius had refused. He hadn't given a reason.

Out of options, James had insisted that Sirius take the Cloak, at least. An invisible man would be less conspicuous than a giant dog, and in this rain, it was likely that at least part of the ceremony would be indoors.

"Sirius Black."

"James, you literally checked the mirror three seconds ago."

"But what if—"

"Sirius is a grown-up," Lily snapped. "He told you he'd call when he can."

James gave the clock on the wall a pointed look. "Lily, it's been four hours."

"Maybe the funeral's not over yet."

"It's after six."

"Maybe he needs a minute, James!"

James stiffened, snapping his face back toward Lily. At least he'd stopped bouncing his damn leg. "What the hell is your problem?"

"I haven't got a problem. You're being ridiculous."

James gave her a long look. "Fine," he said. Then, deliberately, he turned his back on her. "Sirius Black."

Lily shoved her plate away, stood, and stomped out of the kitchen.

She didn't understand why she was so upset. Lily had never even spoken to Regulus Black. If it weren't for his distinctive resemblance to his brother, Lily might never have noticed him in school at all. He'd been skinnier than Sirius, and he'd had a gaunter face  — but with his dark hair and gray eyes, the resemblance between Regulus and his estranged brother had been as plain as the resemblance of the gibbous moon to the full. (Tuney had always been thin).

Lily dragged her hands over her face and took a deep breath through her nose. She counted to four, held it, then breathed out again, as Alice Longbottom had taught her after that battle when a curse had nearly ripped open her torso.

(Tuney had always been thin. It was the one thing she'd always been able to lord over her talented, popular sister, leaving magazines open to photos of Twiggy and boasting about her dress size.)

Sirius hadn't spoken to his brother since he'd finished school, more than a year ago. Lily hadn't spoken to her sister in at least as long. Petunia's invitation to her wedding had been returned, unopened.

And her fiancé hadn't understood. You don't deserve to be treated like this, James had said firmly, gently, as he'd held her against his chest. Lily had been crying her eyes out, clutching the sealed envelope. Your family is supposed to support you, Lily. They aren't supposed to be cruel.

The worst part hadn't even been his words, but the horrible weight that they had lifted from her heart. The immensity of the comfort — the relief — that she had felt; the warmth, like she had finally found a home.

If James had spoken such poison to Sirius, whose brother was now dead — well. It was no wonder, to Lily, that he did not answer.

A chair scraped in the kitchen, and she heard her fiancé's loud footsteps as he followed her into the sitting room. Lily wasn't surprised. Neither she nor James were the type to let a provocation lie; it was one of the reasons they fit together so well. He had barely entered the room before Lily rounded on him.  

"If the Death Eaters murder me," she spat, "will you invite Petunia to the funeral?"

James stopped dead. He'd entered the room with his mouth open, ready with some argument that Lily had cut off, and his chin bobbed awkwardly as he processed the unexpected question. Like a fish.

"Well?" It was an accusation. "Will you?"

Raindrops tapped against the sitting room window. James stared. Finally, he said, "You aren't going to be murdered."

Lily raised her chin, although it trembled. "I could be."

"You won't."

"But I could be." When they'd buried Edgar Bones and his little children, the service had been in a magical village. Muggle-Repelling Charms had blanketed the entire Wizarding quarter of the town, including the churchyard. "Would she be able to come, even if you did? If I die in this war, James, will my sister even be able to see the grave?"

A bitter hiccough of a laugh escaped her. James tugged on his hair with both hands and closed his eyes. The fight went out of his posture, and he seemed to let out all of his breath at once, like a flag when the wind is gone.

Without a word, James took a few steps toward her, put both of his hands on her waist, and walked her to the sitting room couch. Collapsing into it, he pulled Lily sideways onto his lap, wrapping an arm tightly around her waist. He rested his forehead against her temple, burying his face in her thick red hair.

They listened to the rain.

Lily could not tell how much time had passed before James spoke. "My family are all buried in Godric's Hollow," he said quietly. "It's been half-magical since before the Statute of Secrecy was passed. There are Muggles buried in the graveyard there, too. It wouldn't be like the Boneses."

Lily swallowed. "I didn't think you'd—"

"Noticed?" James took her left hand with his free arm, lacing his fingers through hers. He turned his head to look at the ring there. "I did. But if I'd never known you, I probably wouldn't have."

He squeezed her hand and released it, then turned his face back into her hair. "Anyway," he said, still quiet, "that's probably what we would do. But if you wanted something different—"

"No," Lily cut him off. "No, that's— that's fine."

