#a propos of rest in power

[lemonluvgirl]

The Both of Us (Part 3) Now Finished

You can read parts 1&2 with this link. 

As I stated earlier this week, I wanted to write a short continuation of this fic, because it has recently reached over 500 kudos on AO3. I also thought it would be cute to do for Valentine’s week and I wanted to write something about Everlark being a power couple during Mockingjay and being low-key married. (FYI I might have written a marriage kink into this, but in all honesty I think it’s pretty evident that Peeta has a super hard wife kink when it comes to Katniss in Catching Fire...so I will not be apologizing for that.) 

Friendly reminder, this is a work of fiction and I own nothing. The characters I’m borrowing belong to Suzanne Collins and I get no reward for writing this beyond the comments and kudos and of course the thrill of writing Katniss and Peeta in 13 without the hijacking. Also, I’m updating the tags on AO3 but I am not posting this chapter on AO3 yet until my beta has a chance to look it over. But I did want to post here on tumblr, because I know you guys don’t care about typos. 

Happy Valentine’s Week, my lovlies. 

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I’m in surprisingly good spirits in the morning while my prep team works to get Peeta and me ready for the new propo we’re meant to be filming later. I’m not sure if it has anything to do with the way Peeta and I spent the evening tentatively exploring each other’s bodies until pleasure and exhaustion overcame us both, or with the increased amount of uninterrupted sleep I’ve been getting. I might have gotten five or six hours last night after everything. 

I sneak a peek at him in the chair a few feet away from where Flavius is brushing some translucent powder over his face. He looks better rested and his skin has taken on a more healthy glow that suits him. The thought suffuses me with a small warm burst of satisfaction, at seeing him healthy and recovering.

 I fight a blush when I think about the way I kissed every inch of his face, neck, and chest last night. 

This new thing between us is a distraction, to be sure, but not necessarily an unwelcome one. The days in Thirteen are long and we’ve been working hard to try and fulfill the demands of those around us. It's nice to have a respite from all the pressure. When he and I are alone in his room all of that seems to fall away. That space becomes a retreat of sorts, where Peeta and I can forget about the world for a few hours and just be ourselves. Bare and honest with each other.

Peeta catches me looking and the corner of his mouth peeks up in a small private smirk. 

I bite back the urge to tell him to cut it out, knowing that would only lead to questions from my preps that I don’t want to answer. 

When Flavius turns away Peeta chances a quick wink at me in a way that brings to mind his teasing yet sweet attentions from our first arena. 

I roll my eyes at him affectionately, ready to volley a trademark scowl if he keeps this up, but then Venia strides in with our propo outfits. 

The Mockingjay costume Cinna created for me still takes my breath away when I see it sometimes. So does Peeta’s. They are all sleek lines and beautifully crafted functionality. Dark pieces of geometrically shaped bulletproof armor cover our most vulnerable points, and durable but flexible material bends and moves along our joints and legs to lend mobility to the ensembles as well as protection.

The final effect looks stylish but also deadly if I’m being honest. Especially when paired with the weapons Beetee custom designed for us. The way my bow comes to life underneath my hands still thrills me. I’m eager to dress and sling the quiver over my back, even though the only arrows inside will be normal ones. They still won’t let me walk around with the specially loaded ones Beetee made. 

Venia affixes my mockingjay pin over my heart to complete the look and Peeta nods at me to signal his readiness when he finishes clasping his blade and firearm to his belt. I stare for a moment at the image of the two of us standing side by side in the mirror. 

We don’t look like a pair of tragic star-crossed lovers any longer. 

We look ready for a fight, for vengeance or retribution. Maybe both. 

“They’re either going to want to kiss you, kill you, or be you,” Peeta quips, parroting Finnick’s humorous words when we did our first test run in the costumes yesterday. 

“I’ll settle for them joining us, or simply laying down their arms,” I reply dryly. 

Peeta’s face takes on a more serious expression almost instantly. 

“That’s why we’re doing it this way,” he says reassuringly, cupping my shoulder with one of his large hands. 

“I know,” I tell him. And I do. Plutarch’s explained a hundred times, how just the sight of Peeta and I, alive and united, is supposed to inspire people to join the rebel cause and inspire the loyalists and capitalists to abandon their misguided fight. 

But I still feel guilty asking people to fight for me sometimes. 

“Katniss, Snow is just going to keep bombing districts and sending in reinforcements until he breaks everyone’s will to fight.” Peeta’s voice is barely a whisper, but I hear him all the same. 

After all this time it shouldn’t surprise me that he’s getting much better at reading me. Sometimes it's uncanny how quickly he can figure out the way my mind veers off in a certain direction. 

“You’re right,” I say because he is. His hand travels up the back of my neck, to fall against my hair soothingly as he caresses my braid. I lean back against him. 

He locks eyes with me in the mirror. 

“If you don’t want to do this anymore, we’ll find a way to get out of it. I promise. You’ve given enough. We both have.” he says, sternly, so determinedly that I believe him, even though it's unlikely either of us could back out now. 

I shake my head.  Even if we could somehow walk away from this, from being symbols of the rebellion, I could never live with myself afterward. 

“No, we promised Finnick we’d get Annie back. And Johanna. Snow…needs to be stopped. He needs to pay for what he did to 12, to all of us.” I say, voice resolute. Peeta’s hand comes down to twine with mine. 

He interlocks our fingers. 

“I’m with you.” He tells me,  and it's enough to get me moving again. 

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Soon we’re on the soundstage, where we seem to stand for hours while they adjust our makeup, lighting, and smoke levels. 

Eventually, the commands coming via the intercom from the invisible people in the mysterious glassed-in booth become fewer and fewer. Fulvia and Plutarch spend more time studying us and less time adjusting. Finally, there’s quiet on the set. For a full five minutes, Peeta and I are simply considered. We go through our lines again. Just the two for Peeta and the one slogan for me. Tomorrow they’ll focus on speeches and interviews and have us pretend to be in rebel battles. But today they just want those three lines corked into a propo that they can show Coin. 

“Has the Capitol hurt you, or someone you love? Are you tired of slaving away by day and going to bed hungry at night?” Those are Peeta’s lines. He delivers them with the same sort of conviction I’ve come to expect from him but it strangely still feels like he’s reading one of Effie’s cards from the Victory Tour. 

Then it’s my turn. 

“People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!” That’s the line. My line. I can tell by the way they presented it to me at first that they spent months, maybe years working it out and are proud of it. It seems like a mouthful to me though, and stiff. I can’t imagine saying it in real life— unless I was using a Capitol accent and making fun of it. 

But Fulvia’s in my face, describing the battle I’ve just been in and how my comrades-in-arms are all lying dead around me and how to rally the living I must turn to the camera and shout out the line! 

I catch sight of Peeta grimacing slightly from the corner of my eye but before I shoot him a questioning look I’m hustled back to my place, and the smoke machine kicks in. Someone calls for quiet, the cameras start rolling and I hear “Action!” So I hold the bow over my head and yell the line with all the anger I can muster. 

There’s dead silence on the set. It goes on and on. I turn to look at Peeta. He looks like he’s trying to keep his expression neutral, but I can see it there, beneath the cracks. Something like sympathy. 

Then, Haymitch’s acerbic laugh fills the studio, crackling through the old intercom. He contains himself long enough to say, “And that my friends, is how a revolution dies.” 

~

Peeta is obviously and immediately happier to see our old mentor than I am. He’s rushing over to the booth to speak to him at the drop of a hat while I hang back and work up the motivation.  It was a surprise to hear Haymitch’s voice, especially after his disparaging comments about my propo performance, but ultimately I put my annoyance aside to join Peeta to welcome our mentor back. 

“Well, well, well, look at you, sweetheart. Your acting skills haven’t improved but you certainly look better than I’ve seen you in a long time,” Haymitch says, surreptitiously studying my face and in particular, the lack of deep circles underneath the stage makeup I’m wearing. 

“Surviving a second arena has done wonders for my sleep regimen,” I deadpan. 

Haymitch raises a brow at me, suspiciously, and his gaze swings between Peeta and me, assessingly. 

“I seriously doubt that. But I can guess what have you playing nice with these birdbrains,” he says with a knowing smirk aimed in Peeta’s direction. 

Cue flaming cheeks for both Peeta and me. 

“Are you sure they drained all the booze out of you? You seem just a little too carefree to be 100% sober right now,” I accuse, defensively. 

Haymitch laughs heartily, then winces. 

“Nice try, sweetheart, but you can’t throw me off the scent that easily. Lucky for you, we’ve got bigger things to catch up on than the state of your love life. Kids,” he says, addressing Peeta and me together, “these propos suck,” he states bluntly. 

Peeta, the traitor, nods quickly. I shoot him a deadly glare and he shrugs sheepishly. 

“I���ve been trying to reason with them for weeks. They won’t listen to me about the lines,” Peeta tells Haymitch. 

I huff. He has been trying to get the writers to take his suggestions more seriously. But I had no idea why he was so dead set on it. Maybe the lines they are feeding us sound as unbelievable to him as they do to me. 

“Yeah, I figured kid. Don’t worry. We’ll take ‘em on together first thing tomorrow,” Haymitch promises and Peeta’s face relaxes with relief. 

“Now, why don’t you two show me where a man can get something to eat in this crazy maze?” Haymitch prods and Peeta and I signal to the others that we’re done for the day and lead our mentor away in the direction of the mess hall. 

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During dinner, Peeta and I fill Haymitch in on what’s happened since he’s been away. Or, more accurately, Peeta fills Haymitch in with his patent enthusiasm and I merely add a bit of color commentary to round things out. 

“Coin promised she’d try to rescue the other victors, including Annie if we cooperated,” Peeta informs him between bites of dry, tasteless bread that leaves his mouth pulling down a smidge in disapproval. 

I know if we weren’t so busy he’d be clamoring for a chance to get into the kitchens. He’d be running the entire show within a day or two, having won everyone over with his smiles and his superior baking abilities. 

I’d be tempted to let him have at it, simply for the promise of good bread again. 

Maybe I could even perch on a counter and watch him knead the dough with those big strong hands—

“You’ve backed yourselves into a corner, kids,” Haymitch says with a sigh, interrupting my bread fantasies. 

Peeta gives him a look. 

“She would have found a way to make us comply. This way, we get something in return for our services. Or do you think 13 is so benevolent that they would have waited until we were emotionally and mentally fit to take up the mantles?” Peeta asks, not accusingly, but in a tone that flatly states the obvious. 

After he says it, it does seem plain to see. President Coin doesn’t strike me as a patient woman. She is used to getting her way and calling all the shots. Peeta had realized that even more quickly than I had. Maybe he’d seen it from the first. 

“She made a public announcement in front of the entire district. She can’t go back on her word now.” I tell Haymitch, almost reassuringly. Peeta and I have done alright without him. We’ve made sure that they know we’re a team and we won’t be exploited blindly. We have our voices. 

Haymitch gives Peeta a disbelieving look. Peeta merely taps a finger against the tabletop impatiently. 

“I don’t even have to ask who thought that it would be a good idea to play one-ups with a woman in possession of actual nuclear weapons, Haymitch growls. 

Peeta bristles, visibly. 

“Look, our options were limited-” he starts. 

“Boy, it's wartime. Everyone’s options are fucking limited,” Haymitch interrupts, brusquely. 

“Hey, lay off!” I hissed, leaning forward and giving Haymitch a fierce glare. 

Haymitch pauses, open-mouthed and holding up a finger as if he’s about to say something but then, he just doesn’t. He closes his mouth. He sits back. A slow grin spreads across his face. 

“So the rumors are true. You have tamed the beast,” Haymitch tells Peeta before a chortle overtakes him. 

My temper flares and I am on the verge of delivering an angry comeback, but Peeta beats me. 

“I know you mean that affectionately, but let’s not lose focus here. I know what happened on the rescue mission to save us from the Quell arena. Katniss was the priority. Over Finnick, over Johanna, and Beetee. Over me. She’s our best chance to make sure Coin keeps her word, but we need your help too, ” Peeta says in a quiet voice. His tone is non-threatening, but his words…oh his words and his expression are so somber. 

All teasing is gone from Haymitch’s expression and what is left in place is something like guilt and dogged resolution all at once. 

“It’s what you wanted,” Haymitch croaks out. Then, he clears his throat, “You knew she was the key. You lobbied for me to save her, again,” he reminds Peeta in a careful tone. 

I cut my eyes at Peeta, and he doesn’t even look sorry. He just nods once and reaches over to grasp my hand. 

I almost pull away from him, so angry am I at the unspoken confirmation of this. Not that I hadn’t expected it. Not that I hadn’t known deep down, and we had all but spelled it out for each other that night on the beach. Haymitch and his double deals. Haymitch chose me, over Peeta, again. Indignation surges up swiftly. 

“I never asked-” I begin, tone hot, eyes blinking furiously at the angry pressure that is building behind them. Because these two and their deals make me so mad, even if being angry makes me a hypocrite. Because hadn’t I done the same thing for Peeta? Made Haymitch promise to save him over me when the time came. 

“You know how I feel about you,” is all Peeta says, in explanation, in apology, perhaps, but is it an apology if he isn’t one bit sorry? 

I tear my hand away from his and cross my arms over my chest. 

“We’re all here now and I think that if the two of you don’t start being <em>honest</em> with me I will show you how beastly I can be,” I say, practically growling the words at both of them. 

“That, that right there. Is what we need to channel into the damn propos,” Haymitch says with a hint of a smile. Peeta nods approvingly, pulls my chair closer to his with a loud scrape of the metal on the floor, and wraps me in a one-armed embrace even as I pull back and scowl at him. 

“I love it when you threaten me,” Peeta whispers, so quiet I’m sure only I can hear. 

It’s a testament, really, to how far we come that I don’t automatically bite his head off, and instead grumpily settle into his side, ignoring Haymitch’s supremely amused expression in favor of finishing my bland meal. 

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The meeting the next morning goes by with very few hitches. I don’t enjoy the way Haymitch shreds our propo to pieces, but as soon as he says the words I immediately know he’s right about our performances. 

“Peeta sounds like an advertiser, and not the trustworthy kind, despite how hard he tried to pull it off. And your Mockinjay there, she’s just flat. Completely unrelatable. Now, would anyone like to argue that this is of use to us in winning the war?” Haymitch asks. 

No one does. 

“That saves time,” he says with a nod. 

Then, he has everyone going around thinking of moments when Peeta and I truly inspired them. There is a lot to choose from apparently, considering that we have two reapings, two hunger games, and a victory tour captured on camera for posterity. 

The conclusion everyone seems to come to is that Peeta is good in just about any situation but I shine when I go off script. 

Fulvia is the one who makes an off-hand remark about putting Peeta and me in combat situations. I’m pretty sure she meant it as a joke but Haymitch latches onto the idea. 

“That’s <em>exactly</em> what I’m suggesting,” says Haymitch. “Put them out in the field and keep the cameras rolling.” 

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That’s how Peeta and I end up going to Districts 8, 11, and 7. 

The damage done by the Capitol bombs and their peacekeepers is horrifying. The dead bodies, and the broken and burned homes, pale in comparison to the anger and desperation in the eyes of the survivors. 

Peeta is so good at looking each of them in the eyes. He holds their hands, he listens to their stories. He eases their pain in some vital way that has nothing to do with morphling or medical procedures. I follow his lead and it’s almost effortless. 

He’s a wonder and I find myself sinking further into that deep entrenchment of admiration and love than ever before. 

As for me, their suffering sparks a blaze inside my heart. 

"I want to tell people that if you think for one second the Capitol will treat us fairly if there's a cease-fire, you're deluding yourself. Because you know who they are and what they do." My hands go out automatically as if to indicate the whole horror around me. "This is what they do! And we must fight back!"

It's the first successful propo they manage to film of me, but it’s not the last. 

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The nights get successively harder to sleep through again, after the new things we see. 

Peeta murmurs soothing things in my ear when I wake up screaming from nightmares where the Capitol drops bombs so devastating that they reach down in the earth to District 13. In my dreams I watch my little sister and my mother and the remnants of District 12 go up in flames, or get buried under tons of rock and unmovable earth. 

“I don’t want her in this, I don’t want Prim anywhere near this war,” I tell him as I shake in his arms. 

“We’ll sit her down, and speak to her. Ask her not to sign up,” Peeta promises. 

All I can do is clutch him and cry in relief. If anyone can convince Prim to stay out of the majority of the fighting it's him, it's my Peeta. 

