#Zola of course has plant powers

[ta-teufel]

For April Fools I wanted to make another Superhero Illustration, this time with the jellybeans! Zola and Diana are Villains but Sunita had to be a reluctant Hero turned Villain for me! She is such a rule follower.

[wkemeup]

By Any Other Name (16)

series summary: When Special Agent Bucky Barnes is tasked with infiltrating the notorious gang Hydra and gathering evidence against its leader, Brock Rumlow, Bucky finds himself drawn to the woman who doesn’t seem to belong in this world of violence, the wife of the head of Hydra… you. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 6.1k warnings: torture, gun violence, kidnapping, arson, a whole shit show and a wild ride from start to finish i am so very sorry  a/n: to anyone who listens to the series playlist, a reminder that Slow Mover has been on there from the start and the second half of the chorus was a direct warning for this chapter 😅 🌹series masterlist 🌹

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.

You paced along the small length of a cold, dark office in the back of an old textile factory Brock used to manufacture Cerberus. Heels long forgotten to the top of the table, your bare feet touched on concrete, over small rocks embedded in the ground and the cracks of the floor. They poked and prodded at your skin, weight sinking puncture marks to the balls of your feet. It was something, at least, because with the rushing race of your heartbeat, it was hard to feel much of anything else.

You didn’t know where you were or what happened to James in the blackout. You assumed he was arrested like he was supposed to be, that they made a show of it for the Hydra crewmen in the effort to protect his identity for when this was over. You hoped, anyway. 

But if you knew James - and you knew him well - you didn’t suspect he would comply to much of anything when you were missing and in the company of your husband.

“How in the hell did this happen?!” Brock roared, storming into the office with several men on his heels; Zola, the scientist in a white lab coat with subtle red discoloration along the sleeves, and the two men who held James down in the basement that night as Brock nearly beat him to death, Kohl and Sanzetti.

“I don’t know, sir,” the blonde one, Kohl, replied, to which Brock answered by throwing a right jab straight to his jawline. He staggered backwards, into the filing cabinets as Brock growled at him, almost feral.

“Then why the fuck are you talking!?”

You froze at the corner of the room, watching as your husband cleared the desk of its supplies, aggressively throwing papers and coffee mugs and the computer monitor itself to the floor. You winced as the screen cracked and paper slowly drifted down through the air to land delicately amongst the mess. 

Brock was panting, red in the face, as he leaned against the edge of the desk, gripping at the corners until his knuckles were sheet white.

You’d never seen him like this before; panicked in a corner and lashing out. You would have felt some kind of satisfaction if you weren’t within the crosshairs of his rage.

“I may have some answers for you,” Zola’s mousey voice spoke from the doorway. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as Brock shot him a kind of glare that could have killed a man. “If you allow me one moment?”

With that, he disappeared back into the warehouse.

“Fucking hell,” Rumlow grumbled, shaking his head. “You’re all fucking useless.”

Kohl and Sanzetti were talking quietly amongst themselves, eyeing Brock suspiciously; low, murmured voices of men with loyalties to the highest bidder, the man with the most power, and suddenly, Brock didn’t hold that position. 

You watched as your husband started to finger at the weapon strapped to his waist, touching over cold metal like it was a comfort, like he it was an extension of himself, violence at the palm of his hand.

You had to get out of there.

“Brock,” you called, voice dry in your throat, arms folded over your chest protectively as he glared at you for daring to interrupt his brooding. “Maybe I could step outside for a moment? It’s a little cramped in here and—”

“No fuckin’ way, baby,” he shot back, waving his hand at you dismissively. “There could be feds casing this place! You’re not going anywhere. I want you right where I can see you. How else am I supposed to protect you?”

He spat it at you like a threat.

You clenched your jaw until it ached, nodding enough for Brock to divert his attention. He wore a forced smile, a dead kind of look in his eyes that slowly fell away to a cold, hard, nothingness as he stared down at the desk again. He didn’t care to protect you from anything. He was a selfish man at his very core and even with you feeding into his ego, he would throw you to the wolves it meant saving himself.

“You know what I don’t understand? How the hell did the FBI got access to our shipping logs?”

Your lungs burned, like fire had lit a match deep within your chest. Had you stopped breathing?

“That shit’s been under lock and key for decades,” Brock continued as he straightened his back, cracking his neck to the side, “ain’t that right, Sanzetti?”

“Yes, sir.”

Brock gritted his teeth, a sharp exhale from his nose. “So, logically, the only way that information could have been leaked was if the feds had an inside man.”

Sanzetti exchanged a nervous glance with Kohl before nodding slowly. “Yes, sir.”

Brock’s hands suddenly slammed down to the table in a fit of rage, the sharp echo of it startling straight to your chest and skipping over a beat.

“Someone better start talking!”

“I believe I can assist with that, sir.”

Zola appeared in the doorway again, a proud smirk on his face and you took a step forward, cold pavement under bare feet. Zola waved at someone beyond the door and he slid into the room, taking his place at Brock’s side and waited patiently. He glanced up at Brock like he was a man to be admired. It made you sick.

“This better be good, Zola, or a I’m going to—”

A body was thrown to the floor at Brock’s feet, heavy and lifeless, with a black canvas over his head and ropes tied at his wrists. Blood trailed down his neck and onto the concrete. 

You stared at the body, heart in your throat, breaths like fire to your lungs. You swallowed back the scream before it passed your lips.

“What the fuck is this?” Brock snapped, nudging the body with the toe of his wingtips.

“This,” Zola replied, bending down to remove the canvas, “is the man behind Hydra’s undoing.”

The canvas was ripped away, tossed to the far corner of the room and you bit down hard on your cheek. Thick coppery liquid pooled in your mouth as you stared down at the mess of blood matted through dark brown hair, ocean blue eyes shut, unconscious as your husband pushed himself from the desk.

James.

Zola pulled a water bottle from his bag and slowly began unscrewing the lid. He gestured for Kohl and Sanzetti to keep James secure, even amongst the bindings, and he dumped the water onto James’ face.

You dug your nails into your palms, your forearms, your thighs, leaving behind puncture marks you couldn’t feel, even with the red staining to your fingertips. The anticipation was torture, watching the water fall to James’ face, washing away the blood and soaking his hair, until he woke suddenly, coughing violently and flinching away from the stream of water obstructing his breathing.

“Ah, he wakes!” Zola jeered.

James wrestled to his knees, though he didn’t get much further, not with Kohl and Sanzetti holding him down. Wide, panicked eyes shot around the room, catching his bearings, until they landed on you. There was a moment of stillness, a slight relief only long enough to confirm your safety, before he thrashed against his bindings.

There were no more pretenses. There was no cover to protect. It was only survival now.

“What the hell are you going on about Zola?” Brock groaned, watching as James fought against his men, shoving shoulders to knees and grunting in the strained effort. He was unfazed – curious, maybe – at his own right hand bound at his feet, the mark of a traitor branded to his name.

Zola stepped forward, handing Brock a series of photographs. He eyed the short, rounded scientist suspiciously before he snatched the stack of photos from his hands.

From behind your husband, all you could see was the way he tensed upon a single glance down to the evidence in his hands, shoulders melding to stone as he flipped through the pages, a fire in his breath. When the scorch of red touched his ears, a low growl in his chest and a tight clench of his fists along the photographs, you knew this could only end violent and bloody. Brock held little capacity for honor or mercy. He’s killed men for far lesser offenses than this.

Brock tossed the photos to the desk as if they had burned him. Some scattered along the floor, others laid upon the surface. Taken from a distance with an often blurry figure at the center, set in varying locations ranging from the cherry blossoms around D.C. to the streets lined with brownstones in Brooklyn; always the same man in focus.

James.

You stepped forward, touching the image of James in a black suit, a man different than the one before you; shorter hair pushed back away from his eyes, a brightened smile on his face, a youthful glow in his stance. But what drew your attention wasn’t the lightness in his demeanor, the laugh so clearly present on his lips, or the lush of greenery in the background, but instead, the shiny gold badge draped on a thin metal chain around his neck, sitting at the buttons of his jacket.  

Oh God.

“Meet Special Agent James Buchanan Barnes.”

Your knees would have buckled out from under you if it wasn’t for your grip against the desk. Heart stammering, hands shaking, panic running course through your veins, you stared at James from the far end of the room, though he kept his gaze on Brock, hardened features and stone-cold expression. He didn’t bother to deny it.

“FBI, huh?” Brock questioned and Zola nodded slowly. 

“He’s been feeding them information from the start,” Zola confirmed, placing a series of small metal wirings into Brock’s hand. “We swept the house shortly after word of the raid began. He had bugs planted everywhere. Didn’t take long to weed him out as the culprit once I started looking into his history. He was a ghost before taking this job. He didn’t exist two years ago and that... intrigued me. So I tapped into the security footage records from Quantico and well... seems as though he fooled all of us, sir.”

Brock chuckled, low, humorless as he examined the small listening devices in his hand, pushing them around with his finger until he closed his hand to a fist, crushing the bugs and dropping their broken pieces to the floor. He wiped his hand along his thighs as if ridding dirt from his skin.

“I never took you for a traitor,” Brock sneered, slowly pacing along the room, cracking his knuckles out in front of him, making a show of it as he stretched his hands with every click. “I have to say I’m surprised… and well, a little disappointed. We could have done great things together, Karpov – oh, sorry, Barnes.” Brock chuckled to himself. “You were damn good, too. So eager. So willing to do what needed to get done for the glory of Hydra. What a goddamn shame...”

James just stared up at him, allowing the unkept disdain to rise straight to the surface. Jaw clenched, hands to fists though they were tied at the base of his back, skin red and raw under the cut of ropes. He barely even flinched as Brock barreled a closed fist straight to his left cheekbone.

You gasped, hand clamped over your mouth, tears brimming in your eyes from the terror coursing through you, but James was calm, so impossibly still as he slowly turned back up to face Brock.

“Nothing to say for yourself, Agent?”

James spat a glob of thick, crimson blood to the floor, some of it dripping from his lips to his chin. “Go to hell, asshole.”

“Oh, so he can speak!” Brock laughed, though he jumped back abruptly as James grappled against his bindings, lunging towards him only to be pulled back gruffly by the collar of his shirt. He narrowly clamped his teeth around Brock’s hand. “Fuckin’ hell!”

Brock raised a hand, fist clenched and rings reflecting in the dim lighting of the room, and you quickly turned your head before you saw him take the swing. The sound of knuckles to bone was enough; it warped in your stomach, pushed bile up your throat and clamping your jaw was no longer enough.

The adrenaline was seeping through the cracks, tears burning in your eyes, lump throbbing at your throat. You opened your eyes again to see James swaying unsteady on his knees, held by the front of his shirt by your husband as he punched him again and again while his men stood back and watched, while they laughed.

Blood dripped from James’ lips, sliding down his chin, his neck, pooling at the concrete beneath him. You couldn’t watch this again.

You had to do something.

You had to stop this.

“Brock?”

“I’m a little busy, baby,” he grunted, throwing another hit to James’ cheekbone, reopening the long, jagged wound that had healed in the weeks since the basement. The ring on Brock’s middle finger broke through skin and James cried out, shouting as he hunched over, pressing his cheek to his shoulder to stop the bleeding but it only soaked into his shirt. Pools of red in its wake.

“Brock, just—wait!” you tried again, voice shaken.

“Why? You want a turn?”

Wide eyes bore into his as he paused for a moment, looking back at you earnestly, and – dear God – he was serious. Your gaze flashed to his closed fist, staring at the red coating his broken knuckles and dripping down his wrist.

“We should get out of here,” you gasped, desperately avoiding the panic the quickly surged through James’ face, though he kept himself motionless. “Before his friends find us... we should go.”

Even from the corner of your eye, beyond the blood and swelling on James’ face, you could see the confusion, the horror, as the words left your lips. You knew your husband better than anyone else in this room, so you knew there was no scenario where he would allow James to leave this room alive; not unless his own self-preservation outweighed his need for revenge.

So, you’d stay with Brock, go with him far away from this factory, away from James and his team, to corners of the world you’d never see the other half of your heart again. You’d stand by your husband’s side and keep up this disguise for the rest of your life. You’d wear a dozen different masks, staple a smile to your face, and learn to be content – complicit – again. You’d do anything if it meant James survived this.

“Brock,” you whispered, taking another step forward like you were approaching a feral animal, cautious, calculated movements as not to set it off. You slowly reached out to him, close enough to slowly wrap your hands around his and carefully pull him to your grasp. Gentle, tender movements as you held his gaze, the blood of your lover warm on your palms as you guided away the monster’s fist.

“Let’s go,” you urged. “You and me. We’ll get away from all of this. But we have to leave now.”

There was a stillness in Brock, a slow drawl of his eyes as looked from your intertwined hands to your face; a moment of reprieve, maybe something like relief, and he pursed his lips together to a soft smile.

Then, he released James’ shirt and your whole heart fell crashed to the floor; concrete to his jaw, his arms bound behind his back and unable to catch himself. He groaned, withering against the cold of the ground, trying to push himself back to his knees, trying to catch your eye and beg you to stay, beg you not to leave with the same man you’d been desperate to escape from.

“Okay, baby,” Brock cooed, his free hand sliding up your arm, pulling goosebumps like ice and venom along the way until he cupped the side of your face. You held your breath, allowed him to kiss you, push his tongue into your mouth, and you held back tears, realizing you’d kissed James for the last time. Brock had already swept his touch away from you.

You could feel James’ eyes burning on you, desperate, begging, but you couldn’t look at him. The second you did, you knew you’d lose your resolve completely. You couldn’t allow that to happen.

Protect James; the way he protected you, the way he protected Peter. This was how you save him. Go with your husband. Take the life you were dealt and deal with the consequences.

You were prepared to make that sacrifice. Until –

“Just one thing before we go.”

Brock swiftly yanked a pistol from his waistband and in those seconds, your world seemed to move in slow motion; like limbs underwater, pushing against resistance, like you might be able to reach out and stop it in time if you were only faster than time itself.

The barrel pressed to James’ temple.

The unlatch of the safety followed; deafening, echoing.

There was a burning in your lungs long before you realized you were screaming.

“NO!”

You clamped your hand over your mouth, muffling yourself under trembling hands as time came speeding back up to you.

Brock froze, head slowly turning to you with a hardened expression of disbelief, of fury and fire and rage burning behind his eyes; a flicker of something darker hidden in the flakes of green, a realization, maybe, and you were certain a single look could have killed you.

You quickly dropped your hands and closed them to fists at your side to stop the shaking.

“Do we have a problem here, baby?”

There was venom to his voice. He spat the pet name at you like an insult.

You cleared your throat nervously, trying to find your breath but your eyes flickered to James. There was crimson coating over most of his face, the cold barrel of a gun pressed against his temple, and he was watching you, terrified, but never for himself – no, his fear was for you. His drive to protect you was always stronger than that of his own.

It was something you had in common.

“He’s a—a federal agent,” you tried to reason. “You don’t—you don’t want to give them more to charge you with. You kill one of their own and they’ll hunt you down. They won’t stop until they find you.”

Brock’s stare could have torn right through you, unnerving and cold as ice, like blades to your skin as they drew blood right at your heart. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, he lowered the weapon and you exhaled a heavy sigh of relief.

“Fine,” he shrugged, far too calm for the man you knew. He brushed the barrel of the gun against his thigh, examining it up against the light. It was the calm before the storm and you could sense the lightening long before the thunder when his eyes snapped to you. “Why don’t you do it?”

Before you could take another breath, Brock bounded across the room, grabbed a painful grip of your wrist and yanked you towards him. His grasp cut deep into your bones, would surely leave behind bruising and you watched as the marks of his fingers left discoloration in their wake.

He slammed the gun in your hand, cold metal to the burning heat of your palms, forced your arms out straight, pointed the barrel at James.

“Stop,” you gaped as you tried to push out of his grasp but there was no give on his hold; no release as he caged you, forcing a violent weapon to your hands and aimed at the one man you’d give your life for.

“Go on, baby! Shoot.”

You shook your head, trying to squirm out of his hold but it was like fighting with a wall. “Brock, let me go--”

“You wanted to be part of Hydra, didn’t you? This is Hydra, baby! Welcome to the fun!” Brock shouted, a laugh in his voice, amused, as his fingers dug bruises to your shoulders. “Now... shoot him!”