"Okay," James said. He took a shaky breath, but when he spoke again, his voice was steady. "As far as the rest of it — I don't think Petunia would need an invitation. I imagine she'd be the one writing them."

"She...would?"

"If she were willing," said James. He shrugged. "I think she'd be better at that part than me. Obituaries, flowers."

"You hate Petunia."

"I don't hate her." Lily turned to face him, skepticism in her expression. Behind his glasses, James's hazel eyes were sincere. "I don't. And...and even if I did, I—." He looked down as his voice broke. "I wouldn't do that to you, Lily."

She looked down, too. "Oh."

"I promise. I wouldn't."

"I...I believe you. Thank you." James nodded but did not speak. The rain lulled, and the silence was suddenly unbearable. Lily swallowed. "What...part would you be better at?"

"What?"

"You said my sister would be better at flowers."

James raised his eyebrows. "Tracking down the bastards who'd murdered you."

"Oh. Right."

"Right."

James's left arm was still wrapped tightly around Lily's waist, but with his right, he began to run his hand up and down the side of her body, from her shoulder to her hip and back again. "Lily. It's not the same."

Of course it wasn't the same. It wasn't the same, because Regulus Black had been a pureblood and a bigot and a child of money, and none of it had saved him.

What did Lily and Tuney have?

It was like peering into a cracked mirror. It had been ever since she'd heard. And then, there was Sirius — who was popular and talented, who was different from his family, who'd gone away, who'd been rejected — Sirius, whom she should have been able to connect with, to understand—

And yet.

"The idiot should never have joined in the first place," he'd told Gideon Prewett, tossing his head. "He deserved it." Whether Sirius had been trying to avoid damnation by association, or whether he'd meant every word, Lily could not guess. But the words had been a cold knife in her gut.

She'd really been starting to like Sirius.

"Lily? You're shaking," said James, still running his hand along her side. "What is it?"

She looked away from him. "Tuney wouldn't even come," Lily said in a wobbling voice. "She'd call me a freak and say that I brought it on myself." James said nothing. "You know she would."

He crushed her to his chest. Lily burst into sobs.

James rubbed circles into her shoulders as he rocked her back and forth. Lily took quick, gasping breaths against his chest, soaking the front of his robes with tears and snot. She didn't know if she was wailing for herself or Tuney or James, for Regulus Black or Edgar Bones or Bones's little daughter — didn't know if what she felt was fear or grief, or if it was the childish voice that cried out inside her, had been crying out for years and years, because sisters were supposed to be forever.

"I love you, Lily" James said, his voice choked. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

And they sat, until she'd cried herself out and he'd trailed off and the rain had finally stopped. Still, they did not rise, but held one another in silence.

"James Potter."

They both jumped.

Sirius's voice, emanating from James's pocket, was hoarse. "James Potter." James looked at Lily uncertainly. His eyes were red.

"It's okay," she said, shifting off of his lap and wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Go. Tell him I send my love."

James hesitated for another moment before nodding. He pressed a kiss to Lily's forehead, then stood, taking the mirror from his pocket as he left the room. "What took you so long?" she heard him say, but she could not make out the reply. Both voices grew quiet as James walked further into the kitchen.

Lily looked around the sitting room from her perch on the sofa, not quite lost, not quite found. She grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it tightly to her chest.

On the coffee table, there was a vase of flowers. She reached out to touch them, coaxing their petals to open and close beside one another on the stem.

[icriedwhenyouleft]

But not ‘til daylight

Pairing: Lucy Carlyle x Norrie White

Summary: Lucy’s memories about her late friend resurface as dreams.

Now playing: Nettles by Ethel Cain

a/n: no clue if this reads as platonic or romantic but they were a secret third thing

Made a fool of myself down Tennessee street

“Why’s your hair long? Won’t it get in your ears and, like, make your hearing worse? You know, our last listener was-“ The tall boy was teasing Lucy as she was trying to put her things in her locker, she did think her hair was too long but she never had a reason to cut it.

“Shush, Thomas, don’t scare her” A ginger girl snapped at him, Lucy had heard from Jacob’s her name was Norrie. The boy, Thomas, only shrugged before walking away. Norrie gave Lucy a quick smile, her eyes looked kind, she looked brave, smart.

They became friends after that, they were joking that it was because they both had long hair and had to stand up for each other, but after Lucy cut it short for convenience they changed the reason to “because she seemed cool”.

-

“What do you think is on the other side?” Lucy asked one day as they were enjoying the summer sun on their skin, a few hours before curfew.

“I think it’s like this but colder, maybe darker, or lighter, or it’s just dark, pitch black. Maybe that’s why ghosts always look so lost, maybe they’re not used to the light.” Norrie kept her eyes closed, turned to the sun, her face getting more and more freckled by the minute.

