#ah yes...Ira

[theroseempress]

Dino ask time! I'm gonna pick my favorite dinosaur for this - Carnotaurus!

DINOSAUR YAY

Carnotaurus - share a scene that contains some cool worldbuilding

Yeah, so here's the thing, I haven't actually gotten to the 'proper writing' stage with any of my WIPs, and thus all of my worldbuilding simply sits either in my head or a document. However, I am in the proper writing stage of what I'm calling Renegades (a superhero story which is only in that stage by benefit of not having gone through the script stage first whoops), and here is a snippet from that!

Ft; a few tidbits about Ira's powers and also Ira's dynamic with Trick and HB. Does that count? I'm going to say it counts.

Ira strode down the hallway, staff tucked under his arm. I need a damn drink. Ira’s powers burnt off most kinds of alcohol too quickly for him to get drunk, but there were a few kinds that made him at least fuzzy-headed. (And yes, maybe this wasn’t a good time for it, but there were enough capes around that Ira could just suck in some extra energy and clear his head anyway) Biting back a growl, Ira resisted the urge to blast a hole through the nearest wall, instead clenching his hands into fists. Eversor. Destroyer. There were very few capes that dared to mess with Ira, especially when he was angry. And Ira was angry. He contemplated portaling to the kitchens instead, then shoved the idea away. His skin felt like it was tingling; that was never a good sign for his control. Make a portal now, and next thing you know he’d be blowing the building up. (Ira’s control over his powers was much shakier than most people realized. Paris and Laurel were the only other people who knew the ins and outs of Ira’s power as well as he did. Raw energy was much harder to manipulate than it seemed, and with his powers’ lack of an off-switch, Ira was a conduit for any he passed. … He was glad Paris and Laurel stayed around, much as he worried about losing control. There weren’t many people who would befriend a ticking bomb)

[stuff-diary]

Jeongnyeon: The Star is Born

TV Shows/Dramas watched in 2024

Jeongnyeon: The Star is Born (2024, South Korea)

Director: Jung Ji In

Writer: Choi Hyo Bi (based on the webtoon by Seo Irae & Namon)

Mini-review:

I couldn't wait to binge this for several reasons: firstly, Kim Tae Ri is one of my favorite actresses ever; secondly, I love stories centered around theater and musicals; thirdly, K-dramas with casts made up of 99% women are basically an unheard-of concept. And thankfully, it more than lived up to my expectations. I had a blast watching all these delightful, complex female characters and the development of their intricate relationships. Tbh, I would have liked the show to push further and showcase the queerness that obviously coats certain pairings, but at least the cast did an amazing job. And the gukgeuk scenes were downright enthralling too; I felt like I was watching them in person. The ending does seem way too sudden and rushed, but overall I'm very satisfied with Jeongnyeon.

[tumbleofdorks]

Okay, Cardassia, Soviet Union, 90's cultural relevance, here we go.

*deep breath*

The late 80's into the 90's was a super weird time, in general, but it was especially weird for the Soviet Union/Russia, and it all happened quite publicly, globally speaking. This absolutely and clearly influenced the creation of the Cardassians, and even more so their arc throughout Deep Space Nine. First, we gotta go back further for some context though, come on, take my hand.

Ah, here we are.

Right, so the primary writers for DS9 were mostly in their 30s and 40s when the show started (Ira Steven Behr was 39 for example), which means the looming threat of the Red Menace was omnipresent in the American psyche their whole lives. I cannot emphasize enough how much space the USSR took up, rent free, in the minds of Americans throughout the many decades of the Cold War.

Every spy novel, comic book series, and action movie had to have a Russian-accented baddie for the noble American hero to fight against. A quick aside, this is why Chekov being on the bridge in TOS was a Big Deal. Roddenberry was basically saying, "Someday all humanity will be working together in harmony, yes, even the Russians." Anyway, my point is, Russian villains saturated the media that the DS9 writers would have grown up with.

While the fiction was popping off, the real stories of life in the USSR from defectors were being consistently drip-fed to the outside world. Stories of dramatic show trials, where the guilt was already determined and the whole trial was just a display to sway public opinion. Stories of prodigious propaganda on every street corner, in every newspaper, and on every TV and radio. Stories of forced labor in gulags in the many USSR occupied territories. And oh yes, let's not forget the NUMEROUS stories of the Secret Police, the most infamous of which was the Committee for State Security, the dreaded and powerful KGB. A spy agency, full of sleeper agents behind enemy lines, experts in deception, espionage and assassination. Hm, now, where have we seen such things?

Also, let us be frank, we have the Romulan empire, the Klingon empire, the Terran empire, lots of empires, but Cardassia and its occupied territories are the Cardassian UNION? C'mon.

Okay, but then we get to the 90's and DS9, and this is where it gets REALLY juicy, so bear with me here.

In January of 1991, the Next Generation episode "The Wounded" introduced us to the Cardassians, and "Ensign Ro" in October set up the Bajoran occupation. While they didn't have the accents, they had a few likenesses to the American idea of Russian authoritarianism, a brutal military, religious suppression, gulag labor camps, strange torture methods, but it was still vague at best.

However, in December of that same year the USSR collapsed, the Soviet Union was no more, and it was WIDELY televised. The Western world watched on in various degrees of shock, joy, and trepidation as the seemingly invincible Soviet Union broke apart. The formerly occupied regions declared their independence, and the Russian central command (seemingly) withdrew all of their forces and government operatives quite suddenly back to Moscow.

Half a year later, in the Summer of 1992, Deep Space Nine began pre-production, and the Cardassians were chosen as the primary initial antagonists and the abandonment of Bajor as our backdrop. Through DS9 Cardassians gained a notable spy agency, the Obsidian Order, and a reputation of beuracratic record keeping and efficiency (the USSR was famously meticulous in its record keeping and "at least the trains/shuttles ran on time"). We explored their kangaroo courts, the friction between their military leadership and their civilian leadership (Stalin taking over from Lenin, anybody?), the consequences of rapid withdrawal of a controlling force, and the effects of economic instability on a super power. Mere months after the real collapse and withdrawal of the USSR, the DS9 writers choose to make the collapse and withdrawal of an authoritarian Union the driving plot point of their new show?

The writers, as they developed the show, were clearly exploring the themes that were playing out in the world around them. To the folks watching at home these would have been immediately recognizable, something that could be connected to contemporary events, as well as the lifetime of USSR figures in media that they were accustomed to. It was a familiar string to pull on and draw the audience in.

Ahem, so as you can see, the depiction of the Cardassian Union not only parallels the Soviet Union, but was uniquely relevant to an audience in the 90's that was watching the collapse of the USSR in real time on the nightly news.

However, it wasn't all the standard anti-soviet themes one would expect, which is how we ended up with Garak. The ways the writers used him thematically were so fascinating and so uniquely Star Trek. He LOVES his planet and his people, he's almost a spiritual successor to Chekov in that way: blindly loving of his home, claiming it is the best in all things. In the face of decades of anti-soviet media Garak was depicted as a morally-gray spy, yes, but in classic Star Trek fashion also fiercely loyal, noble, loving and multi-faceted. An enemy that can be made a friend if one tries hard enough, as long as there is a kernel of "humanity" within you both.

Star Trek hopecore is present even in the darkest of the TNG sibling shows.

[rats-of-death]

Intro Post

Annabel said I should make one of these, though I don't much see the appeal. Feel free to send asks.

☄️// Rules:

- No NSFW

- Avoid fast pass spoilers (mod is POOR and doesn't fast pass)

- If I make him seem out of character i apologize (not really a rule LOL)

Other:

I have dyslexia pls be patient :3

Mod uses he/neos (check my main blog pinned post!!)

In my head Prospero is aroace and genderqueer in some way (im lowk still deciding) :D feel free to do with that what you will

^ this probably won't come up but queer platonic/ one sided shipping is totally okay by me!!

I quite enjoy tea time, reading, and studying the human body :> Ah yes, and my rats, of course.

I dislike having to hold onto my sanity, as my silken gloves make it rather difficult.

I will only give you medical advice if you promise not to take it. I only do surgeries if you're prepared to meet your demise prematurely.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics and @lavendergalactic

Blog run by @sparesomeserotonin

Other Rp blogs:

Annabel Lee - @annabelleewhitlock @l4dy1nwh1te

Lenore - @lenorevandernacht

Theo - @theo-vandernacht

Montresor - @asshole-cowboy-devil

Will - @diary-of-a-willy-kid

Will ^2 - @wontwilson-realwilliam

Will ^3 - @i-am-wilson-william

Johnny - @johnny-kicking-up-dust

Sally - @the-kansas-kutie

Ada - @adaa-lovelace

Thomas - @mastertamerlanethomas

Duke - @duke-laurent

Eulalie - @imtheghostnow

Morella - @angel-in-green

Pluto - @purr-of-smoke

Berenice - @berenicenevermore

Egaeus - @egaeus-exists

Dolly - @nevermores-only-nurse

Ms. Poppet - @your-favorite-teacher-poppet

A doll? - @never-doll

Merry - @nevermore-merry-official

Mourn - @nevermore-mourn-official

My rats 🖤 - @squeak-squeak-bitch @rats-who-eat-you

My mom🖤 - @motheroftheratman

My cousin Antonia! - @cutelillesbian

My cousin Matteo. - @ihaterats

Montresor's mother - @blessedangel666

Annabel's father - @ira-whitlock-official

Lenore's mother - @lucille-vandernacht

Lenore's father - @thaddeus-vandernacht

Luca - @way2rich4this

His father - @isidor-fauntleroy

Percy - @teaandcheckmates

Manor girls - @victimsofficial

Peony & Iris - @the-lesbians-from-episode-126

Void boy - @a-boy-in-a-void

Katherine - @randombasementgirl

Kipley - @getmeftoutofhere

Gold Eyes - @ol-gold-eyes

Daisy - @soon-to-be-wife

Victor - @im2kool4school

Annabel's Maid - @yourfavemaid

Lenore's father's butler - @bestbritishbutleraround

August - @not-viktorr

Blondie - @strwberryblondie

Madeline - @emo-girl-nevermore-madeline

Dupin - @notsherlockthx

Wisps - @wispsofthenevermoreacademy

The hounds - @theloyalhoundsofthewildhunt

The raven - @a-raven-thats-not-so-raven

Catterina (stay away from my rats.) - @aristro-cat-catterina

Monty's Dog - @a-worthless-mutt

Oc blogs!! - @margret-nevermore-student1, @undergroundbell, @evangeline-diaries @crzy-gh0st @b4ckseat-bingo-ch4mp @everybody-hates-helen @boria-volkov @sea-creature-fanatic @amerias-the-hoplite

[blacknedsoul-blog]

An unnecessarily detailed analysis of the (re)encounter between Annabel and "Leo" (part II)

Evil tongues say I've had this shit in the oven for several weeks because I bought the fast pass on episode 105 and smoked the whole season one afternoon when I was bored as a fucking oyster about to climb the walls. Don't listen to them, they're telling the truth.