Your hands were shaking, the barrel of the gun swaying in your grasp. Your eyes caught James and you were shocked to find him calm, waiting patiently on his knees. There was a determination there you didn’t quite expect, a simple kind of realization. His gaze pointed down at his left shoulder before it returned to you.

You furrowed your brow.

“What are you waiting for?” Brock grunted. “No one is coming for him. We’ll dump the body before the feds can find us. No one will miss a fuckin’ narc.”

James was staring at you and you could barely make out the blue of his eyes over the swelling, behind the steady stream of blood on his face. He was breathing heavy, gargled, like there was blood in his throat, too, and God, it was worse than that terrible night in the basement. You choked back a cry, trying to bit it down before your husband could see your tears.

You wanted to scream, to run, to use that goddamn gun on Brock himself, but you wouldn’t get more than a few feet before his men took you down. There was no way out of this. James seemed to know that, too, because there was a slight nod of his head, impossibly subtle that not even Brock seemed to notice. You parted your lips in shock as blue eyes flickered to his shoulder again before returning to you.

The realization hit you like a sucker punch to the gut.

No.

“I’m growing impatient, baby,” Brock groaned, squeezing hard at your shoulders and causing you to recoil under the strain of muscle. “If you don’t take the goddamn shot, I will and I’ll make a damn mess of things; might empty the whole clip and I know how you women are about keeping things clean.”

You shivered as the heat of his breath touched your neck, disgust and rage surging through you and you struggled to find your breath.

James nodded at you again. Your heart thunderous in your chest; it pounded in your ears. You could feel the pulse of it in your temples, through your finger tips and you slowly slid your pointer to rest against the trigger.

“Good girl,” Brock praised, his voice laced in a thick, unrelenting poison.

James held your gaze the entire time and you wished you could have known what was running through his head in that moment, because all you could think about was how scared you felt how terrified you were that this was it, that you’d already used up your time with him.

He nodded again, the curve of his lips so soft you almost missed it. That sweet smile of his, the one that convinced you trust him more than a year earlier, the one that lifted the storm clouds and walls you’d surrounded yourself with, the one that you dreamed about at night. It was small and only an ounce of what you knew it to be, but it was there.

“Shoot him, baby,” Brock urged in your ear, but his voice was distant, muffled, because you kept your focus on James, on the sense of calm on his face, the trust in his eyes.

Brock was miles away when you were with James.

You took a deep breath, and on the exhale, you pulled the trigger.

There was barely anytime to watch as the bullet tore through the fabric of James’ shirt, as the impact nearly knocked him over, as the blood splattered out onto the white walls behind him, dripping down in deep crimson stains. 

Hands shaking violently as the weapon was pulled from your grip, you couldn’t look away as James’ eyes started to lose focus, how they drifted away from your own, and started to flutter, how he could hardly hold his head up.

You barely registered the push of angry hands shoving you to the door, a painful grip on your wrist, bones crackling under the touch as James slumped down to the floor. Your body was not your own as it was dragged on unsteady; a vicious ringing in your ears and a muffled voice shouting at you with malice laced in his tone.

Vision tunneling. Blurry. No – tears in your eyes. You nearly tripped over something on the floor, foot catching on something heavy and it took a moment before you realized it was James’ body Brock dragged you over.

You glanced back in horror, unable to pry Brock’s grip from around your wrist, to find blood pooling around James as he struggled to find his breath. The bare of your feet touched over warm, slippery crimson as Brock shoved you forward; red footprints in your wake.

Brock turned abruptly at the door, swinging you sharply behind him, and fired his weapon in two consecutive shots; ones that were muffled to the ringing in your ears as Kohl and Sanzetti fell to the floor, vagrant stares in their eyes and bullets lodged deep into brain tissue. You barely flinched, your focus solely on James.

He wasn’t moving, his gaze fixing on the wall far beyond you.

The pool of red under him was growing.

“You wanted to go, baby?” Brock sneered, yanking painfully on your hand, his rings cutting into your skin and you felt something pop. “Let’s fucking go!”

Red and blue lights flashed into the building and Brock cursed loudly, dragging you along as he sprinted to the back of the factory. James disappeared from your view and all you were left with were the bloody prints on the bottom of your feet.

The cold air slammed to you like a wall, shivers trembling up your spine, rocks and dirt to the bottom of your feet as Brock led you through the wooded overcast of trees running along the property. It was too dark back where you were, the street lights barely illuminating the front of the factory, let alone the long, winding, dirt path at its rear.

Police cars were parked by the entrance, lights flashing, men and women in uniform with weapons attached to their hips, some in their hands, as they slowly entered the building. You wanted to scream, to beg for help, but you knew the second you did, it would divert their attention to you and they might not reach James in time. You couldn’t allow that to happen.

Branches poked at your sides, scraping your skin and leaving prickles of blood in their wake; stones puncturing at your bare feet, leaves and dirt sticking to the mess of blood drying underneath. You nearly tripped over an exposed root before Brock shoved you up against a tree, hand slamming down over your mouth as a patrol car zoomed by up along the road.

No one saw you.

No one would.

At the end of the tree line was an unmarked car sitting alone in an empty parking lot. Brock pushed out ahead of you, pulling a key ring from his pocket and unlocked the vehicle. You paused, staring at him, wondering why the hell he had a getaway car stash out a mile away from the factory.

“Get in the goddamn car,” he growled, yanking your hand like you were a child and whipping you around the trunk. Your hip slammed to the rear lights and you let out a whimper, though Brock paid it no mind.

He shoved you to the passenger seat, slammed the door behind you. He slid over the engine and dropped in behind the wheel himself. Headlights off, he threw the shift into drive and drove away like it was nothing at all, like there weren’t dozens of policemen and SWAT teams and FBI patrolling the area.

The low vibration of the engine was deafening. Your hands were shaking in your lap so you tried to curl them to fists, nestle them under your thighs, but nothing seemed to make it stop. Dried blood on your feet, ringing still burning in your ears, and you turned your attention to the side of the road, watching the blur of trees out the passenger window.

You tried not to think of James.

Along the way, you must have lost track of time, because you were suddenly pulling into the driveway at the end of your estate. You’d lost nearly twenty minutes just staring out the window, lost within the ringing and the panic in your veins, and you stared up at the home with narrowed eyes.

“What are we doing here?” you asked, turning to Brock suspiciously. “This will be the first place the feds will come looking for you. We should--”

You bit down on your tongue because beside you, Brock was laughing to himself. Chin to his chest, wide smile pushing at his cheeks, like he was genuinely amused. It wasn’t a look you saw on him often. It was... unsettling.

“Brock?”

He looked up at you, crooked smile on his face, as his right hand slowly slid up your arm and nestled along your neck, fingers scratching at your scalp and they interwove into your hair. It was an intimate gesture, a tender one, and you tried to fight against how quickly you tensed up, how your muscles conformed to stone, but you knew he could feel it.

“We should go,” you tried again, voice low, cracking in the effort. Your throat was dry, like sandpaper.

He only smiled back at you, though it didn’t touch his eyes. Something was wrong.

Your heart started to pick up in pace, your breath becoming shallow.

“You can stop pretending, baby. It’s just the two of us now.”

His hand gripped tight to your hair, pulling out strands and a yelp from your lungs, and he slammed your head to the dashboard. Once, twice, until darkness came in and washed you away.

***

You woke to the smell of gasoline.

It burned in your nose, the tang of it bitter on your tongue, pushing down into your lungs with a sharp intake of breath. You started to cough, violent and dry heaves as you tried to find clean air, and that was when you felt the resistance at your wrists.

Vision still tunneled, unforgiving darkness, like you were looking through the thin fabric of a black mask, you found your wrists bound to a single, wooden chair; tied down primitively with electrical wires. You tugged against it, only for it to rub raw into your skin, digging deep into the crevices, pulling a hiss from between your teeth. You tried to push forward but there was a series of wiring wrapped at your chest, holding your shoulders to the back of the chair.

“Welcome back, baby.”

Snapping your eyes abruptly to the sound of the sudden voice, you saw Brock sitting on the corner of the couch, stretched back into the arm rest with a cigar in his hand, legs crossed over one another.

“Guess I knocked you out a bit too hard, huh?” he snickered as he started to light the end of his cigar. “You figure out where we are yet?”

Your head was throbbing, black spots covering most of your vision, but they were slowly fading away. You could make out the soft blue color of the couch he was sitting on, the coffee table with stained rings upon the wood in the shape of old mugs, the greenery hanging by the windows, the colorful bindings of hundreds of novels lining the shelves surrounding you.

A room that had held you safe for so many years. Four walls that shielded you from Hydra’s claim. A place where you could be yourself without fear of repercussions, where you found respite and grew to love a man who now laid in a pool of his own blood miles away.

Your library.

“Ah, there it is,” Brock jeered, taking a long drag from the cigar, his wet, cracked lips circling around the wrapper as he inhaled. He held your eye as you stared at him, wide and stunned, before he removed the cigar and slowly blew the smoke to your face. The thick cloud of grey touched your skin and the bitterness of it stung in your lungs as you tried to cough it away.

“What the hell are you doing, Brock?” you rasped, chest burning from the smoke and the sting of gas in the air. There was a container at his feet, a bucket filled high with thick, dark liquid, and you could see his reflection in.

“Getting justice,” he replied with a shrug.

“Justice?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Are you insane?!”

The mask you’d worn was long cracked and dismembered to pieces at your feet. There was no hiding your distain, no reason to pretend that your relationship was anything other than hostage and captor; certainly not with the wires binding you to a chair and the blinding pulsing in your head from where he’d knocked you out cold.

“Maybe,” he shot back with a sickening grin. He waved the cigar at you, eyes trailing over your body, the hem of your dress riding up high on your thighs in the struggle. He smirked. “I see you’ve decided to drop the act, as well.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you spat, rolling your eyes.

“Ouch. That stings,” Brock whined, hand mockingly clutching at his heart. “Didn’t know you were so unhappy, baby. I gave you the world, didn’t I?”

“You took everything from me, you fucking asshole!” you shouted, voice raw and hoarse. “You forced me from my career, from my friends. You stole my money, my inheritance, my—my freedom! You tricked my sixteen-year-old cousin into a goddamn drug trafficking ring and threatened to beat him within an inch of his life! You kept me locked up in this house for years and tied me to your arm at those miserable fucking parties like I was some accessory you could show off for a few hours before you threw it back to storage! You destroyed my life!”

“Funny,” Brock chuckled, completely unfazed. “I recall you signing the marriage certificate yourself. No gun to your head or anything.”

You shook your head, chest heaving with heavy, painful breaths. “You lied to me. You used me.”

Brock only shrugged, a slight purse of his lips as he tapped the end of the cigar and grey ashes fell to the cushions of your couch.

Your stomach was heavy, lined with stones; your gaze focused on the muddied imprint on the tips of his shoes, the dried blood on the soles of his feet, the same blood that stained your bare skin, where you’d left footprints behind.

James’ blood.

“We could’ve had it all, baby,” Brock sighed, taking another drag from the cigar. He blew the smoke to the ceiling. “You and me. We could have ruled Hydra together. You could have been my queen.”

He paused, a heavy sigh as a cloud of thick, grey smoke passed by his lips. The cigar twirled around his fingers as if manipulated by string.

“But you just had to go and start fucking my hitman, didn’t you?”

It was the full force of a train whipping along the outer curves of a mountain, plummeting you to frozen rapids amongst the free fall. Ice water to your chest, in your veins.

The hardened glare slipped from your features, replaced by widened eyes, parted lips gaping in the shock of it, panic and fear; exactly what your husband wanted from you. He wanted you afraid, trapped. It was how he always wanted you.  

You couldn’t find your breath, much less your voice, so all you could do was watch as Brock pushed himself up from the couch and started to pace along the room. He slid his fingers along the shelves, pulling books by their bindings and watching as they fell to the floor, open pages stepped on by muddied wingtips.

“You know,” he drawled, picking up a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, examining it as he flipped through the pages before he tossed it over his shoulder. You winced as it hit the ground. “I never understood your obsession with this room.  All these old, boring books written by old, boring people; thousands of dollars of my fortune... wasted on fairytales.”

Your stomach was still lodged in your throat, hands gripping painfully at the arms of the chair. Your wrists were raw, red, and there was a burning sensation there, a tingling, and you realized the wires had cut through your skin, dipped in blood. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as the pounding of your heart in your chest, your ears, down to your fingertips and toes.

“You spent so much time in here. Figured it must be something special…. but it’s just another fuckin’ room,” Brock continued, passing by the series of plants hanging by the windows.

In one swift motion, he grabbed a pot hanging from the ceiling and threw it across the room. You flinched, the shock of it forcing several skips in your already racing heart, as it collided against the wall and shattered to the floor; a cloud of dirt circling into the air above it.

Behind you, Brock snickered as he began kicking over the plants behind you, tipping them from their place on the windowsill and dumping them from the shelves. Flowers and greenery amongst the dirt and pieces of broken ceramic, lying on the floor as he dug his heels to the roots, smashed the petals under his wingtips and kicked at the remains.

You could hear the floorboards under his feet whine as he paced behind you but you kept your gaze forward, not daring to turn around. He paused then, a heavy exhale as he turned his attention to the couch, smirking from behind your shoulder.

"You fuck him in here, too?”

You bit on your tongue, tears burning in your eyes you could no longer contain.

“Huh?!” Brock bounded across the room, thunderous steps and he gripped ahold of your shoulders until you yelped, turning away from him as best you could. “You fuck that traitorous son of a bitch in my house?!”

You recoiled as he screamed to your ear, eyes closing shut as tears slipped down over your cheeks. Brock chuckled to himself as he pulled away, pleased by your reaction and he wiped his hands on his thighs, as if to rid you from his touch.

Despite the bindings, you were shaking; hands trembling, breaths labored and uneven, jaw clenched impossibly tight to stop the chattering. You weren’t made for this the way Natasha was, or Sam, or Steve, or James. You weren’t an agent of the FBI. You weren’t trained as an army ranger or learned how to withstand torture the way James did that night in the basement. Brock hadn’t even raised a hand to you and you were in pieces.

You were a literature professor at Columbia. This wasn’t your world.

“I don’t know how long you knew he was a fed but frankly, I couldn’t give a shit at this point.” Brock bit the cigar between his teeth, holding it steady as he knelt down in front of you. His breath was sour, like old smoke and day-old bourbon, and you flinched as his fingers reached up and grabbed a sharp hold of your jaw. “All I know, is that you were in on this somehow. You gave me up. Didn’t take long to figure that out once our buddy James was lying bloody on that floor and you wouldn’t let me kill the bastard myself.”

You swallowed, trying to pull yourself from his grasp, but his fingers dug in further.

“I was surprised at first,” he continued, words garbled from the cigarette nestled at his lips as he ran his free hand through your hair, “but then I remembered how Karpov volunteered to take a beating for that punk ass cousin of yours. I remembered how you reacted that night in the basement, how you begged me to stop and I realized... he did it for you, didn’t he?”

Your blood ran cold. You couldn’t speak.

“It opened my fucking eyes, baby!” Brock shouted right to your ear, causing you to flinch. “All those times he was watching you from the corner of the room? Shit, I thought it was harmless. The guy wanted to fuck you. So what? Half my men get themselves off to the thought of it. But him? No... this was different. That fucking moron actually fell for you... and you know what is so goddamn funny about it all? You fell for him, too, right under my fuckin’ nose.”

Tears were openly sliding down your cheeks, touching onto Brock’s fingers as he held your jawline in place, forcing you to look him in the eye. His stare was of ice, heartless, a vicious envy in the green of his eyes.

A single beat. And then, “imagine how fun it was for me to force you to shoot him.”

“You’re a monster.” It came out broken, harsh and aching. Images of James lying still and bloody on the floor of that factory haunting you as you closed your eyes.

“Yeah?” Brock chuckled humorlessly. “At least I’m not dead.”

Cold, unforgiving eyes stared back at you; seething, red.

And yet it ignited something in you.

“James Barnes,” you started slowly, finding strength in his name as you stared to the eyes of the devil, “is ten times the man you will ever be.”

You waited, watched as Brock’s mouth curved up to a smirk, baring teeth behind dry, cracked lips, and you spat.

He flinched at it landed on his cheek, wet and dripping down his jaw. He started to laugh as he wiped it away, flicking away the saliva to the floor and wiping the rest on his suit pants.

“Was.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

“You mean ‘was,’ as in past tense,” Brock jeered, planting his hands on your forearms, face inches from yours. “James Barnes was ten times the -- blah blah blah. You killed him, baby... or did you forget?”