“If you were a ghost what would your source be, what do you think?” Lucy kept her eyes open, turned to Norrie, she was like a star for Lucy to orbit around, always bright.

Norrie furrowed her brows, deep in thought.

“Probably that little postcard you drew for my birthday, I’d like for that to be my source.”

“But you’d be stuck in your room all day. Wouldn’t that get boring?” Lucy chose to ignore the small tightness in her chest after she realised that Norrie had kept the postcard.

“Well yeah, but you’d know where to find me.”

Lucy chose to ignore the little kick her heart gave at that too, maybe the sun was just really strong today.

-

She woke up not long after, not next to Norrie, but in her bed, in the attic of Portland row. It was nothing new to her, dreaming about things that had happened, especially involving Norrie. Lucy noticed how in the dreams her face seemed far away and washed out. It hurt her to realise that she was forgetting her best friends face, smile, nose, eyes, the texture of her long ginger hair.

And think of all the time I’ll, I’ll have with you

“Let’s run away.” Norrie says quietly, still leaning her head against Lucy’s shoulder.

They’re sitting on Lucy’s bed in her room, looking over an old magazine they found in the library. It’s from a time when the problem wasn’t the problem, back when it was a mere inconvenience, a small issue. Before they were born, when things were different.

“Run away where? I’m not sure we’d find much luck in the next time over.” Lucy looks don’t at her friend, slowly closing the magazine.

“Somewhere bigger, where we could have a future. London, let’s go to London…” Norrie suggests, extending her pinky to Lucy.

“Promise.” Lucy interlocks her pinky with Norrie’s. She feels worried about their flimsy plan built on dreams and hopes, but they have time, all the time in the world. Her worries can wait.

-

Lucy stirs awake, in that same bed, in that same attic where she has lived for over a year. The pale moonlight shines outside her window, illuminating her room in a milky blue hue. She’s sure that if she goes to her window she will see a few harmless spectres lurking behind corners, as they do every night.

Lucy is exactly where she they wanted to be. She should be happy, right? Norrie would be proud, right?

Tell me all the time, not to worry

This time it’s not a dream, but Lucy recognises the location. It’s back in their hometown. A little hidden crook behind a tall willow tree, always in a comfortable shade.

Norrie’s face seems just like Lucy remember, vibrant, not washed away. It’s like a breath of fresh air against all the dreams where she was a silhouette or a murky outline of a girl that Lucy once knew.

“You’re… you… you’re here.” Is all that Lucy can muster. She feels like she’s seen a ghost, this feels like close enough to any ghost sighting, only slightly worse as this isn’t a ghost, it’s her friend, looking alive and real, not in a bed with a permanent scared expression locked on her face.

“I never left” Norrie smiles, all her teeth real and her grin the same as Lucy remembers.

“I’m sorry, it shouldn’t have happened, I should’ve said something more, I should’ve saved you…” Lucy can feel herself slipping into a practiced apology that she knows like the back of her hand, one that she thought of in case she ever saw her friend again, alive and smiling just like now.

Her long apology gets interrupted by a finger placed over her mouth, silencing her.

“I could never blame you, never did and never will. It wasn’t your fault Lucy.” Norrie sounds reassuring, Lucy can feel a boulder that she forgot was there roll off of her heart, making her rest a little easier.

-

Lucy wakes up from her dream, she falls asleep for many nights after, waking up the following morning. Lucy stopped dreaming, but she kept remembering.

[jamesbondlexicon]

Daniel Craig & Naomie Harris are on Parade in November 2015 to promote Spectre

[yandere-toons]

Yandere Bakugou Katsuki (Platonic Scenario - "In My Defence")

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Use of Firearms, Swearing Throughout, Morally Ambiguous Reader, Toxic Mindsets.

Word Count: 4,192.

Artwork: Akiyama Yoco's for Episode 97 of the series' anime.

"Does he even want us on this mission?"

From out the darkness overhanging an awning slunk a blending of scales and skin. A man below the neck; a viper above; a triangular skull bisected by diamond-shaped eyes; a forked tongue undulating and licking; a rounded crest mottled and flared — nature's grotesque experiments had found a new beast to assemble.

He wound a coil of tongue around lead, colouring it morbid yellow, before stuffing it into the top of a magazine and locking it in place. A ring of light spiralled off the barrel as he took aim, the oblong proportions of his head forcing his neck to twist hard.

A lone bullet whistled low before the crack alerted Katsuki; and you collapsed at almost the same instant to one knee, and thence to the road.

