#although the piece does leave it kind of ambiguous how old they are

[pluralsword]

Gosh we love this piece so much... We commissioned @ VansZero (discord) & worked with them to make this four panel fancomic "That's So Lovely Sibling," focusing on Gauge & Sideswipe, he did such an awesome job with the art in our opinion. We did the writing, spot the references around the piece to who the two's six mentors are! (if you know us it's probably not hard to guess haha)

[sweetbitterimpossiblecreature]

A Brief And Concise Summary Of Is Wrong With The ACOTAR Series

I think we can agree that a lot of ACOTAR is pretty iffy. Consider this a very brief refresher.

What's Wrong With Feyre/Rhysand (juxtaposed against Feyre/Tamlin)

Rhysand drugs and sexually assaults her in Book 1

This is "for her own good". Because he "has no choice". Despite the fact that, from what we know of the plot, Amarantha thinks that Clare Beddor was the one Rhysand was diddling, and is only interested in Feyre because Rhysand, "her" man male, has taken an interest in her.

If we extrapolate from this we can figure that Rhysand is the one directly putting her into danger.

Now, let's be clear: drugging someone is bad. Sexually assaulting someone is bad. One could argue there were extenuating circumstances. But if, in such a situation, what your mind goes to is "I know, I should assault this person... for their safety" I have questions about your moral qualities. There were a million things he could have done. He could have done whatever he did to Clare - that is, remove her ability to feel any pain - easily. He could have helped her escape. Under The Mountain, he - while still there unwillingly - has a lot of power, as Amarantha's side piece. Maybe this would have resulted in him being punished- however, he is hundreds of years old and a badass motherfucker, and she is a nineteen year old human girl.

Now, onto Tamlin. Obviously not a lot of people really ship F/T anymore after ACOMAF, because compared to F/R, it's boring. I read another person's post about it, which was very enlightening: they said that Feyre's personality is essentially a mirror. When she is with Rhysand, she's snarky and malicious- because she is "bouncing off" his energy. When she's with Mor she's super feminist and "in awe of her strength". On the other hand, Tamlin is kind of an empty character. He's a pretty boy with anger issues, which should be more interesting than it is. SJM manages to make him bland. Because Feyre has nothing to bounce off of, (a lot of this is from the person's post), she and Tamlin together is mainly just him introducing her to his world.

What Tamlin Does: prevents a skinny twenty year old from going on dangerous missions with him and combat-trained soldiers, accidentally blows up a room with her in it, and, at the end, prevents her from leaving the house.

This is not a Tamlin apologist post. Obviously it was really fucking gross of him to do that, and their relationship was toxic. However, a lot of his abuse stems from their inability to communicate, as well as own negligence. He does not knowingly and purposefully sexually assault her or rape her mind. And tbh, leaving a girl without combat training at home while he goes on missions with a bunch of muscled sentries is... kind of reasonable?

Again: not a Tamlin apologist post. It was abuse. However, if Rhysand is "allowed" to sexually assault, mind-rape, and drug Feyre "for her own safety", why is Tamlin demonized for preventing her from leaving his mansion "for her own safety"?

Another pertinent point: Rhys is never punished for sexually assaulting her. It is brushed off as part of his "mask" or that his hand was forced. Jesus Christ my dudes, his hand was not forced under her skirt. If he has to maintain his gross rapist abuser tyrant oppressor mask... why? Who did that benefit beside him? None of his actions remotely helped Prythian. They were done solely for his buddies - five people safe in a rich hidden city - and no one else, which is explicitly stated.

Finally, the power dynamic is fucked up. Feyre is less than twenty five years old. Rhysand is 500. There is a tendency in fantasy romance to romanticize a centuries year old man with a young girl, because the man does not show symptoms of age, and so it is easily ignorable. However, can we just briefly acknowledge how fucked up it is? Rhys is over five times older than Donald Trump, Harvey Weinstein, Jeffrey Epstein, and other known predators/abusers. She is twenty. That is really fucking gross. She is in a vulnerable position and he takes rampant advantage of that.

If he had wrinkles, liver problems, and erectile dysfunction, more people would acknowledge it.

Let's be clear: I'm not saying writing a book with an uneven power dynamic is automatically bad. For example, in The Locked Tomb series, which is in my opinion THE BEST FANTASY SERIES THAT HAS GRACED THIS EARTH (lol i'm starting fires), one main character Harrowhark Nonagesimus is in a position of power over Gideon Nav, the other main character. However, this is not glossed over or romanticized. Gideon resents Harrow for this- there is a relationship of mutual antagonism, fraught with unwilling familiarity and intimacy from growing up together. They are roughly the same age. While there is a certain power dynamic (in that world, there is a dynamic of necromancer and cavalier, i.e. sorcerer and sword) the "empowered" character (Harrow) emphatically respects her and does not abuse this power, although both would of course deny this, and she does make a show of threatening and being aloof. In short, while Gideon obeys her, Gideon also has power over Harrow, and the idea of what is essentially slavery is not romanticized.

Feyre Doesn't Face Any Consequences For Her Own Actions

Let me present a radical notion: a guy preventing you from leaving his house does not justify completely fucking ruining his country and harming the people inside it.

In other words: Tamlin does not deserve what she did to him.

I know that sounds iffy. We're conditioned to think that if someone is an abuser, then they are the scum of the earth, they deserve to die, torturing/murdering/doing anything to them is completely A-OK. However, here's another radical notion: someone harming you does not justify you doing worse.

Obviously, the effects of psychological abuse can cause you to hurt other people (see: Nesta), but Feyre deliberately and maliciously (oh, God, that insufferable POV of her in Spring Court; she reads like a cartoonish Disney villain) dismantles his country. She uses sexual manipulation (Lucien), torture (causing the sentry to be whipped), and mind-rape (who didn't she do this to? lol).

A summary of the entire first half of ACOWAR: "It smelled like roses. I hated roses. For this capital offense against my olfactory system, Tamlin and the entire Spring Court deserved to burn in hell. I knew exactly what I was doing. I smiled at him sweetly: no longer a doe, but a wolf. He didn't see my fangs.............." *aesthetic noises*

Man. I'm starting to think SJM had a horrible experience at a Bath & Body Works and took it out on the rest of us. Don't do it, Sarah!! I know Pink Chiffon and Triple Berry Martini are way too strong, but don't take it out on an innocent population!!

She steals from Summer Court (there are, yk, other solutions to theft. Like maybe asking politely) and ruins Spring Court. Her boyfriend - yeesh sorry, MATE - does nothing while a dozen Winter Court children are murdered.

Now: moral ambiguity is not automatically bad. Again using The Locked Tomb as an example, in the second book (spoiler alert), Harrowhark has a sort of moral ambiguity. She was raised from the beginning to worship the King Undying as God, and so she obeys him without question. Because of this, she commits a lot of crimes in His name: she "flips" - i.e. kills - the life force of planets, and she plots murder (albeit the murder of someone who tried to kill her first). There is no attempt to justify this. There is also no attempt to paint her as a virtuous and yet also badass Madonna figure. She is desperate, plagued with the "wreck of herself", and the book clearly displays her moral pitfalls. While her POV is of course colored by her mindset, it also is limited by her lack of information, and we as readers can acknowledge that.