So, yeah, people. We had a flashback. One that comes right after the last one we had. Aside from the fact that we finally know a little more about Theo, I want to focus on the direct sequel to a review I did a while back. So let's get started.

I'm still trying to decide if Annabel is complaining just because she had to get off her ass or because "Leo's" room being so far away from hers is, ahem, inconvenient. Another detail that someone mentioned on the discord, is that Annabel does this thing where she grabs her dress when she is trying to maintain the performance.

(later edit: someone commented to me that actually their rooms are ridiculously close to each other. So allow me to insert ridiculous jokes about how the first thing Ira will do when these two are engaged is take his precious daughter who is not to be touched before marriage somewhere else).

...Ah, they put... they put Annabel in Lenore's old room. Yeah, that must have been uncomfortable as shit. 

Okay. This is something I kind of suspected in her first stolen moment at the Arboreum, but I think this confirms it for me: yes, Lenore teasing Annabel is a way of expressing annoyance without being directly hurtful. 

Raise your hand if you enjoy seeing "Miss Proper Lady" lose her fucking temper. Bonus points if she deserves it. 

Lenore, I don't know if taking your clothes off is the best way to get Annabel to stay on topic. I do want to emphasize her face in that moment, though, like she knows Annabel cares about her, but she's still angry at her, and pressuring her to drop the mask is literally the only way she has to express it. I like it because it's consistent with her stolen moment in the Arboreum. 

"Admire this magnificent door made of door. Yes, an excellent door. Wonderful door. Eyes on the door, Annabel, eyes on the door and not on your crush taking off his jacket in front of you. Also, don't think too much about the fact that if anyone sees this, everything that is important to you will fall apart".  

Pause. Where did we see Annabel say that? Ah, yes. Well, if we had any doubts about posh besties, this confirms it. 

I want to linger on the faces of both of them in this scene because, for the love of Nyarlathotep, they are painful to watch knowing that this will end with both dead. 

Yes, Annabel, this "perhabs" was very VERY serious. 

I'm sure this is the second time in Annabel's life that someone has asked her if she wants something. And it's the same person. Ouch.

Does anyone else in the squad find it disturbing that ANNABEL is concerned about moral issues? 

That's not how Kabedons are made, missy. 

LENORE, LOOK AT THE FUCKING FACE SHE'S LOOKING AT YOU WITH, SHE WOULDN'T BE "PRETENDING TO BE IN LOVE WITH YOU", SHE'S EATING OUT OF YOUR FUCKING HAND RIGHT NOW. IF SHE WASN'T AFRAID OF JAIL AND WASN'T SO VICTORIAN, SHE'D BE ASKING IF SHE COULD GET IN YOUR PANTS.   

Okey, I need to know how this went from "pff, it's not a real marriage, we're both women!" to "I'm gonna fuckin' whore myself with Nyarlathotep Tumblrsexymen to come get you, baby. Shit, if these two die without having this conversation, I'm going to shoot myself in the mouth with a medieval arquebus. 

I like this moment because it tells you two interesting things: one is that Annabel must have a complicated relationship with her father, she cares for him and maybe feels he loves her in his own way, but at the same time Ira is her jailer, the main culprit of the golden cage she's trapped in. Another thing: we know Lenore used to care about her father, but come on, after everything that happened, I doubt she gives the man a second thought. 

...I wrote practically the exact same dialog in a fanfic. Actually, in the first Nevermore fanfic I ever wrote, when the fuck did my bullshit ever come true? 

I was racking my brain for a while about why Annabel keeps doing this. Like, look at this shit, even Ada or Morella would be able to see that this is bullshit. And I think I have an idea why. 

I think Annabel started to figure out how to make this work even before she came in. Maybe she's not all in, but at least the idea is tempting. The thing is, she's putting a lot on the line here: her life, her relationship with her father (the only family member we know of), what little freedom she has.

And that means she has to put her chips on the right person. She knows how the social game works, she knows how to manipulate the stakes of her hand, maybe she even thinks she knows how to get around those pesky legal snags when they come up. 

But she's not cunning, she's not quick-thinking, she lacks determination, and she's definitely not brave. Lenore can wrap herself in big dreams and beautiful words all she wants, but if she can't make up for Annabel's weaknesses, it's a losing bet from the start. On top of that, she has to be able to read her: in Victorian engagements, even your pet was into that shit, so sneaking away to plan things would be more of a rare privilege than a constant, her playmate has to be able to understand her perfectly, because they can't waste valuable time explaining minutiae. They have to be on the same page to the millimeter. 

Annabel is a player. And as such, she knows that in games where you have a partner, the key to winning isn't playing your own cards or chips well, it's being able to synchronize with your partner to give each other better plays until one of you manages to win. 

And if I had to bet, I think that is the Lenore that Annabel wants back: the Lenore who can read her, the Lenore who can get under her skin and know her true intentions even when Annabel is wearing the most perfect mask. The Lenore who can smile boldly and tell her that everything will be all right. 

Of course, Lenore passed the test. With a more than perfect score. 

The chapter ends with Lenore giving Annabel the final decision: if she sees no reason to stay, she won't, and she can assure her that she'll be fine. But if she's in, she'll do everything in her power to make it work. 

This was the moment that tore me up inside because it made me drop the shingle of sad, sad shit. 

Conclusions

And here's why I decided to post this analysis after the season.  

One thing this episode told me was that I was wrong about one thing: the relationship between these two isn't exactly what it used to be. What this episode also told me was that, despite everything, the two of them seemed to be able to communicate and find common ground, to make deals, to give each other choices. Shit we don't see anymore in their time in Nevermore. 

And with good reason.

In Nevermore Annabel and Lenore are adrift. No memories, no identity, no bonds. As if that weren't enough, both are terrified: Annabel has built all her means of survival around a context that she masters perfectly, and in Nevermore she doesn't know what's going on; on the other hand, Lenore's bravery and cunning are qualities that turn from virtues to flaws in a context where every single one of her decisions has repercussions for the people around her; she's willing to take anything, but not what happens to the people she loves. 

These two idiots know only one thing: that they love each other. And for Annabel and Lenore, loving means protecting. They have to try to protect each other because they really love each other. They love each other so much that they can't.

Because the only way for Annabel to protect Lenore is to be the queen of the board, to be the piece that everyone wants to get out of the way because her presence is too much of an inconvenience, because if she's good at anything,  it's dazzling so hard that no one is able to really see her. On the other hand, the only place Lenore can protect Annabel is by her side, she won't have a Spectre, but she's willing to do what it takes to take care of her if she stays where she can fight for her. 

But that won't happen because of the irreconcilable conflict caused by the memory (false or not, in practice it doesn't matter) that the Deans showed Annabel. She can't tell her that, she won't tell her that, how could she? It would tear Lenore apart and at worst alter her memories. But on the other hand, Lenore obviously wants to know, because she sees that Annabel is suffering, she wants to be there, she wants her to let her comfort her, to be by her side to help her sort this out, and all her pleas fall on deaf ears for reasons she can't even fathom.

But without realizing it, in all this devotion and accompanying fear, Annabel and Lenore are repeating the same controlling patterns of those who tried to save the other in life. 

Annabel is doing the same thing Thaddeus did when he got Lenore a fiancé, the same thing the doctors did when they kept her drugged 24/7 as a treatment even though she was sick, dare I say the same thing Theo did: assuming she knows better than she does what's good for her. "Protecting" her, even when that happens to be the agency Lenore is desperately trying to have over her life after being deprived of her freedom.

And on the other hand...this.

By taking full responsibility for what happened, Lenore is doing the same thing as Ira and all the people we meet in Annabel's life: denying her agency as an individual. Annabel is not a naive brat who was seduced by sweet words, she is a grown woman who was very, very clear about what the risks were. That they both ended up dead is partly her fault, but by turning this affair into "if I hadn't gone looking for you," Lenore completely invalidates Annabel's feelings, desires, and choices. 

A relationship that was once built on respect for choice and shared decision-making has now become a power game that neither can win, because one of the most important foundations of their relationship is that they are both equals. 

I'd like to end this on a more positive note, but...uh...well, the thing is, I don't. Like, that they're going to reconcile, they're going to reconcile, you know? But for that to happen, somebody's got to give them a massive punch like, something that tears them apart so they realize how fucking bad they are do-

You know what? Yeah, that might do it.

[sonicexelle-junkary]

Oh I didn't know rouge was in your little cast.

Tell us about her will you? What do you enjoy about her?

(Quiet on set au)

“Ah, yes, Rouge. What can I say about her? Lovely woman she is. We go out for coffee every other day, usually after hours of filming and paperwork and all that.

Nothing much else I can say about her, nothing that I’m sure you’ll find out eventually anyways.”