No.

No, you shot him in the shoulder, right where he told you. You were certain of it. It was a clean shot.

But there was so much blood. There shouldn’t have been so much blood...

God, why was there so much blood?

You weren’t trained like he was. You weren’t an expert marksman like Natasha. You could have missed without realizing it. You could have shot two inches to the right and hit an artery. He could have bled out alone in that room before the cops got to him in time. He couldn’t actually be–

Your heart rate started to pick up, thunderous and burning a lump in your throat. Breathing coming in uneven, rushed, shallow, and you looked up to Brock with wide eyes, only to find him turning his back to you, slowly making his way to the bucket by the couch.

“His friends aren’t coming for you,” he taunted, picking up the container of gasoline and dumping a steady stream onto the couch beside you. You held your breath, trying to turn away from the stench of it, but it was too powerful. Brock only laughed.

“You think that because you were his plaything that they’ll give a shit about you? You’ve been a part of Hydra from the start, baby! You stood in the shadows and watched from your fuckin’ ivory tower! You knew everything that was going on in this house and you kept your mouth shut like the good little girl you are!”

You shook your head, panting because your breaths were coming in faster than you could take in air. “You threatened me! You threatened my family!”

“You were still complicit to hundreds of crimes,” Brock shrugged, dragging the container around the room and spilling puddles of gasoline along the hardwood floors. “You are Hydra, baby, whether you like it or not. You are not worthy of redemption. You are not better than me. You are and always will be Hydra to those feds and they will leave you to BURN!”

There were splinters in your palms from how tight you were holding the edge of the arm rests. Your whole body was rigid, like stone, as you watched Brock douse the shelves filled with priceless books, first editions and cherished copies, with gasoline.

He always held a resentment for this room; the fact that you had a place within the cold, unforgiving nature of this home to feel safe in. It mocked him, infuriated him, that he couldn’t control every ounce of relief and happiness you were allowed in this world. You’d found that for yourself outside of him. In this room. In James. In yourself.

And he was going to set fire to it all.

“Brock,” you choked out, terrified, “wait.”

“I think I’ve waited long enough,” he shot back, tossing the rest of the gas onto the plants behind you, letting it seep along the floorboards. He threw the empty container to the side of the room, against the bookshelves to your left and pulling down several novels along with in. They splashed into the gas, their pages soaking in the fuel.

“Don’t do this,” you begged, voice barely above a whisper, too lost, too broken behind the lump in your throat. You tugged against the bindings, fighting the restraints, until blood dripped down your wrists and stained the hardwood floors beneath you.

Brock winked as he leaned on the door frame, pulling the cigar from between his teeth and blowing out a cloud of smoke. One final drag before he flicked it to the floor, almost in slow motion as it spun and twisted in the air.

It landed amongst the gas, and then, it burst into flames.

[doomonfilm]

Thoughts : What If...? [Disney+, Episodes 1-4] (2021)

As a cinematic experiment, it is truly breathtaking to see what Kevin Feige and Marvel Studios have accomplished with the MCU : unlike previous standalone films and trilogy collections, the MCU has built an overarching and connected continuity that mirrors their comic book origin source, so much so that even the stature of the actors behind the characters takes a backseat to the actual characters when they happen to cross paths throughout the course of different properties.  Outside of Hulk, a bit of Captain America and a bit of Black Panther, however, not many of the heroes I loved on the comic pages have made their presence felt in the MCU at large (though an announcement today about 8 new projects has drastically changed this).

That being said, the first Marvel comic that I gravitated to heavily was the What If...? series, a collection of tales that explore alternate paths and takes on familiar Marvel lore.  One issue in particular caught my attention, the watershed 50th issue exploring a meeting between two seemingly indestructible forces : 

 Needless to say, I was hooked on the concept, and whenever I talk comics with fellow fans, I do my best to make sure it is mentioned.  Imagine my surprise and delight when the MCU announced a slate of upcoming TV shows for the Disney+ streaming network, and one of the main points of interest was an animated take on the What If...? concept.  I thoroughly enjoyed WandaVision, I was impressed by much of Falcon and The Winter Soldier, and Loki had so many levels to it that I will almost certainly be revisiting it within the next month.  With all of that entertainment, however, What If...? was the one I had calendar dates circled for, and four episodes in, I can say that this is another in a long line of wins for the MCU.

EPISODE THOUGHTS

Episode 01 : "What If... Captain Carter Were the First Avenger?" This episode was a perfect introductory point in regard to bringing the animated series to life.  Even the casual MCU fan is aware of two things : the Captain America origin story and the unrequited romance between Steve Rogers and Peggy Carter.  The fact that a deviation as slight as Peggy Carter choosing to stay on the ground level rather than retreat to the observational deck of the operating theater could balloon out into such bold changes is instantly iconic : Captain Carter is a revelation in terms of her dignity, strength and good-natured force of will, and Steve Rogers gets to stay hilariously skinny while simultaneously Howard Stark gets to usurp his son’s creative genius, ultimately leading to the Hydra-Stomper.  Fate and predetermination make their first appearance in the series, as the stories of Red Skull and Zola follow mostly familiar narrative trajectories, while the inevitability of whomever dons the Captain mantle missing out on nearly a century also finds a way to persist in the face of drastic change.

Episode 02 : "What If... T'Challa Became a Star-Lord?" If Captain Carter is an example of what can be done in the What If...? series with a story we are readily familiar with, then the second episode shows how far an abstract idea can be taken, with the idea in this case being the well-adjusted T’Challa being kidnapped by Yondu and eventually becoming Star-Lord rather than the recently traumatized Peter Quill.  The changes made in this episode are bold and broad, which is not only a testament to the power of T’Challa as a character, but also a testament to the positive energy that Chadwick Boseman brought to the character via his performance.  Seeing The Collector and Thanos in such drastically different lights has been a major highlight of the series, and Nebula’s blonde look is one that I could definitely get used to.  Of all the stories presented thus far, this is the one with the most dramatic range and scope of humanitarian possibilities, though it is all dashed (in theory) by the seed that is planted in the form of Ego getting his hands on Peter Quill absent of his Star-Lord experience.

Episode 03 : "What If... the World Lost Its Mightiest Heroes?" For fans of mystery, the third episode of What If...? will speak to them in volumes.  The infamous span of time that was Nick Fury’s Big Week is turned completely on its head when each of his Avengers candidates falls one by one to a mysterious and deadly threat.  The attention to detail that is the callbacks to classic MCU film moments is stunning in its application, and it really adds a power-packed punch to the unfathomable deaths we are presented with (including a Hulk death that is likely to traumatize young viewers for years to come).  The answer to the mystery may seem obvious in hindsight, but then, that’s the power of a good mystery... it took me up until Black Widow’s death to actually hazard a guess as to what was going on, and lucky for me, I guessed mostly correctly.  The additional story beat of having an unchecked Loki assume authoritative power over Midgard is a wonderful cherry on top of a bittersweet sundae.

Episode 04 : "What If... Doctor Strange Lost His Heart Instead of His Hands?" This is the episode that I was waiting for, and as a staunch MCU Doctor Strange fan, I am happy to say that it did not disappoint.  In a very casual manner, Doctor Strange steps into some extremely dark arts, and the result is a story as visually appealing as it is tragic on a base human level.  Watching a fully capable Stephen Strange assume the role that he was apparently always destined to assume is awe-inspiring, and watching his journey for knowledge and God-like power parallel the 5 Stages of Grief is a devastatingly beautiful subtle addition to the narrative arc.  The hint that Strange is aware of The Watcher is bit of Chekov’s Gun implementation that is almost certainly set to explode in a later episode, as the awareness of The Watcher in one individual implies a degree of separation from awareness of the entire mess of cosmic threads that he observes.  Strange’s battle with himself is a powerful one, and the ending is one of the most ominous and dark that I can recollect in the history of the MCU.

THOUGHTS ON THE SHOW

I am dying to see how these seemingly standalone stories are meant to tie-in to the MCU at large, and Phase Four in particular.  Rumors are abound that a live-action Captain Carter could be on the horizon, and while these stories may or may not be direct lines that will be revisited, the trailers do make it seem that they will at least tie-in to one another at some point of extreme chaos.  I am still unsure of how an animated series will directly connect to live-action supposed counterparts, but I am certainly open to the idea, and based on the Feige and company track record, I would put my money on them pulling this off in what feels like a seamless manner.

The What If...? series is full of unique characters, not to mention unique takes on familiar characters.

Uatu The Watcher makes a formal appearance outside of Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 (and even then, I don’t think Uatu in particular was one of The Watchers that was shown), and allowing an actor like Jeffrey Wright to embody him allows him the sense of calm and collective observation that makes his presence as ominous as it is curious.  I am not completely clear yet on whether Uatu chooses not to act upon the events he sees, or alternatively, if there is a greater force that restricts him from involving himself in matters, but what is clear is his omnipresent sense of morality, even if he is far from judgement-free.  The visual integration of Uatu into the background of different sequences not only serves as a reminder on the point of view we as viewers are supposed to take, but it also is a reminder of how keen an eye for detail (not to mention the quality of artistic expression) the Marvel Studios production team weilds.

Captain Carter may not be the most popular creation from the What If...? series, but she is by far the breakout star of the series.  For all of the unwilling leadership stances that Steve Rogers took as Captain America, it feels like we have a ready, willing and capable leader in the form of Captain Carter that will, even in a modern day capacity, likely be marginalized simply because she is a woman.  Her Union Jack suit formation makes me wonder if there will ever be a Captain Britain in the MCU, but if Peggy Carter stands as the unofficial version, this is an alteration that I consider an upgrade and can get behind.  Hopefully, the What If...? series finds a way to continue stories, because I need to know more about how Captain Carter will fit into the plans of Nick Fury, S.H.I.E.L.D. and The Avengers. 

T’Challa the Star-Lord is a sight for sore eyes, especially in light of Chadwick Boseman’s untimely and tragic passing at the height of his stardom.  Luckily for us, Boseman was reportedly one of the first to sign on for What If...?, and after just one performance, I know that what he has left us with will leave a very lasting impression.  It is interesting to see a level-headed leader like T’Challa not only bring a sense of dignity to Yondu, but watching the fallout of a universe-saving logical debate that has turned Thanos into a faithful companion rather than a genocidal maniac with delusions of grandeur may be one of the biggest alterations in the What If...? universe.  I would also love to see a version of The Collector in a film at some point that mirrors the one in this story, as Benecio del Toro would absolutely kill that role.

While seeing Hank Pym in a vengeful capacity may not have been the jaw-dropping surprise to hardened MCU fans that it probably was to the casual fan, seeing him serve as a vengeful angel in the Yellowjacket armor is a subtle but deeply effective touch.  While seeing Nick Fury’s Big Week turned on its head is a fascinating idea, the untold purpose of this episode felt like it was to show us just how powerful Hank Pym could be if he sets his stubborn and unchanging mind to accomplish a task.  The analysis circles have untangled many threads of possibility that spiral far out of the range of what we are shown, such as the fact that Hope Van Dyne was likely shot and killed by Bucky when she replaced Natasha in the mention that ultimately left Natasha with a bullet wound and the person she was protecting without a life, and it is small touches like this that make the What If...? story enjoyable on a level that far exceeds the boundaries of the stories we witness.  Seeing Loki’s vision of conquering Midgard come to fruition was a twist that I did not expect, but in light of Thor’s absence (not to mention the other dead Avengers, including a God-smashing Hulk), it makes complete sense.

Doctor Strange Supreme took the What If...? series to a place that I did not expect it to go, especially during the inaugural season or within the first four episodes.  The love between Stephen Strange and Christine Palmer has always been present in the MCU, but in Strange’s handful of appearances there is rarely time to discuss her, as he is usually dealing with apocalyptic or cosmic threats.  This story forces Strange to not only face his love for Dr. Palmer head-on, but it does so in the form of a fixed-point tragedy where no amount of love or power can change the inevitable.  Of all the moments we have witnessed in the What If...? series so far, watching Dr. Palmer wake up to the monster that Supreme Strange has become hit me the hardest, as it serves the purpose of being an extremely palatable warning about what we become when we attempt to exceed the limits set before us without the greater good in mind.  The use of red Chaos Magic and purple Dark Magic among Strange’s standard orange Eldrich Magic (if I’m remembering my magic color code correctly) is a very subtle inclusion that shows just how far Strange has gone in order to achieve his goal.

Howard the Duck only makes a brief appearance, and of course it is centered around a conversation with T’Challa, who could seemingly have a conversation with most any being in the Marvel galaxy that isn’t set on instant destruction.  In all honesty, there isn’t much to dig in to with Howard (unless I’m overlooking an obvious Easter egg), but it is nice to see one of my favorite Marvel creations find a small area for himself in the world of the MCU.  Hopefully this will not be the last we see of him.

With five more episodes left on the docket, I am very excited to see not only where this show goes, but if it can stick the landing.  While watching the Heavy Spoilers YouTube recap of the Doctor Strange episode, I heard speculation on the return of a character in a bizarre capacity that has me dying to see if it is true or not, and believe me, if this comes to fruition I will write about it to great length.  I am not sure how I will approach the future episodes, but this initial run of the first part of the season has been strong enough to carry the series, short of a monumental set of failures over the next five weeks.

[dukereviewsmovies]

Duke Reviews: Avengers Endgame

Hello, I'm Andrew Leduc And Welcome To Duke Reviews Where Today We Are Continuing Our Look At The Marvel Cinematic Universe...

And Today We Are Looking At The Big One...Yep, We're Finally Here...Avengers Endgame...

This Film Sees The Grave Course Of Events Set In Motion By Thanos That Wiped Out Half Of The World And Fractured The Avengers And Guardians Of The Galaxy's Ranks Compels The Remaining Members To Take One Final Stand...

Will They Succeed?

Let's Find Out As We Watch Avengers Endgame...

The Film Starts On The Barton Family Farm As We See Clint Barton Still Under House Arrest, Training His Daughter, Lila To Maybe Become The Next Hawkeye...

Yeah Right, We Know That Kate Bishop Is Most Likely Going To Be In The Disney + Series...

While His 2 Sons Play A Game Of Catch And His Wife Velma Dinkley Prepares A Picnic But As He Talks To His Wife For A Second Barton Turns Back To Not Only Find His Daughter Gone But His Wife And Some Too As They're Now Casualties Of The Snap Heard Around The World...

3 Weeks Later On Board The Benatar, Tony And Nebula Start To Run Out Of Supplies On The Ship, So He Uses His Iron Man Helmet To Chronicle Their Final Days With The Hope It'll Be Found By Pepper...

However As Tony Goes To Sleep, They Are Saved By Captain Marvel Who Takes Them Back To Earth...

Reunited With Pepper And The Other Avengers, Steve Asks If He Knows Where Thanos Is Only To Erupt Into A Furious Rant Where He Mentions Thanos And Their Civil War Fight Before He Faints...

And Thank God For That, As Anymore Out Of Tony's Mouth And I Would Have Punched Him...

Locating Thanos On An Uninhabited Planet With Help From Nebula, They Discover That While He Has The Gauntlet The Stones Are Missing, Which Leads Him To Explain That They Would Have Been Nothing But A Temptation If He Had Kept Them So, After Serving Their Purpose He Had Them Destroyed...

They Believe Him To Be Lying At First But If There's One Thing Nebula Knows Her Father To Be It's Not A Liar, So Thor Decapitates Him...

Five Years Later, Earth's Remaining Population Attempts To Persevere Against Such Catastrophic Losses But Things Start To Change When Scott Lang Is Released From The Quantum Realm, Disoriented And Confused About What Has Happened...

Visiting A Wall With All The Names Of The People Who Vanished To See If His Daughter's Name Is Among It, Thankfully It Isn't, So Racing To His Ex's House, Scott Discovers That Cassie Has Aged From A Child To A Teenager...

Trying To Make Cassie Stinger A Little Fast There, Marvel?...

Arriving At The Avengers Facility Where He Talks With Cap And Widow, He Explains That He Experienced Five Hours And Not Five Years While Also Talking To Them About The Quantum Realm And How It Could Allow Time Travel...

The Three Visit Tony At His Lakeside Home Where He Lives Now With His Wife Pepper And His Daughter, Morgan Where They Ask Him To Help Them Retrieve The Stones From The Past In An Attempt To Reverse What Thanos Did, But Tony Refuses, Worrying About What Will Happen With His New Life If He Does...