BACK TO ACOTAR: Feyre is seen by everyone as gorgeous, formidable, and essentially perfect. Rhys sees her as flawless, "made for him", wonderful, beautiful, blah blah blah. (THEY ARE SO BAD FOR EACH OTHER; THEY EXCUSE AND GLORIFY EACH OTHER'S CRIMES, IT'S SO BAD, GUYYYS). Tamlin is insanely batshit in love with her, or whatever. To the Night Court she's the High Lady. In this way she personifies the Mary Sue character. (Excerpt from the TV Tropes page on Mary Sues: "She's exotically beautiful, often having an unusual hair or eye color, and has a similarly cool and exotic name. She's exceptionally talented in an implausibly wide variety of areas, and may possess skills that are rare or nonexistent in the canon setting. She also lacks any realistic, or at least story-relevant, character flaws — either that or her "flaws" are obviously meant to be endearing. She has an unusual and dramatic Back Story. The canon protagonists are all overwhelmed with admiration for her beauty, wit, courage and other virtues, and are quick to adopt her as one of their True Companions, even characters who are usually antisocial and untrusting; if any character doesn't love her, that character gets an extremely unsympathetic portrayal." Sound familiar?)

There is the Ourobous scene. And yet, paradoxically, while presented as an acknowledgment of her flaws, it is in fact a rejection of them. She sees her own brutality... and instead of recognizing that she has these deep, deep moral flaws and realizing that she needs to grow and be better, she in fact "accepts" them.

Guys: Self love means: "I'm important to me, so I'm going to get a massage today after work", or "heck, why not splurge on some expensive lotion, you only live once" or "you know what? I had a tough day today. I'm going to get that strawberry cupcake". SELF LOVE DOES NOT MEAN "oh, I accept all the war crimes I have done, I love myself". LOVING YOURSELF DOES NOT MEAN ABSOLVING YOURSELF OF ALL WRONGDOING.

It's this refusal to acknowledge wrongdoing that is so grating about ACOTAR. It's so goddamn one-sided. And you can tell that after Book 1, SJM decided to completely change the trajectory simply because of how jarring Book 2 reads compared to the first one.

Also: Feyre is a very, very young girl (compared to the other ruling fey) who did not know how to read for the majority of her life. She has no experience whatsoever in politics. Her being High Lady is not a win for feminism.

Rhysand: He Sucks

First, he is 500 years old. He should be written as such, not as some 20 year old virile frat boy feminist. Fantasy is all the more compelling for its elements of realism, which is a concept that SJM does not appear to grasp.

Second of all, his morals are absurd. He is written as the Second Coming of Christ, as someone who can do no wrong, ever, and his flaws only serve to make Feyre love him more. Anything shitty he does is written as part of his "mask" and she can See Beneath It and knows that it "hurts" him to maintain this "mask".

Fellas, WHY DOES HE HAVE TO MAINTAIN THIS MASK???? There is no reason for it. If A) he does not give a shit about Court of Nightmares (we'll get back to that), only about Velaris, and B) Velaris is hidden/protected from the world, what is he pretending for?

It would not hurt him politically to be seen as someone who cares about his country.

"Pretending" to be "Amarantha's whore" does not in any way shape or form benefit the macro-world that is Prythian. In Amarantha's name, he commits atrocities. He commits war crimes; he systemically oppresses entire societies. It doesn't even really benefit Velaris, because Velaris is already hidden.

Let me put this in a real-world perspective. This would be like if Donald Trump was suddenly like: "I know I was a shitty president but IT WAS ALL PART OF MY MASK, WHICH WAS TO PROTECT THIS MICROCOSM OF PRIVILEGED PEOPLE THAT I CARE ABOUT". Like: okay? Sorry, or whatever, but I don't actually give a shit. What about the parents of the children who died? What about Clare Beddor? What about the people who were held in slavery, murdered, tortured?

Rhysand: omg it sucks that my cousin Mor was oppressed by this toxic misogynistic culture from the Court of Nightmares.

Also Rhysand: lol whatever, who gives a shit about Court of Nightmares. They all suck. They meanie. Lol what did you say? That there might be other girls just like Mor who are oppressed by this system? Lol whatever. I can't do anything, I gotta maintain my Mask. I gotta sit on this throne and show the entire Court that not respecting women is completely okay.

In summary: by parading Feyre around as his "whore" (!!) he demonstrates by example that it is completely okay for the Court of Nightmares to abuse their women.

A good ruler cares about all his people. Rhysand cares about a tiny tiny fraction of his people: those who were fortunate enough to be born into Velaris.

God, I'm exhausted. Onto Nesta:

The only character who successfully breaks the Mary Sue effect Feyre exerts on her people is Nesta. Her POV for the first half is a joy to read.

Obviously it sucks that Nesta was a huge bitch to Feyre for the beginning of her childhood. However, it was wrong for Rhysand to threaten her- he is a man male with a huge insane amount of power, and it is not okay for him to threaten to bring the brunt of it down on a young girl because she was a bitch to his girlfriend.

I've seen a lot of discourse on the morality of F/R sending her out of Velaris. Here is my two cents:

It was okay for them to cut her off of their money. If they don't want to enable her self-harm, that is their choice. Again, it's their money, even if it wasn't fairly earned (Rhysand born into an enormous fortune).

It was not okay for them to banish her from Velaris with the implication that she was an embarrassment. Let me explain.

If Rhysand and Feyre are talking to her as sister/brother-in-law, then that is that. They have the complete right to express disapproval and try to help. However, they should not be using their royal privilege against her.

If they are talking to her as ruler to subject, then they have the power to banish her from the city. However, a ruler would not give a shit about a random subject getting drunk and having sex. So, they should not be talking her about her problems as a ruler to subject.

I've heard it compared to her being sent to rehab. However, rehab is a system designed to help people with certain problems. It has specialized medical centers and involves therapy. Nesta gets her life threatened multiple times. It is not rehab.

In summary: why did SJM inflict this upon us. Throne of Glass was actually good! GAHHH! After the first few books she completely whipped around and introduced the idea of males and mates and fey and that C is actually A and the quality took a huge nosedive. Sigh.

Final horrible but unmistakable truth: The entire ACOTAR series reads like a bad A/B/O fic. I hate to say it but it's true. We're lucky there were no heat cycles. OH WAIT

[impalementation]

spike, angel, buffy & romanticism: part 3

part 1: “When you kiss me I want to die”: Angel and the high school seasons

part 2: “Love isn’t brains, children”: Enter Spike as the id

* 

“Something effulgent”: Season five and the construction of Spike the romantic

Prior to becoming a romantic interest, Spike is everything I discussed in the last section. He is an id and a mirror for Buffy, he’s prone to both romantic exaggeration and cutting realism, and his liminality suggests ambiguity. But outside of “Lovers Walk”, the writing doesn’t actually delve too deeply into Spike’s nature as a romantic. If you stopped the canon at “Restless”, you’d probably think that Spike’s love for Drusilla was intriguing, but that the show hadn’t really gone anywhere with the implications of it, and for all you knew, that might not be an important part of his character anymore. So one of the most interesting things about season five to me, is that in this season in which the writers first consciously, deliberately decide to explore the sexual and romantic tension between Spike and Buffy, they also emphasize Spike’s romanticism more than ever. The choice to define Spike by his romanticism is a choice that follows naturally from everything established about his character, but it was also not an inevitable choice. Therefore, it’s a choice worth looking at in some detail.