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Prim reluctantly agrees and continues to devote the majority of her time to the hospital ward. She and Finnick, who hasn’t been cleared yet, quickly become friends. 

“Your sister is smart as a whip,” Finnick tells me one afternoon when we make it back early enough to swing by the hospital and pick Prim up before dinner. 

“She is,” I agree. He looks at her with a sad sort of fondness and I wonder if the Capitol took a sister or a niece or a friend from him that reminds him of Prim. 

“Do you wanna eat with us in the mess tonight?” I offer tentatively. 

Finnick’s eyes light up. Peeta’s invited him many times, and Finnick had accepted occasionally on his better days. But it seems like the invitation means something different coming from me. 

“Thank you. I’d like that,” he replies in an equally hesitant, but hopeful manner. 

It’s just my luck that the Capitol chooses that night to air their first propo of President Snow giving some long judicious sounding speech while Annie Cresta and Johanna Mason stand behind him with blank faces like hollowed-out shells. 

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The next morning Peeta sounds the most unbending I’ve ever heard him sound. 

He argues with President Coin, doggedly, unflinchingly. The dark circles under his eyes only make the righteous fury in his blue irises stand out starkly as he speaks. 

“They are prisoners of war. They can’t be held responsible for what they say or do at this point. The Capitol could, and very likely is torturing them as we speak. How can we gain the trust of the remaining districts when we are so willing to abandon our allies to the brutality of the Capitol?” he asks, looking each person at the conference table in the eye, daring them to come up with an excuse. 

Coin doesn’t really have an answer for him, but she doesn’t cede control of the meeting either. She wrenches it back inch by inch reminding us that we have yet to fulfill our part of the bargain, namely, inspiring widespread rebellion to the point where storming the Capitol to rescue the other victors is an option. 

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The opportunity we’ve been waiting for comes while Peeta and I are on different assignments. I’m filming a propo on District 12 with Gale, of all people, while he’s on assignment in District 4 with Finnick who has just recently been cleared for propo work. Finnick’s improved a lot lately, and hasn’t been caught forgetting to put on pants in while. 

Boggs gathers us up and directs us back to the hovercraft swiftly, saying something about the hydroelectric dam that sends power to the Capitol having been hit. 

“Their defenses are down. We’re going to hit them before all their backup systems can kick in,” he announces. 

“But we’re all the way in 12,” I say with a frown. 

“Not us specifically, but the closest team,” Boggs replies as he checks to make sure everyone is strapped in correctly before we take off. 

“Who’s the closest team?” I ask, something like dread churning in the pit of my stomach. 

“Peeta and Finnick’s team is en route as we speak,” Boggs tells me quietly, almost remorsefully. 

I fail to choke back a shaky exhale that threatens to turn into a sob or a scream. I want to yell at whoever thought gave the order. This was not part of the plan. My chest feels tight. Panic has quickly overtaken all other thoughts. 

Beside me Gale looks over, picking up on my distress. He looks conflicted for a moment, lips pursing as if he can’t make up his mind whether to rejoice in my discomfort or not. 

Finally, nearly six years of friendship must win out because he says, carefully, “They’ll make it back. You’ve all faced worse and come back.”

 It sounds plausible considering Peeta and I made it out of a Quater Quell specifically designed to kill us, but there’s always that fear that lives in the back of my mind. The one that claws to get out, teeth bared and snapping at the thought of losing someone I need beyond reckoning. I am about a minute away from coming up with a way to commandeer this vehicle at bow point and demand the pilot fly us straight to the Capitol, even if logically, I know we’ll never make it in time to be of any help. 

Gale gives me a look that says he knows what I’m thinking and he thinks it’s a really bad idea. I am too panicked to feel even an ounce of guilt or self-consciousness. But then Boggs leans in and says in a low voice, “Commander Jackson and her team will make sure they make it back. She knows her orders. Bringing the Mockingjay’s husband and Finnick Odair back alive is the top priority.” His dark brown eyes are steady and truthful. I don’t even move to correct him when he calls Peeta my husband, I’m that distraught. 

I gulp down my fears, and nod at him. I choose to believe what he says. Partially because I know that losing Peeta at this point would be disastrous for the rebel propaganda campaign. The bigger part of me believes what Boggs and Gale are saying for the simple fact that I desperately need to. 

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They do make it back, but just barely. The hours I spend in suspended torment, seem to fade from my mind when I get word. 

Their hovercraft comes back with part of its left wing damaged and smoke billowing out of one of its engines. I catch sight of their return and watch with muted horror as the craft executes a shaky but ultimately successful landing from the small window that looks into the hangar from the hall. 

I race toward the hangar entrance but am not allowed inside. The soldiers redirect me to the hospital where they say everyone from the rescue team is going to end up anyway. 

Haymitch shows up two minutes after me and we wait for what seems like hours but is probably more like a handful of minutes until we’re admitted. 

Through a doorway, I catch a glimpse of Jackson, Peeta, and Finnick's squad leader, perspiration streaming down her face as a doctor removes something from under her shoulder blade with a long pair of tweezers. Wounded, but alive. I call her name and start toward her until a nurse pushes me back and shuts me out.

“Katniss!” It's not the voice I’ve been searching for, but it’s a welcomed one. Finnick hurries toward us, looking somewhat exhausted but also exorbitantly happy. I decided that if he looks like that, nothing serious could have gone wrong during the mission. 

“They separated us when we got back,” he says in a breathless rush, eyes darting, “The doctors just cleared me but I don’t know where they took the others. They were unconscious from the gas when we found them and —” 

"Finnick!" Something between a shriek and a cry of joy catches our attention. A lovely if  somewhat bedraggled young woman-- dark tangled hair, sea green eyes--exits one of the patient rooms and runs toward us in nothing but a sheet. "Finnick!" And suddenly, it's as if there's no one in the world but these two, crashing through space to reach each other. They collide, enfold, lose their balance, and slam against a wall, where they stay. Clinging into one being. Indivisible. A pang of happiness and relief hits me.  Finnick has his beloved back. He kisses her with such heartfelt certainty, and she, him. No one seeing them could doubt their love.

My thoughts run toward Peeta, my eyes searching frantically for any sign of him. 

Mitchell, one of the other officers on Peeta’s team, looking a little worse for wear but uninjured, finds Haymitch and me. "We got them all out. Except for Enobaria. But since she's from Two, we doubt she's being held anyway. Johanna Mason's at the end of the hall. The effects of the gas are just wearing off. Peeta’s in the room next to hers. He’s fine but he got clipped in the shoulder-” That’s as far as he gets before I’m running. 

 Peeta. Alive but injured. 

Away from Snow. Safe. Here. With me. 

In a minute I can touch him. See his smile. Hear his laugh. Haymitch is grinning at me, actually keeping pace. "Come on, then," he says, hurrying me along. I almost giggle. 

I'm light-headed with giddiness. What will I do first? Hug him? Inspect his wounds? Peeta will be ecstatic no matter what I do. He'll probably be kissing me the moment I’m in reach anyway. 

Celebratory kisses sound good. Fantastic even, I wonder if maybe those kisses will lead to  more in his quarters later tonight. If he’s not gravely injured I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea at all. 

Peeta's up and sitting on the side of the bed, looking tired as a trio of doctors examine him, flash lights in his eyes, and check his pulse. His right arm has a bandage wrapped around it but the dressing isn’t the heavy-duty kind reserved for serious wounds so I know he didn’t lose too much blood. He’s nodding along to their instructions or whatever it is they are telling him. 

I'm disappointed that mine was not the first face he saw when he got back, but he sees it now when he turns and catches sight of me entering the room. His features register relief, then delight, and something more intense that I’ve come to know in our more intimate moments. Something like belonging or tenderness. Surely both, for he sweeps the doctors aside, leaps to his feet, and moves toward me.

 I run to meet him, my arms extended to embrace him. His hands are reaching for me too, to caress my face, I think. My lips are just forming his name when his mouth slants down over mine, tasting perfectly like sweat, smoke, and home. 

We kiss for an inordinate amount of time and it's oddly reminiscent of our reunion after our first games. Peeta even does the bit where he tries to push Haymitch aside when he starts cracking jokes about us needing to come up for oxygen. 

“Glad to see you’re okay, kid. We’ll talk later.” Haymitch departs with a final clap of his hand against Peeta’s shoulder, and Peeta turns toward him to murmur his agreement. I listen to the sound of Haymitch’s retreating footsteps and I can’t hide the relieved sound that escapes me. I just want Peeta all to myself for a minute. 

“I take it someone’s happy to see me,” Peeta quips when we finally break apart, amusement and adoration shining in his eyes as he looks down at me. 

“You are hereby banned from going on any more life-threatening missions without me,” I growl at him, clutching at the front of his uniform and pressing my face into his chest. 

“Trust me, I am not eager to do it again,” he says, arms clutching me tighter, hands trailing soothingly up and down my back. “It was a tricky escape. A trap most likely. All their guns turned back online before we could get clear of their air space. Snow was probably counting on being able to shoot all of us down. Luckily, Jackson is an ace pilot as well as a crack shot.” 

“I don’t think I’m ready to hear about the death-defying odds just yet. I just need—” I tell him, my voice straining almost to the point of breaking. 

“Shhh, I know what you need,” Peeta whispers back, planting a kiss on the top of my head, and running a hand down my hair. 

He just holds me, as everyone bustles around us, talking and asking questions that we promptly ignore, proving that he does in fact know exactly what I need. 

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That night after we escape all the commotion we walk slowly back to his compartment in companionable but contemplative silence. I break it reluctantly when we reach his door. 

“What do you think they did to them?” I ask quietly, thinking of the two souls they brought back with them from the Capitol. I bite my lip, remembering the way Johanna Mason had to be sedated when she caught sight of Finnick. She had actually tried to run towards him, attack him, it looked like, but she was so weak and malnourished that she didn’t get far or do any permanent damage. 

Peeta sucks in a breath. 

“They were being held in the Tribute Center. In a facility underneath it, actually. The op was so quick, we didn’t get the chance to investigate much. Just locate them and get them out, but…I think Snow messed with their minds, or at least Johanna’s. She seemed so sick and frail when we opened her cell. Small in a way she never seemed before. But the way she looked at Finnick when she woke up. It was like she thought he was a monster. Annie wasn’t in as bad a shape when we found her,” he replies heavily before unlocking his compartment. I nod, thinking of how Annie recognized Finnick instantly but Johanna’s eyes just seemed off. 

I suppress a shiver at the implication of his words and my own thoughts. I don’t want to think about the numerous ways the Capitol could twist a person’s mind to the point where they can’t recognize friends from foes. 

Peeta guides me through the door with a gentle hand on my lower back. 

I make it a few steps inside before I’m turning back and watching him with wide eyes, drinking in the sight of him as he works one-handed to unbutton the top half of his uniform. 

He is so beautiful, so alive, and so mine, and in the next second I can’t stand to have any distance between us any longer. 

“Let me,” I murmur, taking over for him as I slowly undo his shirt, remembering to be careful of his injured arm. 

He lets his hands fall away and I press my lips, gently to every bit of skin I can reach, as if needing to verify every inch of his skin myself.

“I need a shower. I’m all dirty, sweetheart,” Peeta says in a husky voice when my lips fall in the slight valley between the defined halves of his upper chest. 

“I don’t care,” I murmur, kissing his sweaty skin, undeterred. Peeta groans, obviously debating the merits of letting me continue my attentions. The remnants of blood, sweat, and traces of the acrid smoke they used to knock out the inhabitants of the Tribute Center while on their mission cling to his skin, but his blood beats warm and alive inside his veins and his heart pounds in a beautifully fast rhythm. It makes me forget almost everything else. But then he pulls back just slightly, most likely to tell me he needs a shower before we continue, and I can’t bear the idea of being parted from him. Even for just a few minutes. 

It's like those nights in the training center where I fear any door between us will be locked and I’ll lose him somehow. 

“We’ll take one together,” I demand more than suggest. Peeta raises his eyebrows slightly but doesn’t protest. 

He lets me lead him to the small attached bathroom and lets me strip him bare. 

We haven’t done this yet. Showering together. We’ve made love several times since that first night, but we haven’t been naked together outside of the close vicinity of his bed. 

My hands travel across his frame, touching every part of him I can reach. There’s this feeling I can’t shake like we’ve had another near miss. It takes considerable effort to turn away from him and turn on the water. I motion for him to step ahead of me, taking a few precious seconds to try and calm my riotous nerves while I slowly undress. 

The shower stall is small and a bit cramped but we make it work. I am not going to complain about being in close proximity to Peeta right now. I relish the way his large frame crowds me against the shower wall, my back pressed against the cold tiles while my front brushes against the warm expanse of his chest with every movement.

 I wash him gently, careful of his injury and he lets me examine him in detail, cataloging every bruise and scrape I can find. 

There are quite a few. 

I wrap my arms around him, clinging to him as the water sluices down on us, warm and cleansing, and I kiss the spot right next to the patch of skin where the bullet grazed him. He doesn’t so much as flinch, but it still must be tender. I make sure my lips are gentle, imparting softness and an unspoken wish to take away his pain. His eyes remain closed and his face relaxes into a slightly slack but receptive expression. He doesn’t say a word about how I’m acting. He just lets me care for him. Logically I know he’s capable of doing this himself. His injury isn’t serious, but somehow I feel like I need to do this. 

Peeta seems to know I need this as well because he bends his head without me having to ask so I can shampoo his hair with the mostly scentless standard soap District 13 stocks in all their showers. Wincing only slightly when the soap runs down over the scrapes that run over his hand. My mind cycles through the list of injuries, both old and new. I take his hand in mine, kissing the expanse between a scraped knuckle. I hate when he gets hurt and I’m not there. It makes me feel powerless. 

“Peeta.” His name tumbles out of my mouth. He automatically hugs me to himself tightly and, for the moment, our naked bodies pressed together don’t cause the usual reactions. The moment isn’t sexual, even though I think his naked form is beautiful despite the bruises and scars. 

“I’m here Katniss. I’m here. It's ok,” he tells me over and over, until finally the tears are flowing down my face, hidden surely by the stream of water but I know Peeta can sense I’m crying by the way my body shakes. 

“I can’t lose you. I can’t,” I blurt out, spluttering the words desperately and most likely unattractively against the spray of water as I tilt my face up toward his. Then I’m sobbing and he has to hold me up because my knees go weak at the thought of him not coming back, or worse, being taken prisoner by the Capitol. 

He holds me tighter, and kisses me so fiercely I almost lose myself in the warm, familiar, reassuring rhythm of his lips against mine. 

“I’m not going anywhere. Not if I can help it. Always, remember?” he whispers against my lips before he kisses me soundly again. I almost melt into him, almost. 

“We don’t always have a choice. Sometimes, it's out of our control,” I say, breaking away from him panting, on edge, maybe almost angry. But this is the kind of anger born from bone-deep fear, nothing else. 

He stills, blue eyes opening to settle on my face. His hands come up to cup my jaw before he lets his forehead rest against mine. 

“You’re right. We can’t control everything. But Katniss, I hope you know how hard I’d fight to stay with you. To get back to you, if it came to that.” He tells me quietly, firmly, and in his eyes is a wealth of determination, of love, of boundless resolve that sets to life a small quivering spark deep in my belly. 

It roils and rumbles the truth back at me, that I know this. That I know him. That Peeta is as true and steady as they come. We have faced nightmares and death together several times and lived. He has come back to me from the brink of death before. There is some assurance I can take in that. There is some relief. 

Still, I need the reassurance of his skin underneath my fingertips, of his lips and his tongue, of his body joining mine to prove to myself that I have him, that he isn’t going to slip through my fingers. 

I drag him down for a needy kiss, hands roving over his body, pressing my breasts against his chest deliberately. Peeta groans into my mouth, his hands slip down to cup the curve of my backside, even as he pins me against the shower wall. 

I moan my approval, the heavy sound passing from my mouth to his as he swallows it up with kisses and swirls of his tongue. One of my hands reaches up to grasp at his hair, while my hips rock forward of their own accord, seeking friction for that space between my thighs that clutches in anticipation of the memory of him, and the exquisite way he fills me up. 

“You think anything could ever keep me from you? That I wouldn’t fight with everything in me, tooth, nail, every molecule in my body staging its own rebellion to reach you?” Peeta asks as he changes direction and slants his lips down over the edge of my mouth, slipping and traversing the path toward my neck with single-minded intensity. 