—Ira

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ─ | “Conversations” | ─ *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*

Characters // Atlas (he/him), Ira (they/she)

Atlas is perched across from Ira on his bed, carefully applying nail polish to her nails. It’s the first night in a while that he hasn’t snuck out to go follow around the spy, but for once, he doesn’t care, allowing himself to enjoy the moment, even with the horrors he’d discovered this past month still hanging in the back of his mind.

Ira tips her head back with a sigh, leaning back against the wall. “Geez, my back is killing me. Hitting the wall in training did not treat me kindly,” she grumbles.

Atlas’s brows are furrowed in concentration, his fingers gripping the nail polish with a kind of intensity not usually present in regular teenage boys. “Hold still, I’m not done yet.” He huffs. 

Ira straightens and flexes out her fingers once more. “Sorry,” they mutter, holding their hand steady. A beat of silence fills the room, only filled by the soft sound of one of Ira’s favourite records playing in the background. “I heard you missed training the other day. What’s up with that?”

Atlas frowns. “I don’t know.” He mumbles, leaning down so she can’t read his face. “I guess all those rumours and whispers were getting to me. I just went to blow off some steam, and by the time I realized, training was already finished.” He says, the lie coming to him easier than he expected.

Ira frowns and narrows their eyes before shrugging. “I get that. What did you do? To blow off steam?”

“Just went on a walk. I needed to clear my head.” He responds, moving onto their other hand.

Ira hums casually and when he moves to their other hand, they lift it up closer to him. “Right… did Cato talk to you about it?”

Atlas is silent for a second, the memory replaying in his mind, unsettling. What may once have felt comforting now just leaves him nervous, uncertain. “Yes. I shouldn’t have let her down like that.”

Ira tilts her head slightly. “What did she say?” She pries.

“She was just… disappointed.” He says, carefully applying the nail polish, sure not to make eye contact with her, no matter how much Ira attempts to. “She made me do extra training that night, and I swore it wouldn’t happen again.”

“Right.” Ira says quietly, voice trailing off. There is something about the quietness of her voice that alerts Atlas, forcing him to finally look up. There’s that feeling again, poking at his insides. Leaving him feeling hollow, wrong. Talking with Ira, something that was once so easy, so natural, now feels like a chore, excuses and lies slipping out where his true thoughts had once rested.

“Who told you?” Atlas asks suddenly, meeting her gaze. “That I missed training?”

Ira clears her throat and glances away briefly. “Ah, you know. You turn heads. If you suddenly don’t show up to training, people are going to talk.” She says with a shrug. “Don’t worry too much about it though. I’m sure as long as you show Cato you’re back on track, everything will be fine.”

Atlas nods, satisfied with their answer. He’s being paranoid, the files stuffed underneath his mattress wearing heavy on his heart, pushing him from the things that truly matter. He needs to get himself under control. This is Ira. There’s never been anything weird about hanging out with Ira, and he certainly won’t allow that to be a possibility now.

He turns back to their nails. “Right. I just need to work harder.”

Atlas’s response brings a wide smile to Ira’s face and they give him an approving nod.

“Do you think you’re prepared for Evaluation day?” Atlas asks with a smile, gently blowing at Ira’s fresh new nails.

Ira perks up. “Me? Definitely. I even worked to beat your last time.” They boast proudly. Their smile flickers for a moment but not long enough for Atlas to dwell on it.

“I definitely think you’ll get in.” Atlas pulls away, admiring his work. “I mean, we've been preparing since we were kids. You probably could’ve made it in earlier, if you wanted to. I’m sure that the others will be impressed.”

Ira smirks at the praise and nods. “Aw, thanks kiddo,” she says, leaning forward and bonking his forehead with theirs. “So how do they look?” They ask, holding up their nails with a grin.

“Good.” Atlas gives her a small grin back.

Ira nods, satisfied, and Atlas places his hands in front of her expectantly. “Do mine now.”

“What color?” They ask, gesturing to the container of nail polish bottles.

Atlas skims through the colours, selecting a black and a red bottle, similar to his hair. Ira smiles, not surprised by his predictable choice. “Good. All right, how do you want them? Every other?” 

Atlas nods, lifting his hand for her, still as a statue.

Ira hums and unscrews the black nail polish and starts on his thumb. She’s quiet for a beat before saying, “What about you? How do you feel about evaluations?”

“I’m confident. If Cato believes I’m ready, I have no doubt that I’ll make it.” Atlas responds, holding still for Ira. The answer feels almost robotic now, falling from his lips without any true honesty or drive behind his words. “At least I have her on my side, if no one else.”

Ira pauses her painting just briefly, her body going still before she refocuses on applying an even coat to each nail. “And this is what you want right? There’s nothing else on your mind?” She says, looking up at him expectantly as she switches to his right hand.

“Mhm.” Atlas nods. He keeps his face carefully neutral, watching Ira closely as they paint each nail. There is something foreign in their gaze, something he isn’t used to. He almost doesn’t notice it, the sliver of emotion across her face so brief it’s easy to miss.

She doesn’t press further. “Good. It’s important for you to want this. This will be the best thing for you. Nothing else. Though I’m sure you’ve heard enough of that from Cato.” She snorts as she sets the black polish down and begins with the red on the unpainted fingers.

“Yeah,” Atlas murmurs. He thinks about all the files he’s seen in the past few weeks, the death toll that spy showed him. He wonders if this is really what he wants, or if it’s just what he’s been told that he wants.

He wonders what will become of him.

Ira’s eyes narrow and this time, Atlas doesn’t miss the tightness of her mouth before she smiles. “How does the first coat look?”

“Good.” Atlas gives her a smile, continuing to keep still as she paints his nails. Ira smiles, proud of their work so far as they begin to do a second coat.

There is a tension that clings to the two of them as the night continues on, words unspoken hanging in the air. The files directly underneath him feel hot, setting his skin aflame.

He wonders how long he’ll be able to keep ignoring the lies etched into the walls of his home, the blood caked beneath the bricks. He wonders how long he’ll be able to keep up this act.

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★ Send an ask or dm to be added or removed from the taglist ★

A big thanks to @oros-ash3s for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

─ O.W. .ᐟ

[ghxstlly]

how did feangers (or Becker and pooles lol) wedding go? 🫢

Ive actually wrritten about how their wedding went!

Here you are, for your reading pleasure <3

---

Pacing in tight circles, surely wearing a hole in the parlor’s carpet, Mr. Poole reached shaking hands up to adjust his bowtie for what had to have been the hundredth time as he glanced up at the clock and stifled a wince, for not even a full five minutes had passed since his last check.

“Pull yourself together, Freddie,” He whispered firmly to the empty room, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath in a bid to clear his thoughts. “Y—You can do this. Confidence, poise— just like in the courtroom. Easy peasy. You will be perfectly fine. It’s just a wedding, your wedding, n—nothing to be… ah, nervous about.”

Almost immediately, he deflated at his own words, stopping his incessant pacing to sink into the nearest seat, his head falling into his hands. A strange, weak chuckle escaped his mouth, then, followed closely by a distraught whimper as he did all he could to stave off a bout of nervous tears and wondered how it was that he was meant to get through this without having a nervous breakdown.

This had all seemed so simple in theory.

“Freddie?” Startling him out of his fretting, a voice unexpectedly called from just behind the parlor door, accompanied by a soft knock. With a sharp gasp, Poole bolted upright, hurriedly clearing his throat, trying his best to assume some false facade of composure and only partially succeeding.

“I, erm— y—yes, come in!” He called back, and quickly perked up when it was June who entered, gently shutting the door behind her. “Oh— M—Miss Kelly, hello!”

“Hi, Freddie,” She said sweetly, and, blinking down at the hand that Poole had awkwardly extended for a handshake as she approached, giggled and rolled her eyes, tugging him into a tight hug instead.

“Thank you again— I’m still just so glad you could make it,” Poole murmured against her shoulder, voice wobbling slightly as he tenderly returned her embrace. When they broke apart, her hands slid down to his, squeezing them reassuringly. “I—I know you’re busy, so, it— really means a lot.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything in the world. I’m so, so happy for you, both of you.” She beamed, the sincerity in her words soothing over Poole and working to calm his frayed nerves. “I thought I’d stop by before the ceremony, just to check up, see how you’re doing. You look so handsome! White looks good on you— and I love the bowtie!”

Grinning bashfully, Poole glanced away, bringing one hand up to give said bowtie a little tweak, adjusting it absentmindedly as a light warmth bloomed in his cheeks.

“Heh— thank you, it’s, uhm— it was a gift, from— from Ira, actually.” He said, a dreamy little smile playing about his face as he spoke.

“Your husband?” June corrected, and almost burst out laughing when apparently just hearing the word aloud was enough to make a scarlet flush explode across Poole’s face.

“Y—Yea—yeah—” The lawyer managed to stammer, biting his bottom lip and trying in vain to hold back a huge, silly grin. “I mean— he will be in... In about f—forty-three minutes, anyway. If— if things, uhm, run according to schedule.”

“They will,” Withdrawing her hands, June gave his shoulder a reassuring pat and glanced towards the clock. “I’ll make sure everything is taken care of, don’t you worry.”

“Hah, that’s a relief. I really appreciate it— frankly I’m not sure what we would’ve done without you.” Poole chuckled, a note of relieved gratitude in his tone.

“Don’t be silly,” His friend hummed, waving a playfully dismissive hand. “You would have been fine. I’m just here to make things extra easy. So! How’re you feeling? Butterflies in your tummy?”

“Uhm,” Chuckling nervously, the lawyer averted his gaze and lifted a fidgety hand to the back of his neck. “That would be an understatement.”

“I should’ve guessed.” June nodded understandingly, offering him a sympathetic smile. “But, you know— the scary part will be over before you know it, and you won’t even remember being nervous. Try not to stress so much and just enjoy yourself— it’s your wedding, after all. Let me handle the stressful parts.”

Smiling sheepishly, Poole took a deep, steadying breath and nodded appreciatively.