Consider everything that “Fool For Love” establishes about Spike, especially the things that contradict what was supposedly canon at the time. It makes Drusilla his sire instead of Angel, meaning that he is sired by a romantic connection, and as a direct result of heartbreak. It makes him a poet living in the middle of the Victorian era, an age at odds with his previous ages of “barely 200” and “126”. Meaning that the writing specifically decides to ignore its canon in order to associate him with an era in which passions would have been repressed (rather than the Romantic era of the early 1800’s or the modern energy of the early 1900’s). Moreover, the episode reveals his entire aesthetic and personality to essentially be a construct. But most tellingly of all, it reveals him to be an idealist. Spike is not just a performance artist; he yearns for the “effulgent”, for something “glowing and glistening” that the “vulgarians” of the world don’t understand. In other words, he yearns for something bigger and more beautiful than life: something romantic. Later, he chases after “death, glory, and sod all else.” Spike may be a “fool for love”, who has a romantic view of romantic love specifically, but the episode is very clear about the fact that he is also a romantic more generally. When Drusilla turns him, she doesn’t tempt him by telling him she’ll love him forever. She tempts him by offering him “something…effulgent”. (Which, in typical Spike form, the episode immediately undercuts by having him say “ow” instead of swooning romantically). The fact that “Fool For Love”, Spike’s major backstory episode, is so determined to paint him as a romantic--and in particular, a disappointed, frustrated romantic--that it is willing to contradict canon to do so, tells you that this choice was important for framing Spike and his new, ongoing thematic role.

I’ve talked in the past about how season five is all about the tension between the mythical and the mortal--between big, grand, sweeping narratives, and the reality of being human. Buffy is the Slayer, but she’s also just a girl who loses her mother. Dawn is the key, but she’s also just a confused and hormonal fourteen-year-old. Willow is a powerful witch, but she also just wants her girlfriend to be okay. Glory is a god, but she’s also a human man named Ben, and finds herself increasingly weakened by his emotions. And Spike embodies this tension perfectly. He’s a soulless vampire with a lifetime of bloodshed behind him, but he’s also this silly, human man who wants to love and be loved. He wants big, grand things, but every time they are frustrated by a Victorian society, a rejection, a chip, a pratfall, or dying with an “ow”. Furthermore, his season five storyline is all about the tension between loving in an exalted, yet often selfish way, versus loving in a “real” or selfless way. 

There was a fascinating piece a ways back that discussed how Spike’s attempts to woo Buffy in season five almost perfectly match the romantic narratives of Courtly Love. In the words of the author:

The term "Courtly Love" is used to describe a certain kind of relationship common in romantic medieval literature. The Knight/Lover finds himself desperately and piteously enamored of a divinely beautiful but unobtainable woman. After a period of distressed introspection, he offers himself as her faithful servant and goes forth to perform brave deeds in her honor. His desire to impress her and to be found worthy of her gradually transforms and ennobles him; his sufferings -- inner turmoil, doubts as to the lady's care of him, as well as physical travails -- ultimately lends him wisdom, patience, and virtue and his acts themselves worldly renown.

You can see for yourself how well that description fits Spike’s arc. He fixates on the torturous, abject nature of his love, and has it in his head that he can perform deeds and demonstrate virtue, and this will prove to Buffy that he is worthy of her. But despite Spike’s gradual ennobling over the course of the season, I think it would be a mistake to see the season as using the Courtly Love narrative uncritically, or even just ironically. The same way it would be a mistake to see season two as using the Gothic uncritically. Spike is as much Don Quixote as he is Lancelot. He is a character that deliberately tries to act out romantic tropes, giving the writing an opportunity to satirize those tropes, including the tropes of chivalric romance. In particular, the writing criticizes Spike’s (very chivalric) fixation on love as a personal agony, something that is more about pain--and specifically, his pain--than building a real relationship. Over and over in season five, he is forced to abandon these sorts of flattering romantic mindsets in favor of a more complicated reality. 

So at first, Spike’s “deeds” tend to be shallow and vaguely transactional. He tries to help Buffy in “Checkpoint” even though she doesn’t want it (and insults her when she doesn’t appreciate it), he asks “what the hell does it take?” when Buffy is unimpressed by him not feeding on “bleeding disaster victims” in “Triangle”, he rants bitterly at a mannequin when Buffy fails to be grateful to him for taking her to Riley in “Into the Woods”, and he is angry and confused when Buffy is unmoved by his offer to stake Drusilla in “Crush”. While these attempts to symbolically reject his evilness are startling for a soulless vampire, and although Spike certainly feels like he is fundamentally altering himself for Buffy’s sake, none of it is based on understanding or supporting Buffy in a way that she would actually find substantial. Moreover, he lashes out when his gestures fail to win her attention or affection. He has an idea in his head of how their romantic scenes should play out, and reacts petulantly when reality fails to live up to it. 

But these incidents of self-interested narrativizing are also continuously contrasted with scenes in which Spike reacts with real generosity, or is surprised when he realizes he’s touched something emotionally genuine. When Buffy seeks him out in “Checkpoint”, his mannerisms instantly change when he realizes she actually needs real help (“You’re the only one strong enough to protect them”), rather than the performed help he offered at the beginning of the episode. At the end of “Fool For Love” he’s struck dumb by Buffy’s grief, and his antagonistic posturing all evening melts away. He abandons his romantic vision of their erotic, life-and-death rivalry in favor of real, awkward emotional intimacy. In “Forever” he tries to anonymously leave flowers for Joyce, and reacts angrily when he’s denied—but this time not because he wanted something from Buffy. Simply because he wanted to do something meaningful. 

This contradictory behavior comes to a head in “Intervention”, the episode in which Spike finally begins to understand the difference between real and transactional generosity. Up until that point, Spike has been reacting both selfishly and unselfishly, but he hasn’t been able to truly distinguish between them, which is why he keeps repeating the same mistakes. Although he touches something real at the end of “Fool For Love”, for instance, he goes on to rifle through Buffy’s intimates in the very next episode. And so “Intervention” has Spike go to extremes of fakeness and reality. He gives up on having the real Buffy, and seeks out an artificial substitute that lets him live out his cheesiest romance novel scripts. It’s important that the Buffybot isn’t just a sexbot, even if he does have sex with her. She’s a bot he plays out romantic scenarios with the way he played them with Harmony in “Crush”, allowing him to almost literally live within a fiction. But then he “gives up” on having Buffy in a way that’s actually real, by offering up his life. He lets himself be tortured, and potentially killed, for no other reason than that to do otherwise would cause Buffy pain. The focus is on her pain, not his. For the first time, he acts like the Knight he’s been trying to be all along. He performs a grand, heroic deed that causes the object of his affection to see him in a different light, and even grant him a kiss. Yet ironically, as part of learning the difference between real and fake, he ceases to press for Buffy’s reciprocation. Through the end of season five, Spike continues to act the selfless Knight, assisting Buffy in her heroism without asking for anything in return. Which culminates in his declaration that he knows Buffy “will never love him”, even after he’s promised her the deed of protecting Dawn, and even though she allows a kind of intimacy by letting him back in her house. He proves that he sees those gestures for what they are, rather than in a transactional light. The irony of the way Spike fulfills the narrative of chivalric romance, is that his ennobling involves letting aspects of that narrative go. 