He leaves me breathless and unable to speak. He starts sucking a bruise above my pulse point, although I’m almost certain his questions were rhetorical. 

“You’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me. I don’t care if I had to survive two arenas and we’re still fighting this war. You are it, Katniss. You’re it for me. It will all be worth it every day I get to wake up with you by my side. Every night I get to hold you in my arms. That’s all I need. Tomorrow with you. Just that would be enough to balance out the nightmares and the ghosts that I have to live with. That we both have to live with. But I’m not ashamed to admit that I want more. A whole life with you, if the odds are in my favor. An entire future with you, blooming out from under the shadow of the games. Happiness. Peace. Family if you want one. Just you and me, if you don’t. But there’s one thing you can count on Katniss. And it's that I will stay. Always,” he states with a finely tuned certainty that resounds through my bones, sinking in and slating some soul-deep question that I hadn’t even thought to ask, or could put a voice to, but needed to be answered nonetheless. His words of love and a life spent with me should scare me but they inspire the opposite of fear to bloom inside my heart. I want that life. I want it more than I want Snow dead. I want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted before. 

Because I’ve known since the first hour after we were rescued in the hovercraft that there was no turning back for me. I wasn’t built to love and lose and move on. 

I only know how to go all in once I make I choice. I hold on tightly, far past the point of pain, past the point of regret, and even sanity. Something of my mother’s clinging love persists inside me, despite how I hate how weak it makes me feel.  The love I know, and carry is not the fast-blooming kind. It is slow growing, deep-rooted, and unyielding. I am not sure I will ever want a family, but I do know I want Peeta. I want him and all the years he has promised me. A wealth of happiness and peace and a life built together without the past casting shadows on our joy. 

“I need you,” I whisper, whimpering almost. 

Peeta closes his eyes slowly, his head resting against mine, as the water, now tepid and no longer hot washes over us. 

“I know, sweetheart. I know you do,” he assures me, and then he kisses my temple. “I need you, too,” he whispers as he holds me, one hand around my back, the other cupping one dainty breast in a slightly possessive manner, while he mouths little kisses against my hairline. 

“Let’s go to bed,” he says after a moment, and with a considerable effort pulls himself back. 

.

.

.

.

We towel off quietly, in no hurry. We both know where this is going and barring an actual emergency there’ll be no interruptions for us tonight. My mother has long since given up trying to persuade me to sleep in my assigned quarters at night. After a mortifying conversation where she made me promise that Peeta and I are being responsible, the subject was dropped. No one will bother us here. 

Peeta lays me down with such respect and admiration that it lays my heart as bare as my freshly showered body. Something I think will never get old. 

He kisses me until I’m out of breath, out of my mind almost with longing and anticipation for him. He slips a hand down my body, cupping and caressing my breasts as he goes, measuring the span of my hip bones as he lays the flat of his palm against my lower belly, thumb swirling in little circles even as his tongue circles one of my nipples. 

“Peeta,” I plead. I’m not above pleading I’ve discovered in recent weeks. And Peeta is not one to make me beg, he just likes to take his time. Citing all the nights he spent dreaming of what it would be like to do this together. ‘I want to go slow,’ he’d told me once, when I’d whined greedily, and wheedled him,  trying to urge him to take me faster. ‘I want to enjoy every second,’ he’d explained. ‘I waited for so long for this. For you to be ready. For us,’ he had said, and I had stopped my grumbling. Because he had waited for me. He had waited so hopefully. Been so patient. The least I could do was do the same. 

But sometimes I can’t help the way his name slips out of me, breathlessly. I can’t help the way my hips incline forward of their own accord, seeking his practiced touch at my center. He’d spent so much time learning me, and me him, that we’re experts now in bringing each other pleasure. Peeta though likes to savor whereas I prefer to rush, greedily devouring every touch and kiss, that all-consuming hunger that sings in my veins for him raising its constant song of yes, and more, and please more, chanting above the rush of sensations he draws out in me. 

Whenever we’re together like this, it’s a wonderful battle between his patience and my need, but tonight it's something different. Peeta slips his tongue into my mouth at the same instant two of his fingers work their way into my slick depths and there’s something so raw about the way he kisses me and pumps his fingers into me. It makes me keen into his mouth and rock my hips back and forth, relishing the way he touches me, wanting more of this feeling where the entire world narrows down to his lips on my neck, his hand on my hip, and his fingers filling me. 

“So wet for me,” He murmurs, almost to himself, his eyes trained on the spot where his fingers disappear inside of me with each stroke. “I can feel you gripping my fingers sweetheart,” he says, his voice low and sensual in a way he only sounds here in the privacy of this space. 

He’s right. I clench his fingers with each pass, my body steadily being driven toward its peak under his care. 

“How do you want to come? Just like this? Or on my mouth?” Peeta whispers as he nips my ear. A moan slips out of me, loud and unbidden, and I clamp my mouth shut. 

 “You can be as loud as you want.” He reminds me, fingers never losing their rhythm. His closest neighbors work the late shift. A fact that he’s happily pointed out in the past. I really shouldn’t be so self-conscious anymore but it’s just instinct to guard myself when we’re so vulnerable. Peeta however revels in the freedom of these moments. He often loses himself in the glory of it all, moaning my name without shame, loud strings of praises and encouragement falling from his lips without hesitation. 

“Everyone thinks we’re married anyway.” He has said it so many times I’m beginning to wonder if he just likes the way it sounds. I have several memories of him saying it while his blond hair and blue eyes peeked out at me from between my legs, and his hot tongue stoked the flames of my pleasure into an inferno. 

“One day, I’m going to ask you to marry me for real.” He even told me one night, while he was buried deep inside of me, hips pistoning in and out after I begged quietly and drove him into a frenzy. We both came immediately after I told him that one day I would allow it. 

I’m struck by that particular memory and the immediacy of my need to feel connected with him like that again, to come apart while he talks of our future and he loves me with his body in that determined and relentless way of his. 

“I want  you inside me. Not your fingers. Not your tongue. <em>You.</em> and I want you to tell me again how you’ll never leave. How we’re going to make it through this and come out the other side. How we’ll be together, always.” I say, voice strained and breaking on some words but eyes resolutely locked on his face. 

He stares back at me with awe and reverence and a love so sweet it’s intoxicating and sobering at the same time. 

“I can do that.” He replies, sounding almost as affected as I do. His eyes are shining, and I feel the weight of the moment settle over us. 

He leans down to kiss me, softly, anchoring us together, his eyes closed and his pulse fluttering at his neck even as my own heart beats thunderously loud in my chest. 

“I’d be happy to.” He says, eyes opening slowly as he gives me a look, so transparently pleased and unguarded it tugs at things deep within me. 

We shift until he’s lined up with me, and then he slips in smoothly, helped along because of all the time he’d put into making sure I was properly aroused and ready. 

Twin groans of pleasure spill out of us, combining gently into a sweet note of relief and anticipation for more. I shift my hips, to allow him deeper, as I always do when I want to signal to him that I’m ready. 

Peeta doesn’t miss a beat. He builds up a beautiful chorus of moans and sighs between us with every measured thrust and passion-filled kiss. Its revolutionary in the way the entire feeling sweeps through me, extending out from the place where he buries himself, to the tips of my fingers, until I can pleasure and sweetness building with every inhale. 

“Do you feel this?” He asks, eyes locked on mine. 

I nod at him frantically. 

“This is us.” He tells me at the end of one poignant thrust, demonstrating the physical before he brings one hand up between us. He takes my hand in his and places it over his heart, then he mirrors the action by placing his own large, warm palm over my stuttering heartbeat. “This is us.” My eyes fill with tears. 

He leans his head down to kiss my lips in the gentlest caress, an echo of the kiss we shared in the hovercraft as we flew away from the Quell arena. I just know that is what the kiss is supposed to remind me of. “This is us.” He reiterates, eyes locked on mine again. 

“This is real. We are real, Katniss.” He states. A tear slips freely down the curve of my cheek. I let out a tiny sob. “Yes,” I tell him, reaching up to cup his face. “Real,” I whisper as I kiss his lips. “Mine,” I murmur. “My love,” I state with as much courage as I can before I’m overwhelmed by the feelings breaking loose in my heart and soul at the same time my body starts its inevitable climb. 

“My love,” Peeta agrees in between kisses. “My sweetheart. My woman. My wife. I’m going to marry you someday. Prim and your mother will weave flowers into your hair and we’ll share bread over a fire and toast to all the things that brought us together and only made us stronger. I’ll bake cheese buns for you every day and I’ll love you thoroughly each night and when the nightmares come I’ll hold you. And you’ll hold me and we will have each other for the rest of our days.” He says, promises. 

It's so simple, the picture he paints for me, of a life together filled with good things, the best things, that I’m overcome with the beauty of it. A sharp cry breaks out of me and I fall apart, unraveled by his words and his artistry, and the way he knows me, soul to soul, and everything that would make me happy. 

I drift, boneless and languid in a sea of ebbing pleasure, watching contentedly as he begins to lose himself. His hips falter in their rhythm, his breath stuttering, and his arms straining as he gives in and lets go. I watch as his climax hits him. My eyes lazily and lovingly fix on the way he throws his head back, arches his spine, and stills, except for the haphazard jerk of his pelvis against mine. My name is a wheeze or a whine on his lips that bleeds into a low groan. His adam’s apple bobs and I watch in fascination as the flushed skin of his jaw and neck ripple with the motion of swallowing, making an elegant play of his sparse freckles. 

Yes, I think. Enjoy it, my love. I say without words and he collapses against me, my fingers pushing back the sweaty locks of his hair from his face. 

We will have this moment and many more. I vow as I kiss his warm and slightly stubbled cheek.  I’ll make sure of it. 

[mimzi24]

Mockingjay

Description: Katniss Everdeen, girl on fire, has survived, even though her home has been destroyed. There are the rebels. There are the new leaders. A revolution is unfolding. It is by design that Katniss was rescued from the arena in the cruel and haunting quarter quell, and it is by design that she has long been part of the revolution without knowing it. District 13 really does exist and now it has come out of the shadows and its plotting to overthrow the capitol, everyone, it seems has had a hand in the carefully laid plans except Katniss.

Personal thoughts no spoilers:

This is not one of the best books out of the trio,but i do think as a dystopian novel itself its remarkable and able to capture the essence of a revolution. The movie shouldnt have been in two parts as it is a 390 page book. This book is the heavier and more complicated compared to the others especially. through the eyes of Katniss who is a mentally unstable 17 year old. the epilogue makes the entire book worth it even the bittersweet ending .

Personal thoughts spoilers:

Even though this book and movie is by far not the best out of the three i do think that Mockingjay holds a lot more meaning in the terms of the dystopian novel. How the entire of district 13 runs is an insanely blatant parallel to the capitol except about who rules it. district 13 is completely underground and self sustained using high end technology that we even read being used in the ballad of songbirds and snakes. Where everyone is given food based of off how much they need and severely punished and beaten if they eat to much or to little. Alma coin is the president of district 13 and is described as snake like. She rules with an iron fist and is extremely power hunger as we see how far lengths she will go to keep Katniss under her control. To the point she was willing to kill Katniss and purposefully had primrose killed at 13. The other victors are exploited by coin with Betee being transferred immediately after catching fire to the weapons division while still in his hospital bed while Katniss even after severe injuries is never fully allowed to rest and is constantly brought to meetings and creating "Propos". Katniss's mental health is rarely cared for and it seems as if most of district 13 does not understand that Katniss is a 17 year old with severe PTSD from both games that she played in the span of a year while loosing someone and watching one of the two people she loved be tortured because of her. The ending of Mockingjay solidifies who Katniss really in the face of the revolution, a pawn. She was used by snow as someone who should have riled down the districts and by coin as the face of the rebellion taking it to lengths of willingly allowing her to die. She is even used by Plutarch as stated in the letter he gives her after she kills coin where he says "you were exactly who i believed", this proves he knew Katniss would kill coin and he most likely benefited from it. One major thing at the ending was the bombs used by district 13 that they had disguised as capitol bombs, this is something that does actually happen and has ever since the idea of war has started where the perpetrator plays the victim. Especially with how even killing the medics seemed as prim was 13 at the time and was to young to even be working yet coin allowed for this to happen knowing it would kill her.

worldbuilding:10/9.5

content:10/7.5

plot:8/10

overall:8.5/10

[empiredesimparte]

(Louis, nervous) The more time goes by tonight, the more strange looks I get (Hortense) Don't pay attention Louis, let's pray for Papa

(Prince Joachim) Do you have any information about the attack? (Charlemagne) Yes. I can't say much while His Majesty the Emperor is…

(Prince Joachim) Charles has always dreaded this day. I can't believe it's come so soon (Charlemagne) His Majesty also shared with me his concerns about anti-monarchist movements

(Charlemagne) We shall both do everything in our power to put down these revolts. The Parliament will certainly support us (Prince Joachim) Of course, you can count on me

(Mme Octavie de Maupas) I can't believe that a deputy betrayed the Emperor and that the protestators have so many means! (Mme Valentine de Morny) No one is safe in Francesim anymore (Jean) I failed to protect the Emperor... He trusted me...

(Jean) I'll submit my resignation in the next few hours (Octavia) Don't be too hard on yourself Jean, it was unpredictable. You can't predict the movements of an enraged crowd (Valentine) Mme de Maupas is right

(Louis) Mum should rest, it's going to be a long night (Hortense) How could she? She suffers. If I were her, I could never sleep again

⚜ Le Cabinet Noir | Palais des Tuileries, 22 Germinal An 230

Beginning ▬ Previous ▬ Next

▬ Version Française ▬

Louis : Plus le temps passe ce soir, plus des regards étranges se posent sur moi Hortense : N'y prête pas attention Louis, prions pour Papa

Prince Joachim : Avez-vous des informations sur l'attentat ? Charlemagne : Oui. Je ne peux pas en dire beaucoup tant que Sa Majesté l'Empereur est...

Prince Joachim : Charles a toujours redouté ce jour. Je n'arrive pas à croire qu'il soit arrivé si tôt Charlemagne : ... Sa Majesté m'a aussi partagé ses inquiétudes sur les mouvements anti-monarchistes

Charlemagne : Nous ferons tout deux tout ce qui est en notre pouvoir pour faire cesser ces révoltes. Le Parlement nous soutiendra assurément Joachim : Bien sûr, vous pouvez compter sur moi à ce propos

Mme Octavie de Maupas : Je n'arrive pas à croire qu'un député ait trahi l'Empereur et que les manifestants aient autant de moyens ! Mme Valentine de Morny : Plus personne n'est en sécurité en Francesim Jean : J'ai échoué à la protection de l'Empereur... Il avait confiance en moi...

Jean : Je présenterai ma démission dans les prochaines heures Octavie : Ne soyez pas trop dur avec vous-même Jean, c'était imprévisible. Les mouvements de foules enragées le sont toutes Valentine : Mme de Maupas a raison

Louis : Maman devrait se reposer, la nuit risque d'être longue Hortense : Comment le pourrait-elle ? Elle souffre. A sa place, je ne pourrais plus jamais dormir

[thesilveregg]

As someone who wasn’t a hunger games fan when it came out (I was a toddler) I understand why people hate the movies and their marketing but the arg shit they did for mockingjay is so fucking cool to me. I can’t find the Capitol website so I assume it’s just gone now but all the propos and stuff they released is great. Capitol Tv (the thing they did with the YouTubers) clocked the insidious power of youtube as a tool for radicalization before the rest of us did. Maybe I’m giving them too much credit but like. UGH. I LOVE ARGS

[tenebrisxspelndcr]

[Caesar, propo] Were you close to Gleam? Were you as shocked by her death as the rest of us? Those terrible rebels have no morals. They'll take down anyone for the sake of it.

He's quiet for a moment. "Many of us are close in One." He was perhaps more aloof than most, but watching Gleam be killed on screen had perhaps hit a little too close to home. Ferro being announced interim mayor even closer. There were so many things he wanted to do, the least of which was being here in front of this camera and this man while he spoke about the rebels having no morals. Gloss didn't believe the rebels had killed Gleam, but of course he could also be wrong.

"Yes, I will say I was shocked by her death, Caesar. Weren't we all?" He knew to watch his words. His wife's uncle might be the mayor in One, but that didn't mean his family was safe. That didn't mean Ana and Halo and Cash wouldn't meet the same fate as Gleam if he spoke the thoughts running around his mind.