“I’ll, uh— I’ll try. Thanks.”

“No need to thank me! It really is my pleasure.” She said, beaming for a moment before she abruptly perked up and clapped her hands together. “Oh— I almost forgot— before I leave, there is… one little thing that needs your attention.”

Immediately, Poole stiffened, reflexively standing up straighter as worry returned to his face with a vengeance.

“Wh—what?” He fretted, perhaps a tad more urgently than he intended to sound. “I, uhm, I’m sure I can take care of it really quickly, whatever it is—”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that—” She interrupted quickly, raising a placating hand to halt his anxious babbling in its tracks. “It’s just… I really think you should check on Ira.”

Poole blinked, visibly deflating as his brow furrowed with confusion.

“On… Ira?” He echoed cautiously, failing to suppress a concerned wince. “Is… I mean, is he okay—?”

“He’s fine, don’t worry,” June assured him, laying a soothing hand on his shoulder. “I just think it would do him some good to see you before the ceremony— that’s all.”

Tilting his head slightly, Poole held her gaze, wracking his brain for any possible understanding he may be lacking in the matter before humming nervously, almost sounding hesitant to speak.

“Ah… But, uhm… Is that even allowed—?” He asked slowly, and nearly jumped when June made a quick ‘pft’ noise, waving a dismissive hand.

“Tradition shradition, Freddie, no one cares about all of those silly wedding rules. As your Maid of Honor, I am allowing it.” Nudging him with her elbow, June giggled and winked playfully. “He needs you right now, and honestly, I think you need him, too.”

“I—...” Poole faltered, smiling sheepishly as June raised a brow at him. “...Okay. Ye—yeah, you’re probably right. You’re… usually right.”

“I know.” His friend hummed teasingly, looping her arm around his and gently leading him out of the parlor. “I’ll walk you over.”

Sighing softly, the lawyer merely nodded, falling into an awkward silence as he was guided down the hall, across the venue to a closed door secluded at the very end of a short corridor. Though it was a rather short journey, Poole couldn’t help feeling that the few moments it took to get there were the longest of his day so far, as just being outside of his dressing room was enough for the gravity of everything to sink in, a little less than comfortably.

June was none the wiser— releasing Poole’s arm as they approached, she had stopped a few paces short of the door and nudged him forward, smiling encouragingly as he glanced about as though expecting to be reprimanded by some nonexistent chaperone.

“Go on, now— he’ll be happy to see you. Trust me.” She whispered sweetly, turning as she began to walk the opposite way, but not before pecking him on the cheek with a proud, loving smile. “See you soon!”

Murmuring his thanks as she strode away down the hall, Poole felt almost paralyzed with apprehension, watching her a short while before dragging his attention to the door he’d been led to. For a few long, drawn out seconds, he simply gazed at it, his mind wandering unhelpfully back to the swarm of uneasy what-ifs and uncertainties that seemed bent on clouding his thoughts, before he reached up and rapped his knuckles lightly on the wood.

It was an empty pause that followed— a long, uncomfortable silence— before a sharp reply snapped from behind the door.

“Christ, what now?”

“Sorry, it’s— it’s just me.” Poole called back nervously and listened for movement, hearing nothing for a few beats before a series of footsteps approached and the door swung open.

“Fred?” Sounding nearly incredulous, Mr. Becker stood in the entryway, eyes widening a fraction as they swept over the nervous lawyer fidgeting before him.

“Hi,” Poole squeaked, a timid half-smile rising to his face as he waved limply, quickly taking in his fiancé’s appearance, feeling his heart skip a beat despite the knot of nerves that had formed in his stomach. “Uhm— how... are you?”

“The Hell are you doing here?” Becker demanded, ignoring the question as he grabbed the taller lawyer by the wrist and pulled him sharply inside, turning to him with an intense, unintentionally intimidating glare the instant the door was shut behind him. “We’re on in half an hour, are you nuts?”

“I, uhm— well,” Poole quickly said, voice hitching as he tugged lightly on his collar. “First of all, you look great— uh, I mean, really— g—great. Uhm, second— Miss Kelly came by and said I should drop in on you. She… said that you— that you, ah…— n—needed to see me?”

“What? June said that?” Becker barked, and Poole shrugged innocently, nodding.

“Well, what she said was… uhm… Er, y—yeah, that was… pretty much verbatim, actually—”

Immediately, cutting Poole short, the shorter lawyer made a frustrated growling noise, something between a sigh and a snarl as a complicated expression, an odd sort of gruff embarrassment, washed over his face, his eyes quickly darting away.

“Great.” Was all he said, balling his fists at his side and turning away to stalk further into the room, his whole form visibly tense.

Blinking owlishly after him, Poole paused for a beat, taking a moment to observe his agitated fiancé, his brow furrowing with worry at the display, before carefully pursuing a few steps behind.

“Are you… is everything okay—?” He prompted gently,  setting a hand on Becker’s stiff shoulder and ducking his head, trying to meet his eyes, but the other lawyer merely shook him off and continued to fume.

“Fine. Swell.” Becker gritted out, his tone tight but transparently forced in its hardness. Even with his back turned, Poole could see the tension in his shoulders, in his clenched fists, and frowned a little at the obvious lie.

“Nice try.” He said flatly, putting his hands on his hips. “Really, Ira, what is it, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me— you know that never works.” Poole huffed, his frown deepening when Becker stubbornly twisted away as he tried to face him. “Come on, talk to me. I—I mean, are… are you having second thoughts—?”

At that, his fiancé abruptly whirled to face him, whipping around so fast that Poole instinctively flinched, taking a startled step backward as the shorter lawyer rounded on him.

“What kind of fucking question is that?” Becker snapped, a mingled look of hurt and anger flashing in his eyes. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Okay— sorry, look, I—I don’t know, you just— something is obviously wrong, and you won’t tell me, so—…”

He stopped.

Something in his fiancé’s expression had caught his attention just as his eyes met that fiery glare— something so impossibly out of place that it rendered Poole simply stunned for a moment, stricken by the sight.

It was a vague shimmer— a suggestion of moisture gathering along the edges of the shorter lawyer’s sharp gaze, restrained but all the same gleaming unshed in his eyes.

“Are—… Ira, are you… tearing up?” Softening, Poole’s brows knitted together, his voice dropping to a tender murmur, and immediately, Becker reared back, affronted, as though he’d just been slapped.

“No—” He snapped, turning away and bringing a hand up to angrily swipe at his eyes. “My fucking— my eyes are itchy, I’m probably allergic to all the goddamned perfume everyone’s wearing.”

For a moment, Poole only looked at him, his expression growing softer still as he came to understand what it was that had upset Becker so— and, in the process, could hardly suppress the tender smile that vaguely took shape on his face at the realization.

“You’re nervous.” He stated slowly, and watched as his fiancé seemed to deflate a bit in response, his shoulders slumping with a burdened sigh. “You’re… scared.”

There was a pause after he spoke, a heavy moment of silence while Becker visibly struggled with himself, his mouth twisting into a hard grimace, before he finally relented and nodded stiffly.

“...Of course I’m fucking scared.” Becker admitted in a gruff, mumbling tone, and when Poole remained silent, waiting for him to continue, he tightened his jaw, unable to hide the tiny, almost imperceptible wobble in his voice as he continued more quietly, as if embarrassed by his own words. “How the Hell some people manage to go through this multiple times, I will never understand. It’s just… ours feels like such a big deal. It feels like everything— like it needs to go exactly according to plan, but I don’t know what I’m doing and I… don’t want to fuck anything up. To fuck us up.

“And I know that’s an asinine thing to be worried about— but it would appear that all this wedding shit has a way of making me into a goddamn basket case because it’s been bothering me like you wouldn’t believe. I feel like I’m gonna blow a gasket on what should be the happiest day of my life, for Christ’s sake.”

Huffing loudly, then, he turned and raised his gaze, and as he met Poole’s eyes and saw how gently, how affectionately he was looking at him, he couldn’t quite help the tiny, shaky sigh that escaped him as some tension eased out of his posture.

“...Well, anyway. I said it— I’m fucking scared of our wedding. Happy?”

Humming lightly, Poole mused for a moment, fidgeting vaguely before he took a small step forward and carefully reached down, fingers delicately ghosting over Becker’s wrist until the shorter lawyer unfurled his fist and accepted his hand.

“I get it,” He murmured, rubbing his thumb reassuringly over Becker’s knuckles. “Really, I do— for me, uhm… Scared doesn’t even begin to cover it. I am— I’m completely petrified.”

Holding his gaze, Becker studied him almost skeptically, an incredulous frown playing about his face while Poole squeezed his hand, a lopsided, shy grin curving his lips.

“In fact, I, uh... I honestly thought I was going to throw up twenty minutes ago. Or pass out. Or both.” A tiny huffing laugh escaped him at that, his smile growing when he noticed a hint of wry amusement flickering in his fiancé’s eyes.  “Point is, I—I know this is scary, but… you aren’t alone. We’re in this together, and we’ll figure it out. Or… something… Heh.”

Ducking his head a bit, as though embarrassed by his own words, Poole bit his lip and shuffled his feet a bit before continuing, his cheeks flushing.

“Whatever, you know what I mean. We’re gonna be just fine, you and I— as long as we have each other, it doesn’t matter if we don’t know what we’re doing. Together we can— well, you know. Make it work. And Ira, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you could possibly mess this up even if you tried, because... well, uhm, I—I couldn’t ask for a… better partner.”

A pause.

“Really, I mean it. I never believed this day would come, you know— when we met I thought you were sort of— ah, rude and scary. And abrasive. And loud. But now, I think you are the most— the— the, uhm—”

“Okay— that’s enough.” Becker interrupted. Although he was rolling his eyes, Poole could easily see a teasing smirk pulling at his lips, his agitation easing away as he tugged Poole by the hand into a one-armed hug. “Christ, you sound like a damn Hallmark card— save it for the ceremony, would ya?”