So They Turn To Banner Who During Those Five Years Has Restarted His Research Into Gamma Radiation And Used It To Morph His Body To Have The Appearance And Strength Of The Hulk While Retaining The Intelligence And Control Of Banner Digivolving Into Professor Hulk!

But As For The Quantum Realm, Banner Says That Quantum Physics Is Outside Of His Area Of Expertise But He Agrees To Help Them Try..

Meanwhile At His Lakeside Home, Tony Does Dishes Only To Discover A Photo Of Peter Parker Which Makes Him Change His Mind And Look Into Time Travel And It Turns Out It Is Possible...

Returning To The Avengers Facility The Next Day, Tony Tells Steve That He's Agreeing On The Condition That In Trying To Reverse What Thanos Did It Won't Reset What Has Happened Since Then As He Doesn't Want To Lose His Daughter With Cap Agreeing The 2 Men Set Their Differences Aside And Get To Work...

Banner And Rocket Fly To New Asgard In Norway Which Is Home To The Asgardians That Are Left Including Valkyrie And Korg And Miek Who Survived...

But As For Thor (Who Has Put On A Considerable Amount Of Weight, Become An Alcoholic And Spending Most Of His Time Playing Fortnite)...

I Always Saw Thor As An Overwatch Guy But If That's His Game, Hey I'm For It!...

He Gets Upset At The Mention Of Thanos' Name To The Point That He Wont Go With Banner But When Rocket Mentions Beer, He's In...

Meanwhile In Tokyo...

Barton Who Now Goes By Ronin, Attacks A Group Of Yakuza Only To Be Confronted By Widow Who Wants To Bring Him In, But Wanting Nothing To Do With The Plan At First Barton Eventually Changes His Mind And Goes With Her...

Back At The Avengers Facility, Banner And Stark Complete Construction Of Their Own Quantum Tunnel And Advanced Tech Suits As The Team Prepares For Test Runs With Barton As The Test Subject...

And It Works, Barton Is Sent Back To A Time On His Farm Before The Snap Which Leads Them Into The Next Phase: Determining The Location Of Each Infinity Stone In The Past Which Proves To Be A Problem As They Only Have A Small Supply Of Pym Particles To Do So...

Deciding To Go After The Time, Mind And Space Stones During The Battle Of New York, The Reality Stone On Asgard With Jane Foster, The Power Stone On Morag With Star Lord And The Soul Stone On Vormir...

Their Destinations And Teams Are Set With Tony, Cap, Banner And Scott Going To The Battle Of New York, Nebula And Rhodey Going To Morag, Barton And Widow Going To Vormir And Thor And Rocket Going To Asgard...

Starting With Team 1 With Stark, Cap, Banner And Scott, Banner Visits The Sanctum Sanctorum Where He Meets The Ancient One Who Doesn't Want To Give Him The Stone At First But After Hearing That Strange Gave Thanos The Stone, She Gives It To Banner Realizing That It Must Have Been For A Reason...

Infiltrating Stark Tower In The Aftermath Of The Battle Of New York, Lang Plants Himself Onto The 2012 Tony Stark As Him And The Other 2012 Avengers Head Downstairs Only To Be Confronted By Alexander Pierce Who Wants The Tesseract And Loki...

But Scott Causes A Distraction By Sending 2012 Tony Into Cardiac Arrest Which Leads Our Tony Stark To Get The Tesseract But When 2012 Hulk Bursts In, Past Loki Manages To Get The Tesseract Which He Uses To Escape To His Disney + Series...

But As All That Happens, Cap Manages To Get The Loki's Scepter From Brock Rumlow And Jasper Sitwell Only To Be Confronted By 2012 Cap Who Believes He's Loki...

(Start At 0:16, End At 1:48)

Regrouping With Cap, Tony And Lang Tell Him That They Screwed Up But Tony Realizes That He Knows A Place Where He Can Not Only Get The Tesseract But Pym Particles Too, So Giving Scott The Scepter, Tony And Cap Travel To Camp Lehigh In 1970...

Arriving In 1970, We Get Our Last...Stan Lee Cameo..

Stan Lee Cameo!

A Moment Of Silence For A Great Man...

Splitting Up, Tony Gets The Tesseract In The Place Where Cap And Widow Found Arnim Zola In Winter Solider But While Down There He Runs Into His Father, Howard Who Is Looking For Arnim While Also Talking About The Birth Of His Son Which Is Expected Next Month...

While Talking With Howard, Tony Sees His Father In A Whole New Light And Now Understands What He Went Through Being A Father Himself Now But As Tony Makes Up With His Father, Cap Distracts A Young Hank Pym So He Can Get The Pym Particles Necessary To Return...

So With Everything In Hand Tony And Cap Leave 1970, Which Takes Us To Asgard With Thor And Rocket But As Rocket Gets The Reality Stone, Thor Runs Into His Mom, Frigga, Who Realizes That He's From The Future...

Attempting To Tell Her About Her Soon To Be Coming Death At The Hands Of Malekith, Frigga Doesn't Want To Listen Insisting That Thor Fix His Future Rather Than Hers, So With Rocket Having The Reality Stone In Hand, Thor Reclaims Mijolnir Before Saying Goodbye To His Mom And Leaving...

Now On Morag, Romanoff And Clint Use The Benatar To Fly To Vormir To Get The Soul Stone While Nebula And Rhodey Knock Out Star Lord In A Scene That Ruins One Of The Best Scenes In The Original Guardians Movie...

Thanks Alot Russo Brothers...

And They Get The Power Stone And Rhodey Returns To The Present However, Nebula Becomes Incapacitated When Her Cybernetic Implants Link With Her 2014 Self, Allowing The Thanos Of That Time To Learn About His Future Successes And The Avengers Attempt To Thwart It...

Determined To Rebuild The Universe So No One Will Remember What He Has Done, Thanos Replaces Present Day Nebula With 2014 Nebula As Barton And Widow Arrive On Vormir And Learn The Price That Must Be Paid Which Leads Them To Fight Over Who Will Make The Sacrifice...

Eventually It's Widow That Sacrifices Her Life For The Soul Stone...

Well, I Guess That Black Widow Movie's Not Happening...

O.....Kay...

With Everyone Reuniting In The Present They Are All Saddened At The Loss Of Black Widow But They Realize That They Must Not Let Her Sacrifice Be In Vain And Continue Their Plan...

Creating A Nano Gauntlet To Harness The Stones They All Have A Debate Over Who Will Unsnap Everything But Eventually It's Banner That Does It Because Of His Physical Form And His Relationship With Gamma Radiation...

But Despite Unsnapping Everything, 2014 Nebula Activities The Quantum Tunnel And Brings 2014 Thanos' Ship Into The Future Where It Blows Everything To Kingdom Come...

Yeah, They May As Well Have Done That...

Convincing 2014 Gamora To Help Her, Present Nebula And Her Kill 2014 Nebula After She Refuses To Help Them...

Ok, I Know They Made Their Own Time Travel Rules Here But Seriously, With 2014 Nebula Dead, Future Nebula Should Be Dead As Well...

With The Avengers Separated, With Thor, Tony And Cap Being Up Top So They Decide To Attack Thanos On Their Own But Thanos Outmatches Them And Summons His Army From His Warship, But Luckily They Have An Army Too...

Shortly After That, Captain Marvel Arrives On The Scene And Destroys Thanos' Warship, But Thanos Overpowers Her And Gets The Gauntlet...

And So, With Thanos Defeated, Tony Is Weakened By The Raw Power Of The Stones Before Succumbing To His Injuries After Being Comforted By Pepper...

After Tony's Funeral, Thor Appoints Valkyrie As The New Ruler Of New Asgard As He Joins The Guardians Of The Galaxy...

Only To Not Appear In Guardians Vol.3 But His Only Movie Which Chris Hemsworth Is Only Doing To Wrap Up The Character...

And Cap Returns The Infinity Stones And Mijolnir Back To Their Original Timelines Only To Decide To Stay In The Past With Peggy Carter While Back In The Present An Old Cap Passes On His Shield To Sam Wilson To Tie Into That Disney + Series As Our Film Ends...

While There's No Mid Credits Or End Credits Scene, That Was Avengers Endgame And What Can I Say About It?..

Despite Everyone Being Divided On It, I Absolutely Enjoyed It, The Story Was Interesting, The Characters Were Well Written, I Thought Thanos Was Equally Good Here As He Was In Infinity War. However, Some Of The Time Travel Logistics Kinda Had Me Questioning Things Still Though I Say See It...

Next Week We Finish Our Look At The Marvel Cinematic Universe By Looking At Spider-Man Far From Home, Till Then, This Is Duke, Signing Off...

[tillerman1]

TORMENT [to the word] pt.3

PIPPI : See me VET to of calls myself Pippi. That is a good name. I vet teachers who have considerably uglier names…

Sandman becomes brutally snatched from their studies.

PIPPI : Horn Sandman, strike back the Greek. Sit don't and read in the next hour's lesson on my lesson and believe above all not that I am so senile that I don't see him.

Pippi goes down to class from the chair, takes out a paper -

PIPPI : This here essay-made contains two real splendor-flowers. The one is Grönstrand papa till.

Grönstrand's pimpled, sad face -

PIPPI : He writes: The nomadic Lapp population stays ne'er long in a sure place.

Merriment in the class. Pippi laughs with -

PIPPI : Sandman is one indecent man and rolls to among gangster and bad women in the free the subject in a mixture of Maupassant and Zola. He writes… But what is it with Mr. Widgren…

Jan-Erik is right sweaty in the face and presents all sign of high-degree nausea -

JAN - ERIK (gets forward): Mayst I get go home.

Pippi will forward till it –

PIPPI : Yes, certainly! How is the injury?[?] Dear someone then. Is he very sick?

Jan-Erik travels himself and goes out from some room. Closes the door.

JAN - ERIK : Refusal then, I feel badly only. Jan-Erik goes along one long far corridor. He disappears longer and longer away. At the end of the corridor falls it down faint.

Dad, mother Widgren cum the doc comes just out of Jan-Erik's room.

THE FATHER : I can really not comprehend how HE can be overworked. He has not worked so particularly much over last time.

The doctor. He picks up smoke and kindles -

THE DOCTOR : The school… the school. Nah. There occur well other than school. Or be that not that, the bureau director?

THE FATHER : How means the doctor?

DOKTORN : Yes, no naught particularly. It can incidentally very well be the school. Blue tap is not only the road to corrupt health.

The three casts themselves down. The doctor prepares himself to take up his darling subject –

THE DOCTOR : One boy came till I for he wet in bed over the night. He had become hard when death-frightened by his history teacher… Is man doctor mayst man view a strange downside of the school. Scrawny and overgrown individuals, slanted and squint, spindly, malnourished, overworked. Sunken chest, weary-leewards eyes, anemia cum till and of distorted sex.

The small doctor gets all eager. He rises upward from the chair and wanders around -

THE DOCTOR : But is it so strange actually(.)[?] Think of the school buildings(,)[;] I mean the old venerable and traditional learning plants. Old dirt holes. And the syllabi. Is it wise and sensible to keep a young human fast on its tail from bell eight on mornings till four in the afternoon and THEN homework(.)[?] The courses will more expensive and more expensive and the teachers will special - and compartment-idiots, so would the boys learn themselves all as required became the queue on some asylum.

The father has vainly tried (to) insert a word here and there -

THE DOCTOR : But so stupid are they not, the adolescents. No, they do as good they can of till help of miscellaneous thief- and rack-game, which they consider last fully justified from the viewpoint that the school's control system is as it is. For to not talk about the penal system.

That youth is as resilient as they are attributes I a surely developed lazy mask.

The agency director gets now an awl in the weather and exclaims, slightly indignant –

THE FATHER : The doctor considers thus that cheating and truancy cum other fraud is fully justified.

THE DOCTOR : No(,) take me seventeen if I consider so. Yet self says I ashamed on old the school that spreading out carpets over the shortcuts as called cheating and truancy.

The doctor initiates go to out in the hall for that take on to coat, but the agency director want doesn't drop the threads –

THE FATHER : Young people should learn themselves know hut. [note: "know hut" means manners]

THE DOCTOR : Think just the same. But I allow I doubt to current methods. Both coddling and raw drawing. It should seventeen be pedagogue. Incidentally round the older and younger generation would something smaller death-terrified for each other think me it would be considerably better.

The doctor shakes suddenly cum preoccupied, pressing hand with the parents –

THE DOCTOR : Treat hand of the boy something now. And let one lie one day in quiet and tranquility. He looks me out as one such there as wants solve the world's mystery with more. Awful hotly - and windy. Yes!

He nods yet one time. Out.

Jan-Eriks face. He lies with closed eyes. He stirs himself restless, mumbles something.

The door opens cum Caligula comes in.

He stays quietly inside the door.

Jan-Erik travels himself with stretched hands as one blind. He looks frightened out. He stares at Caligula.

Caligula walks quietly closer and puts himself on the chair at the bed.

Jan-Erik penetrates himself up against the wall. Shakes on the head. Caligula opens mouth, puts the stylus on Jan-Erik's neck cum says calmly -

CALIGULA : Abelativus absolutus. ["A relative absolute"]

Jan-Erik sinks together in senseless fear.

In through the door comes Bertha. She goes forward till the bed.

BERTHA : You hold so much of me. Do you not. I am so scared, dear! You may never go from me, never. Help us. Help me only. (she whispers)

Jan-Erik stretches arms towards her. Screams, but it becomes like a whisper -

JAN - ERIK : Bertha! Bertha!! BERTHA !!!

Caligula bends himself down over Jan-Erik.

CALIGULA : I must kill you[,] Mr. Widgren. You are too ignorant of the dead languages. But that death should you can become more which home ...

Caligula raises the stylus and directs that against Jan-Erik's eye. Bertha appears in one horror distorted position.

A splitter-sounding of glass shards in thousands.

Jan-Erik wakes, TERRIBLE sweaty, excited cum says something that really not hear till the sake –

JAN - ERIK : Bertha… BERTHA!

Home at Bertha.

A hand that puts down a glass of cognac. Bertha sitter the crawl up on her couch in morning rock. She stares at the man middle opposite her. It is dead quiet in some room.

She looks as hypnotized ahead herself. And follows the history mimic -

CALIGULA : Yes, you have guessed right the right. I am much afraid. Air brain, where the sitter one small white burning stain thinking out disgusting cases and I will (be) ever (most) afraid myself. So when I turned on the power switch for that scare you…

The low toneless, absolutely indifferent voice ends.

Some cognac glass.

A hand, deformed by a large scar, takes it and hands it to Bertha -

CALIGULA : Should you none have some cognac.

Bertha takes towards the outstretched glass, which rattles against her teeth.

She drinks from it.

The hands.

Tempo furioso.

They touch to incessantly, violently speaking, pantomime.

CALIGULA: I have known death's fear one time in my life. It was a cat… funny! I have always liked if cats. Outside a house sat a large cat and sunbathed himself. I went forward till it. Talked kindly to it. It stroked to against me and span. I bent myself down and stroked it along the back.

Per even bit it me in one hand. They slog like that knot in it. It settled all twenty claws in my hand. Hanged itself fast on it. Drilled in the teeth to it. It became with even so big…

Bertha's face. She is disgusted, fascinated -

CALIGULA: I set aside never my panic fear. I think I screamed. Vet you what I did… I stopped down the cat and the hand and the arm in a water barrel that stood there. The cat had locked itself in cramp.

It drowned only released not the grip… a doctor got cut loss it.

See, I have the mark yet… See… see how I look outward.

Bertha crawls together.

BERTHA: No… I want not.

But against her want looks it at the battered hand that stretched towards her.

Caligula travels to, goes forward to the bed cum holding her if shoulder cum twists her against it.

CALIGULA: So should Man be… Bite the fast. Don't drop bite. Bite don't I so bite you, therefore bites me first…

The street outside the Widgrenska house. Bertha stands across opposite the sidewalk. It is morning. From the port comes Jan-Erik. It blows violently.

He walks up the street pretty fast as would it late. Bertha hurries to after him.

She time in cap him cum both stays. Bertha is profoundly upset but trying (to) master herself. –

BERTHA: Forgive me, that I will so here.

JAN-ERIK: For all share.

BERTHA: I must get speak to you.

JAN-ERIK: It can go for himself.

He begins to go quickly. Bertha half-jumps wide at him.

BERTHA: You get not speak to me as if you would angry with me.

JAN-ERIK: I am angry with you. And I want nothing throw to do with you. Got remember there. And try to understand that too.