"There are certainly some who lack morals," he'd agree, but he wouldn't agree it was the rebels. He couldn't really argue that those who lacked the morals were the ones in power, the ones who placed bets on children, who forced children to fight to the death, who then sold and bought many of the survivors of those fights. No, if he spoke those truths aloud well his family and himself would simply become another 'accident' in a long string of 'accidents' that were just more testimony to those who lacked morals. "It's a pity to see."

[ch4tk4t]

Comics Fangirl n°4 - Fangirl X

This review is about "Earth X #0"/1999

Plot by Alex Ross & Jim Krueger

Art by Alex Ross, John Paul Leon, Bill Reinhold and Matt Hollingsworth

Welcome back, my muties 💙 Did you miss me? What do you mean "no"?

Today's review is about the beginning of what is often called the "Earth X trilogy".

The comic starts with a short narration by this universe's Aaron Stack, Machine Man. Quite "à propos" for a character created by our lord and master Jack Kirby for a "2001 a space odyssey" comic adaptation, he is visited by his own black monolith.

He is then almost instantly transported to the moon by none other than Uatu, the watcher. He strips him of his "humanity", forcing him to expose his artifical nature. He reinforces that transformation by refusing to address him by his human name, calling him "X-51" instead.

Uatu then proceeds to recount the birth of the human race, following the Celestial's tampering with humanity's genome, "planting a seed". When Aaron contests Uatu's cold description of events, the watcher talks down to him like he would a child. Aaron holds on to his humanity and can't help but confront the watcher on details he disagrees on. The watcher tries his best to force a cold analysis of how the "Age of Heroes" was prepared for by the Celestials and is all part of a grand design. According to him, the events that changed the Fantastic Four, Spider-Man, and all the others, only resulted in them gaining their abilities because of the "Celestial seed". By Uatu's account, there are no "accidents", only a master plan that spans millenias.

Uatu continues his description, arriving to what is, at the time of writting "present day". The Watcher tells Aaron he brought him here for a reason. Ironically for a watcher, Uatu cannot see anymore. He needs someone whose mind won't melt in the face of the massive amounts of info to process as a watcher, and Aaron, who he insists on dehumanizing, seems like the perfect candidate...

This concludes the first volume of a saga that spans three dense series. The story starts slow, but trust me it goes places,and covers just about everything in the Marvel catalog at the time.

Ever wondered what's up with the divinities in the Marvel universe? What difference is there between mutants and the rest of the super-powered population? All that and more is addressed in this "trilogy". The themes touched upon are "What defines humanity?", "can we control fate?", "what is right or wrong, and do such notions matter in the grand scheme of things?".

Needless to say, if you're looking for some easy reading with light, superficial themes (*kof*MCU*kof*), this is not the series for you. This is comics at their best, full of pathos and philosophical explorations. In my opinion, this is a fantastically written book, on par with the original Watchmen and the likes.

I give this comic a Dystopia/10

Talk to you later, true believers!

Fangirl out.

[ao3feed-tolkien]

Le Seigneur des Anneaux : La Rédemption de Mairon

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/lLfKYij

by Alatariel2607

Deux ans après la chute de Sauron, bien avant la Dagor Dagorath à la fin de toutes choses, les âmes sœurs se retrouvent à Valinor, un fils prodigue revient et des amis se rejoignent sous un soleil rouge et partagent leurs histoires...

[Les livres d'histoire disent que Sauron a mis tellement de lui-même dans l'Anneau Unique qu'à la fin, quand il a été défait, il ne restait plus grand-chose de lui. Mais comme nous le savons tous, l'histoire est écrite par les vainqueurs. Lorsque Námo attrapa tous les restes de son esprit et de son essence, il en trouva plus que certains ne l'avaient pensé initialement, et tout n'était pas que de l'obscurité. Pourtant, tout ce qui restait de lui serait peut-être banni dans le Vide. Du moins, à condition qu'il n'y ait pas de prophétie à la clef et que Galadriel ne se démène pas pour qu'il retrouve son chemin vers elle.]

Et si la prophétie de Mandos se réalisait, que Morgoth brisait la Porte de la Nuit, s'échappait du Vide et détruisait le Soleil et la Lune, qu'arriverait-il ensuite ?

Le premier chapitre débute juste après le dernier chapitre du Seigneur des Anneaux. Contient des spoils à propos de la série : Les Anneaux de Pouvoirs.

Words: 1758, Chapters: 1/?, Language: Français

Fandoms: The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power (TV 2022), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

Categories: F/M, M/M

Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Frodo Baggins, Galadriel | Artanis, Sauron | Mairon, Gandalf | Mithrandir, Elrond Peredhel

Relationships: Galadriel | Artanis/Halbrand (The Rings of Power), Celeborn/Galadriel | Artanis, Elrond Peredhel & Galadriel | Artanis & Gandalf | Mithrandir, Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel, Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/lLfKYij

[mutations-protoplasmiques]

Et en avant le conte de fées !

Tout français a fait un buzz pour financer ses études dans le domaine du neuromarketing, les médias s'emparent du sujet dans un clip vidéo apparu sur Tiktok, les enfants sont couchés, on peut lancer la grande machine à rêve depuis un formulaire certifié 12, soit le plus haut niveau de loufoquerie selon un barème plus ou moins arbitraire établi par un fonctionnaire de province dont le père a sombré dans l'alcoolisme. "C'est tout sauf du repos", balance Léonard de Vinci en bon joueur d'échecs et patron du CAC 40 et cofondateur du département des Bouches-du-Rhône. Si vous pensiez vous offrir un train de vie luxueux avec de vrais professionnels du trafic de citrons moscovites, ceci n'était qu'un test mais on les voit à la télé après avoir démoli le signal envoyé par les Russes à terme de faire des partenariats gagnants-gagnants et questionne le sérieux de vendre du rêve aux gens sur l'île au régime fiscal de fête foraine. "Mais c'est de la pure tromperie", indique Bruno Blackbook, l'homme qui a inventé le placement de produits. "À la limite la power balance tourne en leur faveur mais multiplier les procédures contre les petites start-up, c'est over-pas-constructif, si vous voulez mon avis je préfère encore vivre la canicule de l'été 2022 que revisionner Jurassic Park 1 voilà comme ça c'est dit", poursuit notre interlocuteur qui doit gérer en même temps ses relations presses depuis bientôt sept ans. Son projet n'est pas forcément illégal mais pour faire carrière tout est permis on décortique le jet privé, on trinque au troc d'influenceurs et même s'offrir un spot de pub entre deux répliques de Plus Belle la Vie en sirotant un limoncello à 1200e.

Actuellement sans emploi et bon quoi on rêve tous de devenir comme eux vendre du rêve aux gens, la villa paradisiaque, le blanchiment des dents, des témoignages qui tranchent dans le bad buzz hégémonique ni les internautes à la place du slogan ni la tenue cuir-crochet de l'entrepreneur punk luxembourgeois n'en a pas l'utilité de porter un message qui plafonne sous la barre des 500 pizzaïolos si elle n'a pas encore décroché de contrats avec des sponsors américains trop beaux pour être vrais, reste que la fiabilité du projet interroge le process historique du marketing digital qui est en fait un programme indépendant que la myriade gouvernementale de la documentation validée par simple captcha sont tous hébergés à la même adresse mal référencée avant d'être rapatriée à une erreur de débutante au lendemain de notre entretien téléphonique ont eu accès a du contenu sponsorisé mais ça ne coûte rien d'essayer - suite page 12, suite de la page 11 - n'ont jamais dégainé l'angoisse de gérer l'entreprise individuelle qui s'occupe de toutes les démarches, escroquerie à la carte bleue et de pointer au pôle emploi après avoir été contacté sur Telegram par un mort-vivant geek et asocial qui résiste à ses instincts cannibales, préfère jouer à Resident Evil dans sa piaule. Alicia Merlu, coach conseils en marketing et communication, se souvient de ses débuts avec beaucoup d'émotions : "Je vais vous faire pleurer mais j'ai bien connu le zéro rentrée d'argent, j'ai pas dépassé les 77 followers en douze ans d'activité alors que ma sœur est bilingue et j'ai appris à repasser la moquette", telle est la dure réalité du marché des influenceurs à l'heure de la crise des passoires thermiques et du réchauffement culturel.

Notre journaliste s'est fait passer pour un vrai professionnel du sponsoring qui en fonction de l'horoscope de la semaine énumère des noms de sociétés fictives spécialisées dans la blockchain avant de préciser ses propos par un vocabulaire circassien financé par un fond d'assurance formation. Du pain bénit pour les certificats intelligents et détectives en exercice libéral, mais business is business disait la voix au bout du fil, c'est que l'école a créé de toutes pièces un fond interprofessionnel pour la prise de parole téléphonique dans les campings des Alpes de Haute-Provence. Même constat pour l'éditeur de mots-fléchés qui s'expose à un risque de médiatisation accrue : 375 000 abonnés supplémentaires pour une marque subtilement évoquée en story et un numéro injoignable si on refuse de manger les fameux citrons russes par SMS. Pire, votre vie de couple devient prioritaire, dixit l'horoscope Poissons du 30 septembre, alors répondez au questionnaire et ouvrez une entreprise pour promouvoir avec nous le body positivism les réseaux privés virtuels et en avant le conte de fées !

Texte créé à partir de l'article "École d'influenceurs - Very important pipeau" paru dans Libération n°12790 (4/8/22)

[sirisuorionblack]

Sirius Black

Love potion -  Love potion perhaps wouldn't always be a bad thing, for once in Sirius Black's life it was the best thing to happen though he didn't know it.

It's Mrs Potter -  When Sirius ran away from...Grimmauld Place 13 and got shelter in with the Potters he knew one thing, he finally had a family.

Counting -  (Y/N) had been waiting for four very painful hours for the return of her boyfriend and he did just for mere minutes but she was determined to get him back.

One Spanish latte -  The one time where (Y/N) was soo naïve and got an internship, and that led to three roommates and that led to one love. (Muggle AU)

Babysitting but not my kids -  James will hereafter never be allowed to do anything alone or at least anything without Remus. Oh, and by the way, Remus almost hates babysitting.

An unsafe home - Requested - It's rather stunning for Sirius how the thick rivalling atmosphere Hogwarts held, a sense of unprotected in his very home, and it all reflected when you, the love of his life, was one of the victims.

His perfect Ravenclaw -  Requested - A little something that you have been hiding from the love of your life had come tumbling your lips in one heated argument and you were quite surprised at the reaction.

Until the very end - Requested - Realising you are in love is tough and expressing it is quite difficult. But for Sirius Black, it happened in a short period of time and in the place where he would have never expected to confess his undying love yet he promises.

Forced - Being in an arranged marriage with a Black was something you considered your doom, but when it is Sirius Black it wasn't a doom rather a portal to such a beautiful life you never knew you would have.

Not my type - Requested - It was difficult watching your best friends pin after each other yet never do anything about it, and James, exhausted of it, decided to take matters into his own hands and what weapon more powerful than Jealousy could be used.

Number one priority - Sirius had lost his ability to hear at the age of 16 and only at 25 did he worry that he couldn't hear anymore or perhaps, ever.

Little family - just a little night with Sirius and his daughter.

Prongs' baby sister - Requested - You were just Prongs' sister. Atleast that's what Sirius said to supress his feelings but one ball and a few conversations with his best friends proved him wrong.

Deserve - Requested - A drunk night filled with drama and insecurity plaguing every corner led to something constant for the rest of your lives.

Domestic bliss -  There were soo many perks of having a preganant voice but the most precious to Sirius was your long, lusious hair.

Husbands and fairy tales - Requested - When your life with your parents was enough problematic, you didn't dare expect your life to be a fairy tale but Sirius Black proved you wrong on every front.

Lies of a Love Story - Its been five months since your husband was sentenced to Azkaban and upon hearing the song you sang to him made all the past memories come tumbling in.

A beautiful birthday gift - Requested - Diwali had been something that Sirius knew nothing of and the one you always looked for but when it clashes with Sirius' birthday, you have the best gift planned.

Criminal Lover - Requested - Sirius was not supposed to feel all he did, but the regrets of falling in love with his best friend's sister never inkled in him. Even if it turned his best friend into a raging lion.

Skies of worlds -  the character in a book falling in love with the reader. (Blurb)

Stories and Promises - Requested - Once best friends; now turned against each other because of broken promises. But why would you keep a grude against a mutual misunderstanding?

Remus Lupin

Professor Lupin -  Requested - When Remus Lupin is back to the place he held close to his heart he is reunited with memories and the high-school crush comes tumbling along.

Moony 2.O -  Marauders is a famous rock band composed of two fathers and the Black brothers. When Sirius proposed that Remus’ daughter shall sing a song, who is Remus to deny, but well, his wife can be a little apprehensive.

Little human -  With a newborn baby Remus and his wife is confused to find a godfather and at the precise moment, James once again jumps in to help them out.

My princess -  Drunk Remus has more audacity to confess his love to his wife that he had been a well...an arse. (Muggle AU)

Marry me - Requested - Remus loves showering you with love and this was just another day where he did it differently and more efficiently.

Wonders in the Rain -  After being unemployed for very long Remus reluctantly allowed his best friend to find him a job as the PA of her boss. And he would forever be grateful to her for that.

Notes and confessions - Requested - Books and libraries were a dream for Remus and that is exactly where he finds the person he would love for the rest of his life. Albeit a spoiled first impression.

James Potter

James the mother hen - Requested - It is really difficult for James to play against his girlfriend and even more difficult to watch her get hurt.

The new keeper - Requested -  James couldnt take his eyes off the new Ravenclaw keeper and she figures ot he does the last thing he thought he would ever do - get flustered.

Marlene McKinnon

Sleep - Requested -  the mornings with your girlfriend is almost always the best and especially when the two of your are wrapped in comfort and loving embrace.

Wolfstar

It was perfect - At the age of 30 Remus Lupin or should I say Remus Lupin-Black was settled with a perfect husband, a perfect daughter and a perfect life, it was almost unbelievable for him.

Truth or dare -  Requested - Boredom is always said to lead to undesirable things. And if a product of such boredom is a game of truth or dare including James Potter, the wingman since 1975, it has quite a few exciting results.

Regulus Black

Big brother James - Requested - You - the potter girl, a member of the order of the phoenix and a brave Gryffindor - are dating Regulus Black - the perfect Black, a death eater and a quiet Slytherin. Despite having a perfect relationship it was hidden from your brother and when James finds out, you were rather stunned.

Piercing Shards of Glasses - Requested - Regulus is understanding of his to-be-wife but Sirius is scared his little brother would get in trouble, yet, there always seems to be light in the dark tunnel of Regulus' life.

Coward - Requested - You who held onto an academic feud with Regulus become his wife and despite everything he felt himself fall for your rare smiles.

[katnissmellarkkk]

Hmmm I should probably wait another day to post part two of Finnick being there for Everlark / being their friend but I don’t wanna sooo. Here it is 🤗

-

I see my mother lead in a group of mobile patients, still wearing their hospital nightgowns and robes. Finnick stands among them, looking dazed but gorgeous. In his hands he holds a piece of thin rope, less than a foot in length, too short for even him to fashion into a usable noose. His fingers move rapidly, automatically tying and unraveling various knots as he gazes about. Probably part of his therapy. I cross to him and say, “Hey, Finnick.” He doesn’t seem to notice, so I nudge him to get his attention. “Finnick! How are you doing?”

“Katniss,” he says, gripping my hand. Relieved to see a familiar face, I think.

-

Finnick, who’s been wandering around the set for a few hours, comes up behind me and says with a hint of his old humor, “They’ll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you.”

-

Just as the elevator arrives, Finnick appears in a state of agitation. “Katniss, they won’t let me go! I told them I’m fine, but they won’t even let me ride in the hovercraft!”

I take in Finnick — his bare legs showing between his hospital gown and slippers, his tangle of hair, the half-knotted rope twisted around his fingers, the wild look in his eyes — and know any plea on my part will be useless. Even I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring him. So I smack my hand on my forehead and say, “Oh, I forgot. It’s this stupid concussion. I was supposed to tell you to report to Beetee in Special Weaponry. He’s designed a new trident for you.”

At the word trident, it’s as if the old Finnick surfaces. “Really? What’s it do?”

“I don’t know. But if it’s anything like my bow and arrows, you’re going to love it,” I say. “You’ll need to train with it, though.”

“Right. Of course. I guess I better get down there,” he says.

“Finnick?” I say. “Maybe some pants?”

He looks down at his legs as if noticing his outfit for the first time. Then he whips off his hospital gown, leaving him in just his underwear. “Why? Do you find this”— he strikes a ridiculously provocative pose —“distracting?”