Chuckling sheepishly, Poole flushed a little, leaning down into the embrace and resting his head atop his fiancé’s as he returned the hug with both arms.

“Heh— sorry.”

For a little while they remained like that, simply holding one another, enjoying the welcome silence and swell of warmth in their shared proximity. For the first time all morning, Poole felt grounded, protected, as though a heavy weight had been lifted from him while he basked in his fiancé’s secure presence, breathing him in, savoring the moment of peace. Wherever his butterflies had gone, they were forgotten now, leaving behind an odd, bubbling feeling that he almost wanted to call excitement.

It was pleasant, he had to admit.

When at last they parted, Becker kept his arm around his waist, gazing up at him with a fondness exclusive to him, a rare look that made Poole feel weak in the knees.

“...Thanks, by the way.” Becker rumbled out his gratitude, his tone a bit awkward and gruff but the words unambiguously sincere. “That helped.”

Standing up a bit straighter, Poole brightened, biting his lip in a bid to restrain a toothy smile.

“Heh— o—of course, anyti—” He stammered bashfully, only to be cut off by Becker suddenly grabbing him by the lapels and dragging him down for a passionate kiss— one he eagerly leaned into, his legs nearly giving out on him in the process.

Breaking apart just a few short moments later, it was with reluctance, a low, shaking murmur escaping Poole as Becker pecked him once, twice more on the lips before setting him back upright and smirking at him, undoubtedly amused by the flustered, dazed look he’d managed to put on his face.

“Alright, c’mon— let’s go get this show on the road.”

[dujour13]

📻 one for Raqim AND 📻 one for Sia <3

Thanks Fern 💕

Raqim/Seelah

Unironically it's a beautiful love song

Siavash

This one I owe completely to Dolly. A song from the French Revolution. Ça ira – It’ll be fine HAHA

It corresponds more to Galt than Andoran in the PF setting but Zrise and Sia both know it well.

I chose the punk version because hell yes and it has the original sans-culotte lyrics. (Honestly, I suspect Gojira took out the lines about hanging the aristocracy for the Olympics. cowards)

Punk version by Les Porte-Mentaux

[vsnotresponding]

find the word

another find the word brought to you by the wonderful @oh-no-another-idea <3

my words are: invisible, instinct, idea, and ink

here's púlsar

chapter ten - the storm - ira (invisible)

Moments clash as I fall on my knees over wet dirt. The smell of it is metallic and familiar just like blood is, only sharper. And more intense. My gift revolts inside of me, confused and not whole. I fight to anchor it. This is not my end. The scent of blood blends in with the burnt in the air as invisible tendrils climb over my right hand, white scars that create chasms over kaleidoscopic orange light. They consume my fingertips. Then my palm. Next is my elbow, then my shoulder. The skin is red when I look down, contrasting sharply with my left. Both my palms are in contact with the substance in the floor, where my opened wound meets the dirt.

chapter eight - progress - ira (instinct)

“It’s just… something I know how to do. I told you already how the Iria is constantly calling. Well, the thing is, everything is. That includes myself. My body, my being, craves this connection on instinct. To be in tune with the island.” I close my eyes to think about how to explain myself. It’s still difficult for me to talk once I find how. “I just have to listen and answer back. Reaching out. And once I’m connected, then I’m free to do with them as I please.” “You are?” He sounds hopeful.

chapter eleven - the silence - karma (idea)

The khadae became enamored with the idea—and impatient, once we could not make the numbers work. She was too frail. Too sick. Too close to death. We call it an accident, but it was very deliberate.

ink not found, surprisingly

ah yes the púlsar essentials: ira suffering magic trauma, karma nerding over ira's powers, and karma being depressed and guilt-ridden over the accident

tagging @space-writes @bloodmoodtrash @myhusbandsasemni and open tag ! your words are: overcast, edge, course, heart and ahead :]

[apparitionism]

Bonus

Happy particular Monday! Here’s a story for it, which came about mostly because I wanted to put a couple of people into a clichéd situation, and then I had to do leadup and aftermath... anyway, it’s intended to be a two-parter (yes, I know; aspirations) set in a not-entirely-canonical season 4, in which the Warehouse did get brought back and Helena did leave without explanation, BUT Artie doesn’t go full Father Data and Leena doesn’t suffer the consequences—mostly because Mrs. Frederic has sensed some badness to come and thus sent Artie and Leena away. Because why not? Also I have Claudia jumping into Caretakering, and even a bit of Artieing, with some enthusiasm.

P.S. I know I haven’t yet finished last year’s Christmas story—that’s a pain point—but I genuinely am working to get back on various horses, including that one. Weather (in all senses) permitting.

Bonus

“I genuinely cannot believe we’re stuck in an elevator,” Myka says. It may be the most true statement to which she’s ever given voice.

****

SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER...

Myka’s reasonably pleasant thought, burring along as background to her monotonous tasks, is I don’t mind this. She and Steve are in the Warehouse office early in the morning, doing file inventory, and it’s true: she doesn’t mind it. It’s a little lacking as a holiday activity, but with Artie, Leena, and Pete all away, “lacking” is pretty much the flavor of the moment.

Claudia pokes her head in and says, “Ping.” She’s unenthusiastic, speaking of lacking. Where’s the usual revving about what it might be this time? “At some midwestern accounting firm, because it’s important to have a boring Christmas.”

Ah. “An accounting artifact?” Myka asks. Speaking further of lacking: here, it’s artifacty zing. Then again, artifacty zing got Myka trapped in Alice’s mirror, among other catastrophes, so maybe boring isn’t so bad. “Balance sheets?” she ventures. “Pluses and minuses?”

“Some people at this pingy company just got extremely large Christmas bonuses,” Claudia says, “and some got their pay extremely docked. So yeah, ‘balance sheets, pluses and minuses’ just about covers it. Probably. I mean, I might be trying to manage expectations here.”

Claudia’s certainly right, in that getting one’s hopes up—about anything (or anyone)—is a fool’s game.

But still, there’s something to be said for boring-but-remunerative, even if only for some people... what a nice idea. “I’d like a Christmas bonus someday,” Myka says, “instead of a Christmas penalty. Which I think pretty accurately describes the Pete-plus-artifacts situation.”

“It’s two days before Christmas, and he hasn’t done anything yet,” Claudia says. “That you know of,” she amends.

“Because he’s been with his family in Ohio for the past week,” Myka points out, and she’s gratified when Claudia rolls her eyes. It’s practically a concession.

Steve says, “It’s inappropriate to say ‘Christmas’ bonus these days. It’s ‘end-of-year.’” The contribution suggests he’s listening with only one ear.

“I wish appropriateness mattered here,” Myka says, not really to him but in general. Who knows how a Warehouse HR department would make heads or tails of the application of employment laws—much less employment niceties? “Not that it makes a difference. Christmas, end-of-year... call it Fred, and we still wouldn’t get one.”

“If I ever do get a bonus, I’m absolutely naming it Fred,” Claudia declares.

Myka shakes her head. “Poor Fred. Doomed to be injected right back into the discretionary economy.”

“Inject-o-what are you even talking about?”

“Just a guess, but: you’d spend it on things you don’t need.”

Claudia harrumphs. “Thanks for lumping me in with the avocado-toast-and-Starbucks crowd. My fiscaling is way more responsible.”

“Really? What would you use Fred for?”

“Asus VG278HE gaming monitor. Plus a graphics card, maybe the Nvidia GTX 690, depending on how hefty Fred is.” At Myka’s snort, Claudia challenges, “Fine, where would you inject it?”

“My Roth IRA,” Myka says immediately. She’s not sure what assets her evil, crazy, or dead self will need in retirement, but given the many and varied forms each of those, or combinations thereof, could take, it seems like a good idea to have a financial plan in place. That’s another thing a Warehouse HR department might be useful for...

“You’re the actual human manifestation of an accounting artifact,” Claudia accuses. “Speaking of which, here’s the deal. I gotta stay here—some Mrs.-F homeworky stuff—and Steve’s busy reassuring all the misfit toys in the building that Leena hasn’t deserted them forever. And I’d say ignore the ping entirely, but your never know what’ll go viral, and I bet Artie’d say the last thing we need is another financial crisis. Or maybe you’d say it. Anyway, you’re it. And for your backup, when you get to Cleveland—”

Myka groans. “Cleveland? Seriously? Pete’s going to be so mad about you pulling him away from the family.”

“I’m not pulling him away,” Claudia says, blinking like she’s some innocent little lamb.

Myka groans again. “You’re making me do it?”

Claudia shrugs. “Sure. Why not. You’re partners, right? But here’s some advice: wait till you get there to call him. You know, put off the misery, if that’s what it is, as long as possible. Besides—more advice—I really think you should spend your travel time thinking about bonuses. Who gets ’em and why. Because what’s a bonus, really?”

“An economic stimulus whose nametag reads ‘Fred,’ if I’m understanding things correctly.”

“We’ll see what you think about that when you get to Cleveland.”

“On the day before Christmas eve,” Myka grouses. “By the way, that’s a whole lot of ‘advice,’ coming from somebody who’s over a decade younger than I am and not technically my boss.”

“By the way,” Claudia mimics, archly mocking, “we’ll see what you think about that too.”

“When I get to Cleveland?”

“When you get to Cleveland. On the day before Christmas eve.”

“Sounds like the title of a lesser Christmas carol,” Steve says—he’s tuned back in to the conversation. He then says, with his grin that curves so impish, “Think we could get Mariah Carey to sing it? It’s a hit if we get her, right, no matter how lesser?”

“‘When You Get to Cleveland on the Day Before Christmas Eve?’” Claudia skeptics. “Hit-wise, that’s gonna need a lot more power: Mariah dueting with Darlene Love at the very least. Plus we’ll need a Destiny’s Child reunion for at least one chorus.”

“Thanks for reinforcing my sense of how awful this is likely to be,” Myka tells them both, and Steve’s grin turns apologetic.