Kirishima dove to catch your head before it split on the asphalt, and the skin on his arms metamorphosed into flesh-coloured rock. He hunkered down close against you, his back to the noise, his body crumbling to grit, then growing back stonier by the second.

A fever of resentment cooked inside Katsuki as though he'd been fed hot charcoal fresh out of a furnace. "What the hell did you do?" his voice rose ten decibels with each syllable, and the skin on his cheeks turned purple as he bellowed out a heap of breath on the last word.

Many a young heart cried out in fear at the depth of his rage, which flowed without ceasing, as foam at the mouth of a rabid dog.

Katsuki charged the villain faster than he could blink, arms outstretched to the point of aching, palms up to reveal the curvature of his hands. There ignited the essence of a bomb, the biological incarnation of a lit match, of flint against steel, glistening and accumulating sweat in obeisance to him.

A thunderous roar and hiss on par with artillery fire wrested peace from every eardrum in the district. The maw of this inferno drank up the earth's light, engulfing it in a near infinite storm of colour. The sun returned swiftly, but the spectre of the bomb danced still in the eyes of each observer, clawing out bursts of black and white that fuzzed round the edges like sparking wires.

You shooed away the hand of another and hovered your own above the gaping wound. There arose the song of metal bending, and the bullet levitated from where it had lodged in your femur. The sudden collision with bone shattered the bullet into tiny, gore-drenched chunks.

Kaminari went rigid as a drop of blood snaked along the bullet, bloated at one end and splattered down. He reeled towards Kirishima, his hands spread wide, grasping at the air. "Can't you do it? Your Quirk makes you way better at this kind of thing than me!"

A few metres away, an explosion devastated the road, and a golden glow of embers flashed across Kirishima's serrated teeth. "Listen to me, you gotta man up!" his expression hardened by the sobering reality of the battlefield, but his voice remained clear and true: the sound of encouragement passed from friend to friend. "I've only got two hands, so I need you to pick up the slack!"

Gulping his last protest, Kaminari crossed his hands over the wound and steeled himself against the slippery flow of blood. "Bakugou's gonna kill me." His chest heaved with a breath so deep he seemed keen to disappear underwater, and he dove into the mess of blood gushing from your thigh.

Kirishima listened to the string of obscenities running amok, some he'd heard before, others mixed in with profanities he'd never imagined in his darkest days. "I think he's a little distracted."

Blood spurted from the wound, bubbling over his fingers, lapping at them with a warm tongue, and Kaminari struggled to keep down the lump in his throat. "Gross," he whined, scrunching his face to the brim with wrinkles. "I so wish I had gloves right now." Kaminari glanced wistfully at Katsuki, whose hands lay shielded in puffs of cloth.

The laughter of the nearly departed wheezed out from under your haggard breathing. "I'll remember that when you take a bullet."

As the pallid white waves swept across his cheeks, Kaminari pronked with a start, his mind's eye now teeming with grisly visions. He let out a weak laugh, almost choked with comic horror, and hoped the levity would ease your pain a little. Every hinge of his smile begged to collapse, but Kaminari forced his muscles to hold it together until you once again propped your neck against Kirishima's arm.

With a flick of your hand, the bullet reversed its course and sliced clean through the wasted left ear of he who had fired it.

A drizzle of red encircled the road beneath his feet as the villain wrenched wide his mouth, hissing, teetering towards escape.

Before Katsuki could bound forth and give chase, Kaminari leapt in front of him and pressed both hands to his chest. His whole body spasmed at that moment, and Katsuki jumped back, his fists twitching. He swallowed down the urge to knock Kaminari out of his way, wrenching a shred of control from what burned through his entrails.

"Dude, we got him! He's totally on the run!" Kaminari laughed goodhumouredly. A glob of blood hopped from his palm, smearing his fingerprints on Katsuki's costume, but as Katsuki fidgeted, the shape mangled into confusing streaks.

Shame churned in his stomach as Katsuki watched the blood fall and answered for himself who had spilt it.

A whisper laden with groans drew his attention over his shoulder, where you had wormed your way into the fetal position. Kirishima knelt at your side and took your hands in his own, sweat trickling down his face. "Squeeze as hard as you can, buddy, you know I can take it!"

"I'm not done yet," muttered Katsuki, dazed by the state of the mission and your deteriorating health, his eyes fixed on the retreating figure's battered form. He seized Kaminari by the back of his jacket and flung him to the pavement. "Until I blow his fucking head off!"