In a Courtly Love narrative, the object of the Knight’s affection is fundamentally pedestalized. The Knight himself might be flawed, but the woman he pines after is not. She is “divinely beautiful” and “unobtainable”, something above him and almost more than human. This is why it’s so comic that in Don Quixote, which was a direct satire of chivalric romance, Alonso Quixano’s “lady love” is a vulgar peasant farmgirl who has no idea who he is. (Think of the way Spike asks if Buffy is tough in “School Hard” or threatens to “take her apart” despite “how brilliant she is” in “The Initiative”, followed by scenes where Buffy is acting like the teenage girl she is. Or how Giles in “Checkpoint” says that Buffy has “acquired a remarkable focus” before cutting to Buffy yawning.). Although it’s true that Buffy is beautiful, and supernatural, and profoundly moral, she is also very human, and the writing is very concerned with that humanity. Season five in particular, as I’ve mentioned, is preoccupied with the duality of Buffy’s mythic and mortal nature. Thus it becomes significant that Buffy is assigned such a heightened role in Spike’s chivalric narrative. Just Spike is at once Lancelot and Don Quixote, Buffy is at once Achilles, Dulcinea, and a coming-of-age protagonist. 

And part of the “lesson” of Spike’s arc is for him to see both sides of the roles they embody. One of my favorite things about the scene in Buffy’s house in “The Gift” is how adroitly it conveys the dualities of both Buffy and Spike with simple, but poetic imagery and language. Buffy stands above Spike on her steps, conveying her elevated role, and Spike honors the way her heroic status has inspired him by physically looking up to her as he explains that he expects nothing from her. But by expecting nothing from her, and promising to protect her sister, he also honors the fact that she is a real person with no obligation to him, and a younger sister she cares about more than anything. He also honors his own duality by at once making Knightly promises, and acknowledging that he sees through his former delusions: “I know that I’m a monster, but you treat me like a man.” In “Fool For Love” he tried to acknowledge the same duality of realism and romance, by declaring to Cecily that “I know I’m a bad poet, but I’m a good man.” But at the time, he was an innocent, whose desire to be seen, and whose romantic avoidance of “dark, ugly things”, left him unprepared to understand how Cecily really saw him (similar to Spike’s insistence in “Crush” that what he and Buffy have “isn’t pretty, but it’s real” just before Buffy locks him out). Spike is a character defined simultaneously by continuous disillusionment and dogged aspiration, which is why he makes perfect sense as a character to embody a season torn between the pain of being human, and the wonder of the gift of love.

Fittingly, the season ends with Spike’s most devastating loss of innocence of all. He fails to be the hero for Buffy or Dawn (note that Knightly language he uses on the tower: “I made a promise to a lady”), and he loses the woman he loves. He may have become more virtuous, but unlike in a chivalric romance, that virtue wins him neither Buffy, nor something flattering like “world reknown.” The climax of the “The Gift” is full of romance—a god, a troll hammer, a damsel on a tower, a heroic self-sacrifice, a vampire transformed into a Knight—but the end result is that Buffy is dead, in part because he wasn’t good enough, and all that he and the Scoobies can do is grieve. Stories got Spike nothing, even when reality finally lived up to them. It is a swan song to the myths of childhood, and on the other side of Glory’s portal, Spike and the other characters will have to confront a world where those myths have been left behind.

part 4: “But I can’t fool myself. Or Spike, for some reason.”: Buffy and Spike as a blended self

[majimemegoro]

random selection of evidence for dead okudera/spirit village theory *spoilers for frozen roar storyline in y5*

In Japanese folklore, mountains are associated with death, and often represent either a) a space between the world of the living and the dead/the spiritual world, or b) LITERALLY the world of the dead/the spiritual (Hori, 1966)

It is always snowing lightly on the mountain, but the snow never accumulates. Despite the switches between night and day, time does not seem to work normally on the mountain.

okudera first appears right after this sequence of events: 1) saejima drives his snowmobile at high speed into a rock, getting thrown and likely hitting his head as he is knocked unconscious for several seconds (a likely point for entering the realm of the dead/intermediate space between the worlds of the dead and the living??); 2) saejima awakens and fights a bear twice the size of a regular bear; 3) saejima says that he “can’t” die, and then passes out. okudera first appears shortly after. so okudera (and yama-oroshi) both first appear in circumstances where saejima is adjacent to death.

the scenes right after the snowmobile crash features a lot of rotating camera work, and also feature POV shots from the perspective of the antagonist, the bear. this kind of cinematography is not often seen in the series, and suggests an untethering of perspective... as though saejima’s soul were coming detached from his body

It is not entirely clear whether okudera’s former hunting partner died or disappeared. Though he is 99% certainly dead by the time of the story’s events, the ambiguity surrounding the circumstances of his death and disappearance point at a blurring of the lines between life and death.

The Okudera story is overtly focused on trauma, loss and grief - things that would tether the dead to earth.

okudera is repeatedly attacked by Yama-oroshi but is never killed. This repetitive playing out of a painful event is reminiscent of the myth of Sisyphus and certain concepts of purgatory

after being mauled by yama-oroshi the first time, Okudera refuses to confirm to saejima that he is alive; he will only way that he is “more or less” alright

while on the mountain, Saejima can seemingly recover from injuries sustained at the hands (or claws or horns) of wildlife by consuming the raw meat of those animals. This is not how healing works in real life, suggesting that Saejima is not really sustaining physical injuries in the usual sense, but is rather sustaining spiritual injuries of some kind that can be counteracted by taking the spiritual energy (the ‘raw meat’) of other animals/spirits

It is not clear when or how the suspension bridge leading across the crevasse was repaired. In fact, the timeline of the story leaves no space for this to occur. Yet the bridge goes from being broken to being fixed.

Okudera is suspiciously resilient with regard to physical injury, seemingly able at times to bleed profusely for hours on end without passing out. He appears to suffer pain from this, but his functioning is sometimes not hindered, again suggesting that the ‘bleeding’ is not precisely physical and does not obey the laws of medicine.

Bear bile successfully cures Okudera from his illness, although bear bile has no real medicinal effects

The mountain constantly saps away the health of the player, as though remaining in the world of the dead for a longer amount of time makes it more and more difficult to return to life.