Claudia, however, shrugs. “Maybe you’ll sing it different.”

Myka is now the one to roll her eyes. “I won’t sing it at all.”

Surprisingly, Claudia doesn’t go with another eyeroll. “We’ll see,” she says, and Myka is struck by the Mrs.-Frederic resonance in her words. Does the homework include practicing the enigmatic tone?

Steve looks up and catches Myka’s eye. He winks. Myka would wink back, but he would probably interpret that as her saying she understands what’s happening. And that would be a lie: serious enough, probably, to make him wince and massage his temples.

So Myka just blinks—not Morse or any other code, just basic eye-moistening blinks. Then she goes upstairs to collect her always-packed travel bag for her trip to Cleveland.

****

Her flight departs late, of course; it’s December in South Dakota. But that’s this-time fine, because it allows Myka a necessary excess of opportunity to prep her Pete-placation. Under her breath, she practices the delivery of such words as “shorthanded” and “necessary,” aiming for maximum sincerity.

When she at last emerges from her Cleveland Hopkins jetway, that extensive prep deserts her entirely, for what awaits her is the manifestation of a Christmas wish she has worked overtime to convince herself would not, could not possibly be granted:

Helena.

Whose arms are crossed, and whose posture betrays that her foot might recently have been tapping out impatience with the plane’s tardy arrival. The attitude is so normal, so entirely of-the-world (rather than of-its-imminent-end), that Myka wants to reverse course, get back on the plane and redisembark, just so she might meet it again, meet it and refeel this wash of absolute relief at seeing Helena impatient in an airport.

Devious, Claudia, Myka thinks. Outstandingly devious. “Hello, Fred,” she murmurs, then tries, in the ten seconds she has before she and Helena are in proximity to speak, to engage in a far more consequential prep.

For Helena has been gone—has been, as Myka put it to Steve not so long ago, “god knows where”—since shortly after the Warehouse did not explode. She was there, in the Warehouse, but then she was gone, and Myka was told only that Helena had “matters to attend to.” God presumably also knew what those matters were, but Myka hadn’t, in the wake of that first moment of absence, and hasn’t since, been able to pry any information about matters or their whereabouts out of anyone, divine or otherwise.

And through the seemingly endless wondering, Myka’s mind and heart have gnawed themselves ragged.

Until this moment, when the wondering and gnawing end: now her blood speeds, coursing with urgency even as everything else seems to slow.... her movements, her reactions, her thinking, all are sluggish, unresponsive; only her blood matters. This blood knowledge. For all her wondering, she’s been avoiding gnawing her way to that answer.

“Claudia said you needed backup” are Helena’s words when they meet.

Myka’s attempt at prep has fallen grievously short—not that she could have risen to such an occasion, not when hearing that voice for the first time in some time, and certainly not when faced with what her blood’s embarrassing insistence has forced her to confront anew. “I... assumed I’d be calling Pete,” she says, to at least go with truth.

“Interesting assumption. Perhaps necessary, if you believe I’ll be insufficient.”

Myka’s impulse is to reassure: “More than sufficient—you’re necessary,” she would shout, or better yet, whisper. Instead, because Helena’s tone is neutral—is she in actuality indifferent?—she falls into a defensive, businesslike crouch, offering only implicit denial of the premise of Helena’s statement. “Let’s head for the accounting firm,” she says, internally cursing herself.

Cursing, but also justifying: Helena is here as backup, thanks to Claudia’s cleverness, and Myka should not assume (speaking of assumptions) that she even wants to be here. All focus should be on retrieving the artifact. Certainly on that and not on Myka’s (honestly) predictably overexcited blood.

She tries to concentrate on Claudia’s advice (while at the same time trying not to resent her success at being cryptic about it): what’s a bonus, really? Helena’s presence, the sight of her, the apprehending of her impatience, the experience of blood: whatever else may happen, these have been—must be—are!—the bonus.

****

The cab ride is quiet. Myka’s resolve to think only of backup and bonus is dissolving by the second, and she lets words reach her tongue that might start a conversation with Helena about things... but those words don’t escape her lips, for a strand of formality seems to be stiffening Helena’s spine. Does she know how Myka cherished her impatience? Is she attempting to discourage such adoration?

Myka, in regret and relief, follows that more-strict lead.

That’s a bonus too, though, for it turns the ride into unpressured, liminal time, perfect for simply basking in presence. It’s best, Myka is now thinking, to treat this reunion as something that was of course going to have happened. For backup or other professional purposes. Despite the fact that it’s the thank-god fulfillment of recurring, desperate dreams.

However: at one point in the traffic-backed silence, Helena, completely unprompted, turns and smiles at Myka.

Myka smiles back.

It’s a previously missing puzzle-piece slotting into place... yet in its aftermath, Myka finds herself having to push with force against a will to worry over other missing pieces; in particular, she must fight the fret-intensive futility of trying to count them.

****

They find the accounting firm’s lobby spacious but quiet—holiday-low staffing, presumably. Myka asks the receptionist, “Is there someone we can talk to about end-of-year bonuses? Also penalties?”

“I’m a temp,” says the young man. His tone suggests it’s his answer to every query... but then he adds, very quietly, “Unofficially, there’s this one guy...”

That has the ring of “artifact,” so Myka nods, encouraging him.

“Super-vocal about his paycheck the other day. How tiny it was. I mean, he’s the kind of guy you might have theories about what else is tiny, but I—”

“Who was that?” Myka interrupts, even as she feels Helena’s readiness to laugh. Mr. Super-vocal is thus probably not a wielder of an artifact; more likely, one of that wielder’s... victims?

“Bob,” the temp says. “I’m sure he’s got a last name, and I’m sure he thinks everybody should call him ‘Mr. Lastname,’ but my care level? Anyway he’s down the hall—one of the only ones in the farm today. Spite-working. Maybe on his anti-everything manifesto.”

“Down the hall” turns out to be a vast expanse of cubicles: definitely a farm.

Myka says to Helena, “Follow my lead?”

“Always,” Helena says.

It’s a tonally sincere utterance—and in that, admirable—but it’s also manifestly untrue; nevertheless, Myka’s blood decides to believe it, to recognize it as another puzzle-piece. I really need to function, Myka tries to explain to her interior. So if we could climb down just a couple rungs. Like to the cab-ride level, maybe?

Her body refuses the agreement.

Of course.

The occupant of the first inhabited cubicle they find is an over-coiffed middle-aged man who clearly spends far too much time in tanning booths. He’s typing aggressively, as if the force of his keystrokes will power his message. His manifesto?

“Are you Bob?” Myka asks him.

“You better be here about my money,” obviously-Bob says, clearly spoiling for a fight.

Myka finds his demand incongruous—his job has to do with other people’s money, and Myka and Helena are manifestly other people. Who could have money. Fred or otherwise.

“In a way,” she says. She follows up with “We’re from the IRS,” and it’s never not funny for that to be useful. Bob winces, as if she's about to strike him. Also never not funny. “We’ve noted some suspicious discrepancies in end-of-year reporting.”

“You have?” Bob asks. Now he’s avid rather than confrontational.

“Looks like some overreporting. Also underreporting. So you see our concern, particularly about effects on withholding.” She is making this up, as she generally does whenever she has to go actual IRS on someone. Read up on tax law, she reminds herself, as she generally does every time. Not that she’ll ever have the leisure to do that... “What we need to find out is whether it was in error, or if it warrants a full investigation.”

“Nancy Sullivan,” he says, with contempt, the name itself a curse. “She’s the one you should investigate, and then send straight to jail. She’s always been a witch about year-end, but now?  On steroids. Talking about making her list, threatening to mark down people she doesn’t like, including yours truly, as naughty... and then we got our paychecks, and somehow she did it! No idea how she managed to push that garbage through, but I swear you better get her up on some kind of charges!”

He rises abruptly, clutching a slip of paper; his chair topples over behind him. He shoves the paper in Myka’s direction, his knuckles nearing her astonished nose—but in the instant before contact, Helena intervenes, her arm blocking his, stopping his forward motion.

Backup.

Helena plucks the paper from his pushy hand. “And what’s this?” she asks.

A pretty minimal manifesto, Myka thinks initially. But then she replays his screed in her head, and his babbling about Nancy Sullivan resolves into meaningful references; struck by the realization, she very nearly misses his next statement: “My pay stub. She can’t just do this.”

Helena says, “Of course not.” She’s soothing him, her voice a faux-caress. It’s enough to tempt Myka to act out, just to hear it directed her way, even as Helena continues, “But we understand some of your colleagues, to the contrary, received large bonuses.”

His “tanned” skin darkens further. “Guess she thought they were nice. To her. Suck-ups.”

Mya looks a Find out anything else that’s relevant at Helena, who nods. Retreating back to the pre-cubicle hallway—relieved that her nose is intact—she Farnsworths Claudia. She skips the pleasantries, starting with, “A very disgruntled employee says the woman who signs off on bonuses was making a list.”

Claudia chortles. “You’re hilarious. Was she checking it twice?”

“This is my point. We don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with, not yet, but I bet that’s the crux.”

“I should’ve known you weren’t aiming for hilarity. So you really think this is some Santa thing?”

“No. I’m saying words about lists because I think it’s a grocery thing.” Myka wants to shake her fist at the heavens and every deity who occupies it. Occupies them. All the heavens. “Of course I think it’s a Santa thing! I also think it’s Pete’s fault somehow.”

“Just because it’s Christmas? C’mon.”

“Christmas and Ohio?” Myka snorts. “You c’mon. I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“Maybe you should though. For peace of mind?”

“That’s another thing I don’t believe in. Just see if you can find anything about a Santa’s-list artifact, would you?”

“Roger. By the way, how do you like your backup?” She chortles again and disconnects.

“I like my backup like I like the sunrise,” Myka tells the blank Farnsworth screen.

“What about the sunrise?” Helena asks from directly behind her.