Kaminari braced, rolling until his elbows pressed against his chest and his screams of terror faded into the air. He winced at the scrapes on his hands as he slammed his palms down and lurched to a stop on his belly, the shock propelling a jolt across his spine as he reached out for Katsuki.

The path forward, now unobstructed, promised the sweetest opportunity to crush and dominate his enemy, and it thrilled Katsuki; the ambition to inflict upon this villain a pain like none had suffered before, or indeed ever would again, rampaged ahead of all other desires.

His pulse throbbed in every limb, threatening to burst from his neck, and the details of the world round him warped in and out of focus. Hearing nothing but his own breath and heart, he threw his arms back, splayed his fingers, and bent his knees.

Blast after blast sent Katsuki sprawling into the street, each one picking up speed and hurtling him closer to the villain. Smoke and flames streaked across the Musutafu skyline, obscuring that entire part of the world, the black of the smoke and the red of the flames as intense as a sunrise after a moonless night.

The villain had fled into an office building, the door riven and clashed shut, pinned with a chair. He walked backwards into a cubicle, counting the seconds, pistol trained on anything that broke through the barricade. Yet putting his other hand on the grip to steady the first hand seemed too great an effort;—sweat beaded on his palms, turning his limbs to mush.

Katsuki wove in the air with the tenacity of a guided missile, landing with such force that steam billowed everywhere. He pulled himself up to his full height, rolled his shoulders, and cracked his neck back and forth over one shoulder. But first, he thrust a laugh between his teeth, then heaved in another breath and took aim.

Bricks and mortar flew into every corner of the office on wings of smoke, one smashing into the villain's face. The trauma ripped the pistol from his hand the instant after his index finger clenched the trigger on impulse. With a scuff of his shoes on the concrete, he tumbled backwards, his skull caroming off the floor.

The muzzle blast revealed the dark spread rushing down his chin, the numbness of his dislocated jaw, and the silhouette rising from the edge of the rubble in the distance. In the darkness of the ruins, everything touched by sunlight appeared fulgent and blurred.

The demoniacal passion that beat in the throat of anyone bold enough to summon it drove Katsuki's voice to the brink of distortion. "Come out and fight me!" every remaining window in the building cracked at the sound of his challenge.

Katsuki stuck his boot atop the heap of rubble nearest to the entrance and listened, controlling every breath and holding every upset. Amidst the rustling of dust, the injured man's grunting stirred the blood in his veins, and Katsuki let out a yell and leapt towards the source, releasing every bestial urge he possessed.

Two explosions, one from each hand, propelled him higher, reaching their apogee above the murmurs of pain. There, Katsuki swung his arms overhead, blasting the ceiling with precision, setting it ablaze, and plunged downwards with his legs outstretched, poised to stomp the life from the voice. Instead of the crunch of bones under overwhelming pressure, he heard the sound of splinters.

The concrete fissured beneath his feet and a shockwave went up in a puff of smoke, followed by a faint scream from ten paces away. Katsuki lifted his head to see the outline of the villain, who shuddered before him and scrambled in the opposite direction. Periodic whimpers and curses escaped from the gap between his fingers, and each time Katsuki seemed to take pride in this weakness.

Every few seconds, his hand snapped with a crackle of sparks. A mist of light draped in ribbons across his face, the glint of burning orange shining more clearly than ever against the sea of black. At that moment, his canines shone prominently, baring and grinding his teeth until his mouth vibrated with menace.

The villain looked into the abyss of smoke, and in the eyes that looked back, there was no reflection of the hero, only the light of a mind that shrieked with primal hatred and fed on vile fantasies. The same red colour that poured from his nostrils floated in the darkness, shadowing him.

Katsuki swung his arm, puncturing the column of smoke and drawing it back as a curtain. The longer he beheld the villain, the more veins bumped along his temples and muscles bulged like sinewy ropes in his neck. There came the sound of an old record scratching and a firecracker popping, flanked by a flash of light on either side of Katsuki.

As soon as the villain staggered away, a gloved hand struck him in the chest; that horrible moment of death pierced him and the inescapable realisation that he was seeing his own through the eyes of another.

The force of the blast doubled in intensity, pain and heat flooding through his body like a grenade, splintering his sternum and filling his ribcage with shrapnel. A crater opened up in the wall behind him as concrete slammed against his spine, and his feet lifted high enough to never again touch the ground.

Through the din, the hero roared in a trance of vengeance, his voice growing more and more animalistic. Katsuki reached for the villain's heart, his arms tremulous, barely able to catch his breath. He struck with all the strength of his body, his eyes bloodshot from the smoke that sucked the air from his lungs.