I can’t help laughing because it’s funny, and it’s extra funny because it makes Boggs look so uncomfortable, and I’m happy because Finnick actually sounds like the guy I met at the Quarter Quell.

“I’m only human, Odair.” I get in before the elevator doors close.

-

At dinner, Finnick brings his tray to my bed so we can watch the newest propo together on television. He was assigned quarters on my old floor, but he has so many mental relapses, he still basically lives in the hospital.

-

Finnick presses the button on the remote that kills the power. In a minute, people will be here to do damage control on Peeta’s condition and the words that came out of his mouth. I will need to repudiate them. But the truth is, I don’t trust the rebels or Plutarch or Coin. I’m not confident that they tell me the truth. I won’t be able to conceal this. Footsteps are approaching.

Finnick grips me hard by the arms. “We didn’t see it.”

“What?” I ask.

“We didn’t see Peeta. Only the propo on Eight. Then we turned the set off because the images upset you. Got it?” he asks. I nod. “Finish your dinner.”

-

“This is what they’re doing to you with Annie, isn’t it?” I ask.

“Well, they didn’t arrest her because they thought she’d be a wealth of rebel information,” he says. “They know I’d never have risked telling her anything like that. For her own protection.”

“Oh, Finnick. I’m so sorry,” I say.

“No, I’m sorry. That I didn’t warn you somehow,” he tells me.

Suddenly, a memory surfaces. I’m strapped to my bed, mad with rage and grief after the rescue. Finnick is trying to console me about Peeta. “They’ll figure out he doesn’t know anything pretty fast. And they won’t kill him if they think they can use him against you.”

“You did warn me, though. On the hovercraft. Only when you said they’d use Peeta against me, I thought you meant like bait. To lure me into the Capitol somehow,” I say.

“I shouldn’t have said even that. It was too late for it to be of any help to you. Since I hadn’t warned you before the Quarter Quell, I should’ve shut up about how Snow operates.”

-

Finnick and I sit for a long time in silence, watching the knots bloom and vanish, before I can ask, “How do you bear it?”

Finnick looks at me in disbelief. “I don’t, Katniss! Obviously, I don’t. I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there’s no relief in waking.” Something in my expression stops him. “Better not to give in to it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart.”

Well, he must know. I take a deep breath, forcing myself back into one piece.

“The more you can distract yourself, the better,” he says. “First thing tomorrow, we’ll get you your own rope. Until then, take mine.”

-

The camera pulls back to include Peeta, off to one side in front of a projected map of Panem. He's sitting in an elevated chair, his shoes supported by a metal rung. The foot of his prosthetic leg taps out a strange irregular beat. Beads of sweat have broken through the layer of powder on his upper lip and forehead. But it's the look in his eyes--angry yet unfocused--that frightens me the most.

"He's worse," I whisper. Finnick grasps my hand, to give me an anchor, and I try to hang on.

-

“You have two hours to get footage showing the damage from the bombing, establish that Thirteen’s military unit remains not only functional but dominant, and, most important, that the Mockingjay is still alive. Any questions?”

“Can we have a coffee?” asks Finnick.

Steaming cups are handed out. I stare distastefully at the shiny black liquid, never having been much of a fan of the stuff, but thinking it might help me stay on my feet.

Finnick sloshes some cream in my cup and reaches into the sugar bowl. “Want a sugar cube?” he asks in his old seductive voice. That’s how we met, with Finnick offering me sugar. Surrounded by horses and chariots, costumed and painted for the crowds, before we were allies. Before I had any idea what made him tick. The memory actually coaxes a smile out of me. “Here, it improves the taste,” he says in his real voice, plunking three cubes in my cup.

-

Haymitch’s footsteps are still echoing in the outer hall when I fumble my way through the slit in the dividing curtain to find Finnick sprawled out on his stomach, his hands twisted in his pillowcase. Although it’s cowardly — cruel even — to rouse him from the shadowy, muted drug land to stark reality, I go ahead and do it because I can’t stand to face this by myself.

As I explain our situation, his initial agitation mysteriously ebbs. “Don’t you see, Katniss, this will decide things. One way or the other. By the end of the day, they’ll either be dead or with us. It’s . . . it’s more than we could hope for!”

Well, that’s a sunny view of our situation. And yet there’s something calming about the idea that this torment could come to an end.

-

I want to run, but Finnick’s acting so strange, as if he’s lost the ability to move, so I take his hand and lead him like a small child.

-

"Oh, Peeta," says Finnick lightly. "Don't make me sorry I restarted your heart." He leads Annie away after giving me a concerned glance.

-

I'm unaware that my feet are moving to the table until I'm inches from the holograph. My hand reaches in and cups a rapidly blinking green light.

Someone joins me, his body tense. Finnick, of course. Because only a victor would see what I see so immediately. The arena. Laced with pods controlled by Gamemakers. Finnick's fingers caress a steady red glow over a doorway. "Ladies and gentlemen..."

His voice is quiet, but mine rings through the room. "Let the Seventy-sixth Hunger Games begin!"

I laugh. Quickly. Before anyone has time to register what lies beneath the words I have just uttered. Before eyebrows are raised, objections are uttered, two and two are put together, and the solution is that I should be kept as far away from the Capitol as possible. Because an angry, independently thinking victor with a layer of psychological scar tissue too thick to penetrate is maybe the last person you want on your squad.

"I don't even know why you bothered to put Finnick and me through training, Plutarch," I say.

"Yeah, we're already the two best-equipped soldiers you have," Finnick adds cockily.

"Do not think that fact escapes me," he says with an impatient wave. "Now back in line, Soldiers Odair and Everdeen. I have a presentation to finish."

-

Boggs told Peeta to sleep out in full view where the rest of us could keep an eye on him. He isn't sleeping, though. Instead, he sits with his bag pulled up to his chest, clumsily trying to make knots in a short length of rope. I know it well. It's the one Finnick lent me that night in the bunker. Seeing it in his hands, it's like Finnick's echoing what Haymitch just said, that I've cast off Peeta.

-

He weaves the rope in and out of his fingers. "The problem is, I can't tell what's real anymore, and what's made up."

The cessation of rhythmic breathing suggests that either people have woken or have never really been asleep at all. I suspect the latter.

Finnick's voice rises from a bundle in the shadows. "Then you should ask, Peeta. That's what Annie does.”

-

Masks go on. Finnick adjusts Peeta's mask over his lifeless face.

-

"I just murdered a member of our squad!" shouts Peeta.

"You pushed him off you. You couldn't have known he would trigger the net at that exact spot," says Finnick, trying to calm him.

"Who cares? He's dead, isn't he?" Tears begin to run down Peeta's face. "I didn't know. I've never seen myself like that before. Katniss is right. I'm the monster. I'm the mutt. I'm the one Snow has turned into a weapon!"

“It's not your fault, Peeta," says Finnick.

-

I shout a warning to the others to stay with me. I plan for us to skirt around the corner and then detonate the Meat Grinder, but another unmarked pod lies in wait.

It happens silently. I would miss it entirely if Finnick didn't pull me to a stop. "Katniss!"

-

[diifacto]

In honour of the recent release of The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, let me just drop some thoughts about Hunger Games.

I’ve been reading a lot of reviews lately, and one thing they all seem to have in common is that most people loved The Hunger Games itself, but lost interest after the actual “games” portion of the novels disappeared. That the complicated politics got boring and the propos were so fake and the love triangle was unsatifisying and out of place amid all this war; that Katniss acted like a puppet in Mockingjay—I’ve seen people complain about how present her PTSD is and how it’s confusing to read; about how everything she did was for show; I’ve even seen her compared to Bella Swan. And I’m here to tell you that all that is the point.

So many authors have tried to replicate what Suzanne Collins did with Hunger Games—she created an entire YA subgenre. But nothing’s gotten it right. Why? Why do so many people love The Hunger Games, but drop the sequels as “boring” and “fake”? Why do so many authors trying to replicate Hunger Games’ sensationalism go off the rails in their third installment? (Looking at you for that one, Divergent.)

To put it simply: politics.

Gonna get a bit English student/history major-ish here, but Suzanne Collins’ writing of the political climate and power struggle in Hunger Games is absolutely fantastic. In Mockingjay particularly, Collins presents a fascinating commentary on authoritarianism through contrasting President Coin with President Snow, showing the former to be—true to her name—just another side of the same coin as Panem’s dictator. If you’d like, connections can certainly be drawn to specific political parties, with Snow, of course, being your far-right fascist, and Coin your far-left communist, but Collins’ message in this commentary isn’t centered on labels like that. In a way, her handling of the issue reminds me of George Orwell’s 1984, with the Party never being specified as leftist or rightist, just totalitarian. The message is the same: whether communist, fascist, far-left, far-right, whatever you want to call yourself—totalitarianism is bad, kids. Authoritarianism is bad. Remember, the political spectrum isn’t a line, it’s a circle—and it all comes down to dictatorships and tyrannical rulers.

And that’s where everyone goes wrong, readers and authors alike. Because Suzanne Collins does what the media does: hides it under all these layers of drama, intrigue, bloodbaths, horror, love triangles, until the politics get all blurry. That’s art imitating life, right there.

Gonna drag poor Divergent along for sec, because it reminded me of The Hunger Games, in a lot of ways. Dystopian YA with some really nice commentary on society. Loved the first book; I still go back and reread it, and while lacking in certain qualities, what novel isn’t? But Roth lost that thread in the conclusion, because I feel, like so many others, she fell into Collins’ trap about what makes Hunger Games so good. The drama. The love triangle. The horror. The bloody, shocking plot twist. Not politics.

Let’s unpack the rest of it, here, too:

The love triangle is supposed to feel fake and out of place, because it is. (I mean, I’d argue there isn’t even a real love triangle, but that’s a whole other debate I’ll bring up again sometime.) It’s a fabrication used by those in power throughout the novel to distract from the Capitol’s crimes, and the fact real people fixate on it in Hunger Games to this is extent means Collins’ commentary on the issue is entirely correct. And similarly, this sort of media war District 13 and the Capital have in Mockingjay, with Katniss doing propos and Peeta being tortured into interviews—yes, it is fake. It’s propaganda; that’s the whole point.

As for Katniss acting like a puppet, I’d argue that as illustrated by a notable plot twist near the end of the novel (and numerous events throughout, on that note), Katniss was acting and thinking independently. I’d also take care to point out that Katniss is seventeen years old and deeply traumatized. One of the things I love about YA are the young, teenaged protagonists doing incredible things, and living through impossible horrors—but I’ll be the first to admit sometimes it gets unrealistic. Collins takes a more realistic approach. Katniss has PTSD; Collins writes this. Katniss has been used as a puppet by the rebellion so long, can she even consider not acting as their figurehead; Collins discusses this. Katniss is a seventeen-year-old whose main concern is protecting the people she loves, one of whom is Peeta; Collins writes her actions to reflect this. Just because Katniss doesn’t go full-badass-archer, front-lines-in-the-war-effort like we saw in the actual Games of the first two installments—and have seen many protagonists do in other series—doesn’t mean she’s not fighting back and staying true to herself the whole time.

Again, it’s a different kind of fight, politics.

So my point is, Hunger Games is driven by politics. Suzanne Collins presents some very intelligent points on politics, to a YA audience. And, ten years after she published Mockingjay, she’s back with a novel on the early life and rise of a dictator. So what, pray tell, might she be trying to say?

[claraluciani]

PORTRAIT : Clara Luciani, montée victorieuse.

Extirpée du mal-être provincial, la chanteuse défend un premier album féministe, tout en veillant à faire la part des choses.

Au milieu de la conversation, Clara Luciani aurait aimé glisser une citation de Flaubert, y renonçant faute de s'en souvenir avec exactitude et d'avoir son portable à portée de la main pour servir d'antisèche. Non que la musicienne pousse le fantasme romanesque jusqu'à se projeter en Bovary des années YouTube et Spotify. Mais, plus sobrement, car l'auguste Gustave a parfaitement su transcrire, selon elle, cette atonie de la vie en «région» - selon le vocable désormais homologué - qui aura tant plombé sa prime jeunesse. A défaut, la Méridionale se souviendra en revanche de la Chanson des jumelles des Demoiselles de Rochefort, de Jacques Demy : «Mais j'en ai jusque-là, la province m'ennuie / Je veux vivre à présent de mon art à Paris.»

Sitôt dit, telle la Zazie de Queneau, voici donc l'inspirée aspirante - jadis fan de l'interprète homonyme d'Un point c'est toi, premier concert de sa vie, où l'emmènera son père - qui gagne la capitale en 2011, «la guitare sur le dos»… Au grand dam de parents nourrissant pour leur progéniture «l'espoir d'une vie stable et d'un travail correct» (sic), dans le prolongement d'une scolarité rectiligne jalonnée de bonnes notes, jusqu'à des études d'histoire de l'art conséquemment abrégées à Aix-en-Provence. Mais, à propos d'ex, c'est une rupture amoureuse après deux années d'idylle qui va inciter Clara Luciani, au seuil de la vingtaine et au bord du précipice, à prendre la tangente. Et modifier le cours d'une existence qui la voit désormais épousseter les contours crédibles d'une chanson francophone pleine d'allant, où les filles (Juliette Armanet, Angèle…) squattent le haut du panier.

Sorti début avril, son premier album au relief vigoureux, Sainte-Victoire, porte jusque dans l'énoncé la promesse d'une pop altière, où le cachet d'un timbre grave dénué de fioriture transmue le chagrin d'amour en résilience crâne. A l'instar du titre d'ouverture, qui fait office de sésame radiophonique - la Grenade : «Hé toi, qu'est-ce que tu regardes ? / T'as jamais vu une femme qui se bat ? / Suis-moi dans la ville blafarde / Et je te montrerai comme je mords / Comme j'aboie.»

De fait, Clara Luciani a du chien, grande brune à frange aux cheveux aussi longs et lisses, que le regard se coordonne à un franc-parler suffisamment avenant pour inciter à mettre les poncifs («en sortant une chanson, il faut accepter qu'elle nous échappe»… «je reçois beaucoup d'amour et vis les choses intensément…») sur le compte du noviciat. Avec un père employé de banque (et fan des Beatles, William Sheller, Jacques Higelin) et une mère aide-soignante, évoqués du bout des lèvres, la Provençale ne s'encombre guère, de toute façon, des artifices de la bienséance people, elle qui pousse dans la méritocratie d'un milieu «très modeste» où, aux fringues et au cinéma qui «coûtent cher», on préfère une fréquentation assidue de la bibliothèque, avec Colette et Virginia Woolf pour vade-mecum.Pourtant, même complété par une sœur aînée également versée dans la musique, le contexte familial a beau sembler stable, le quotidien à Septèmes-les-Vallons, localité limitrophe du nord de Marseille, n'en est pas moins perçu comme pesant par Clara Luciani. «La lecture, l'écriture et la guitare m'ont bien aidée, resitue-t-elle aujourd'hui. Car à 11 ans, je mesurais déjà 1, 76 m, et les moqueries dont je faisais l'objet ont laissé en moi des séquelles dont, même parvenue à l'âge adulte, il n'est pas évident de se défaire. Dès que j'entrais quelque part, je percevais ma taille comme un handicap, tout comme je détestais ma voix. Jusqu'au moment où, ces "singularités" enfin admises, la scène m'a aidé à surmonter mes fragilités.»

«Il existe une dimension mélancolique et torturée chez Clara qui, de par son physique et son statut social, en a bavé pour faire sa mue, complète Pierre Cornet, le patron de son label, qui la connaît depuis plusieurs années. Mais, fondamentalement travailleuse dans un milieu artistique où tant de jeunes prétendants sont issus de la petite et grande bourgeoisies, elle a su, parallèlement à des jobs de boulangère, de serveuse de pizzeria ou d'hôtesse lui permettant de joindre les deux bouts, révéler un potentiel qui ne doit rien à personne.»