Myka wishes the sound of her voice were either more or less startling. She wishes also that she knew exactly how much overhearing had occurred.

“It’s inevitable,” she sighs.

In response, Helena blinks.

They take the elevator to Nancy Sullivan’s office.

In that elevator, which is aggressively mirrored, Myka can’t help but glance repeatedly at herself. So many reflections. You called this into being, thinking about Alice’s mirror before, she accuses. She tries not to focus on how her hair could really stand to be more controlled... she’d focus on Helena instead, but who knows how that would be received? Instead she allows herself one glance, then looks down.

She likes being on the elevator with Helena, though; it’s a space of relative privacy, like the cab. Have they ever before been on an elevator together? Alone or otherwise? She runs through their interactions, fast-forwarding from the Wells house to D.C., Tamalpais to Moscow, Yellowstone, Colorado Springs, Ohio (here Myka trips over the fact that Helena’ s now been to Ohio twice, if only once in physical form), Pittsburgh, Hong Kong...

The review—the speed with which she can conduct it—reminds her of how limited that time has been, so: an elevator ride. Yet another bonus.

“That fellow,” Helena remarks, and Myka looks up again; their eyes meet in the mirror of the elevator’s doors. It’s uncanny, as if they’re both holograms, so Myka turns her body toward Helena, who meets Myka’s actual eyes and continues, “He attempted to make a lewd joke about his willingness and ability to be naughty when it’s called for. I pretended not to understand.”

Myka can’t help it: she snorts. “I bet he didn’t buy that for a second.”

“I have the ability to perform ‘prim’ when it’s called for,” Helena says, and Myka has to acknowledge that statement as good evidence of itself. Then Helena’s face reshapes into a devilish grin as she says, “In a slightly different vein, his quailing at those three letters with which you assailed him? Hilarious.”

“Letters?” A little perverse-quirk makes Myka want to hear Helena say them, though she’s probably not pulling off “disingenuous” in making the request.

Helena seems fine with the perversity, for she obliges: “I,” she begins, then draws out “Aaaaare.” Then, after a beat: “Esssss.”

Myka now herself feels assailed—by how right Helena’s reading her. She tries to step it down with, “I wasn’t aiming for hilarity. I never do. Claudia can vouch.” But she does spend a little moment thinking about the context of that previous assailing: we’re from the IRS. We are here, together, from an agency. We, together, represent. It isn’t by any means everything Myka would have wanted... but it’s something: part of this bonus. “Fred,” she says, sotto voce.

The office they’re seeking is on the building’s highest floor, suggestive of Nancy Sullivan’s bonus-approving rank; it features several large windows, one of which affords the office a view of the hallway, and vice versa. Through it, Myka and Helena watch a woman, presumably that powerful Nancy Sullivan, writing with a quill-esque pen.

“It’s the pen,” Myka says, because it has to be. “It’s always the stupid pen.”

“Always?” That’s unusually tentative, like Helena’s trying not to step.

“Okay, once,” Myka concedes. “My dad and Poe and a pen, and as a result I’ve developed a severe aversion to those quill things.”

Helena takes a beat. Then: “I never liked feather pens.”

“Are you just saying that,” Myka says, because she might be, and she might admit it, and that might be good or bad or something else Myka has no way of evaluating. Why does Helena say words like this? And for that matter, why does Myka keep spending her limited time on this planet trying to parse them?

“Yes? In that I’ve... said it?”

That really didn’t help with any of the whys. “I mean, just to make me feel better?”

Helena shrugs. “The fact is, today’s ballpoints et cetera are far more reliable. Does that make you feel better?”

She’s playing at being obtuse—surely that’s for a reason? But Myka has no time to wonder further, for Helena is knocking on the office door and opening it without waiting for an invitation, and the real retrieval is underway.

Myka flashes her badge. “I’m Agent Myka Bering, and this is Helena Wells. We’re from the IRS.” She glances at Helena—all these glances!—and gets a small smirk in response.

Rather than introducing herself, the woman says, “Really? I bet that’s not true.”

“Why?” Myka asks. Have she and Helena, over the course of the elevator ride, lost their ability to perform “official” correctly?

“I have a feeling you’re here for this,” Nancy Sullivan says, and she lofts the pen, waving it like a wand. “Mostly because I also have a feeling that I want to close my fist around it, punch my way past both of you, and make my escape.”

Well. “That’s self-aware,” Myka says. “Unusually so.”

“Thank you? Although it’s less self-awareness than kind of a... sixth sense.”

Helena raises an eyebrow at Myka. “Sixth sense aside, we appreciate your good sense to refrain from attempting to punch your way past us. That would have ended poorly.”

“I wish I’d had the good sense not to use this pen,” Nancy Sullivan says.

“Is there a reason for your wish?” Helena asks. She sounds, to Myka’s ears at least, like a recently summoned, slightly flummoxed genie.

“Because of how much I liked using it—particularly when I realized nobody was going to question anything. I signed off on all these orders, and it was like...” she trails off. Then she concludes, “Magic.”

To keep her talking, Myka prompts, “Was it?”

“Having the power to reward good people has been fantastic,” Nancy Sullivan continues, “but penalizing the awful ones? I mean I’ve sort of resented feeling compelled to use the word ‘naughty’ about them, because that’s way out of character for me. But other than that? Utterly spectacular.”

“Bob,” Helena suggests.

“Oh, god, you met him?”

Helena offers a dry “Alas.”

Nancy Sullivan’s smile is as dry as Helena’s tone, astringently vindictive. “I could not have been more thrilled to hit him and everybody like him where it hurt... I admit I’ve always been kind of judgmental, but wielding this pen? Intensified. Like, the hates are more. In particular, the hates are more. I’m not saying the Bobs of this company didn’t deserve what I did, but I feel it more. Punishment. It’s satisfying, but also weirdly costly. Grinch-in-reverse costly.”

That’s a little on the nose. Myka glances at Helena again, because the satisfactions of punishment, of judgment, even of hate, are among the things they will need to talk about. Maybe. Someday. If they are to have a someday that is theirs... if that is even possible after so much time and tribulation... Myka lets the glance grow into a gaze, a resting regard, and it stays that way until Helena, too, glances, with the result then that their eyes meet and lock... such a clasp, Myka feels, could ground that potential, and potentially necessary, talk of things, if only they were not in the middle of a retrieval...

...which makes Myka think. Why are they in the middle of a retrieval?

“I wish I didn’t feel like I need to articulate this, but where did you get the pen?” she asks. Because she has a niggling sense of something larger happening, something beyond her grasp. Nevertheless, it is not—repeat, not—a vibe.

Fine. It might be a vibe.

“My cousin gave it to me,” says Nancy Sullivan.

“Your cousin,” Myka says. “Whose name is?” Now she’s knows what’s coming, and that has nothing to do with a vibe: no, it is entirely deduction based on experience.

“Pete Lattimer.”

TBC

[esuemmanuel]

My Little Devil.

I have these two faces, at least I speak of those that are visible - the others are usually hidden and I have not even seen them-; the heavier of these two is the dark one, the infamous and inhuman; the insensitive, the foolish, the clumsy and childish… Yes, it is the face of a child overcome by malice, fed on the vanity and zeal of my bile. This face peers into the mirror and gnashes its teeth, then smiles to show me them broken and eaten away by its constant vomiting of anger…. This child eats my fingernails and his filth from my hands… and sweetens his tongue with my vilest madness. Ah, how he hates me! But, he cannot live without me; this is what displeases him most. He knows himself my slave, but also my master; the tongue that crawls down my neck while his teeth bite my throbbing. Oh, the pain is intense! it burns! it crusts! It transgresses my flesh and crushes my bones… but, the child… this child enjoys and has no pity; it continues to tear my flesh until it reaches my soul.

Mi Pequeño Demonio.

Tengo estas dos caras, al menos hablo de las que son visibles —las otras suelen esconderse y ni yo las he visto—; la más pesada de estas dos es la oscura, la infame e inhumana; la insensible, la necia, la torpe e infantil… Sí, es el rostro de un niño vencido por la malicia, alimentado de la vanidad y el celo de mi bilis. Esta cara se asoma al espejo y cruje los dientes, luego sonríe para mostrármelos rotos y carcomidos por sus vómitos constantes de ira… Este niño come de mis manos las uñas y su mugre… y se endulza la lengua con mi locura más vil. Ah, ¡cómo me odia! Pero, no puede vivir sin mí; esto es lo que más le disgusta. Se sabe mi esclavo, pero también mi dueño; la lengua que se arrastra por mi cuello mientras sus dientes muerden mi latir.¡Oh, el dolor es intenso! ¡Arde! ¡Quema! ¡Castra! Transgrede mi carne y a mis huesos aplasta… pero, el niño… este niño goza y no se apiada; sigue arrancando mi carne hasta alcanzarme el alma.

[larsons-shattered-eyeballs]

PART 49 LIVEBLOG EVEN THOUGH IM STILL RECOVERING FROM THE ITHACA SAGA

- Damn, everyone is getting the silent treatment I guess

- “how far they’re willing to go” well, Arthur has done worse things than this for less sooooo

- Quite ironic for the friar to break the silence

- Wha?

- Barnobos is an ArthurxFriar shipper confirmed?

- I forgot that Arthur had like, every single disease imaginable

- IF BARNOBOS ISNT THE KILLER I SWEAR TO GOD

- Arthur. It is probably not the best idea so say you hate cultists in a room full of cultists.

- WHO THE FUCK IS GLUN???????