From the inside of his gauntlet protruded a metal pin;—as he bent his finger to hook it, an instantaneous surge of rage shot through him. When he loosed the pin, a single word, "Die," burst forth, a word that packed a lifetime of contempt and rancour.

A swirl of the most vivid reds and oranges, hot and unquenchable as the core of a forest fire, tasted the air through the tubes of his gauntlets and soared infernal. An explosion more powerful than the loudest clap of thunder rang out, and everything opposite Katsuki burst into embers and spatter.

A whirlwind of flame and smoke pushed the unburnt pieces of concrete into darkness. Thick soot and ash blackened each window, and with a loud crash, shards of glass rained down into the street. The hiss and echo of shrapnel cascaded through the air, flying on the wind, before the explosion waned to a booming rumble.

Sizzling steam wafted through the air, exhaling the sticky fumes of sweat and blood. The hard soles of his combat boots thudded against fissures in the pavement. Smoke arose from his slick forehead, stinking at the hero as he stalked through the clouds of dust, and the threads of his costume stretched as his chest grew heavier.

These huffs and puffs fell short of his eyes, which glowered at all before them. The wildness that had possessed him withered to its usual ache once the sun gilded his face. With each step more driven than the last, the gloom of the wreckage and those whom it buried slipped further and further from his mind.

Katsuki hovered as close as he could without stepping on you. Dollops of blood dripped from the spikes of his hair and stood vibrant against the black of his costume.

"Hey, Bakubro!" Kirishima scanned the street in the vain hope that he would find the villain handcuffed, not reduced to the meat paste one wiped from their shoe. "Where's the villain?"

The muscles in Katsuki's face contracted, as did the muscles in his fingers, which curled inwards to throttle even the memory of the villain. For a moment, a sour calm passed over him, and the twitching in his cheeks subsided. "I blew his ass to pieces."

"Serves him right." You spat out a glob of blood and phlegm onto the asphalt.

A swell of pride drew from Katsuki a chuckle both brief and spirited, for his eyes lit up as the glow of his brightest explosion. The primordial anger that boiled within him gave way to the triumph and bloodlust espoused only by those who relished the battlefield.

Kirishima, whence he sat with hands clasped about your own, slackened them and recoiled a tad, his face blanching and on the verge of contortion. "What? But we can't just..." he bit his tongue as Katsuki swooped down on him.

"We made a judgement call, shitty hair!" He swung his arm wide. "So back the hell off!"

Another wheezing gasp escaped you, but it shrank to a torn, guttural pant as the moribund life inside failed to regain its strength.

As the short distance from the pavement drew his eye back and forth, back and forth, Kaminari eased his hands about your underarms and hauled you up to his chest. The first step to the pavement shot through your body a convulsion of spitting, flailing, and snorting. Froth and drool gelled in your mouth, and blood emptied from your nose into your throat.

The instant Kaminari dropped you and flinched back, wincing at his own carelessness, the skin on his arm erupted with invisible flame and rocketed closer. The centre of his face seemed to cave in on impact, spewing viscous strings of snot in blood and saliva in tears.

Katsuki struck him hard on the wrist, and Kaminari fell over backwards, cracking his nose with his own hand.

"Dumbass!" thundering footfalls commanded his attention, snarling out a venom that would give even the fiercest of beasts pause. "What the hell are you doing?" Kaminari shivered at his reflection, for in the same eyes that brooded over him, there lay a familiar glaze of fear.

With one hand clamped over his nose to stymie the flow of blood, Kaminari squinted through tears. He pulled his knees close and curled into a ball, his side to Katsuki. Despite the congestion in his throat, which Kaminari fought down to the best of his ability, he looked Katsuki squarely in the face.

"We have to move them! We can't just leave them in the street!"

A howl of an outburst so rancid it transcended words, a drive to demolish anything that moved, poured out of Katsuki between teeth squeezed so tight his jaw cried for relief. Nightmarish tension warped the muscles of his face, and he pivoted away from Kaminari, intent on checking your condition.

"Shut up and let me think for a minute!"

You had fallen into silence, the fatigue taking over, the road seeming fused to your skin, the agony so sharp your heart thrashed and stole the light from your vision.

"Go for Recovery Girl! Tell her we need a medevac!"

Kaminari slapped a hand on his earpiece, flooding every hero channel he could locate with a distress signal.

Katsuki spied it moments before Kirishima drawled his name: the swirl of fog over your eyes as Death trotted near.

He snapped his head up and fixed his most intense stare, a mixture of madness and wrath, on Kaminari's back. "Now!" Katsuki lunged for Kaminari, who cowered back, gnashing his teeth and pushing out searing breath. "I don't care who she's with! Bring her here now!"