He walks from her.

Bertha stands left and looks after him. Then turns she herself round, but at like moment popping Caligula up as from the ground.

Caligula walks straight past her without that take any that especially notice of her. At the close of the street disappear it around a corner.

Caligula has time upward Jan-Erik. He walks in width with him. Jan-Erik greet something clumsy when he discovers who it is -

JAN-ERIK: Hello.

CALIGULA: Good morning Widgren.

It sounds unusually convivial.

Caligula has also brought a convivial facial wrinkle -

CALIGULA: How feels it presently then? You became the ...

JAN-ERIK: Thank great.

It becomes silent. But Caligula looks don't out to want end the conversation.

New street.

They have not said anything for a while. So –

CALIGULA: Well, you know the girl in the tobacco affair. Very surely perchance?

JAN-ERIK: No.

He looks searching on Caligula.

CALIGULA: Not (at) all?

JAN-ERIK: Some.

Quiet again.

CALIGULA: Is she one real fine girl intrinsically?

Jan-Erik looks out like if he tried recalling himself something –

JAN-ERIK: That vet I don't. How so?

CALIGULA: Jäh (gesture). (pause) There are only some but left now. Let me see: sex till you shall up. (pause) Sad with the round heat. The tar one must watch us all. And the wind. (short pause). To the hold on so here all the time troth.

Jan-Erik tiger.[? possibly "Jan-Erik remains quiet"] The wind howls and river in with a huge lady cloud just round the corner.

Home in Jan-Erik in his austere small study chamber. The window stands open. But now is the quiet against before the permanent whistling. The curtain hangs slack. There is a thick cloud wall over the house opposite. It is evening.

Jan-Erik at the desk with the Latin grammar spread out in front of him. Jan-Erik at some desktop with the Latin grammar open before himself. He writes on a paper: VOLO, NOLO, MALO, CUPIO, JUBEO, STUDEO. {FLY, REFUSE, WISH, INCLINE, JUDGE, STUDENT.}

He is sweaty in the face and takes the paper knife and cools the forehead.

Then he gets up and goes to the water carafe, pours up water. Drinks. Then comes he and takes his hat, throws it again.

He walks front till the bed, puts himself on it. Drills in the knuckles against the eyes. Sitting so one while. Traveling to so again.

He walks a stroke over some floor. So treats it cap again. He takes up his got comb and smooths till hair before the mirror. He looks led and disgusted out.

A deserted street in a strangely surreal evening lighting. Some people hurry forward along the house walls.

A long[,] narrow, narrow street, as before. Jan-Erik comes walking fast.

Bertha's house.

He goes in through the port.

He knocks on the door. Nobody answers.

When recalling it to the key and begins forage for it in the pockets. Finds it. Puts it in the lock and uncaps.

As it is overcast obscures it right strong inside of the hall. He walks through it in on some room.

He stops. Almost naked is Bertha in a funny position on the bed with the knees hunched under the chin. In the twilight looks her sleeping outward. The room looks out as plain as when as on magical shadows up to the ceiling, figures and glare in a flask and wash glass, the street lamp's indirect light.

Jan-Erik walks some steps over some floor. He looks out like if he figured leave her in peace to sleep intoxication off herself. Somewhat misguided.

Now seems it that Bertha's right arm, one she is on, sticks out like a bowsprit with sprawling fingers.

Jan-Erik walks slowly forward to the bed. He stands some moment right still. So takes he her quickly with that only the shoulder. But he pulls flash-quickly back the hands again. Bertha overturns on even down for back. The head comes to hang outside the bed edge, dangling. She is dead.

Jan-Erik screams over, uncontrolled cum backs back some steps. Pushes over a chair. Standing as still again, staring at the dead. Among the silence includes sudden a slight scraping sound. Then becomes that quiet again.

Jan-Erik looks himself around. Then runs it out into the kitchenette. Nothing.

Through the room again out into the hall. There is it dark. Looks himself around. May see something. Under the coat hanger among coats, frocks cum other appears a human being has hidden one.

Jan-Erik goes back and drags away the clothes. He gets off to a half shout.

There, hidden among the clothes, sitter Caligula, white in the face, sweaty, disheveled without glasses. He stares with despair's horror at Jan-Erik and whispers again unto again similar thing like a parrot -

CALIGULA: I have not done it … I have not done it … I have not done it … Self promises, promises …

Jan-Erik grips of panic and rushes from there, get after some difficulty up the first door. Outside brights the stairway light. He runs only his way and forgetful's close the door after one.

So hears Caligulas voice low, whispering -

CALIGULA: He reports me … he reports me.

He travels to from his corner and goes in at the room. Strides forth till the telephone. Stares at Bertha, crossbars the zero: the police.

CALIGULA: The police.

Ambulance and police car at rapid howling trip through streets.

The cars stop outside Bertha's house. From all corners, from all keep coming the folk that sets themselves to stare.

Caligula is himself in the open door, near the cops coming up the stairs –

CALIGULA: I have not done it … I have not done it.

The police station.

Caligula. He is violently frantic. The commissar tries to calm him –

CALIGULA: I have not done it …I have not …

THE COMMISSAR: The lecturer may be kind to calm himself something now. I can none release you before the doctor has rung and confirmed the death's cause.

CALIGULA: Well, that is why not wise… I am why no criminal. Think you that I am that?

The commissar walks around the table forward till Caligula, taking him on the shoulders cum push down it in a chair.

THE COMMISSAR: Sit presently here and calm you. It is why only a pro forma thing.

CALIGULA: I have why never done a fly for when… I am so scared…

Caligula shoots out the head at the commissar (as against Jan-Erik) -

CALIGULA: I've been sick… you must not scare me like this. I get not… the doctor has said.

THE COMMISSAR: You can get lay you a while in of my room and try sleep.

It for in Caligula in his small room where there actually only is one bed with some blankets.

THE COMMISSAR: Lay you now and try and slept as announces us as soon the doctor's statement has arrived.

Caligula allows himself lays. Pulling the blanket up over his ears, turning towards the wall.

Drag the blanket up over some ears, turns himself towards the wall. He looks most insignificant and scared out. Sometimes jerks it till as in a sob or as if he froze.

Jan-Erik walks forth and back of his room. Forth and back. He puts to correct up and down on a chair and stares straight front himself -

JAN-ERIK: Bertha … poor … little …

Some mortuary.

Bertha covered just over and whisked away on a wagon. The doctor takes off himself the rubber gloves, talking to his assistant –

THE DOCTOR: She must have mismanaged herself awfully. Don't understand me what man can drink death herself, but it has she indeed done.

Offers colleague a cigarette. Both go towards the exit.

Them takes their coats.

THE ASSISTANT: Yes, it was the heart, weak before. Well … (gesture)

THE DOCTOR: So malnutrition and other more. Speaking, ring for seventeen the police, so the dissolute lecturer get go home and sleep…

The lecturer is as before with the face against the wall –

[This section was edited out of the film]

{CALIGULA'S VOICE (low): I must gather hop myself. I must become it I was … previously, before …

Caligula tries exclude memory –

CALIGULA: No, don't think about it. I must try bring discipline and order … discipline and order … I must find me myself (loud) Oh[,] devils' devils, why calling them not. Discipline and order, discipline and order.

The door opens, the commissioner sticks in the head, Caligula travels to terror at the elbow.

CALIGULA: What is it[,] commissioner?

THE COMMISSAR: The here lady …

CALIGULA: Yes, yes, she MAY well come in.

THE COMMISSAR: Get well that.

In comes presently aunt Elisabet. Mild, mild.

AUNT ELISABET: It was right that you called for me. I am so glad for that… My little boy.

She sets herself quietly on a chair. Caligula sits up. The sitter altogether silent either two. Aunt Elisabet takes his hand, caresses it –

AUNT ELISABET: I am not angry at you[,] my boy. … You will see we get it probably so good. We should stay together again… like before. Not alone. Not now anymore. Dear small boy.

Caligula's glasses-loose face.

Suddenly puts Caligula ones face in aunt Elizabet's lap. He moans himself low, pressed. But he cries doesn't.

CALIGULA: Assistance me! Assistance me. Why to everything be so this. I want the only be at peace…

AUNT ELISABET: And thou should live in small some room inside the hall, self to come in till you in the evenings and sit with you and talk. Everything should be as it was before.

Caligula boosts the head and looks at her and takes over her hands -

CALIGULA: Yes. Everything must be as it was before!

In same now calling it on the telephone at the expedition. Caligula sits himself up and stares at the door. Under the time heard the commissar's voice –

THE COMMISSAR: Yes… yes… no. Yes. Then releases we him well then… Well… Geez yes. Thanks cum good night.

The door goes up cum the commissar comes in. Caligula has rest himself and is up.}

THE COMMISSAR: Well, you can get going now, lecturer. That was well nice.

Caligula answers not. He takes forward one comb and combs himself carefully, silent.

Then takes it on oneself their glasses. Then straightens it on the tie and jacket. Travels without a word out in the expedition, takes on to cap and coat. Aunt Elisabet stands still and follows him with glances, tense.

He turns to measured till the commissar –

THE COMMISSAR: Goodbye then[,] lecturer, and forgive that we each had to do that here.

He stands silent a moment, then takes he the commissar's stretched hand, bows measured,

CALIGULA: Goodbye constable.

{She extends her hand after him and calls –

AUNT ELISABET (screams): Go none!

But the door slams again.

The principal looks indescribably concerned outward and stares after Caligula, then he turns and wanders out through the rector's expedition's door.

He takes the telephone and rings –}

THE RECTOR: Want Larsson last kind and retrieve Jan-Erik Widgren.

Jan-Erik Widgren comes in and stands before the rector, tired to the rupture limit.

The rector is diffuse, consequently that he thinks it all is unpleasant –

THE RECTOR: Yes, Widgren, this is a boring story there here. Your Latin teacher has been and talked with me just. I have noted his accusations, and you get freely say what you consider last justified and less justified in this here. Sit, sit[,] Widgren.

Widgren sits it. He looks out through the window, seems quite apathetic for that which proceeds.

The rector bends himself over some paper –

THE RECTOR: One morning meet your schoolfellow you together with one girl who called Bertha Olsson, she works in the tobacco affair here middle received. Then he knew that the girl none had the best reputation, sooner was ... hm ... so up searching he her for that ask her hand you, do final with you and preface her the wrong unto to have a relationship with a schoolboy.

Jan-Erik has gradually become more and more concerned from the story. Now harks it very attentively. He starts get angry –

THE RECTOR: She laughed out him, swore at him cum bar to over home taken badly at, sat and drank cognac.

Suddenly takes her to for heart and falls dead down.

The rector makes a short pause. He looks over the glasses at Jan-Erik, who none says something.

THE RECTOR: Just after, before he yet has recovered himself from the shock, comes you and opens with, after what he says, own key. You may see the dead girl and rush from there down to have accused him that have murdered her ... Yes, it was in brevity what the whole went out on.

It becomes silent the moment. Jan-Erik stands that paralyzed. The rector's fingers drum against some board.

JAN-ERIK: Believes the rector himself in all that there?

He rectifies himself. Staring at the papers.

THE RECTOR: I believe nothing. One wants say …

Jan-Erik attempts suppurate as calm and objective as possible –

JAN-ERIK: Yes, yes, that is true. I have been together with a girl, who perhaps not was so particularly decent.

The rector has rest himself and walks past Jan-Erik. Stops.

THE RECTOR: This fact plus your cheat is for attendant probably for that get you relegated. Understand you-all that?

JAN-ERIK: I vet that and self gives the cat in it.

The rector walks up till Smith, down to right front it –

THE RECTOR: But it is not only that, that is the question about. I would know if the others are true also. I mean… themselves some course.

JAN-ERIK: Well, the principal is not sure about it.

THE RECTOR: I'm praying that you answer off MY question and don't make any private reflections.

Jan-Erik.

He puts his hands on the back, bends himself something forward.

JAN-ERIK: I would be grateful if the principal repeated the question to the person who fabricated the accusation.

The rector barking just lit his cigar. Takes down it again, shakes of the head –

THE RECTOR: That want I don't (pause). It can I not (pause). Well, I SHOULD do it.

They fix each other a moment, then goes the rector till the telephone.

The rector and Jan-Erik stand with faces towards the door. Quiet a moment. Then knocks the two light blows.

THE RECTOR: Path in.

There delays some, then opens the door. Caligula enters. He is quiet and still. He smiles something, hardly noticeable. Not one muscle pipe to in his face.

The rector observes him tense, silent.

Jan-Erik also.

The rector again. He speaks in one icy cold business-like tone as allows understand his antipathy against the latin lector –

THE RECTOR: I would know if your accusation against Widgren is till all points oaths-terms truthful. He has sting us put that the question to you in his presence.

Caligula. He looks some moment first on the rector, then on Jan-Erik. Then comes it quickly –

CALIGULA: That should I have for provocation to lie.

The rector looks hastily down at their paper. He rancid himself uncomfortably affected. He had apparently not expected himself one such response.

Caligula again.

He stands still left at the door, something shy and faint-hearted. Quiet.

CALIGULA: My tasks mayst admittedly none checked, it is true. Certainly, certainly. But is it likely… For where would I have other than purely pedagogical motives to get Widgren separate from school.

The rector shrugs of the shoulders and looks something perplexed at Widgren. He should just come up talk –

THE RECTOR: Well… can we not try done out it for Widgren...

Then breaks Jan-Erik from him. It comes as one full explosion -

JAN-ERIK: Pedagogical motives…

The rector react terrified –

JAN-ERIK: … You took life from her.

Jan-Erik is furious, suddenly and without height, completely desperate –

JAN-ERIK (points): You! Scared death her, tormented life from her, drank her full, tormented, tormented her, as you plaguing me and all other you will at.

Jan-Erik stands presently right against Caligula.

CALIGULA: I protest against that …

Jan-Erik turns himself from the rector –

JAN-ERIK: You have scared till death. And if I'm to relegated so should he there expelled hundred times more, for what he made…. Your old man-wretch… And …

There knocks suddenly on the door. Without that awaiting answer sticking Pippi in the head and comes after a moment in whole and cohesive – –

PIPPI: Sorry to I bother, but …

The rector, he is irritated –

THE RECTOR: Want the lecturer anything?

Pippi is also confused, but it labeled to him that he would stay so gladly as he wants to live –

PIPPI: Refusal not precisely.

THE RECTOR: Then maybe you would wait out there some moment.

PIPPI: Well me …

THE RECTOR: Would you volition be kind and do it.

PIPPI: Shall well do it then.

Pippi turns the visible sad and walks out through the door.

When Pippi has gone out, beat the rector the fist on the table –

THE RECTOR: Now get we do end on this here. Widgren goes out and waits out where tills I'm stating till. [sic]

Caligula stands silent and pale. The twitching in corners as till one laugh.

Jan-Erik stands silent one moment, so walks it against the door, past Caligula, tight past. He stays at the door, turns to round, stares at Caligula. Caligula takes together hands and drags in the long fingers, so at forefinger. Staring past Jan-Erik. Jan-Erik becomes suddenly furious and beats Caligula middle in the face.

Suddenly throws to Jan-Erik over him, grabs him about the neck with your left hand, penetrates him up against the wall cum before the rector, who rushed forward, can prevent it bestows it him four hard fist punches in the face. Then release it him and stands like an idiot and stares. Caligula has failed down on a sofa, stunned.

The rector shakes Jan-Erik, angry -

THE RECTOR: Your young jubilation-idiot. Presently can I why not clear you. Your general ass. Shucks.

Jan-Erik makes himself free from the rector and goes out of the expedition. Closes the door.

The rector takes no notice of Caligula as seated and dries sin nose. He goes forth till his desk and puts to. Tired.

THE RECTOR: I wonder who as is the most guilty of gentlemen.

Caligula looks up indignantly –

CALIGULA: What MEAN you?

Their glances meet. Caligula bites to in the lip –

THE RECTOR: We come that forced till one justice murder, lecturer. The can well not avoids. For I can well not get you to hold in with your notification?

Caligula looks up. Then travels it to and walks towards the door.

CALIGULA: No.

Walks a bit, turns to round -

CALIGULA: To the may you-all me not!

[{added in film}THE RECTOR: Will you have it on your concience that you ruined the boy's future?]

Out through the door.

Jan-Erik goes over the schoolyard.

Some of his comrades come past him, half-running -

GRÖNSTRAND: Hurry up boy, we should away and try tangles. [sic]

JAN-ERIK: I need probably no tangle.