Saejima is probably wearing the clothes of mr okduera’s dead hunting partner.

Okudera is fixated on and repeatedly brings up the value of life and the importance of not killing except where strictly necessary

Though absent in the original Japanese, there is a point in the remastered translation where Okudera slips into a kansai accent. This is another piece of evidence suggesting that there is slippage occurring between spirits and bodies.

Near the end of the story, the other villagers know Okudera’s location when he gets injured. Nishina says this is because they were tailing him, but if they were physically present, they would have been able to help him and would not have had to send Saejima after him on the snowmobile. For some reason the villagers knew where Okudera was but were unwilling - or unable - to help him.

The old man at the shrine, Tendo, is literally possessed by literal mountain gods that demonstrate effectual power (causing avalanches, turning invisible, summoning avatars, etc.)

there are many parallels between the stories of okudera & his hunting partner and baba & saejima. this would explain why okudera, if a spirit, took an interest in them.

okudera is capable of standing on top of the snow, as though he were weightless, but avoids doing so around Saejima

it is unclear how saejima and baba get from the village to Sapporo. The time they spend getting down from the mountain is not depicted.

[that-spider-witch]

On the topic of Book!Edward Hyde

Or rather: The topic of his existence (or lack thereof).

Browsing through the J&H tag, I’ve seen a lot of book readers be spiteful of every single adaptation of the character and its pop culture version because it misses the moral of the book: That Hyde and Jekyll were just one and the same, and that Jekyll was the one doing all the bullshit that went down and that Hyde was just a mask to keep his reputation intact.

Most of these rants go on to imply or outright accuse of any author doing the split personality take on the plot to have never actually read the original book, or that Edward Hyde never existing is something that the book leaves loud and clear, something irrefutably canon.

Having read the book too, I’m here to say: Yes and no. You could read the book and still get a “two character, one body” impression from it. Allow me to explain...

While the plot of “Jekyll is Good, Hyde is Bad” is truly bullshit and the very thing that the original novel rips into pieces, whether Hyde could be considered to have a will of his own is a little more ambiguous and it can actually be interpreted either way.

Note that I’m using the word “will” and not “personality”: Hyde is still Jekyll, they both have the same personality, but while Jekyll is a rational human being, Hyde is Jekyll but without the strings of societal norms, morals and impulse control holding him down.

Book readers who go by the take that Hyde never existed also claim that the book is very clear that the changes brought by the formula are just external: Jekyll is completely himself the whole time and “Hyde” is just a mask.

And this is true... At first. Depending on how you interpret Jekyll’s unrealiable narration, “Hyde” actually slowly develops something of a will of his own as Jekyll’s evil nature, given a body of its own by his dumb experiment, continues to develop.

Here’s a fragment of how Jekyll describes the experiment and the very first transformation:

“That night I had come to the fatal cross-roads. Had I approached my discovery in a more noble spirit, had I risked the experiment while under the empire of generous or pious aspirations, all must have been otherwise, and from these agonies of death and birth, I had come forth an angel instead of a fiend. The drug had no discriminating action; it was neither diabolical nor divine; it but shook the doors of the prisonhouse of my disposition; and like the captives of Philippi, that which stood within ran forth. At that time my virtue slumbered; my evil, kept awake by ambition, was alert and swift to seize the occasion; and the thing that was projected was Edward Hyde. Hence, although I had now two characters as well as two appearances, one was wholly evil, and the other was still the old Henry Jekyll, that incongruous compound of whose reformation and improvement I had already learned to despair. The movement was thus wholly toward the worse.”

“Edward Hyde” (who at this point still doesn’t truly exist as his own being and it’s just a mask for Jekyll to use) is evil because Henry Jekyll himself is evil. But while Jekyll-as-Jekyll has good personality traits as well as bad, Jekyll-as-Hyde is just everything that Jeyll finds evil about himself and nothing else. This paragraph also states very clearly that Jekyll’s intentions were never good.

If this was the only instance in which anything along the lines of “two characters as well as two appearances” was mentioned, then yes, there would be no room for debate on the whole “Hyde is just a fake identity and nothing else” because there wouldn’t be evidence of the contrary. It would be clear text.

Except that Jekyll, unreliable narrator that he is or not, also gives us evidence to support the theory that Hyde, while still not being a completely separate split personality on his own right, does develop a certain awareness of himself and a will to act somewhat separate from Jekyll’s. 

Of course, this all still falls on Jekyll’s own fault, and even if we consider Hyde as something of an alter, he’s still nothing but the scapegoat that Jekyll uses:

“The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise were, as I have said, undignified; I would scarce use a harder term. But in the hands of Edward Hyde, they soon began to turn toward the monstrous. When I would come back from these excursions, I was often plunged into a kind of wonder at my vicarious depravity. This familiar that I called out of my own soul, and sent forth alone to do his good pleasure, was a being inherently malign and villainous; his every act and thought centered on self; drinking pleasure with bestial avidity from any degree of torture to another; relentless like a man of stone. Henry Jekyll stood at times aghast before the acts of Edward Hyde; but the situation was apart from ordinary laws, and insidiously relaxed the grasp of conscience. It was Hyde, after all, and Hyde alone, that was guilty. Jekyll was no worse; he woke again to his good qualities seemingly unimpaired; he would even make haste, where it was possible, to undo the evil done by Hyde. And thus his conscience slumbered.”

Something all book readers will be familiar with is that Jekyll’s narration uses “I” when writing about most of Hyde’s actions, while also mentioning both Henry Jekyll and Hyde on third person. Jekyll tries to dissociate himself from his crimes this way.

But... Whether also done by Jekyll to still reflect guilt from himself or not, the text also refers to Hyde as having a nature of his own, albeit one irreversably connected to Henry Jekyll’s own hidden desires.

“Between these two, I now felt I had to choose. My two natures had memory in common, but all other faculties were most unequally shared between them. Jekyll (who was composite) now with the most sensitive apprehensions, now with a greedy gusto, projected and shared in the pleasures and adventures of Hyde; but Hyde was indifferent to Jekyll, or but remembered him as the mountain bandit remembers the cavern in which he conceals himself from pursuit. Jekyll had more than a father’s interest; Hyde had more than a son’s indifference. To cast in my lot with Jekyll, was to die to those appetites which I had long secretly indulged and had of late begun to pamper. To cast it in with Hyde, was to die to a thousand interests and aspirations, and to become, at a blow and forever, despised and friendless. The bargain might appear unequal; but there was still another consideration in the scales; for while Jekyll would suffer smartingly in the fires of abstinence, Hyde would be not even conscious of all that he had lost. Strange as my circumstances were, the terms of this debate are as old and commonplace as man; much the same inducements and alarms cast the die for any tempted and trembling sinner; and it fell out with me, as it falls with so vast a majority of my fellows, that I chose the better part and was found wanting in the strength to keep to it.”

There’s a clear divide here, with Jekyll and Hyde having something of a different outlook on life, something that outright doesn’t make sense if we are to consider Edward Hyde as just Jekyll’s alias. 