Vivant aujourd'hui en colocation - mais pas à la colle, nuance - avec son claviériste, dans le XVIIIe arrondissement de Paris, Clara Luciani a accroché le bon wagon en sympathisant avec le chanteur du groupe dans l'air du temps, la Femme, qui, de passage dans le Sud, lui a confié son numéro de téléphone. La civilisation byzantine, qu'elle a commencé à étudier sans conviction à la fac, n'y survit pas. Empoignant le micro comme une bouée de sauvetage, Clara Luciani collectionne alors les rencontres et collaborations, avec la Femme, donc, mais aussi Nekfeu, Calogero, Raphaël et surtout Benjamin Biolay, qui la chaperonne. Dégoupillé en plein hourvari féministe, l'album de l'auteure-compositrice d'ascendance corse et sicilienne est perçu par certain(e)s comme la bande-son de cette Drôle d'époque, titre d'une des chansons, qui dit : «Où sont passés tes seins ? / Ta cambrure de félin ? / Tantôt mère nourricière, tantôt putain vulgaire / Conduis-toi, conduis-toi, conduis-toi / Comme une femme, une femme.» L'admiratrice de Françoise Hardy ne rentre cependant qu'à pas feutrés dans la mêlée. «Avant tout autobiographique, mon disque détaille des sensations physiques et émotionnelles très personnelles. Après, si on élargit la considération, je possède bien sûr une fibre engagée et souhaite que le débat survive aux hashtags, punchlines et récupérations commerciales du moment, tels les flocages "girl power" de Zara. Mais le fond de ma pensée reste qu'il faut savoir nuancer son propos en refusant de banaliser les frotteurs, comme de diaboliser les hommes à la première occasion.»

A part ça, Clara Luciani concède changer d'état d'esprit comme de tee-shirt («un jour, je trouve tout le monde magnifique, et le lendemain, tout me paraît insurmontable !») ; voter à chaque élection - sans daigner préciser la nature du bulletin ; ne souscrire à aucun dogme religieux ; et espérer «construire une famille, le jour où la musique ne sera plus une priorité absolue».

Illustré par un large sourire, c'est un vibrant et spontané «trop cool !» qui ponctue la rencontre. Sans qu'on comprenne exactement à quoi l'envolée se réfère.

Article par Gilles Renault, photo Yann Rabanier pour Libération (10 juin 2018)

[gunmada]

What Is Percussion Therapy?

What Is Percussion Therapy? Heres the Deep (Tissue) Dive What it is Research How to get your hands on it Considerations Alternatives Youa propos splayed out concerning the couch after a grueling hike/climb/workout. Your muscles are screaming for mercy.

You could attempt to Netflix through the insipid aspiration, photograph album a deep tissue rub for tomorrow, or come to for a recovery tool that soothes the sore spot ASAP and prevents soreness sophisticated.

Does that third option strike your fancy? Lets come clean a see at the science of percussion therapy, benefit how to properly use a smear gun.

Percussion therapy 101 What is percussion therapy?

Percussion therapy is a type of rub therapy meant to soothe boil muscles after intense workouts. It involves using a rub gun to neatly strike muscle tissue, increasing blood flow for faster recovery, hurting support, and augmented range of argument.

Does percussion therapy feign?

Research is ongoing, but for that observations far afield afield it seems subsequent to percussion therapy could auspices boost range of to-do and prevent delayed-onset muscle soreness (DOMS).

How realize you use a rub gun?

Most rub guns are intended to be held gently closely your skin and moved happening and down down a muscle for 30 seconds to 2 minutes. (This can be another for exchange models, even though, so always follow your specific smooth guns instructions for the best results.)

AndreyPopov/Getty Images What exactly is percussion therapy? Percussion therapy (aka percussive therapy) is exactly what it sounds once: a type of rhythmic smear that pummels your soft tissue in front curt striking motions.

Why would you lack to realize that? It helps profit your blood circulating to serve p.s.-workout soreness and readiness occurring muscle recovery. Some folks along with use it as a allowance of their exercise warmup.

Instead of a rub therapists hands, percussion therapy involves a smear gun. The DIY aspect has made altogether total shebang wildly popular, especially in these pandemic period.

Percussion therapy is also bearing in mind vibration therapy, which could affix vibrating plates, foam rollers, or handheld devices. Massage guns consent vibration to the neighboring level by dialing occurring the pressure.

Heres what the science says about percussion daub A DIY deep tissue daub understandable anytime, anywhere sounds then a objective. Research is yet in press on, but thus far science suggests that dreams might arrive definite.

Heres what we know just about the advance of rub guns.

May assist nervous, everyday twinge muscles Shoulders knotted happening after arm day? We look you.

Research hasnt declared that percussion therapy can in incline toward of fact soothe sensitive publicize-workout stiffness. Some research habit as well as in 1990 suggested that it didnt promptness going on unexpected-term recovery. But a much more recent 2019 breakdown noted that percussion therapy may be useful against muscle fatigue.

So, whats going around here? It seems behind we still compulsion more research to locate out whether smooth guns actually dispel muscle inflammation or tightness. But lots of fans statement it makes them setting greater than before, in view of that it could be worth a plan.

Increases circulation Wanna environment greater than before publicize-workout? Studies have the funds for advice that swift recovery (keeping your body upsetting after your workout) can in the back happening you feel enlarged and stronger after an intense workout. Among supplementary promote, this type of recovery promotes healthy circulation.

Massage, especially percussive daub, can with preserve your blood moving. Vibration and gently pounding your muscles declare-workout helps collect blood flow, which improves your muscle recovery.

Improves range of outfit Enthusiasts accustom their rub guns boost their range of doings. Science seems into the future to.

One tiny 2020 scrutiny of 16 healthy men found that a 5-minute smear gun treatment in the region of the calf muscle led to greater range of leisure leisure movement than clearly resting for the similar amount of period.

Thats not plenty scientific evidence to melody for resolved, but it is promising. If youregarding hoping to atmosphere a tiny looser, a smooth gun might be a comfortable associate in crime to your pre- and reveal-workout stretch sessions.

Might prevent DOMS Ever felt pleasant after a sweat sesh only to wake happening boil and feeble the neighboring hours of daylight? Blame delayed onset muscle soreness (DOMS).

A 2014 scrutiny found that vibration therapy and daub are both in force at preventing DOMS. Researchers at odds 45 healthy female participants into three groups:

vibration therapy smooth therapy no therapy Those who usual state-workout massages recovered their strength more speedily than the others. Those who usual vibration therapy had less be weak in the back days.

Since daub guns harness the discharge loyalty of vibration *and* daub, percussion therapy is later the ultimate form of DOMS prevention.

Helps you chill out Post-workout anguish yourself sore? Ugh. Jelly legs after a weekend hike? Annoying AF.

Unless you regard as beast satisfaction in the muscle soreness earned through exercise, tight muscles probably make you cranky. And smear gun aficionados sworn avowal the treatment helps them relax. This super accessible form of self-smear may get bond of the same for you.

Unfortunately, theres no research linking percussion therapy to relaxation. This is a gain youll just have to test for yourself.

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How to use a smear gun once a lead Youa propos just five steps away from buy form.

Turn coarsely speaking the device. Gently arrangement the smooth gun to the place you nonattendance to treat (shoulders, glutes, hammies, and quads are stellar places to begin). Breathe very as you slowly have an effect on the daub gun taking place and plus to the muscle. Feel regard as mammal not guilty to pause on depth of any areas that air restless. No obsession to press the length of going on for the knots  just permit the device reach its event. Aim for 30 seconds to 2 minutes per muscle outfit. Safety PSA Massage guns are super nifty, but theyvis--vis not meant to be used beyond your *entire* tame twinge body. Never use a percussion therapy tool on the order of:

bruises or sprains right to use wounds or slighted areas as soon as than boil your spine (Use a forked optional association head for a safe middle urge happening for daub!) joints (moreover your knees, elbows, or ankles) powered by Rubicon Project Is a rub gun right for you? If you enjoy deep tissue massages upon the reg, chances are youll idolize a daub gun too. Even if you dont have a massage therapist upon vibrancy dial, a massage gun might be the torment-melting ticket for support after an intense workout.

But there arent any widely traditional guidelines for how to use these devices. Too much pressure, needy form, or the muddled optional connection head could subside happening tortured on the other hand of helping your muscles.

Massage guns might moreover be bad news for folks who bruise easily or have a bone or joint have emotional impact. Youll prob be better off past a gentler muscle therapy if you have any of these conditions:

arthritis osteoporosis blood clotting issues If youmore or 건마달인 less immense about dropping cash upon a massage gun, its a fine idea to chat in imitation of a doctor or creature therapist first. Discuss your workout routine, your expectations, and any possible risks past accumulation the device to your routine.

Alternative ways to soothe pronounce-workout throbbing Percussion therapy entirely isnt the on your own habit to soothe aching muscles, boost your range of row, and quickness going on recovery.

Try foam rolling. Research suggests that breaking out a foam roller can soothe boil muscles and facilitate you recover joint stability more rapidly. Pack some protein. A 2014 research review suggests that pre-workout protein can assign help to your body establishment rebuilding muscle *during* your sweat sesh. Post-exercise protein helps child support the process going. Wear compression clothes. Working out in compression shorts, leggings, or unitards is on intensity of just a lewk. Science says it promotes muscle recovery! Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate. H2O is crucial for feeling pleasing during and after a workout. Schedule flaming days. Sometimes you just dependence a vacay. And consequently obtain your hands on your muscles! Overtraining can impact your mammal row and may even play-battle your immune system.

Thats a wrap Percussion therapy can be beneficial for releasing or preventing workout-linked muscle nervousness. Percussion therapy devices (aka massage guns) can as well as optional optional late buildup flexibility and range of keep busy. Some folks proclaim massage guns are beautiful darn relaxing. If you have an assertiveness or a musculoskeletal condition, talk considering your doc by now incorporating percussion therapy into your recovery routine.

[matisse-couto]

L’ar-technologie 

Le design graphique peut être défini comme le traitement formel des informations et des savoirs. Le designer graphique est alors un médiateur qui agit sur les conditions de réception et d’appropriation des informations et des savoirs qu’il met en forme. Annick Lantenois, Historienne de l’art de formation.

     Un graphiste à besoin de connaissances techniques, de références culturelles ainsi que de créativité graphique pour élaborer des rendus personnelles. De nos jours, le style est souvent défini par les compétences caractéristiques et esthétiques d’une personne en fonction de sa façon d’être et de penser. Or, cette définition pourrait être assimilée à celle que l’on pourrait donner de l’effet, nous amenant donc à le définir. Nous avons coutume de le décrire et de le penser comme ce qui est le résultat d’une action ou d’un comportement sur quelqu’un ou quelque chose. Dans le graphisme, nous avons tendance à croire qu’il engendre automatiquement un style. Aujourd’hui, ce domaine est souvent réduit à l’utilisation de logiciels et d’effets, parfois à une esthétique moderniste ou fonctionnaliste.

En 1986, Philippe Apeloig conçoit l’affiche Chicago, pour l’exposition du Musée d’Orsay, à partir d’une ancienne photographie de rue vue en perspective. Il place les lettres du mot Chicago en utilisant les nouvelles technologies découvertes chez April Greiman (Mac Plus) de telle sorte que la typographie s’incruste dans l’image comme un coup de vent, elle épouse la forme des bâtiments et souligne la ligne de fuite. Cette disposition du texte apporte l’illusion de vertige et surtout celle d’une troisième dimension. Durant ces dernières années, le numérique a vécu une grande évolution, permettant une plus grande simplicité d’usage et une diminution des coûts d’investissements notable. Souvent présentée comme une opportunité, cette évolution technique n’est-elle pas plutôt une menace pour le métier de designer ? Nous étudierons dans un premier temps le graphisme d’un point de vue historique afin d’étudier la “non-technicité” des postmodernes pour voir dans un second temps le côté expérimental du graphisme et les emprunts aux praticiens amateurs qu’il s’autorise. L’hypothèse qui est défendu ici est que cette évolution du numérique n’est intéressante que quand elle fonctionne comme un outil artisanal avec ses qualités propres.

Le graphisme et la non-technicité des postmodernes -

     Contrairement à une idée bien ancrée, l’artisanat connaît une évolution technique depuis les débuts de son histoire. Avec l’industrialisation et l’avènement de la société de consommation, la notion ‘‘d’artisanat d’art’’ fait peu à peu son apparition. Elle entend qu’il y a des tâches techniques et d’autres artistiques. La notion de technique et d’art viennent pourtant d’une même origine. Du latin ars (habileté du discours lié à une faculté à mémoriser les choses) et du grec technè (habileté à produire des objets et des outils. La production industrielle amène la réclame, qui deviendra la publicité. Le graphisme se développe donc petit à petit jusqu’à devenir le métier de la mise en forme des outils de communication. Il formalise et clarifie un message de communication politique, culturel ou publicitaire puis le met en page graphiquement. De 1930 à 1970, des affichistes tels que Cassandre, Savignac, Villemot et Jacno, se rendent célèbres avec le développement de la publicité. Pour autant ces graphistes cultivent une esthétique qui leur est propre. Dans le contexte d’une hégémonie du style suisse comme esthétique des multinationales, la notion de graphisme vernaculaire apparaît au tournant des années 1980. Des agences comme Unimark et Chermayeff & Geismar s’inspirent de ceci. Ils sont plus rigoristes que ce que les graphistes américains ont l’habitude d’afficher. C’est plus de l’ordre de la copie ou du goût que de l’influence pédagogique. C’est un style qui plaît aux entreprises à cette époque. Du latin vernaculus, indigène, de verna, esclave né dans la maison du maître. Le vernaculaire désigne originellement tout ce qui est élevé, tissé, cultivé, confectionné à la maison, à la main. Dans le domaine du graphisme, il est considéré comme une langue indigène dite populaire, parlée par peu de personnes. Datant de 1989, l’affiche Florent restaurant de Tibor Kalman est une bonne illustration du style d’un graphiste qualifié de vernaculaire. Pour donner ce style particulier, il a créé une composition à l’aide d’un panneau en caoutchouc fait de rails, conçu afin de glisser différentes lettres typographiques et de les changer de place. Il s’agit de faire semblant d’être amateur afin de créer volontairement une maladresse qui affecte de fausses habitudes non-professionnelles que seuls les professionnels remarquent. Une maladresse souhaitée pour dénoncer le travail trop cadré et rationnel des fonctionnalistes. Pour ces graphistes, aujourd’hui, le désir de progrès marginalise petit à petit les savoir-faire traditionnels. On peut le voir avec l’essai Macramé of resistance de Lorraine Wild qui nous montre que la technologie numérique fait reculer la production dans les bureaux avec moins de commande des médias de masse.

Facing this complexity, many designers believe that our futures depend on our ability to deliver conceptual solutions; but, ironically, digital technology has driven production back into the office, requiring constant attention. Design practice today requires the intellectual power of a think tank and the turn around capacity of a quickie printer. But design is optimistic; we have new academic programs, new businesses or expanded old ones that now have divisions, teams to collaborate on the multi-media design projects that bring prosperity. Lorraine Wild, Macramé of resistance, tiré de la revue EMIGRE n°70: THE LOOK BACK ISSUE, p.11, 1998.

D’un point de vue sociétal, il en va de même de tous les petits métiers : les charrons, les forgerons, les sabotiers se font rares alors qu’il y en avait autrefois dans tous les villages. Le plastique et le béton remplacent les matériaux naturels et modifient radicalement les paysages. De nouveaux défis apparaissent comme la concurrence des pays à faibles coûts de main-d’œuvre ou la transmission de savoir-faire aux nouvelles générations. Pourtant, les métiers d’art perdurent et se transforment. Ils représentent toujours une part importante de la culture et de l’économie, marquant les territoires et les esprits. Avec 281 métiers recensés sur 16 domaines d’activité, ils représentent 38 000 entreprises en France*. Grâce à la passion et à la créativité des professionnels d’aujourd’hui, cet héritage reste un patrimoine vivant en perpétuelle évolution.