Far away in the school courtyard behind Widgren comes Pippi heady. He is breathless and excited. He shouts on the run –

PIPPI: Widgren! Widgren! Widgren!.

But Jan-Erik hears him not.

Bureau director Widgren dries his sweaty forehead. Through some hall's window lit the sun in red and mercilessly.

At the table stands Jan-Erik, he has head lowered and stares at the table's disc, drums with the fingers.

At the door stands the mother. She looks pale and sorry outward. She holds fast in a stool –

THE MOTHER: So have you not come till us the boy mine. Why have you not spoken about …

JAN-ERIK: Well … How …

He can not say something more. He is for {too} upset.

The father. He stops. He speaks calm and low-key –

THE FATHER: Expelled. Yes… it is as mother says. So have you not narrated.

JAN-ERIK: What would I have narrated?

The mother and the father look at each other. None are in stand to say anything.

The father. He puts himself on an uncomfortable, upright stool. Dries himself again in the face with a handkerchief.

THE FATHER: No… we needed well this here, mother and I, for we were so exorbitantly dumb and conceited. We thought… it makes the same incidentally.

Jan-Erik wreaks in with one certain irascibility. –

JAN-ERIK: Father can gladly say what Father means. You thought you would get exist proud over me… not true?

The father looks up. Then jerks it on the shoulders and beats out with the hands –

THE FATHER: We can not drive down us in the here now. Done is done. We must try to get through it, mother and I.

Jan-Erik breaks off. His voice has suddenly changed. He is mocking –

JAN-ERIK: You-all must surely TRY it well.

The father turns himself towards him. Lightning fast –

THE FATHER: What is this for the tone?

JAN-ERIK: It is YOU and YOU and you. YOU who are offended, and YOU who is betrayed cum YOU who will get through it. What! But what I have been with about, it gives you blank damn.

THE MOTHER: Jan-Erik!!

Jan-Erik walks towards the door –

JAN-ERIK: But I'm giving the cat in you and your sufferings. You touch myself don't, for you have never bothered you for me. I will not stay here. As avoid you see me and ashamed.

The father travels to up. Relatively quiet.

THE FATHER: Hear you, you are all very big in the gull, you.

JAN-ERIK: So, father believes me not …

Jan-Erik pushes away the mother and rushes out through the door, which he slams again after itself hard.

The mother looks at the father a moment –

THE MOTHER: That you could …

She rushes after Jan-Erik out in the hall. He holds just on to take on to the coat, fumbles.

THE MOTHER: No, you must not go. You must not.

She hangs itself fast at his arm. He tries (to) get loss her –

THE MOTHER: Go none beloved boy[;] (...) all must become good again. Go none. You must not go… No, no…

Jan-Erik lucks do to free and comes out through the door.

The schoolyard.

It rains awfully. Lightning and thunder. For the plan before the scholastic port has a big hop people collected under umbrellas and in doorways.

A row with leaved crates as stands middle in the rain looks poor and ruffled out. So also balloons and another.

On a window in the school glimpses the graduates. They stare down at the crowd.

In one doorway, something hidden, account Jan-Erik. He is but greatcoat and hat cum he sees strangely uneasy out. So looks it up. The old ice guard that opens the windows. He leans himself out, waves with the hands cum calls -

ICE GUARD: All clear.

Jan-Erik's face. He is immobile. Looks right out –

Cheering.

Murmurs.

Thunderbolt.

Some teacher-room.

In two rows stands them: Till right teachers, till left the students with the hats in hand. In the center rector. It mumbles and talks some until all are gathered. Then clear is himself the rector –

The rector.

He is somewhat solemn, only understands still to take it as easy as possible –

THE RECTOR: Yes, boys. So is it here the tide of your life past and you-all going out at life for that test on what it has to give.

New thunderclap. The boxes rattle. All turns of the head.

THE RECTOR: I would say, to you then should do you old school honors. Attempt to see on her as she is. A strict run-mother, a demanding mentor, perhaps not always equitable, perhaps not ever such she should be. But one has she as I dare go in good for. One aboveboard sincere will to fashion you.

New appalling crash, which pulls attention till itself.

The rector hurries himself to complete his speech, where he marks that none hear unto him. –

THE RECTOR: I said one honest, candid will to fashion you till good, sufficient, useful society creatures. My earnest hope is it that she might have succeeded in its large and responsible task.

The rector silences cum the becomes silent some moment. Then begins all to speak low-key -

THE RECTOR: Yes, then is the only to say goodbye. We old school chestnuts wish you all happiness and welfare, this vet you, so it requires me why none say …

So walks the students around and says goodbye and thanks.

Caligula stands smiling, warmed by the solemn atmosphere. He takes all in hand.

CALIGULA: Goodbye! Happiness till. Goodbye, happiness till, Goodbye, happiness till, Goodbye, happiness till … happiness till. Goodbye.

Some clapping it in the back.

Sandman comes forward for that speak goodbye. He stares Caligula correct in of his enlarged eyes, takes not his stretched hand –

SANDMAN (low): Swine.

The huge stairwell.

The students gather quickly outside the teacher's room door. Through the windows illuminates the lightning and the rain spurts. The thunder thunders and echoes in the stairs.

Then sets the boy horde itself in motion and plunges under wild howls performed the stairs.

A second staircase is among yet violent-mare momentum.

The large courtyard's port fought up. The rain stands right in like a curtain. The boys clamps fast their white hats cum so runs they or roars, overwhelming rain, hail cum thunder in it the falls to out in the rain, straight down for last the stairs.

THE STUDENTS: Sing about the student's happy day …

The sounds disappear in a general cheer. The group captures up and decomposes in the rushing human mass …

In a window visible Caligula.

He has taken coat and hat at himself(,) [;] he polishes its glasses. He smiles, laughs, extends himself out through the window, waves.

Jan-Erik stands down at the port and looks at him.

Walks then alone over the schoolyard. The rain pours down.

Some cemetery chapel.

It is afternoon and the rains none longer. Middle of the small chapel is one coffin without flowers, black and simple.

THE PRIEST: Amen.

He nods at the only present at the funeral, pallbearers.

They go front till the coffin and conforms up it in their ropes and carry it slowly out.

Outside stands Jan-Erik and Sandman, somewhat embarrassed. They follow after the coffin.

Open grave.

The Undertaker has just begun to shovel back it. He works silently and persevering. One small bit from therein stands Jan-Erik and Sandman.

They face and start going. First silent.

SANDMAN: What should you now do?

JAN-ERIK: I vet not… is not as I would wise… must think.

SANDMAN: You are desperate, boy. Speak if for me.

JAN-ERIK: Nah.

They have come to Bertha's house.

JAN-ERIK: Servant then.

SANDMAN: Think you dwell here ... in Berthas ...

JAN-ERIK: Each should I otherwise dwell.

They account silence one moment as they always do when they shall separate –

JAN-ERIK: It was decent of you that you went with. (unfavourable) It was so bad about her. And you understand I ... I... yes...

Sandman ensures calmly on the friend.

So nods he little –

SANDMAN: Yes particular. I understand.

JAN-ERIK: Do thou it.

SANDMAN: Yes, you remember that there about Nietzsche and Strindberg, one where some dirt man talked about ladies and such there.

Jan-Erik nods –

SANDMAN: Oh... I believe not on it longer. You understand man has become... Hm.

Sudden gets it self-conscious. [sic] Change topic -

SANDMAN: Can you not follow cum me.[sic] Give seventeen for that dwell there alone.

JAN-ERIK: No... I would be at peace. Servant.

SANDMAN: Servant.

They bear some instant silence. So go they. Sandman along the sidewalk and Jan-Erik up the staircase.

Jan-Erik comes in at Bertha's apartment. It is dusk now. He closes the door after him, which he locked up with his key.

The street lamp draws figures on the roof inside with space. Jan-Erik goes across over it. He throws off to coat. Taking one felt, puts oneself in a chair cum drags one other chair till himself for the feet. Then takes it out a cigarette that he kindles.

He sits and smokes, tired, thoughtful. So butts it the cigarette and creeps together on the chairs, so good it goes. He tries to sleep.

Of even calling it on the door. Jan-Erik sits himself up.

It appears he is scared.

It calls one time till. He travels himself and paws out in the hall in darkness.

He stands at the door. Indecisive. Now rings it again.

Then opens it and in the door stands the rector. He draws of himself against the staircase's light.

THE RECTOR: Is it Widgren.

JAN-ERIK: Yes.

The rector rising on –

THE RECTOR: Have you something against to me steps unto so here.

JAN-ERIK: No.

The rector goes in of the room. He goes forward in middle –

THE RECTOR: Mayst we possibly get some light in here.

Jan-Erik goes silent forward and kindles the table lamp. The room shows to be in similar condition as at the discovery.

The rector pretends whether nothing. He puts himself in a chair. Allows Widgren stand where he stands –

THE RECTOR: Self have willed speak with you earlier. So rang me Sandman and said that you were here and then thought I that was [an] idea to go here.

Jan-Erik quiets. He stands still left middle of the flooring.

THE RECTOR: You thought didn't of the school you. What? Or rather, you found you didn't till correct there. Or how? Yes, yes, I can well understand that. Will man after some then must man enough admit that it is a rather strange school form we have.

Jan-Erik turns to towards the rector –

JAN-ERIK: What want the rector me? Think the rector that it helps with that the rector speaks ill of the school.

The rector laughs something. He is very still and very wise –

THE RECTOR: What I want… That shall I tell you. I would how you should go home left, till your parents like worries themselves till death for you.

JAN-ERIK: JUDGMENT!

The rector takes up the boy's tone –

THE RECTOR: Yes, JUDGMENT well. (pause) So I want to try to help you if I do can in some way. So want try attempt forward you if I mayst in some way.

JAN-ERIK: There is nobody who can help me.

THE RECTOR: No, not with your own settlement, for the get you as all others stand out of right alone. But looks you, there is one other thing well that must clear out, which I somehow feel me co-responsible over.

JJan-Erik has sat it. He seems calmer now.

JAN-ERIK: So, that should it be.

THE RECTOR: Yes, you have suddenly struck you out watch society. You are about sorts desperado as like a rocket rushes straight at hell. As strange it songs is it your school's fault. That want I try recompense.

The relegation goes not to prevent cum thou grows perhaps sued. But I pledge that I shall try minister you in any way. I must try hinder din rocket fart(,)[;] I must try may in you bland the people again. Förstår du mig pojken min.

The rector's usual ton cars for much for Jan-Erik. He travels to and goes forward to the windows –

THE RECTOR: Wants you promise me now to come home to me in morning, so we get spoken at again, on something soberer …

JAN-ERIK: Yes, yes, go only.

THE RECTOR: And promise me to not do some nonsense …

The rector has residual to and gone forward and stands behind Jan-Erik –

JAN-ERIK: Shucks.

THE RECTOR: Well then so. Here have thou funds such you can stay in a hotel at night. And try to sleep properly.

The principal puts money on the table. Then claps he Jan-Erik something in the back –

THE RECTOR: Days go, that one after the other. So gradually mayst you perhaps see in this here as something that doesn't do evil - but that maybe was useful... Sees you, I think that there is a meaning to everything that happens, also if it may look strange outward for our eyes. Goodbye to you.

The rector gives him yet one clap, hands him his handkerchief, which he takes, turns cum goes.

Jan-Erik stands at the window quite still some good while, then walks it around in some room when driven by a furious concern.

Suddenly stopping it center of the flooring. He can not master to further without sinking together weeping. He lies on some floor the same crouched and crying over-given.

He has pressed forearms against the face in one ridiculous, distorted position.

Jan-Erik lies still left on the flooring, but the crying has silenced. He rolls over on chine, adds hands under the head cum stares at the roof. Cords.

Now departing it to, stands and looks himself about. Somewhere beats a clock three blows.

He goes front till the boards and takes the rector's handkerchief cum sobs himself. Then extinguishers it the lamp on some board. A faint gray light at some room. He takes the money, drags down the curtain cum goes towards the door.

Near he arrived till the door stops he and turns himself back. Thereafter goes it out.

Through the hall goes he, opens the door and disappears out through the hall door.

On the stairs is it dark. Only with a small reflex light from the stairway windows. Jan-Erik gropes after the light and kindles. Shall just more further when he suddenly turns himself back.

On the staircase above. By the wall stands Caligula. They stand and look at each second under silence. Jan-Erik is no longer afraid(,)[;]; he is quiet and downright mastered.

Now roars Caligula across himself. He walks slowly down for steps and forwards towards Jan-Erik, who calmly stands remain.

Now stand them middle opposite each other. Caligula opens his mouth as if to say something, only keeps silent again.

JAN-ERIK: That does you here. – – You maybe would go in? Hurry, here is the key.

Caligula keeps silent.

Jan-Erik hands him the key.

JAN-ERIK: Where so good – – –

Caligula takes it doesn't.

CALIGULA: The rector was here –

JAN-ERIK: Yes.

CALIGULA: What said he?

JAN-ERIK: We spoke not about you.

CALIGULA: What said he? I understand that he said something something - - - about me - -

Jan-Erik shaking on the head –

CALIGULA: I meant ne'er that it would be so here, Widgren.

Jan-Erik thinking walk.

CALIGULA: No, stay and hear across me. I meant it not – – – I have been sick. I (are)[am] still sick as I can none help it! You understand well that I none did it with sense and will.

Caligula goes and puts himself on a step, that if he were completely exhausted –

CALIGULA: I have no I – – –

He laughs short unexpectedly –

CALIGULA: four walls, ceiling, bookshelf, bed, desk - cleaning bitch, schoolboys, waitresses. The available none who wants regard at me - no single person – – –

JAN-ERIK: Get I go now?

CALIGULA: The available none as want know for me –

The last screaming he forth desperate –

CALIGULA: All only laughing at me and runs from me. They are scared for me also – – –

Jan-Erik goes from him down (for) [to] the stairs.

CALIGULA: – – but it is nevertheless I that is most fearful – – –

The voice (is) heard through the stairs. Short has the stairway light burned out.

Steve gropes himself downwards, all the time, audible Caligula clamour –

CALIGULA: – – – alight the light – alight the light – Widgren, you may not go from me – – alight – – alight – –

The last comes as elongated lowing.

Jan-Erik has time outside the port, which he slams again behind it. Thus heard no longer Caligula's voice.

Jan-Erik stands a moment with the back supported against the port and breathes out. Then goes it out on the street. It is morning and bright lighting over the rooftops. A scavenger sweeps along the street. The refuse-horse going slowly and sleeping beside. A little newspaper-old-woman hurries till her work with her large, empty bag.

Afterword by Jan Holmberg

Ingmar Bergman engaged from SF as »assistant director and screenwriter« the 16 January 1943, till to start with for a year forward. Under one farther hospital- and convalescent period winter 1942–43 had he written the manuscript to TORMENT and SF bought it in July 1943 within the framework for some contract with Bergman. Simultaneously gave company him in commission to at some points further develop it.

The recording, at which Ingmar Bergman participated as combined assistant director and script boy, took place in two periods. The first included the film's interiors and stretched to between 21 February and 31 March 1944. The later PERIODS, under which the exterior scenes played in, included about ten days under latter the half of May 1944. It was under these exterior scenes that Ingmar Bergman made his actual film direction debut. Bergman in PICTURES:

Near the film was almost pre-recorded made self my debut which film director. TORMENT ended intrinsically about to all taking the student exam except Alf Kjellin as goes out one rear way in the rain. Caligula stands and waves in some window. All opined that this ending pus for dark. I got writing till a scene in the dead girl's apartment where the school's rector tells Kjellin to correct cum Caligula as afraid loser howling in the stairs below. Themselves one final scene shows Kjellin in the morning light. He walks towards the awakening city. These last exteriors had me order to film, as Sjöberg had other assignments. They were my first professional pictures. I was crazy with excitement. The small film squad threatened to go home. I screamed and cursed so that people woke and looked out through their windows. The clock was four in the morning.

Later in the career would Bergman again come to work with both Alf Sjöberg and Stig Järrel (Caligula). Sjöberg directed Twelve years later FINAL PAIR OUT after Bergmans script. Järrel unto his lucky played Satan in THE DEVIL'S EYE and was including a small role in THE LUST YARD.