Something to note here is that the divide between the two personas is not of a moral nature, but something much more mundane and selfish: To Henry Jekyll, his social status is everything, and his main drive to keep transforming into Hyde again and again is to enjoy a life of sin without repercussions. To Hyde, said social status can go to hell for all he cares, but still keeps the ruse because his concealment is ultimately necessary for his continued existence, something that the narration will go back to later.

After this point of the book, which is when Jekyll goes to sleep and wakes up transformed on his other body the next morning, the doctor becomes scared and goes cold turkey for two months, having decided to stop being Hyde forever and return to a normal life. It doesn’t lastlonger than that: Hyde returns not because he takes control, but because Jekyll turns himself into Hyde on purpose once again, by his own free will.

“I do not suppose that, when a drunkard reasons with himself upon his vice, he is once out of five hundred times affected by the dangers that he runs through his brutish, physical insensibility; neither had I, long as I had considered my position, made enough allowance for the complete moral insensibility and insensate readiness to evil, which were the leading characters of Edward Hyde. Yet it was by these that I was punished. My devil had been long caged, he came out roaring. I was conscious, even when I took the draught, of a more unbridled, a more furious propensity to ill. It must have been this, I suppose, that stirred in my soul that tempest of impatience with which I listened to the civilities of my unhappy victim; I declare, at least, before God, no man morally sane could have been guilty of that crime upon so pitiful a provocation; and that I struck in no more reasonable spirit than that in which a sick child may break a plaything. But I had voluntarily stripped myself of all those balancing instincts by which even the worst of us continues to walk with some degree of steadiness among temptations; and in my case, to be tempted, however slightly, was to fall.“

Something fun to note here: Jekyll describes Hyde, and/or himself when he’s Hyde, as being comparable to a child. First by merely noting that Hyde’s body is younger than Jekyll’s, then by comparing him to a “son” and Jekyll as the “father”, and now comparing the murder of Danvers Carew to a child breaking a toy. 

Speaking of the murder, Jekyll is 100% guilty of it: Even if Hyde was a completely different being with his own traits and goals, which he is not, Jekyll would still be responsable by virtue of willingly going through the transformation again like an idiot.

That being said, the text continues to give Hyde some semblance of personality:

“Hyde had a song upon his lips as he compounded the draught, and as he drank it, pledged the dead man. The pangs of transformation had not done tearing him, before Henry Jekyll, with streaming tears of gratitude and remorse, had fallen upon his knees and lifted his clasped hands to God. The veil of self-indulgence was rent from head to foot.“

From this point on, everything goes to hell: Henry Jekyll is relieved that now that Hyde is a wanted murderer, he now has no choice but to stay as Jekyll and leave that sinful double life of his finally behind (”Jekyll is the Good half” my ass!). But, surprise surprise! He starts to transform unwillingly, and now he needs to constantly drink the potion to stay as Jekyll. 

Fun fact: Do you remember which thoughts are the ones that trigger the first unwilling transformation after the murder?

“I sat in the sun on a bench; the animal within me licking the chops of memory; the spiritual side a little drowsed, promising subsequent penitence, but not yet moved to begin. After all, I reflected, I was like my neighbours; and then I smiled, comparing myself with other men, comparing my active good-will with the lazy cruelty of their neglect. And at the very moment of that vainglorious thought, a qualm came over me, a horrid nausea and the most deadly shuddering. These passed away, and left me faint; and then as in its turn faintness subsided, I began to be aware of a change in the temper of my thoughts, a greater boldness, a contempt of danger, a solution of the bonds of obligation. I looked down; my clothes hung formlessly on my shrunken limbs; the hand that lay on my knee was corded and hairy. I was once more Edward Hyde.“

The thought that he, too, was just like any other man. Something that his Hyde half knows as a fact, but that Henry “I’m superior than all these lazy peasants around me because I’m rich... I mean, because I have active good-will” Jekyll considers undignified, and therefore, cruel or evil. O Sweet, sweet Victorian hypocresy.

And it is from here on out that the narration acknowledges Edward Hyde as being his own character somewhat, somehow, at least as part of Jekyll’s conciousness.

After the transformation and the visit to Lanyon:

“My reason wavered, but it did not fail me utterly. I have more than once observed that in my second character, my faculties seemed sharpened to a point and my spirits more tensely elastic; thus it came about that, where Jekyll perhaps might have succumbed, Hyde rose to the importance of the moment.”

“Then I remembered that of my original character, one part remained to me: I could write my own hand; and once I had conceived that kindling spark, the way that I must follow became lighted up from end to end.“

“He, I say—I cannot say, I. That child of Hell had nothing human; nothing lived in him but fear and hatred.“ 

“When I came to myself at Lanyon’s, the horror of my old friend perhaps affected me somewhat: I do not know; it was at least but a drop in the sea to the abhorrence with which I looked back upon these hours. A change had come over me. It was no longer the fear of the gallows, it was the horror of being Hyde that racked me.“

It’s curious how Jekyll’s narration uses “I” when looking back at Carew’s murder, and yet it is just from here on out that he’s oh so repulsed by Hyde than he uses He/Him pronouns for him. 

And, most of all, when he has locked himself up:

“The powers of Hyde seemed to have grown with the sickliness of Jekyll. And certainly the hate that now divided them was equal on each side. With Jekyll, it was a thing of vital instinct. He had now seen the full deformity of that creature that shared with him some of the phenomena of consciousness, and was co-heir with him to death: and beyond these links of community, which in themselves made the most poignant part of his distress, he thought of Hyde, for all his energy of life, as of something not only hellish but inorganic. This was the shocking thing; that the slime of the pit seemed to utter cries and voices; that the amorphous dust gesticulated and sinned; that what was dead, and had no shape, should usurp the offices of life. And this again, that that insurgent horror was knit to him closer than a wife, closer than an eye; lay caged in his flesh, where he heard it mutter and felt it struggle to be born; and at every hour of weakness, and in the confidence of slumber, prevailed against him, and deposed him out of life. The hatred of Hyde for Jekyll was of a different order. His terror of the gallows drove him continually to commit temporary suicide, and return to his subordinate station of a part instead of a person; but he loathed the necessity, he loathed the despondency into which Jekyll was now fallen, and he resented the dislike with which he was himself regarded.”

And what immediately follows is my favorite part of the book:

“Hence the ape-like tricks that he would play me, scrawling in my own hand blasphemies on the pages of my books, burning the letters and destroying the portrait of my father; and indeed, had it not been for his fear of death, he would long ago have ruined himself in order to involve me in the ruin. But his love of life is wonderful; I go further: I, who sicken and freeze at the mere thought of him, when I recall the abjection and passion of this attachment, and when I know how he fears my power to cut him off by suicide, I find it in my heart to pity him.”