L’expérimentation comme outil graphique -

     Durant les années 1960, certains graphistes entre en résistance face au développement du numérique. Leur but est de montrer que sans cet outil, une production peut-être aussi efficace et compréhensible du public. À titre d’exemple, Mariane Bantjes réalise des éléments décoratifs avec des pattes alimentaires dans son livre I wonder. Selon elle, la relation entre le contenu et la forme est très importante. Ils sont totalement interdépendants et ni les articles ni le graphisme ne peuvent vivre l’un sans l’autre. L’objectif est de montrer qu’une image ne permet pas réellement d’illustrer un propos, mais y apporte un complément tandis que ces décorations ajoutent du relief et de l’animosité au contenu. Une forme de provocation en marquant un retour au savoir-faire sans le côté élitiste du geste artisanal. On retrouve ce principe chez Sagmeister qui illustre à travers son affiche qu’une personne lambda possédant les logiciels adobe ne peut pas être qualifiée de graphiste. Montrer qu’une culture graphique accompagné de références personnelles est nécessaire pour pouvoir réaliser des travaux nécessitant un certain degré de conceptualisation des problèmes engagés. Véronique Vienne a été directrice artistique aux USA avant de commencer à écrire pour mieux comprendre ce que faisaient les graphistes, illustrateurs et photographes avec qui elle collaborait. Aujourd’hui, elle écrit des livres et anime des sessions de travail sur la critique du design graphique comme outil de création. D’après une conférence*, on voit quelle marque un problème fatidique entre l’artisanat et la technologie en confrontant les affiches 2D et les panneaux publicitaires. De ce fait, elle oppose réellement la 2 dimension avec une matière, une qualité d’impression, une couleur plus vive face aux panneaux numériques avec cette forte luminosité, des bannières non-imprimées mais diffusées sur des écrans et un certain manque de textures. Il est assuré que le numérique permet une meilleure efficacité de production pour un projet, mais selon Vienne, le danger vient de l’uniformisation des moyens techniques. Sa qualité de rendu ne rivalise pas avec les autres techniques, qui sont tout aussi efficaces. Le progrès n’est pas pour autant terminé, qu’adviendra-t-il des graphistes ne souhaitant pas utiliser ce mode de travail ? Savoir utiliser un logiciel adobe n’équivaut pas à un titre de graphiste. Avec la diversité des approches artisanales, en fonction des artistes, de la demande, du contexte et des moyens dont ils disposent, le rendu est différent. De son essor jusqu’à encore aujourd’hui, on voit qu’un combat est mené pour défendre les principes et valeurs du graphisme artisanal. Une multitude de techniques sont utilisées pour parvenir à cela, par exemple photographier des productions manuelles en produisant des rendus qui sont impossibles à obtenir par le numérique. Wolfgang Weingart s’affranchit de la neutralité que les graphistes suisses suivent comme un principe moral jusqu’à l’ennui. Il semble dans sa pratique que la lisibilité instantanée d’une affiche ne soit pas nécessaire à son efficacité. On peut associer à cela la citation «Less is bore» de Robert Venturi en réaction à «Less is more»  de Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. Un renouvellement de l’ère architecturale postmoderniste pour signifier d’enlever les chaînes, concevoir des bâtiments qui n’étaient pas conformes aux règles établies du manifeste moderniste. Cependant, la grille de gabarit ou de composition de la page utilisée permet de revivifier sa mise en forme, de changer les habitudes de lecture pour attirer le regard. Il propose une rupture radicale avec les principes de l’ordre, de clarté, de structure et de hiérarchie. Il pousse les limites de la lisibilité en expérimentant la lithographie, le masquage et la superposition de films, parfois même en jouant de la netteté sur l’objectif pour fausser, agrandir ou rendre flou des éléments dans ses travaux. À travers ses réalisations, W.Weingart nous montre que ces expériences ne permettent pas simplement d’obtenir une matière, une texture particulière pour se dissocier du numérique, mais aussi que grâce à ses techniques, on peut obtenir des visuels qui jouent sur des principes visuelles qui attirent le regard du lecteur (illisibilité, clarté, cacher, dévoiler). D’autres graphistes comme Lucile Bataille qui crée le Normographe en 2014, un dispositif permettant de dessiner des formes géométriques. Un travail fait avec une classe de primaire, lui donnant l’occasion de réaliser un rendu graphiquement sensible et compréhensible du public. De la même manière, le projet de signalétique SUPERPLACE du collectif Ne rougissez-pas. Collectif dont l’invention part de deux principes : un mélange de savoir-faire graphiques servant une création engagée et politique. Ils ont donc créé un univers graphique autour de trois axes :  le chantier, la mémoire et la place publique et ils y ont proposés un atelier mélangeant sérigraphie et presse typographique aménagée afin de créer des affiches porteuses d’un message choisi par chacun. Ainsi, on voit que tous ces collectifs, ces artistes et designers qui travaillent les savoir-faire manuels ont pour ambition de dénoncer un abandon de l’artisanat. Ils souhaitent prouver que le travail sur différents supports, différents formats, différents types d’impressions ou autres réalisations faites manuellement permettent une qualité de rendu tout aussi percutante voire plus évocatrice de certains principes.

Aux modes traditionnels de travail qui privilégient les relations entre commanditaire et designer graphique, structurées par la réponse graphique à une demande, tend à se juxtaposer dorénavant un mode de relations incluant activement les utilisateurs qui deviennent également des contributeurs au même titre que les experts. Annick Lantenois, ouvrir des chemins, dans Graphisme en France, 2012.

Les emprunts aux praticiens amateurs -

Dans mes moments d’euphorie les plus intenses, c’est comme si le logiciel surgissait des profondeurs de l’ordinateur. Une fois finalisé dans mon esprit, j’avais le sentiment qu’il siégeait dans la machine, n’attendant plus que l’instant de sa libération. Dans cette optique, ne pas fermer l’œil de la nuit me semblait un prix à payer bien dérisoire pour lui donner sa liberté, pour que mes idées prennent forme. Bill Joy, Why the Future doesn’t need us, Wired, avril 2000.

     Beaucoup de produits ont pour finalité de disparaître à l’usage. C‘est peut-être là le sens même de la notion de consommation : consommer c’est détruire. Dans le champ du design graphique, les outils numériques impactent directement les pratiques. Il en est ainsi, par exemple, des logiciels propriétaires dit de création dont les conditionnements pernicieux ont aussi marqué la dernière décennie du design graphique francophone. Comme l’a démontré Anthony Masure*, ces programmes ne sont pas des interfaces transparentes, mais bien des vecteurs d’idéologies. Depuis 1990, le développement des programmes a été progressivement confié aux ingénieurs, le designer se retrouvant dès lors relégué au statut de simple usagers.

*Citation de Florian Cramer qui réactualise d’anciens débats sur la constitution du design comme champ autonome de l’artisanat,  « Ce modèle impose un retour à un mode de travail artisanal qui exclut les artistes et les designers des évolutions des médias de masses électroniques. » Tiré de la publication d’Anthony Masure, Graphisme et numérique : entre certitudes et incertitudes, Graphisme en France, 2014.

À l’époque du mouvement Bauhaus, Walter Gropius pensait parler design quand les artistes cessaient de s‘opposer à l’industrie et travaillaient avec elle, en tension. On aurait donc un possible mélange entre esthétique et mécanisation. Le design graphique gagnerait-il à revenir à un modèle où la standardisation et les notions de productions en série ne sont pas en jeux ? Ne risquerait-on pas de basculer dans une attitude anti technique ? À l’opposé de ce retour à une tradition apparemment révolue, nous revenons dans les années 2000 avec les travaux du studio Superscript qui joue ainsi avec les codes graphiques de la production en série, hésitant ironiquement entre travail manuel et automatisation complète du processus créatif. L’enjeu du design serait alors de permettre le développement des techniques, sans qu’elles nous portent atteinte. Ceci nous contraint donc à ne pas accepter toutes formes de productions en série, mais bien au contraire de les choisir et les transformer. Ce mélange d’habitudes et de renouvellements définit bien la réalité pratique du designer, alors qu’il est pris dans une zone de confort qu’il cherche continuellement à dépasser. Le progrès à l’origine de technologies toujours plus innovantes et toujours plus puissantes, peut nous échapper et déclencher un processus autonome. L’émancipation euphorisante permise par les programmes numériques lui masquerait-elle une catastrophe inéluctable ? De nos jours, on distingue deux types d’attitudes face à la technique, suivre ou s’y opposer. Certains graphistes, artistes ont refusé d’utiliser le numérique en tant qu’outils de travail afin de garder une production artisanale et de se détacher des productions actuelles. Proche de l’art mathématique qui a pour objectif d’établir une théorie rationnelle et quantifiable du beau, on peut également s’interroger sur les capacités du numérique ? Est-il assez puissant pour définir la beauté ? Ces outils relèvent régulièrement des nombres, car le numérique est en parti associé à des dispositifs et des systèmes. Trois points fondent ce mode avec l’écriture (codage), la logique (programmation) et les machines (automatisme). Jusqu’à aujourd’hui, celui-ci a donc subi une grande évolution mais a-t-il une place incontournable au sein du graphisme ? Texturing est une programmation de formes visuelles créées par Ivan Murit en 2015. Le but était d’appliquer une trame biologique à une image ou une forme. Ici, on voit que le numérique n’essaie pas de progresser dans des formes rigides, mais de s’adapter aux rendus que l’artisanat peut donner voir même de le concurrencer. Grâce au codage, il est possible d’incorporer de la matière à une image. On voit que l’on a une recherche de retranscrire le fait main, numériquement. Incorporer de la matière, produire des effets qui s’assimileraient aux productions dites manuelles. Une autre question se pose maintenant à ce développement. À travers une technologie libre crée par Arduino, qui installe des miroirs où le reflet est composé de matières qui bougent seuls, on va ici se questionner sur si le numérique ne peut pas être aussi considéré comme un travail fait main ? La technologie est numérique, mais le protocole est artisanal. Toute la démarche de travail élaborée par Arduino n’émane que de son cerveau et la production de ses mains. La question du travail semi-artisanal serait alors posée. Une recherche et un travail que l’on qualifierait d’artisanal pour au final, obtenir un résultat numérique. Pour défendre cette nouvelle utilisation de l’informatique, d’autres artistes ont également cherché à mélanger une pratique artisanale avec une composition numérique comme April Greiman avec le Manongraph, Does It Make Sense ? En 1986 qui a assemblé, sur ordinateur, des impressions de son corps nu avec des photos. On pourrait donc remettre en question le numérique et sa place au sein du graphisme. Peut-on qualifier un travail de numérique si la démarche est artisanale ? Reevox est une affiche de Fréderic Teschner destiné à un festival d’arts et de musiques électroniques. Il a créé un lettrage modulaire rappelant les pixels des ordinateurs des années 1980 et a imprimé le rendu en sérigraphie avec une réserve de surimpressions de noir (sur un fond de couleurs). Ce travail par procédé semi-artisanal illustrant bien qu’une réalisation peut mélanger à la fois le numérique et l’artisanal. L’état actuel de la production semble illustrer à merveille l’aphorisme de Marshall McLuhan «le message c’est le medium». En ce sens, le graphisme peut être aujourd’hui largement influencé par le numérique. À ce titre, c’est bien ce medium qui dicte les formes du graphisme contemporain.

     Différents mouvement artistiques ont donc permis de définir une sorte de philosophie, parfois de mode sur lesquelles les artistes se sont basés pour réaliser leur oeuvres. Le déconstructivisme par exemple, où l’objectif était de déconstruire les modèles de l’architecture moderne en incitant à repenser les formes géométriques ou encore le futurisme, qui avait pour ambition de rompre les codes esthétiques de l’époque et porter un intérêt à la modernité qui passe par la machine. Chaque mouvement, selon chaque période, ont pu définir un artiste nous aidant ainsi, aujourd’hui, à retracer le parcours historique de l’art (en général).

De son côté, le numérique est une grande avancée mondiale au sein du graphisme, il est certain qu’il peut être nécessaire dans le cadre d’un projet et qu’il permet une meilleure efficacité de travail, mais sa qualité de rendu reste différente d’un travail artisanal. Son progrès n’est pas pour autant terminé, ce qui nous fait nous questionner sur l’avenir des graphistes d’ici quelques années. Faudrait-il s’associer à ce développement en investissant un travail dit semi-artisanal ? Une solution afin d’éviter une perte de ces collectifs qui se battent face à ce progrès. Qu’en sera-t-il de l’accessibilité de ce métier ? Les logiciels (type adobe) suffiront-ils pour être qualifié de professionnel ? Un progrès en marche qui permet de nouvelles choses, mais laisse derrière lui un tas de questionnements.

Pour autant, le graphisme n’est pas une compétence technique, mais il recouvre une réflexion sur la technique. Chaque projet est étudié et traité en fonction du contexte dans lequel il est situé. L’objectif de chaque graphiste n’est pas de créer un rendu beau (esthétiquement parlant), mais davantage qui a du sens et qui est compréhensible de la cible. Si l’on analyse les objets de notre quotidien, on voit qu’ils sont élaborés pour faciliter la compréhension du public. Les panneaux routiers par exemple, ont une couleur, une typographie, une taille qui est entreprit de façon à ce que chaque conducteur puisse bien lire et comprendre rapidement la signalisation. La question à se poser serait donc de si le graphisme ne relève-t-il pas d’un savoir faire ? En se basant sur 4 soft skills de Sibylle Schwerer, on voit que lorsqu’une agence ou un collectif réalise un projet, l’objectif pour se démarquer des autres est non pas de créer directement un rendu esthétiquement beau mais de comprendre qu’une réflexion autour de l’identité de marque est nécessaire pour se définir. À travers sa culture technique et ses références graphiques, le but est de créer des méthodes de projets personnels pour permettre de se désintoxiquer du numérique et faire face à ses effets négatifs.

1* lien: https://www.institut-metiersdart.org/metiers-art/fiches-metiers tiré du site de l’INMA, 23 Avenue Daumesnil, 75012 Paris.

2* conférence: Tout sauf la pub !, 2014

3* Anthony Masure, «Graphisme et numérique : entre certitudes et incertitudes», Paris, CNAP, Graphisme en France, n° 20, p. 65-76, 2014.

Argumentation orienté sur le métier de designer graphique.

Première forme d’étude de résistance.

Matisse Couto

[andrioucha]

"Pouvoir tout dire" par David Cole

https://www.monde-diplomatique.fr/2017/11/COLE/58043

Le règne de M. Donald Trump ne doit-il pas nous inciter à réécrire le premier amendement de la Constitution américaine, qui garantit une totale liberté d’expression ? Les démonstrations de force des groupes racistes ou néonazis aux États-Unis ne doivent-elles pas nous conduire à limiter la liberté d’expression lorsque celle-ci sert d’alibi à des mots d’ordre de haine, à des actes de violence et à la remise en cause du principe d’égalité ?

Après la tragique éruption de violence survenue lors d’un attroupement de suprémacistes blancs à Charlottesville, en Virginie, le 12 août dernier, ces questions sont revenues brutalement à l’ordre du jour. Beaucoup se sont étonnés que l’Union américaine pour les libertés civiles (ACLU), dont je suis le directeur juridique, ait soutenu l’organisateur de ce rassemblement, M. Jason Kessler, quand il a contesté la décision de la mairie de Charlottesville de lui retirer son autorisation de manifester. Quelle mouche nous avait donc piqués ? Les autorités proposaient de déplacer le rassemblement à un kilomètre et demi du lieu initialement prévu — l’Emancipation Park, aux pieds de la statue du général sudiste Robert E. Lee, menacée de déboulonnage et que M. Kessler et ses partisans entendaient protéger —, mais sans préciser en quoi le maintien de l’ordre public serait mieux assuré là-bas plutôt qu’ici. Comme le font depuis près d’un siècle les antennes locales de l’ACLU pour des milliers de défilés, le bureau de Virginie a fourni à M. Kessler une aide juridique afin qu’il obtienne l’autorisation de manifester. Les violences sanglantes qui s’en sont ensuivies justifient-elles qu’on restreigne le périmètre de la liberté d’expression ?

Le sort du premier amendement pourrait bien être en jeu. Selon une étude du Pew Research Center publiée en 2015, 40 % des Américains âgés de 18 à 40 ans estiment que l’État devrait avoir les coudées franches pour interdire les propos jugés stigmatisants à l’égard de telle ou telle minorité, un point de vue partagé par seulement 12 % de leurs compatriotes nés entre 1928 et 1945. Aujourd’hui, les jeunes attachent moins de prix à la liberté d’expression que leurs grands-parents. Dans la plupart des pays européens, le racisme n’est pas une opinion autorisée à s’exprimer librement, ce qui démontre qu’en démocratie ce sujet peut s’appréhender de plusieurs manières.