- AGAIN. DONT ACT STUPID IN A ROOM FULL OF MURDEROUS EXPERTS

- that was a lieeeeeee

- OHHHH SHIT WE FUCKED

-I guess we fighting god god now

- MY BROTHER IN CHRIST SHAKESPEARE ISNT ALIVE YET AND PROBABLY WONT EXIST IN THIS UNIVERSE!!!! STOP BEING A DUMBASS

-God forbid a woman has hobbies

- Ohhhh shitttttt

- we fucked

- yep we dead

- it was good knowing yall

- YOU ARE LITERALLY PROVING THEIR POINT

- yep, we dead

- Finally! The only GOOD decision Arthur has made this episode

- I swear if we are replacing blindfaith with this new friar I’m walking into the ocean/j

- Arthur our iron deficient king

-well no shit your having difficulties

- guys I think Arthur might actually die again soon…..

- honestly, smart move on the friars part

- Arthur you are literally under a fake identity, you are not trustworthy AT ALL

- YEP. BARNOBOS IS THE MURDERER

- OH SHIT IM THINKING ITS THE FRIAR

- ARTHUR NO

- OH SHIT

- rest in peace friar, you will be missed

- SPARE HIM PLEASE 🙏

- ARTHUR NO

-DONT

- phew, thank god

- Welp. That was awkward

- OHHHH GOD NO

- SECRET PASSAGE WAY LETS GOOOOOO

- I’m liking the friar now

- damn

- bro needs a doctor NOW

- warmer?

- oooooh a peephole?

- I think Everon uses these tunnels

- NAH WTF WAS THAT SIGIL???

- NAH FUCK THAT

- I personally think Arthur is well able to talk to a bloodthirsty drunkard if he can flirt with a serial killer

-MOIDAH TIME

- WE HAVE A GUN WE CAN GET THIS DONE

- oh shit i can’t with Arthur dying….

- he’s not gonna die by tomorrow, right?

- bro is coughing up his lungs atp

- this shit is too silent

- WHAT THE FUCK

- NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

- free lobotomy I guess

- this can’t be the end

- save us witch lady, save us

- WHERE IS SHE????

- THIS CANT BE THE FUCKING END

- HOW ARE THERE STILL 35 MINUTES LEFT?????

- is this where the black stone is?

- is Lord everon a necromancer

- WHAT NEW SONG???????

- WITH A CHOIR???

- I FUCKING KNEW IT

- EVERON YOU CUNT

- is Everon a cannibal?

- OH NO

- WHATS GOING ONNNN

- A FOREST???????

- EVERON YOU MOTHERFUCKING CUNT

- SOMEONE GET THIS MAN TO A HOSPITAL PLEASE 🙏

- KELLIN???

-WHY WE BRINGING HIM UP???

- NO WE ARE

- YOU CANT SAY THAT

- YOU ARE NOT DYING

- THAT MOTHERFUCKING DIES IRAE CURSE

- HARLAN WHY DID YOU HAVE TO DO THIS ON CHRISTMAS

- NOT MARIE

- WE HAVE 24 MINUTES WE STILL CAN DO SOMETHING

- AAAAAAAARGHHHHH

- OSCARS LETTER

- HE REMEMBERS!!!!!!!

- ITS IVICTUS!!!!

- YASSSSSSSS!!!!!!

- NOOOOOOO

- I CANT WITH THIS SHOW ANYMORE

- YAS HES NOT GIVING UP

- WE GONNA GET THAT BAG LITERALLY AND FIGURATIVELY

- I knew it was gonna come to this 😔

- oh shit…..

- the creature

-IS THAT MOTHER DARKNESS

- I THINK IT IS

-OH SHIYT IT IS HER

- THIS IS NOT A GOOD IDEA

- BOSS BATTLE TIME????

- YES, USE THE GUN

- GET UP YOU BITCH

- 6 shots

- I’m getting nostalgia for s1 and s2 rn

- LETS GOOO

- LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOOO

- WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT

- FUCK YEA HE DEAD

- SAVE US YORICK

- KAYNE COME BACK PLEASE

- WE NEED YOU KAYNE

- OH SHIT HE IS INSANE

- THE THREE SOLDIERS THANJ YOU

- YAY

- of what?

- ah yes, a fellow cultist killer

- PLEASE GIVE US THAT STONE WE NEED IT

- he still believes he is a representative of humanity doesn’t he?

- PLEASE GIVE HIM MEDICAL ATTENTION I CANT LET HIM DIE

- SHES A HEALER?????

- WERE SAVED!!!!!!

- Oh?

- ANOTHER POLYCULE????

- well no fucking shit there’s a lot of danger

- IS THIS THE S5 FINALE??

well that was surely and episode🙂👍

[sentience-if]

Ah yes the Scooby Gang: Scooby Doobio Dio, Shaggy Val, Ira Dinkley (cos books), Kat Blake (cos pretty) and Klaus Jones (cos traps). Also introducing new character Connie who just fucking punches ghosts (the punching does make them tragically susceptible to being aligned with Scrappy Doo, but Connie's gone through a lot I'll leave them be.)

Bonus for the masked villain Guinefort (tragically easy to catch, think they're actively trying to fall for Klaus' trap).

Bonus bonus for the final episode where we reveal this isn't a goofy kid show and a Lovecraftian god was behind it the whole time can go to the God Below I suppose.

considering scooby doo is canonically part alien or something it really all makes sense

[hoarding-stories]

The bomb team: Ah yes! We're tagging along with Ira to set some explosives and damage the Vanguard's efforts to get to Predathos!

Matt: You take half of 158 points of damage. You are flung bodily up and out of the entrance by the force of this explosion. The ground moves outward, then sinks back in.

The bomb team:

[dollarbin]

Kristofferson:

A Dollar Bin Primer

I saw an obligatory "ten essential songs" list alongside the very nice NYTimes Kris obituary following his passing yesterday. Suffice it to say that the assembler of that list doesn't dwell with you and me in the Dollar Bin. Rather they live in Obvious Town, otherwise known as Spodify.

But Kris is a true lord of the bin: he sold tons of records in the 70's that no one listens to any more except me and my famous brother.

And now you! Here are nine deep tracks (plus a tenth from Willie!) in chronological order, one from each of Kristofferson's fairly-easy-to-track-down-for-a-square-buck-each 70's albums...

(Yes: incredibly, Kris put out nine separate solo albums in the 70's, plus three more with his wife-for-a-decade Rita Coolidge, not to mention starring in a half dozen films. Nine plus three is twelve. I doubt Radiohead have issued that many albums in their nearly 40 years of existence...)

Casey's Last Ride from Kristofferson

Kris's self-titled first record is a downright mothercuddler: every song is titanic, funny and terrifying. Casey's Last Ride gives him room to swing from violent to sensitive; this perfectly miniaturized epic sounds like a blueprint for the film Peckinpah should have made with Kris instead of Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid...

Jodie and the Kid from The Silver Tongued Devil and I

Kris could write a weeper alright. I don't know if he ever really got over his first failed marriage and the ways it affected his children. Every time I was around Kris - he was a distant cousin - I'd see that he was most interested in the children at our gathering; the first time I ever met him he seemed literally covered in diapered offspring from his third marriage and he looked downright thrilled about it.

Jodie and the Kid was one of my grandmother's favorites of his songs - he loved her dearly and she loved the sensitive, ah shucks side of him on display in this perfect short story of a song.

Little Girl Lost from Border Lord

Kris always took a lot of pride in his band: guys stuck with him for decades and he made room for their songs and their voices on all of his records. Little Girl Lost is really three different songs artfully shuffled together: there's brooding Doors-like intro followed by a honky tonk stomp that fades into a prayer. Kris and the boys ride the changes with concise poise.

Jesus Was A Capricorn

He was just so good with words. Sure, this title track from his fourth solo record is a tossed off hoot. But there are poetic depths here, especially for a guy who was busy drinking himself to death. Just check out the verse work: he rhymes food and shoes and makes it work; he boils down an eight page paragraph from Dostoevsky about the return of Christ into about 6 words and then he lays this little nugget on us, all with a chuckle:

Some folks hate the whites who hate the blacks who hate the klan; most of us hate anything that we don't understand...

Lights of Magdala from Spooky Lady's Sideshow

Kris was also an occasionally brilliant interpreter of other people's songs. The drunkest of his records, 1974's Spooky Lady Sideshow, verges on unlistenable at moments but it also contains the fitting closure of what I consider his great Freedom Trilogy.

Buried in the mix is also one of the bleakest pleas for salvation ever issued by a white male on record. For me, Drake's Black Eyed Dog, Young's Borrowed Tune and Kris's Lights of Magdala work together to chart out the depths of hell. They also make us want to reach out and help everyone we see.

Stallion from Who's To Bless and Who's To Blame

Kris was always the first to put down his own singing and musicianship. Yeah, so he was no Mickey Newbury - but he knew his range and he knew enough chords to work with and there was never a truly dull moment in songs like Stallion. Indeed, it's hard to imagine a world where white dudes with oddball voices - think everyone from Michael Stipe to David Berman to Ira Kaplan - ever turn into rock and roll icons without the benefit of Kris's rickety but oh-so-cool foundation.

You Show Me Yours (And I'll Show You Mine) from Surreal Thing

Occasionally, however, he'd write something he really couldn't sing. The ridiculous, tequila soaked chorus for You Show Me Yours (And I'll Show You Mine) is a good example.

But Kris had an ace up his sleeve: his version features a heavenly choir led by his wife Rita Coolidge; and alternatively, he could always just let Willie sing it...

The Saber and the Rose from Easter Island

You can probably note a decrease in quality going on. As an old man, poor Kris couldn't remember too much about his life from this period. The guy had boxed too much, flown too many helicopters, surely blown out his hearing and drank way, way, too much - and none of that helps in the memory department - which is why I don't fly helicopters.

But in 1978 he made a concerted effort with Easter Island to reclaim some kind of high ground artistically. I have no idea what's really happening in this song but the piano pounds nicely and the storytelling is beginning to reemerge.

Come Sundown from Shake Hands with the Devil

Happily, he survived it all: he sobered up, met a rather perfect human being and talked them into being his wife for the next 45 years. Did he ever write a song again that matched the glorious initial tracks on this list and on everyone else's? Heck no!

But Come Sundown is sure lovely...