This petty behavior of supposedly destroying and vandalizing Jekyll’s stuff to spite him is mentioned yet again just a few sentences later,along with the following line:

“This, then, is the last time, short of a miracle, that Henry Jekyll can think his own thoughts or see his own face (now how sadly altered!) in the glass. Nor must I delay too long to bring my writing to an end; for if my narrative has hitherto escaped destruction, it has been by a combination of great prudence and great good luck. Should the throes of change take me in the act of writing it, Hyde will tear it in pieces; but if some time shall have elapsed after I have laid it by, his wonderful selfishness and circumscription to the moment will probably save it once again from the action of his ape-like spite.“

This assertion from Jekyll that, as far as he’s concerned, he will be already dead when he transforms for the last time, is what closes the book:

“And indeed the doom that is closing on us both has already changed and crushed him. Half an hour from now, when I shall again and forever reindue that hated personality, I know how I shall sit shuddering and weeping in my chair, or continue, with the most strained and fearstruck ecstasy of listening, to pace up and down this room (my last earthly refuge) and give ear to every sound of menace. Will Hyde die upon the scaffold? or will he find courage to release himself at the last moment? God knows; I am careless; this is my true hour of death, and what is to follow concerns another than myself. Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end.“

If taken at face value, these lines actually paint Edward Hyde as being somewhat able to think his own thoughts and do his own actions, while still just being the childish, “ape-like” part of Henry Jekyll’s mind. Emphasis on childish, not evil, the evilness is all on Henry. Edward Hyde is still nothing but Henry Jekyll’s psychological scapegoat, and the one that Jekyll technically leaves behind to deal with the mess he himself created by “dying”.

I’m not trying to get more people to interpret the book this way nor am I saying that the ”Hyde is not real and Jekyll is a lying bitch” take is actually wrong, because it is not. I’m just pointing out the book could actually be interpreted differently by different readers, and they’d still have sentences in the book to back their interpretation on.

Now, if we could all stop hating and throwing shade on every content creator out there who “got the book wrong”, that’d be peachy. 

[manikas-whims]

Troublesome New Girl

Sequel to A Place Good Enough

[Read on AO3]

Characters: Inej Ghafa, Jesper Fahey, Kaz Brekker

Summary: Inej has newly joined the Dregs. She goes to return Kaz's coat in the presence of many members. *cue the teasing & jokes*

Jesper meets Inej & evidences of Jesper's crush on Kaz (tiny bit of angst).

Kaz is his usual self & sets an example. A violent one :)

Note:

I just noticed this complete written fic has been sitting in my drafts for a month now. I'm so dumb 〒_〒

PLEASE DO READ THE PREVIOUS PART IN THIS SERIES TO UNDERTAND THIS SEQUEL.

Hope you guys enjoy!

Inej

The constant noise of banging against wood rouses Inej from her sleep. She looks around haphazardly only to find herself lying on a cot in an unknown room, her torso covered by a grey coat. Sun's rays blind her eyes momentarily as she turns her face, an open window staring back at her, not the daunting walls of the Menagerie. Memories of the previous night flood back and her shoulders deflate in relief. She takes a long breath to calm her rapidly beating heart. She doesn't need to endure Heleen's beatings or sell her body anymore. She is free of that life. Free.

“Oi new girl!” a voice calls, followed by more knocking at the wooden door to her small room. “Brekker told me to bring you some clothes. I’m leaving a pair out here.”

Right! Kaz Brekker had promised her better clothes. She leaves the comfort of the cot but by the time she unlocks the door to thank whoever was on the other end, the person is gone. She catches a short glimpse of a feminine figure with blond hair at the stairs and vows to thank her later. Picking up the clothes, she closes the door.

Jesper

When Jesper had heard his fellow Dregs gossiping about Dirtyhands bringing back a girl with him late at night, he hadn’t given it much thought. He had ignored Anika when she had said that she was literally asked by Kaz himself to provide the said girl with some clothes. In fact, he had completely shooed away anyone who came up to fill his ears with rumors about this unknown Suli girl and the bastard of the barrel. So when a small, bronze-skinned girl bumps into him on the third floor of the Slat, he's stunned.

"Ohhh—", The girl waves her hands frantically, her pupils dilating in concern, "I'm sorry."

But Jesper doesn't bother with apologies for he's too busy appraising her. Now she does match the rumored descriptions and is even donning Anika's lame clothes. But what actually piques his interest is a neatly-folded coat in the deepest shade of grey held between her dainty hands. He doesn’t need to think long to guess who it belongs to. There’s only one person who doesn’t indulge in the colorful fashion sense of the barrel— Kaz “Dirtyhands” Brekker.

He feels his insides fuming. But no way is he going to act like an idiot and jump to conclusions. Just because here's a girl he’s never seen before and she happens to have a coat, doesn’t mean that every single narrative he's heard about this whole situation is true.

He narrows his eyes in what he assumes is his best look of suspicion as he towers over the girl. “Where did you get that?”

"Um", she looks down at the piece of clothing and mumbles in the most innocent tone, "Mr. Brekker lent it to me."

Mr. Brekker!? The hell kinda way is this to address a man you slept with? Or whatever the heck it is that Dirtyhands prefers to do with girls..

"Why?" he asks. From Jesper's experiences, the young lieutenant of the Dregs isn't big on kindness. "Why did he lend it you?"

The girl's brows narrow in thought. It seems she herself is unsure of the reason. Her left palm clutches her right forearm in apprehension. "I guess..because I wasn't in a very decent attire."

Alarms go off in Jesper's head again. What exactly happened between her and Kaz? His heart needs answers yet he knows that its none of his business so he suppresses the unease welling in his belly.

"Well Kaz is up there." He gestures in the direction of the attic. "I'm headed there right now so I can give it to him."

The girl frowns. "I can't let a stranger do that for me. Besides," she twirls a strand of her hair, her eyes alight with some indescribable emotion, "I must properly thank him myself."

Jesper is familiar with this look. It mirrors his own when he was still a newbie at the Dregs and wanted to prove himself, wanted to repay Kaz for saving his ass. And not just by helping him pluck stupid pigeons but also by adding extra sums of profits to his ledger. Jesper can empathize with her on this.

"He saved you too," The Zemeni asks carefully, "didn't he?"

She stares at him, gauging the understanding in his expression and simply nods.

He rubs the side of his neck awkwardly. "Well, wanna go up together?"

Her eyes widen and she involuntarily takes a few steps back. Distrust. Fear. He can empathize with this action as well. In the barrel, it'd be foolish to believe a complete stranger within few moments of the first encounter.

"Then," he smiles the smile that many have called charming and starts his ascend upstairs. He only looks back once to wink at her, hoping it'll quell her anxious mind a bit, "follow my lead?"

"I can do that." she mumbles, more to assure herself and takes the first step of many that will become the foundation to their sibling-like friendship.

Kaz

When it comes to change, development and fresh ideas, Per Haskell always cowers and dismisses the topic. People like that will never achieve anything if they aren't willing to take risks. The restoration of that abandoned fifth harbour would already be in motion if Kaz hadn't chosen to waste another of his precious mornings trying to convince his boss that investing in it may prove fruitful to the Dregs. And so, after a pointless argument he had had earlier with the old man, he's decided to take matters into his own hands.

Huffing audibly, he continues explaining every member present in his room their respective job for the day. The boisterous throng huddled around him, begins dispersing all of a sudden. Curiously, Kaz looks up to find his faitful right-hand man Jesper Fahey walking in, a mischievous glint in his silver irises.