TORMENT gave rise to an intense press debate. Aftonbladet {The Evening Blade} published one interjection of rector Henning L Håkanson at Palmgrenska samskolan {Palm-border swim-school}, where Ingmar Bergman [had?] been scholastic (the statement as referred in subsequent citation did Bergman for Aftonbladet the day after the premiere for TORMENT, 3 October 1944):

Mr. Bergman's statement, how all his school time was one hell, surprises me. I remember clearly, how both he, his brother cum his Father were much satisfied with the school. After his one student exam[sic??] has also[sic?] Ingmar Bergman revealed himself at the school at our Yulefest, glad and enjoying and of[sic?] all that doom without any feeling of resentment[sic?] whether to[sic?] towards the school or against its teachers. The sake is probably till in a different way. The good Ingmar was one problem barn, idle but pretty gifted, and that one such type not easy arranges to in a daily orderly study walking, is natural. About such school may not be adapted for dreamy (suit) bohemian without for normal found working people.

A scanty week later replied Bergman:

Firstly was it so »the 12-year-old's hell« (rugged expression incidentally. Not used by me but by one who interviewed me. I would recollect that I said "heck", and there is inequality there). Yes! I was a very lazy boy and very afraid why that I was lazy, because how I fussed with playhouse theatre of instead for of school and because how I loathed to fitting times, rise upward in the mornings, reading homework, seated still, carrying maps, having halftones, writing projections, chewing interrogation, short told and without frills: I abhorred school that principle, that system cum establishment.[sic] I have thus definitely not liked comma at my own school without all schools. My school was[,] as I distinctly observed in the unfortunate interview[,] from what I understand[,] neither better nor worse than other establishments for equal purpose.

My revered principal typing also (probably so sharply): "A school may not be adapted for dreaming bohemians[,] but for typically found working people." Where should the poor bohemians take the road[?] "Shall the pupil material be divided: you are [a?] bohemian, you are [a] working person, you are [a] bohemian, etc. Avoid bohemians".

There are teachers [a] man never forgets. Oldsters [a] man liked and oldsters [a] man hated. My revered rector belonged and belongs still (in my case) to the last category. I have also a feeling of that my beloved rector not has seen the film yet.[sic] We should perhaps go and see it together!

[thehandmaidstalehulu]

Margaret Atwood’s rule for herself when writing “The Handmaid’s Tale” was that everything had to be based on some real-world antecedent. And she was able to combine disparate historical events in plausible — and horrific — ways.

Hulu’s TV adaptation of her novel does the same; even when the show expands the world established in the novel and adds scenes that weren’t in the original material, they “could have been, because they have precedents,” Atwood said in a phone interview. Ahead of the Season 1 finale on Wednesday, Atwood explained the historical basis of the book and the show’s most disconcerting elements.

Episode 1: Color-Coordinated Clothing

The women of Gilead all wear clothing and colors prescribed by their status in this society: red for handmaids, blue for wives, green for Marthas, brown for aunts. “Organizing people according to what they’re wearing — who should wear what and when, who has to cover up what — is a very, very, very, very old human vocation,” Atwood said. It dates back to the first known legal code, the Code of Hammurabi, one part of which stated that “only aristocratic ladies were allowed to wear veils,” she added.

“If you were caught wearing a veil, and if you were in fact a slave, the penalty was execution,” Atwood continued. “It meant that you were pretending to be someone that you were not.”

The handmaid’s garb comes from a variety of sources (mid-Victorian bonnets and veils, nun wimples). Atwood’s trip to Afghanistan in 1978 — where she wore a chador — was also an influence. “They weren’t imposing it on everybody, at that point,” she said. “They did later.” All of these codes of attire — including the Third Reich’s yellow stars for Jews and pink triangles for gays — were ways of “identifying people, controlling people,” she said. “It’s easy to see at once who this person is.” The handmaid’s assigned color, red, was used by Canada for its prisoners of war, Atwood added, “who had the privilege to wear because it shows up so very well in the snow.”

The red is also borrowed from Christian iconography of the late-medieval, early Renaissance period, she said, in which “the Virgin Mary would inevitably wear blue or blue-green, and Mary Magdalene would inevitably wear red.”

Episode 1: Mob Justice

Gilead likes its ceremonies, and it has one to punish political enemies or disruptive elements that also acts as a release for the otherwise tightly controlled handmaids. The women stand in a circle and collectively participate in an execution, in some cases by tearing the accused apart with their bare hands. In the novel, it is called a “particicution,” a portmanteau of the words participation and execution. “When the mob takes over, no one person is responsible,” Atwood said. And this kind of frenzied murder party has a very old precedent, she added, citing “the Dionysian revels of ancient Greece,” in which Maenads tore apart sacrificial victims for the god Dionysus.

The mob will sometimes demand justice. “During the French Revolution, Princesse de Lamballe was torn apart and had her head put on a pike, which was paraded under the window of Marie Antoinette,” Atwood said. “And in Émile Zola’s novel ‘Germinal,’ which is based on real-life 19th century coal-mining enterprises, the guy who runs the company store is exacting sex from the wives and daughters of the coal miners in order to sell them goods because they didn’t have any money. So when the women get the chance, they tear him apart, and put not his head but his genitalia on a pike, and parade it around.”

Episode 2: Forced Childbearing

We get an early peek at how ends justify means in Gilead when Janine gives birth and can’t accept the reality that she will not get to keep the child. “There are a lot of utopias and dystopias based on economics, but this is one that goes to the absolute root, which is how many people are you going to have?” Atwood said. “And how are you going to get them? In some cultures, you don’t have to make special laws about it. But in other cultures, you have to bring in oppression to get the results that you want.”

Tyrants and dictators like Adolf Hitler and Nicolae Ceausescu have often dictated the terms of fertility and criminalized those who did not comply. “It’s no accident that Napoleon banned abortion,” Atwood said. “He said exactly why he wanted offspring — for cannon fodder. Lovely!”

An added wrinkle, of course, is that the handmaids aren’t just being forced to give birth, they’re being forced to be surrogates, and the children they bear are then forcibly taken from them and placed with high-ranking officials. After a military junta took power in Argentina in 1976, as many as 500 young children and newborns were “disappeared,” only to be adopted by military and police couples. Hundreds of thousands of children of indigenous populations in Canada and Australia were separated from their families. “It must have been public in that it wasn’t a secret, but it also wasn’t known at the time,” Atwood said. “Nobody registered that this was happening. And it was probably presented like, ‘Oh, we’re giving these children a wonderful opportunity. We’re sending them to school.’ You see how that could sound?”

Episode 4: Declaring Women Barren

It’s not initially questioned in the show why women would be used to solve the fertility woes of the period — until Offred visits a doctor who offers to help her out. Turns out, the Republic of Gilead has never considered the other half of the equation: men.

“There’s some confusion about this, because here you have Aunt Lydia saying it’s the wives who are barren,” Atwood said. “And for centuries and centuries, that’s what people thought. They thought it was the woman’s fault.” King Henry VIII kept changing wives (and the state religion), Atwood noted, adding: “That’s why Anne Boleyn knew she was doomed when she had that miscarriage. The idea was that the child was fully formed inside the seed of the man, and his seed was simply planted in the woman, the way you’d plant a seed in a field.”

A book titled “Eve’s Seed: Biology, the Sexes, and the Course of History” by Robert S. McElvaine is illuminating on this front, she said. “You said a piece of land was barren, you said a woman was barren. You said a piece of land was fertile, you said a woman was fertile.”

In the show, the doctor knows otherwise. As does Serena Joy when she decides that Offred should use Nick. “That’s one of the things Anne Boleyn was accused of — having sex with her brother in order to produce a child,” Atwood said.

Episode 5: Why Ofglen Does What She Does

Ofglen has very few options once the resistance can no longer make use of her, and she opts for a last, desperate act of resistance, taking out a few guards with a stolen vehicle. It’s a departure from the book, but Atwood said she approved. “Do you remember the Buddhist monk who set himself on fire?” she asked. “José Martí, during the war with the Spanish, went into battle knowing he wouldn’t come out,” she continued, referring to the Cuban revolutionary who died in the Cuban War of Independence. “I think people do these things because otherwise they’ve been totally defeated. They know it’s not going to work in the present moment, but down the line, they are an example to others.”

Episode 6: The Mexican Ambassador

“The Hulu team made their Offred more active than my Offred,” Atwood said. “Partly because it’s a television series, and partly because it’s an American television series.” Offred would never have been able to stand up for herself or ask for help from a foreign emissary in the novel. The Mexican trade delegation visit doesn’t happen in the book. There is a scene in the novel in which Offred encounters some Japanese tourists, who she assumes are trade delegates, but she can’t honestly answer their pointed question, “Are you happy?” In the show, however, Offred speaks up to Ambassador Castillo when she has the opportunity — and she finds a way to get a note out to the outside world.

Atwood said ambassadors of neutral countries have often acted as conduits. In World War II, an Italian journalist named Curzio Malaparte reported from the Eastern Front, and he found a way to get out the news of what the Germans were really up to. “He was keeping these papers sewn into his coat and in the soles of his shoes and he smuggled them out through the diplomats of neutral countries,” Atwood said. “You have to trust people a lot to do that!”

Episode 8: The Black Market Club

Offred reunites with Moira at Jezebel’s, a brothel where powerful men go to conduct business and indulge in illicit sex and other escapades. It’s also a thriving black market for commoners and, more to the point, the Mayday resistance. Atwood said she was rereading a book by Norman Lewis, “Naples ’44,” which describes the black market that was tolerated by the Allies in Naples, Italy, during World War II “because they were helping to run it!”

“All of this stuff is so old,” she continued, “black markets, special clubs with items you can’t get elsewhere, information exchanged through subterranean conduits.”

In the Audible special edition of “The Handmaid’s Tale,” listeners learn that there is actually a chain of Jezebel brothels, some with golf courses. “Because of course women could no longer play golf,” Atwood said. “This has actually been a complaint of female politicians, that all these special deals and secret conversations and understandings are reached at golf clubs, and if you don’t play golf, you’re just out of it.”

Episode 9: The Mayday Resistance

Atwood did a huge amount of research on the resistance movements in various countries during World War II. One of her old friends, now deceased, was a member of the French Resistance, and he parachuted behind enemy lines to help funnel downed British airmen out of France. “His job was to interview them, to make sure they were really British, not Germans pretending to be British in order to reveal the underground lines of communication,” she said. “So they would ask about where they came from, football scores and such, and if you figured out that they were really German, they were shot. Just like that.”

She also met members of the Polish and Dutch resistance movements. “The people I met, of course, were the people who made it through,” she said. “Many others did not.” As evidence, she cited the members of the White Rose, who were caught distributing anti-Nazi papers and executed, and the female British spies who sometimes doubled as assassins. Using female agents, Atwood said, has been a tactic employed by resistance movements and Islamic extremists, and the handmaids’ outfits make them especially well suited for keeping secrets. “Just look at all the places where you could hide things!” she said, laughing. “Big sleeves! Tuck it in your stocking. Nobody’s going to look.”

[danguy96]

In Light of Recent Events Regarding Magneto and HYDRA

 So, apparently, as I’ve recently heard, in the new Secret Empire series of comic books, Magneto, a villain well-known to be Jewish, is apparently siding with HYDRA in this event. Now, normally, I would be pretty pissed off about this, and, truth be told, until more information comes out (though, I doubt that will change anything, I still think that without a good explanation, this is pretty stupid. However, on the other hand, as some of you may know, I’ve actually grown pretty sick and tired over the whole “everyone I don’t like and I disagree with is a Nazi/Nazi sympathizer” (this doesn’t mean I condone or like Nazis, it just means that I don’t like hysteria), so I’ve started to try to practice not reacting to every single thing by becoming hysterical, and I just wanted to state my thoughts on this and give a somewhat quick history of HYDRA’s in-universe backstory for both the movies and the comics, and why there’s more to it than it just being a “Nazi/Neo-Nazi organization”. I hope you all don’t mind my commentary (also, just to let you know, I also learned about this stuff from other articles and research, and I do sort of paraphrase in places, but these are still my own thoughts).

 First off, I’m going to cover the Marvel Cinematic Universe’s version of HYDRA first, because that will take less time to explain than the long, convoluted history of it’s comic book counterpart. When they first appeared in the MCU, they were indeed once a part of the Third Reich’s advanced science branch, and received funding from them. However, the Red Skull recognized that in order to extend HYDRA’s influence and power, he and the organization would have to cut ties to Hitler and Nazi Germany (and in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, despite being a Nazi himself and adopting most of the Third Reich’s Social Darwinist theories into HYDRA, even the Red Skull kind of thought that Hitler’s “master race” theory was full of shit), and so, after acquiring the Tesseract/Cosmic Cube, Red Skull and HYDRA went rogue and planned to overthrow and betray Nazi Germany once the Allies had lost, and it’s quite possible they would be even worse than Hitler and his goons were if they got their way. 

 After the Red Skull’s defeat and the fall of Nazi Germany, however, HYDRA seemed to transcend their Nazi roots, though they still retained their totalitarian and authoritarian goals with the belief that humanity could not be trusted with it’s own freedom and must be subjugated for it’s own good. When looking back on the events of the war, Armin Zola concluded the whole “German master race” thing didn’t really work and also concluded Hitler’s methods were pretty dumb and inefficient, even for HYDRA’s standards. Though they gave up working for the Nazis after their fall, they did manage to extend HYDRA’s reach into the Soviet Union (something that would’ve been impossible if they remained full-on Nazis and all of the Nazis beliefs), and, secretly, into the U.S. and SHEILD. As I said before, the HYDRA in the MCU’s present-day doesn’t seem to care that much about what your genetics say or if you have “Aryan” ancestry, and is more focused on just world domination. Hell, they move away even further from them originally being just Nazis, when it’s revealed in Agents of SHIELD that the MCU version of HYDRA has roots that actually extend back centuries and to alien influence, and that the original Nazi organization was just the latest incarnation of the group, similar to it is in the comics.

 Speaking of which, it’s about time I summed up the long history of HYDRA from the original comics, and I’ll start off with when it was first created in real life. HYDRA was originally created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby back in 1965, and first appeared in Strange Tales #135 (August 1965). While their inspirations from the Nazis was pretty blatantly evident in their early appearances (with them being under the leadership of guys who worked for the Nazi Party, Baron von Strucker and Johann Schmidt, the Red Skull), as various writers delved in their history and backstory Nazi connection sort of started to dwindle and become more vague until, even in early stories, the current incarnation of HYDRA was revealed as an organization which had roots in Imperial Japan. True, they worked alongside the Nazis during WWII, but they’ve always sort of had their own agenda. Their last remaining connection to outright Nazism, Baron von Strucker, was even shown to be a fugitive who allied his version of HYDRA with Germany's Third Reich in a grab for power before betraying them. Fleeing with the Red Skull, Strucker quickly abandoned Schmidt to join forces with a Japanese criminal organization also using the HYDRA name, because even he thought Red Skull was a monster. Though Strucker remained a constant part of Hydra until recent years, his ideology became less about Aryan supremacy and more about his own thirst for power. Later stories further retconned and clarified Strucker’s origins and motivations, placing him as the head of Hydra locked in a war with S.H.I.E.L.D. and other super-spy groups. The elements of totalitarianism, authoritarianism, and fascism still remained at Hydra’s core, but it sort of really wasn’t driven by white supremacy and racial hatred that much anymore. 

 But Hydra as a Japanese crime syndicate isn’t where the organization’s story begins, because in recent additions to HYDRA’s backstory, it turns out the group’s history spans over millions of years, including the Third Dynasty of Egypt, and has alien origins.  According to Jonathan Hickman's S.H.I.E.L.D. mini-series, which explored the secret history of the Marvel Universe (for better or worse), Hydra’s roots go back to before humans evolved, when a Before the evolution of mankind, a cabal of immortal hooded reptilian aliens came to Earth, planning to start a legacy of evil (it’s comic books, just roll with it). Millions of years later, they corrupted an Asian secret society of geniuses known as the Brotherhood of the Spear. They were opposed by a group called “The Order of the Shield” (get it, SHIELD?). Over the centuries, the Order of the Spear grew and changed, eventually becoming HYDRA – an organization that was revived in the early 20th Century in Imperialist Japan with ideals based on world domination inherited from their ancient alien masters. They also included the real life Cathari Sect and the real life Thule Society, which is where the Nazis came into the picture. You see, after the end of World War II, the Nazi sub-group of HYDRA, funded by the Thule Society, was brought into the main HYDRA fold, thus explaining how the likes Baron von Strucker and the Red Skull came to join and lead their ranks. 