A miniature explosion shimmered and evaporated from his palm, which Katsuki shoved into Kaminari's face. A line of froth trailed after each word and splashed Kaminari, who wrenched one eye shut and turned to block the droplets with his hand.

Upon seeing Katsuki towering over him, blotting out the sun, Kaminari hunched forward to make himself smaller.

In that instant, as another frantic shout dangled from the tip of Katsuki's tongue, a wretched terror stole the sound from his world. The shrillest ringing, like bullets raining down on him from all sides, shook his sanity, and a cold sweat plunged down his spine. Warmth drained from the most blistering explosions, and chilling tendrils writhed in his stomach.

The phantom pressure of breathlessness, of a sharp heel against his chest, dug at his heart.

Where reinforcements should have charged in unison, the vacant, lifeless road stretched on, beguiling his wide eyes into staring, twitching with the sickness of a revelation most dire. As Katsuki watched the bend in its infinite, absolute distance, one thought of dreadful proportion stuck in his mind: "No one's coming."

The cacophonous voice scratched at his ears again, but the sharpness of his adrenaline-fuelled senses directed him towards the smell of blood.

Kirishima opened his arms as a final, desperate obstacle, lips drawn narrow, flesh bared and hardened. "Bakugou, you saw what happened with Kaminari! If you move 'em now, they might die!"

Katsuki stopped short, reaching one upturned hand. "Take a look at 'em, shitty hair! They're dying anyway!"

First casting his eyes behind, Kirishima meditated on the truth in those words.

The metal shells of his knee guards skidded across the asphalt as Katsuki shouldered Kirishima aside and hurled himself on the ground before you. Freed of all hesitation, he cradled you for a moment, secured you on his back, and made sure to keep his eyes forward.

Black blood, curdled and rancid like old soup, matted his gloves. The tremor in his legs and the stone in his throat came not from his nauseous spring up, nor from the sweltering rush on which he arced through the sky.

* * *

Katsuki paced a uniform sea of white sandstone, staring into the distance at an unreachable target, a target that chased him from sterile wall to sterile wall. He cursed under his breath, as if chanting a spell, at himself for not acting sooner, and at all the scum that abandoned you on the field. His gauntlets rattled with every swing of his arm, skin smeared with soot and blood.

Every three or four laps, a new wave of doubt seized him, and Katsuki paused to watch your breathing, assuring himself that it hadn't ceased or grown errant. Each time, he searched for the barest hint of consciousness, and each time, the pressure of frustration clenched his chest a little tighter.

His shadow loomed over your bedside, slathered with debris and reeking of scorched death, silent as though he could menace the wound out of you.

At the faint creak of a handle turning and a door sliding open on its hinges, Katsuki wheeled round on the entrance and flung out his arm. A light that rivalled the sun bathed his palm with sweat, but Aizawa's dark eyes peered out still from beneath a veil of shaggy hair.

"Where the hell were you?"

Katsuki thrust his hand forth, each word aloft from the bombilation of sparks.

Shota Aizawa, a man whom the undead would welcome into their ranks, faced this threat with reddened eyes half overcome by slumping lids: "Your actions today broke more laws than I can count."

Katsuki swiped a ribbon of smoke through the air and neared the foot of the bed, a strip of muscle in his cheek bulging and pulsing. "I ain't apologising for shit! That bastard got every bit of what he deserved!"

A glimmer of scarlet flared to life from deep behind Aizawa's eyes, and the tips of his frayed hair began to levitate. "If you value your career, I suggest you stand down immediately."

Recovery Girl trudged over, her eyes closed in exhaustion, her legs still moving with an impeccable sense of direction. She trailed the hem of her coat on all the dust of the hospital floor. "I told him to take a break I don't know how many times, but he won't leave his friend's side."

The pulp of Katsuki's stomach knotted, and the hairs on his neck bristled. "We're not friends!" He dragged on the last word, voice heavy and exasperated, as though it were an accusation he fought off daily.

Recovery Girl scolded him, pursing her lips and shaking her head, then took up with Aizawa, who lingered on him for a minute.

"They're just some idiot on my team."

Katsuki turned to you again, eyes frozen and puffy, haunted by the thought that your hollowed skin looked fit for a casket.

All signs of the convulsion had been wiped from your mouth and dumped inside a steel bin. A blanket, bleached and prone to tangles, pooled thinly over you, and Katsuki drew it forth into a more complete covering. "Hey," he called, as though pulling you out of training, "I know you're hurt, but don't die."

There was a gentleness of mien then, followed at once by a droop in his posture. "Okay?"