Les arguments en faveur de l’interdiction des propos racistes reposent fondamentalement sur l’idée que, lorsque la liberté d’expression entre en conflit avec l’égalité, c’est-à-dire avec l’impératif de non-discrimination, c’est ce dernier qui doit prévaloir (1). Pour les partisans d’une régulation du premier amendement, le « marché des idées » n’est pas cette mythique table de jeu où chacun débat sur un même pied avec ses contradicteurs, mais un espace hiérarchisé soumis à la loi du plus fort ou du plus bruyant. Quand un locuteur en domine un autre ou le réduit au silence, la liberté d’expression cesse d’opérer dans l’intérêt de tous. Les discours racistes ne sauraient avoir droit de cité, surtout dans un pays à ce point marqué par les violences sociales et étatiques infligées aux Afro-Américains tout au long de leur histoire, de l’esclavage d’hier à la ségrégation de fait d’aujourd’hui. D’autant, ajoutent certains, que le rapport de forces a changé. En 1977, quand la bourgade de Skokie, près de Chicago, accueillit un défilé de militants néonazis, le contexte politique de l’époque rendait cette parade d’opérette relativement inoffensive et par conséquent tolérable. Il en va tout autrement de nos jours, avec des suprémacistes blancs dont le meilleur ami n’est autre que le président des États-Unis lui-même.

Tous ces arguments sont parfaitement recevables. La société américaine est profondément inégalitaire et le fléau du racisme continue d’y faire des ravages. Nul doute que la parole raciste se concrétise par des passages à l’acte et produise un effet d’intimidation qui empêche des personnes vulnérables d’exercer leurs droits. Le malin plaisir pris par M. Trump à flatter le ressentiment blanc ainsi que sa réticence à condamner les adeptes du white power après les violences de Charlottesville encouragent les racistes à persévérer. Pourtant, aucune de ces vérités ne justifie que l’on permette à l’État de restreindre le champ de la liberté d’expression.

Opposer liberté et égalité conduit à une impasse. Le principe de la liberté de parole s’impose indépendamment de ses conditions d’exercice. Presque tous les droits humains — y compris celui à la libre expression — s’exercent selon des conditions inégales, parfois même en creusant les inégalités. Le droit de propriété, par exemple, profite plus aux millionnaires qu’aux pauvres. Les propriétaires jouissent davantage du droit à la vie privée que les locataires, qui, de leur côté, tirent un meilleur bénéfice de ce droit que les sans-logis. Le droit de choisir le mode d’éducation de ses enfants n’est pas d’une grande utilité pour les parents impécunieux qui ne pourront jamais inscrire les leurs dans une école privée — il contribue en réalité à la ségrégation scolaire et à la reproduction des privilèges. Les droits de la défense avantagent le justiciable qui a les moyens de se payer les services d’un avocat influent, au détriment du malchanceux qui dépend des subsides de l’État pour s’en remettre à un commis d’office — et tant pis si ces droits se paient au prix d’une flagrante injustice structurelle de l’appareil judiciaire.

Certains objectent que le premier amendement fait exception, dans la mesure où l’inégalité entre celui qui monopolise la parole et celui qui n’y accède que rarement, voire jamais, fausse le « marché des idées ». Mais ce marché n’est qu’une métaphore : il ne désigne pas une méthode scientifique visant à définir une vérité, mais la possibilité d’un choix dans un éventail d’opinions. Il suggère simplement que l’État reste neutre plutôt que de nous dicter ce qui est vrai et de nous interdire le reste. On peut légitimement douter des « débats » où prédomine le point de vue des hommes d’affaires capables d’acheter l’accès à la parole publique, mais on ne gagnerait rien à laisser l’administration Trump — ni celle d’un Obama, d’ailleurs — contrôler ce qui peut être dit ou doit être tu. Tant que nous considérons la liberté d’expression comme un critère de la vie démocratique et comme une condition de l’équilibre des pouvoirs, nous nous trahirions nous-mêmes en autorisant nos dirigeants à gommer les points de vue qui leur paraîtraient inappropriés, erronés ou offensants.

Le racisme structurel qui charpente l’histoire des États-Unis change-t-il la donne ? Assurément, les Afro-Américains ont subi un préjudice unique que le pays peine à prendre en compte. Mais réserver un traitement à part aux invectives dont ils sont la cible ne ferait que bafouer le principe essentiel de la liberté d’expression — la neutralité de l’État — sans pour autant leur rendre justice. Et que faire des propos haineux déversés sur les autres minorités ? Amérindiens, Asiatiques, Latinos, musulmans, femmes, lesbiennes, gays, bisexuels et trans (LGBT) — chacun de ces groupes a son expérience particulière des mécanismes d’oppression et de discrimination à l’œuvre dans la société. Les pouvoirs publics doivent-ils censurer toute expression verbale jugée insultante ou stigmatisante pour l’un ou l’autre de ces groupes ? Et si tous ne peuvent être logés à la même enseigne, selon quels critères identifier ceux qui méritent une protection spéciale ?

Quand bien même nous trouverions une réponse satisfaisante à ces questions, nous nous heurterions toujours à la plus épineuse d’entre toutes : comment définir un propos illicite ? L’État doit-il être en mesure de réduire au silence tout argument contre la discrimination positive ou sur les différences génétiques entre femmes et hommes, ou doit-il limiter sa censure aux braillements de comptoir racistes et sexistes ? Diagnostiquer une discrimination est chose aisée ; établir des critères rigoureux permettant d’identifier et d’éliminer les propos discriminatoires, sans donner à l’État le pouvoir discrétionnaire de dire le bien et le mal et de causer par là même de nouvelles discriminations, c’est mission impossible.

Ne vaut-il tout de même pas la peine d’essayer, avec un Donald Trump à la Maison Blanche et des suprémacistes blancs qui entendent sonner l’heure de la revanche ? Tirer pareille conclusion serait une erreur funeste. Si nous confiions à l’État le pouvoir de criminaliser les propos attentatoires aux « valeurs américaines », M. Trump et ses alliés ne seraient que trop heureux d’en user et d’en abuser. Toute limitation étatique de la liberté d’expression aboutit en effet à cette contradiction majeure : elle vise à protéger les minorités vulnérables en renforçant les prérogatives d’un État qui se proclame l’émanation de la majorité. Pourquoi donc les minorités confieraient-elles aux représentants de la majorité le soin de décréter quels discours doivent être bannis ou permis ? Il fut un temps aux États-Unis où la plupart des Blancs considéraient la ségrégation des Noirs comme la façon la plus adéquate d’assurer l’égalité raciale — « égaux mais séparés », disait l’adage. Le droit de contester les vues dominantes, inscrit dans le premier amendement, nous a permis de les rejeter.

Comme le rappelait l’ancien esclave et militant abolitionniste Frederick Douglass, « le pouvoir ne concède rien sans réclamation. Il ne l’a jamais fait et ne le fera jamais ». Tout au long de notre histoire, les minorités opprimées ont fait usage du premier amendement pour s’exprimer, s’associer et se rassembler en vue de réclamer leurs droits — l’ACLU les a toujours soutenues dans leur combat. Que seraient devenus les mouvements pour les droits civiques, les droits des femmes ou les droits des LGBT sans le solide appui du premier amendement ?

Bien entendu, il serait infiniment plus commode pour l’ACLU de ne représenter les intérêts que de ceux dont elle partage la philosophie. Mais, en réservant la liberté d’expression à ceux qui pensent comme nous, quelle base nous reste-t-il pour exiger des autres qu’ils tolèrent des points de vue opposés aux leurs ?

David Cole

Directeur juridique de l’Union américaine pour les libertés civiles (ACLU), fondée en 1920 pour défendre la liberté d’expression garantie par le premier amendement de la Constitution américaine et apporter un concours juridique aux groupes, souvent minoritaires et impopulaires, qui font valoir publiquement leur point de vue. Une version longue de cet article est parue dans la New York Review of Books (28 septembre 2017).

(1) Parmi les principaux ouvrages publiés aux États-Unis qui défendent ce point de vue, citons en particulier Mari J. Matsuda, Charles R. Lawrence III, Richard Delgado et Kimberlé Williams Crenshaw, Words That Wound : Critical Race Theory, Assaultive Speech, and the First Amendment, Westview Press, Boulder (Colorado), 1993. cf. également Jeremy Waldron, The Harm in Hate Speech, Harvard University Press, Cambridge (Massachusetts), 2012.

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Falcon et le Soldat de l'Hiver 1x03 Saison 1 Épisode 3 Regarder Série tv - https://falcon-et-le-soldat-de-l-hiver-1x03.blogspot.com/

Isaiah Bradley. Beaucoup de gens parlent de moments qui changent la donne, qu'ils le veuillent ou non, mais l'introduction d'Isaïe est vraiment un moment important au MCU. L'une des bandes dessinées que je voulais le plus voir terminée, Isaiah est l'un des soldats super noirs que le gouvernement américain a créés pendant le temps de Steve Rogers sur la glace et il était même au niveau de Bucky lorsque les deux se sont affrontés pendant la guerre de la Corée. Contrairement au vénérable Steve Rogers, il n'a jamais été acclamé et a en fait été emprisonné pendant 30 ans. Sa scène est un coup de poing dans l'estomac pour Sam, ainsi que pour tout le public, non seulement qu'il y avait un autre super soldat, mais qu'il était noir. Depuis la Panthère noire, le MCU a fait plus pour raconter des histoires sur la race qui ressemblent à notre monde d'aujourd'hui et Isaiah est une histoire très courante. C'était une très belle introduction au personnage et une merveilleuse performance de Carl Lumbly. Le seul succès impliqué dans cette histoire que je n'aimais pas était Bucky disant à Sam qu'il n'avait jamais dit à Steve parce qu'il semble peu probable dans le monde du MCU que Steve n'aurait pas découvert ce projet, puisqu'il a mis tous les fichiers SHIELD sur le Internet, et cela ressemble probablement à un secret dont ils ont connaissance. Il semble narrativement pratique de le faire de cette façon, d'autant plus que nous savons qu'avec le personnage de Steve, il aimerait probablement aider Isaiah d'une manière ou d'une autre. Cela touche en quelque sorte le plus gros problème; Steve Rogers est une ombre portée sur toute la série et sur de nombreux personnages, mais c'est la première fois que les lunettes roses sont effectivement retirées. Jusqu'à présent, dans le programme, ils se sont concentrés sur les menaces internationales, les menaces extraterrestres et les uns sur les autres (les trois vrais géants), mais ils n'ont pas systématiquement traité de l'histoire des États-Unis. Faire grandir Hydra au sein du SHIELD est une chose, mais cela montre activement au pays à quoi il ressemble. Je soupçonne que cela fera partie intégrante de la raison pour laquelle Sam arrache le bouclier. Nous sommes menés dans un voyage qui, je crois, se terminera par Sam voulant être un exemple de ce à quoi devrait ressembler Captain America. En parlant de cela, l'actuel porteur de manteau John Walker… bébé, depuis que Bakugou est apparu pour la première fois à l'écran, il y avait un personnage que je voulais battre davantage. Il ressemble à une personne décente, mais honnêtement, il n'y a rien de spécial à son sujet. Bon sang, il a même un ami noir (nom de code Battlestar). Chili, le gouvernement des États-Unis n'aurait pas pu être plus paresseux dans la recherche d'un nouveau plafond s'il avait essayé. John est une personne utile et son style de combat laisse clairement à désirer, car il ne peut faire plus que jeter le bouclier du point A au point B.Son erreur la plus flagrante dans cet épisode était de savoir comment il a répondu au désir de travailler avec Bucky. et Sam. Pour le sage, il n'est probablement pas judicieux de mentionner à deux personnes qui ont eu des problèmes avec le gouvernement que vous les traquez ET que vous appelez l'un d'entre eux le bras droit de Steve. Ces deux hommes sont des Avengers, ils ont combattu Thanos et ses sbires, John aurait dû venir d'une manière plus humble. En tant que tel, il semble que les deux groupes d'hommes vont avoir une grande confrontation. Finalement, Bucky a beaucoup de problèmes, mais je ne peux pas croire que le thérapeute l'a entendu dire à Sam que si Steve avait tort à propos de Sam, alors peut-être qu'il s'était trompé à propos de lui et juste ... Fille, c'est un excellent aveu de la part d'un gars qui n'admet à peine rien! Mon cœur s'est brisé quand j'ai entendu Bucky dire ça et j'espère que cet homme trouvera la paix.

Précédemment dans The Falcon And The Winter Soldier: Sam Wilson, alias "The Falcon", travaille à nouveau avec l'US Air Force et sauve l'un de ses membres: un capitaine de l'armée de l'air pris en otage par un groupe terroriste appelé LAF Il doit ensuite s'occuper de donner le bouclier de Captain America au gouvernement (ce qui lui dit que faire ainsi est la bonne décision) pour qu'il soit diffusé sur le Smithsonian, et pour aider sa sœur, Sarah, à maintenir son entreprise de pêche afin que le The le bateau familial n'a pas besoin d'être vendu. Bucky Barnes, qui a été gracié pour les crimes qu'il a commis lors du lavage de cerveau en tant que soldat de l'hiver, a participé à des séances de thérapie requises par le gouvernement (dans lesquelles il refuse d'admettre à son thérapeute qu'il fait toujours des cauchemars sur les crimes qu'il a commis pendant le lavage. en tant que soldat) et faire de son mieux pour se faire pardonner. Un groupe terroriste appelé Flag-Smashers, qui croit fermement que la vie était meilleure pendant The Blip The Snap sans frontières et sans ordre, et qui veut que le monde adopte à nouveau ce mode de vie. Et Sam apprend rapidement que la raison pour laquelle le gouvernement a dit que leur donner le bouclier était la bonne chose à faire était de pouvoir le donner au nouveau Captain America, qui est présenté au monde lors d'une conférence de presse. LES PUBLICITÉS L'HISTOIRE JUSQU'À MAINTENANT: Sam et Bucky se croisent une fois de plus lorsque Bucky confronte Sam à propos de son refus d'accepter le manteau de Captain America. Les deux se retrouvent dans un avion à destination de Munich, où Bucky accompagne Sam dans sa mission de suivre une cargaison de vaccins volée par les Flag Crushers. La tentative de Sam et Bucky de les arrêter n'est ni facile ni réussie, et cela n'aide pas lorsque John Walker (connu sous le nom de nouveau Captain America) se joint à la bataille pour essayer d'arrêter également les Flag Crushers. Bucky informe Sam d'un secret inquiétant sur l'histoire de Super-Soldier Serum, et comment lui et Steve Rogers n'étaient pas les premiers ou les seuls à le recevoir à ce moment-là. Captain America 2.0 se rend vite compte que Sam et Bucky n'ont aucun intérêt à travailler avec lui, et les Flag-Smashers sont bientôt pourchassés non seulement par les autorités, mais par un mystérieux individu connu sous le nom de The Power Broker. CE QUI EST BON DANS CET ÉPISODE?: Sam et Bucky apparaissent enfin ensemble à l'écran et se tordent comme eux seuls. Bucky essayant de sauver Karli Morgenthau (joué par Erin Kellyman, que certains d'entre vous reconnaîtront comme Enfys Nest dans Solo: A Star Wars Story) parce qu'il pense qu'elle est l'otage des Flag Crushers, seulement pour qu'elle dissipe cette confusion en lui donnant un coup de pied à quinze mètres de l'arrière d'un camion à dix-huit roues en mouvement. John Walker, également connu sous le nom de Captain America 2.0, se prépare à assumer la responsabilité de ce qui est à venir puis à être présenté au monde (avec ses compétences et ses qualifications) à travers un entretien individuel avec Good Morning America. La séquence de combat entre Sam et Bucky et Captain America 2.0 et Battlestar (également connu sous le nom de Lemar Hoskins, partenaire de Cap 2.0 et meilleur ami de Black) contre Karli et le reste des Flag-Smashers. Cap 2.0 et Battlestar font de leur mieux pour vaincre Sam et Bucky au début, pour dire les mauvaises choses et finir par échouer lamentablement. Sam et Bucky se rendent à Baltimore pour rencontrer Isaiah Bradley (joué par le légendaire acteur Carl Lumbly), un super soldat afro-américain qui a acquis ses compétences en 1942 après avoir été contraint de passer des tests dans lesquels le gouvernement américain a tenté de recréer le sérum de super-soldat. qui a été donné à Steve Rogers, et qui a combattu Bucky-as-the-Winter Soldier pendant la guerre de Corée en 1952 avant d'être envoyé en prison pendant trente ans et constamment expérimenté (même par des scientifiques d'HYDRA) pour plus de tentatives de recréer le sérum . Sam étant confronté à des flics blancs qui pensent qu'il est une menace pour Bucky jusqu'à ce qu'ils le reconnaissent et réalisent qui il est vraiment (et avant qu'ils ne mettent Bucky en état d'arrestation pour avoir raté son rendez-vous de thérapie, bien qu'ils soient toujours beaucoup plus gentils avec Bucky que cela ne l'était pour Sam).

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