 Currently in comic books, Hydra has splintered into several separate factions , but there are two main groups: one led by Baron Zemo, who has been trying to control what’s left of the old HYDRA, and leading a much more Darwinist version of the secret society based on survival of whomever HYDRA deems the fittest to live (usually its own members) - and one being built from the ground up, led by the Red Skull, who has returned to Nazi beliefs, and, for the first time in modern continuity, has introduced a philosophy of neo-Nazism and white supremacy into HYDRA (a move which I feel was supposed to be “topical” and “relevant”, but comes off as preachy and forced, as well as a move which over-simplified and misrepresented certain issues, something which Marvel has been terribly guilty of over the past few years).

 So, to answer, “Is HYDRA a Nazi organization?” Well, the answer is yes, and no. While it is clear that HYDRA’s original real world roots are planted in the idea of neo-Nazi terrorists, for a good portion of their history, they’ve also served the role as your run-of-the-mill supervillain terrorist organization, associating themselves with all kinds of tyrants and criminals throughout history, usually with whatever is considered a threat in real life at the time of when the story is written. 

 Now, going back to Magneto, do I think it’s a good move for him to join HYDRA? Of course I fucking don’t! Even if they’re not technically a Nazi organization anymore, he’d still hate their guts for associating with the Nazis, and he’d especially hate the like of the Red Skull. However, the important thing to remember is that while Magneto is a Holocaust survivor and a tragic figure, he’s also a character who has sought out the domination and/or extermination of humans several times in the past, as he is meant to show that if we allow ourselves to be consumed with hate and revenge, we end up being no better than the people we hate. Yes, he’s had a couple of changes of heart over the years, but still, it’s important to note that Magneto is no saint, either, even if isn’t as bad as the Red Skull (at least in the 616 universe). Still, I don’t think that Magneto would join HYDRA unless there was a reason, like him getting something out of it (though, I do think he would be wary in case they planned to double cross him), or if he was forced to do it for some reason, or if he was mind controlled, the last of which may possibly be the case (Captain America was basically brainwashed into thinking he’s a HYDRA sleeper agent, so I’m not gonna rule out the possibility of that being the big “twist”). Though, something to note is that the brainwashed Cap is currently planning with Baron Zemo to kill Red Skull and depose him from HYDRA (I take it that Zemo probably doesn’t really like how Red Skull is trying to bring back full-on Nazi ideology into HYDRA, even if they fascist terrorists, at least I assume/head-canon that, because it makes the books a tiny bit more tolerable, but not by much), and that Secret Empire looks like the result of his success in that endeavor, so one of my predictions is a combination of brainwashing to bring Magneto into the group, as well as him being a part of the anti-Red Skull faction.

 The one thing I’m shocked at is that I’m probably one of the few people who sees it less as “anti-Semitism” (and believe me, anti-Semitism is a problem, but I don’t looking for it everywhere I see), and more for what it really is; a cheap gimmick made to make people talk about it, even when the story itself hasn’t been released yet. Marvel wants this kind of reaction. They want dozens of articles, blog posts, tweets, and videos fueled by anger and controversy, just like they wanted this reaction from the Hydra!Cap fiasco. If they can’t sell comics by promoting them, then they decide to sell them and get people to talk about them based on controversy. I bet you that when the actual story comes out, it’s gonna end up being one of those things explained away with “it was brainwashing/magic/whatever”. I wasn’t surprised when it turned out to be the case with Hydra!Cap, and I’m not gonna be surprised if that it turns out to be the case with Hydra!Magneto. 

 I feel the best way to “protest” this is to not give in to this obvious publicity stunt like Marvel wants, and just not talk about and give it no attention when the story actually does come out, and then wait until the dust has settled to talk about. Speaking of which, as i said before, this outrage is sparking before the story even officially comes out or is even finished, and while I did just say that we shouldn’t give attention or make any puff pieces about it until the story arc is over with, I still say we should wait until the actual story comes and we learn everything about it (for better or worse), before critiquing it. When it finally does come out and we a whole lot more about it, then we can complain for (hopefully) good and/or justifiable reasons.

I’m sorry that this was long as shit, because I originally didn’t mean it to be like this long. I just really, really get annoyed when people simplify HYDRA as a “nazi/neo-Nazi organization”, because that just show signs of either not knowing a good amount of comic book history, or showing that you don’t actually read comics. I’m not condoning or “apologizing” for Nazism or white supremacism in any way, it’s just that I’m giant nerd who doesn’t like it when people make glaring mistakes and are ignorant of comic book history. Though, to be fair, it is a common misconception, made by both casual fans and even writers who don’t know comic history (something which they definitely should learn), but it still grind my gears when anyone makes any sort of big mistake regarding comic books (just see the numerous times I had to remind people that Harley Quinn isn’t exactly an innocent, quirky little cinnamon roll, when especially after she blows up children with bombs). 

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FOUR EPISODES into the new Star Trek series, Discovery, the crew receives a distress call from Corvan II, a resource-rich planet. A colony of humans is under attack from the Klingons. The victims, dilithium miners, flicker on screen, as miserable as anything we’d read about in Émile Zola’s descriptions of coal mining in Germinal. As dirty and distressed as the faces in a Dorothea Lange photo. Crying babies are so compelling! The Discovery, the closest ship in the fleet, is 90-odd light years away. They’ll never make it in time. But it turns out that the ship is equipped with a brand-new mode of transportation, a spore-based energy system that could, in theory, complete the trip in a few seconds. So, against the advice of his chief scientist, and even though the system may not be ready, the captain gives the order: go! Next, in a stunning display of visual effects, rings surrounding the ship’s saucer begin to rotate as the ship “spore jumps” just in time to drop a few torpedoes on the Klingon Birds-of-Prey. And before we can blink, the Discovery “spore jumps” back to its starting point.

The casual viewer might not make anything particular of this techno-aesthetic scene.

But as everyone knows, Trekkies are anything but casual. On their podcasts, forums, and blogs, they obsessively parse every word, every detail, making cross-references to the other series and movies of the Trek universe. They expect consistency across the whole franchise. Every Trekkie knows that in the original series (which begins 10 years after Discovery) ships are propelled, faster than the speed of light, by “warp drives,” a feat achieved thanks to dilithium crystals that moderate matter-antimatter (fusion) reactions. [1]

Needless to say, the appearance of these spores, as an organic method of propulsion, immediately raised Trekkie eyebrows. As one podcaster explained, “We know, assuming the timeline isn’t screwed up … we know it’s not going to work. We’ve already seen the twenty-fourth century and we know that they don’t have organic warp drives.” (STDP006 podcast: 10/10/2017; Golden Spiral Media.) At this point we don’t know how this apparent contradiction will be resolved. Maybe the spore drives only worked this once and consequently fall into oblivion. In episode five, the “Ripper,” a monster beamed aboard Discovery from a destroyed ship, is released into space. The monster had functioned like a living super computer, communicating spatial coordinates to the spores by some sort of symbiotic means. Michael Burnham, the show’s protagonist, figures out that Ripper is a giant (nuked?) version of an actually existing tiny Earth organism, the tardigrade, which can survive without nourishment for years and exhibits other notable characteristics of resilience. Maybe the best scientific minds will be unable to bio-engineer a new creature capable of withstanding the rigors of spore navigation so the whole enterprise will fall into oblivion. Maybe it will turn out that this tech was developed in an alternative timeline. Maybe the Borg are responsible for upsetting the natural course of things. Maybe it was all a dream. Or, god forbid, perhaps the producers of Discovery don’t care about the kind of consistency demanded by fanboys. Not likely. We’ll just have to wait.

Now I’ve watched my fair share of Star Trek episodes and movies, but I certainly wouldn’t qualify as a Trekkie. I’ve never put on Spock ears or attended a convention and I can’t identify the plots of TOS — the original series — from the titles. I’m someone who is interested in climate change, and recently, in decoupling fuel from energy to help think about forms of radical engagement to achieve rapid decarbonization. I couldn’t resist including an entry for “dilithium” in my book Fuel: A Speculative Dictionary (University of Minnesota Press, 2016), but according to my own criteria, it really shouldn’t be there. “Nuclear,” for instance, is a system of energy, so it doesn’t get its own entry, whereas “uranium” and “plutonium” do. Technically, as I mentioned, warp speed (speed faster than light) is achieved in Federation starships via a matter/antimatter (fusion) reaction. Dilithium crystals serve as a medium to help achieve this, but the actual substance that fuels the reaction is, to be precise, antimatter. I made an exception because the mining of dilithium is such an important and evocative theme throughout various quadrants of the Star Trek universe.

In a way, dilithium is like “hydrogen.” We talk about cars pulling up to filling stations and pumping in hydrogen instead of gasoline, but unlike oil, once removed from the ground and refined, hydrogen doesn’t exist as such, ready to be inserted into a vehicle. It has to be subjected to a process of catalysis before it can create energy to power the engine to turn the wheels. And for now, at least, that process is more likely than not powered by fossil fuels. The same kind of murkiness applies to “electric vehicles.” We can embrace them precisely because we only engage directly with one small element, the compact garage charger. We don’t have to see or think about the vast fossil infrastructure — out of sight, underground, or, “over there,” beyond our immediate perceptual horizon — that still persists at all levels of life while we drive along feeling pleased. The phenomenon of “carbon lock-in” — the idea that our globe is so deeply entangled with oil and coal that no good will gesture on the part of well-meaning individuals will have any significant effect — is hard to swallow. Distinctions between “fuel” and “energy” matter if we’re going to move beyond the kind of green optimistic haze that swirls around “future fuels” in the public sphere. It’s too easy to keep going these days with a vague sense of hope: if we only scale up some new technologies we can keep all the structures and systems we currently enjoy, replacing fossil-based fuels with renewable fuels. Like when you bring up the vast scale of climate change at the dinner table and your relatives say, “But I hear solar and wind prices are coming down and there’s nothing Trump and company can do about that. Coal mining isn’t coming back. So relax and have another glass of wine.”

And by the way, Star Trek apparently takes place in a post–climate change, post–fossil fuel world. “We” must have figured out a way to remove carbon from the atmosphere in order to avoid catastrophe, while also transitioning to “future fuels,” just as we will have overcome poverty, racism, and various other social problems. Note to Star Trek writers: I’m available if you want to hire me to introduce the shift to a post-carbon economy as a future theme about Earth’s past.

In Discovery, mining of dilithium goes on. (Incidentally, given the importance of the besieged outpost, Corvan II, as a source of 40 percent of the Federation’s dilithium supplies, why are there no Federation ships guarding the colony?) And if the whole matter/antimatter warp-drive system will someday be replaced by something greener and more powerful, we are still not there in the future. It’s hard not to hear echoes of our current energy transitions in the plot line.

Trekkies tend to revel in optimism, so they have generally been disturbed by the call by Discovery’s uncharacteristically dark captain, Lorca, to weaponize the spores to help in the war against the Klingons. Poor Lieutenant Stamets, the on-board astro-mycologist (named for an actually existing scholar of fungal remediation). He’s not only lost his colleague/rival on the Glenn, but now he’s reminded, rather bluntly, that his work is the intellectual property of Star Fleet. But aside from the analogy with academia, we might see another one, to the field of nuclear science. Fuels like uranium and plutonium do not harm on their own. “Peaceful atoms,” they could be used for peaceful purposes (energy). But they could also be enriched or inserted into a system that transmutes them for use on warheads. Things could go either way. Spores are, dare I say, rather queer. Stamets and the ship’s doctor are, by the way, the first openly gay couple on Star Trek. They are seen, in episode five, brushing their teeth side-by-side in their quarters, a fairly banal homo-normative scene following Stamets’s reckless and unsanctioned attempt to take over from the tardigrade in the first (and perhaps the last?) intergalactic human-mycelia displacement network.

On a more mundane note, the spores might make us think of the development of biofuels in our current “energy transition,” but without all of the negatives. The Trek spores have no need for other fuels to grow or distill them. They float around in space (the so-called “panspermia” theory) and grow in a magical forest in a gigantic on-board terrarium. There is no need to displace food crops, since food is replicated on board the ship. The spores don’t emit any byproducts, harmful or otherwise. And unlike other forms of fuels, the spores are not used up in combustion. It’s a nice immersive fantasy, not a bad set of images to take us away from all kinds of unbearable realities today.

I wonder: Could the writers of Discovery have read anthropologist Anna Tsing’s The Mushroom at the End of the World: On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins (Princeton University Press, 2015)? In the face of massive climate upheaval and other disasters, Tsing embraces the potentially redemptive qualities of fungi, as they continually adapt. Fungi are complex life forms that metabolize plants and coexist in different kinds of ecosystems, performing what she calls symbiopoiesis. They are, like the sparking special effects on the ship, beautiful. Like the World Wide Web, fungi offer infinite possibilities of recombination and new relations in the future. Stamets tells his lover he experienced a whole universe of possibilities when he was hooked up to the drive. Spores flying around the atmosphere (maybe even in outer space?) could configure forms of cosmopolitanism, the happy side of invasive species.

By the time you are reading this piece we’ll all probably know more about the spores on Discovery. Fans of the new series love to speculate. They consume and analyze it week by week, as it is doled out, in close to real time, so it seems appropriate to me to do so here. In comparison, TOS, shown on network television in the late ’60s, had self-enclosed and self-resolving episodes. Serialization is crucial, of course, to 19th-century literature. It’s how kids read the imaginary voyages of Jules Verne. Week by week in the newspaper. And Verne is, for me, the most important writer for thinking and dreaming about possible relations to fuels. So let’s see what happens, but meanwhile, back here on early 21st-century Earth, time to mitigate is slipping away, tipping points are fast approaching. Catastrophic events made much more likely by rising sea levels and warming global average temperatures are pulling apart life as we know it. So it is all the more imperative to ask what is meant by “the future” when one talks of change. Is the future something we project for ourselves on screens? Star Trek offers us a mirror of our better selves. In the future humans are still flawed, and so are those other species that we coexist with in complex relations that bear traces of our own past forms of colonialism, benevolence, communitarianism, exploitation. Overall, though, contact with extraterrestrial beings and places has led to the social and cultural evolution of the human race. The future is bright.

Ultimately we should be wary of thinking about those spore drives as part of a narrative of progress, one that could simply allow us to defer now, in the present, any radical shifts in how we produce and consume energy. This narrative presents a tyranny of common sense that defers new fuels to a future that is just around the corner, but not yet. It governs statements like:

Human history is a record of endless human innovation, most of which has improved the human condition. Who knows what energy sources and technologies of the future may trump the energy benefits of fossil fuels?

This comes from the pen of one Kathleen Hartnett White, in a policy brief titled, “Fossil Fuels: The Moral Case” (2014). White, a former regulator in the Texas oil industry, has just been named by Trump to chair the Council on Environmental Quality. She illustrates her case study for the benefits of fossils with images of poor Americans, including what may be Dorothea Lange’s most iconic image, “Migrant Mother.” How does this image of a desperate mother with her children, displaced dustbowlers in California migrant camp in 1936 help White battle what she calls the false hysteria over climate change? [2] Without fossils, White asserts, we would never have developed beyond subsistence farming. Do we want to go back to this? Of course not — we all agree, right? So for now, let’s enjoy the benefits of carbon-based energy and wait for history to take its course.

It’s with this kind of reasoning in mind that I will wait to see what happens with the new spores on Discovery. I’ll forget the present, for an hour, but I will still be up at night with periodic panic attacks about our future on this warming planet. At least I’ll have the Star Trek podcasts keep me company.

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Karen Pinkus teaches at Cornell University where is currently a Social Science, Humanities, Arts Fellow in Residence at the Atkinson Center for a Sustainable Future. She is the author of Fuel: A Speculative Dictionary (University of Minnesota Press, 2016).

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[1] There are several book-length studies of the science of the Star Trek franchise. Lawrence Krauss, The Physics of Star Trek (New York: Basic Books, revised edition 2007) goes into the function and plausibility of warp drive and dilithium in great detail.

[2] The photograph, in the public domain and so available for use in any context, actually has a complex history. Many years later, the subject, Florence Owens Thompson, asserted that she had never spoken to Lange, who apparently embellished her story of the interaction. I doubt that White has thought through the bigger question of the relation of the Dust Bowl to soil depletion, wheat farming, New York bankers, and so on. She’s only reading Lange’s photo with a single signifier: poverty. And that is, for her, so morally bankrupt that it alone should squelch any discussion of moving beyond fossils, beyond business as usual.

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