The chatter of flapping gums and popping saliva was a needle down his ear, and Katsuki stiffened, his face gnarled once more, before rounding on the noise. "Old lady, get your ass over here and fix this!"

* * *

The head of the academy, his white fur neatly tucked behind his suit vest and chequered trousers, crept up the slope of the chair. A diagonal scar ran from the centre of his forehead down his right cheek, exposing a stripe of pink skin, dulled with time and deprived of fur. A cup of steaming tea in hand, he sat no taller than a small child.

The autumnal air flowed in, cool and refreshing, through the ajar window that Aizawa had hastened to shut.

Principal Nezu replaced the sound with a most pleasant and disarming one, his voice lowering everyone's blood pressure until it cheered death and destruction. "Bakugou's conduct was no doubt reckless, and we shall assign him extra duties for the remainder of the month."

"That's it?"

A forepaw shot out, silencing him.

"We all agree it was excessive force, but Young Bakugou acted in defence of a fallen comrade."

Nezu slid forward with his elbows, linked his forepaws, uplifted his mouth with permanence, threaded each finger through the others, and rubbed his hands. "We must never encourage lethal force, but if our students are to succeed, they need also recognise when it may be necessary."

Principal Nezu set his teacup down carefully upon his saucer, head bowed and eyes closed. "The fact of the matter is, villains outnumber heroes ten to one, and they will only grow larger unless we as a school do our part."

His beady eyes turned black as stone in the reddish haze of dusk. "It falls on our shoulders to train the next generation. Like never before, we need students who can meet this threat. Students who push the limits of what heroism means."

Aizawa took one last look at the after-action report before pulling himself to his feet, leaving open the folder to its description of the villain:

"Identification could not be verified. Body recovered in pieces, result of ten-kilogram detonation at close range; all other remains vapourised in blast."

[whencyclopedia]

Robert Schumann

Robert Schumann (1810-1856) was a German composer of Romantic music, particularly piano and orchestral works, as well as over 250 songs or lieder. He was also a musical critic and founded his own magazine. His wife Clara Schumann (1819-1896), a concert pianist and composer of renown in her own right, inspired Robert to attempt larger-scale works such as symphonies.

Schumann's work was not especially popular in his own lifetime, and he was continuously troubled by the spectre of mental illness. He attempted suicide, and, suffering from hallucinations, he ended his days in an asylum. Robert Schumann is today considered one of the greatest exponents of Romantic music, where emphasis is given to personal artistic expression and experimentation, often with inspiration coming from art, literature, and nature.

Early Life

Robert Schumann was born in Zwickau, Saxony, on 8 June 1810. His father, August Schumann, was a bookseller, but his interest went far deeper than merely selling literature, for he translated into German the complete works of Lord Byron (1788-1822) and Walter Scott (1771-1832). This perhaps explains Robert's life-long passion for literature, especially the work of Romantic writers like Jean Paul Richter (1763-1825), his personal favourite. Robert studied at the Zwickau Lyceum in an uneventful youth in terms of academic achievement.

Robert's life turned upside down when his father died in 1826 after suffering some sort of inner mental turmoil. There was further family tragedy when Robert's sister Emilie, who had also been troubled by mental problems, committed suicide. Robert thereafter lived in perpetual fear that he, too, would one day succumb to such an illness. Spoilt by his mother, Robert was "allowed to indulge in such expensive tastes as champagne and cigars while still at school" (Arnold, 1647). Robert had written his own music while still a child, and his skills merited taking private piano lessons in Leipzig where he also studied law from 1828. Unsettled in his studies – it was his mother who had pushed for him to study law – Robert moved on to the University of Heidelberg in 1829. Still not impressing his tutors and still showing little interest in law, which he described as "chilly jurisprudence with its ice-cold definitions", Robert decided to go on a grand tour to see the cultural sights of Switzerland and Italy (Steen, 400).

Schumann did not particularly impress with his piano playing. His hopes of becoming a concert pianist were, in any case, dashed early on in a bizarre accident involving a device he himself designed to strengthen his fingers. That is, at least, the traditional view. Some more modern historians present the theory that the injury came about as a result of a mercury treatment for syphilis (which is noted in his medical records). Whatever the real cause, Schumann certainly suffered a debilitating and permanent hand injury. Instead, then, Schumann turned to music criticism and creating his own compositions. Here he was to have much more success. At last, he had found his vocation. As Schumann himself remarked on completing his first compositions: "On sleepless nights I am conscious of a mission which rises before me like a distant peak" (Schonberg, 182).

Robert Schumann's Birthplace

Unknown Artist (Public Domain)

Continue reading...