"We bumped into each other on our way up here." Jesper gestures behind him.

And it is then that Kaz notices her presence— Inej Ghafa, the strange Suli girl he had brought back from the West Stave. Oddly, he had felt her presence moments ago but had brushed it off as a mere byproduct of his rest-deprived mind playing tricks on him. Turns out his intuition hadn’t been wrong at all.

"Its that Suli girl."

"The one that Brekker took up to his bed?"

"Who would've thought Haskell's rabid dog had such exquisite tastes."

The one that Brekker took where? Haskell's rabid what? Kaz isn't sure which remark he finds more insulting towards his reputation. Although he does realise he has no one except himself to blame. He should'nt have let the girl follow him up to the attic last night. As usual, he'll have to cover this small err with fresh tales about himself that are even more gruesome than the previous ones. But for now he must find out why the new girl is here.

Anika’s clothes are baggy on her small frame— a deep green shirt so loosely-fitted that she has tied its ends into a double knot just above her belly-button whilst the fawn-colored trousers hang tastefully around her hips. He watches her long, silky hair sway behind her as she walks gracefully in his direction, determination glimmering in her dark brown irises. Shock briefly flits across his gaze but before he can even think of stopping her, she shoots out her hands in which he (dreadfully) recognizes, she’s holding his coat. He can feel all eyes in the room already settling on him. They collectively stare in a mix of shock, curiosity and..is this jealousy he's witnessing on a few faces?

"What do you think you're doing?" He grits out. He hears a muffled snickering which he's sure is Jesper's and wonders if the two somehow managed to become friends in the short span of their climb up the stairs. And that they both planned this prank together on their way.

However, Inej only furrows her brows, debunking his ridiculous theory. She seems to be wondering what she's done wrong as she answers confidently, "I forgot to return it last night."

More interested staring ensues. The new pen in his palm snaps.

Is this girl serious right now? It took him long, unrelenting years to rise to the position he's at. He's spilled his blood, sweat and tears to scatter the seeds of terror about him throughout the expanse of Ketterdam. Even people who come across him for the first time, visibly shiver and turn pale. So what part of their last conversation has given her this courage to approach him so casually? She seems to have forgotten the fact that he’s an infamous barrel thug, feared by merchers, stadwatch and gangsters alike. She isn’t supposed to saunter up to him and return his coat, making this whole exchange appear to be a scandalous affair to the curious bystanders. She isn't supposed to crumble Dirtyhands' hard-built reputation with just a few words!

"Stand aside, I'm busy." He mutters, because he truly has no idea how to get out of this predicament and hopes that his caustic tone will get the message across just like it does with everyone else.

To his utter dismay, Inej seems to be far more tactless than Jesper, who still hasn't stopped snickering. She tucks the coat back in her arms and bites her lip as if suppressing herself from saying something mean. Her eyes quietly regard his own, an unspoken understanding settling between them. She is aware that if she doesn't wish to be thrown back into the Menagerie, she must behave properly with him. And yet, her nostrils flare as she responds, "I just wanted to pay my gratitude-"

"You can pay your gratitude," Kaz hisses back, glaring up at her from his perched position, "with your services." And its only after uttering those words does he realise the ambiguous implications hinted in them. Jesper's shoulders are shaking uncontrollably now, his palms tightly clamped around his mouth to muffle his laugh.

"Slow down, Dirtyhands." comments someone from the back and the whole room bursts into a howl of laughter. Inej brings a palm to her lips, gasping in mortification.

Kaz massages his eyes. Dealing with these ruffians has already been a headache. Now this new girl just walks in and takes the cake. She's proving to be far more dangerous– scratch that– far more more troublesome than he had expected.

He lets them have their fun as he pulls out a knife from his coatsleeve and gets up. He ambles towards Dirix, his steps slow and deliberate. He's sure it was Rotty who'd made the joke but Dirix is standing closer and it doesn't really matter who said what. Dirtyhands just needs to set an example.

The young boy is suddenly looking very pale. Kaz grabs his right hand, the dominant one and digs the blade along the joints of his fingers. The knife easily tears through his skin and goes deeper into the muscle beneath. Dirix is now screaming whilst everyone else hold their breath. From his peripheral vision, he catches the horror on Inej's face and rolls his eyes. Surely she must've heard of his violent endeavors at the menagerie. She shouldn't have approached him in the first place if she's going to be so shocked everytime he spills someone's blood.

He roots out the knife before it can completely sever Dirix's limbs. "Get 'em patched up." The boy is already running out.

He walks back and tosses the knife to the desk, its loud clang making everyone flinch in fright. "Pipe down before I actually start chopping tongues."

The threat silences everyone.

"This is Inej Ghafa." He points at her and the girl cowers slightly. Not at all the abrupt attention on her, he notices, but from him. "She's to be a new spider."

This one simple statement seems to piece together everything for them. Though he has an inkling that his previous act of brutality also plays a major part. They nod and whisper amongst themselves. He almost scoffs. Of course its easier for them to believe that Kaz Brekker took up a girl to his room for information. Not some spicy dalliance.

"Now get to work." He orders and one by one they shuffle out of the room, Rotty nodding respectfully. He knows he was spared merely by luck.

Jesper is the last one. He winks at Inej before taking his leave. "See you around, new girl!"

And with all of them gone, Kaz turns to Inej. She inhales a breath in anticipation.

"Let's start your training."

So hopefully that was as fun reading as it was for me writing :3

Coming parts will have Inej's training and ofc her picking her canon outfit.

.

SoC Masterlist

( divider by @firefly-graphics )

[alwaysthinkingoutloud]

Hannibal Episode-by-Episode Meta/Analysis: Episode 4, Season 1 (Oeuf)

In the office of Dr. Lecter, Will is telling Hannibal how close he got to Garret Jacob Hobbs, to understanding him. So close that, at some point Hobbs’ actions started to make sense to him. Will saw him. And now unseeing him, seems not possible. Right after that when Hannibal asks Will about how he felt when he saw Melissa Schurr killed, Will says that he felt guilty because he felt like he killed her. But this does not really make sense, does it? That murder happened long after GJH was dead and at that point everybody thought Nicholas Boyle was her killer. So why would he feel guilty? I think at that point of the conversation, who Will and Hannibal are talking about becomes kind of ambiguous. Afterall, Hannibal killed Marissa because Will was closing in to the Copycat Killer and he wanted to divert him, creating a murder he can pin on Nicholas later. In a sense, Will was guilty of Marissa’s death. But he did not know it then. What I believe is, around this time in the series, Will and Hannibal (as the Copycat Killer) had already developed a kind of empathic/telepathic bond (that also explains seeing both himself and the Copycat Killer as the stag). Will often had the answers he was looking for already buried in his mind somewhere. I think that was why he felt guilty about Marissa’s death. 

As Will continues talking, the same ambiguity is still there. He says he got so close to him, and that he feels like they are doing the same things at the same time during the day. Unaware, he thinks he is talking about Hobbs, but I do not think he is, he talks about the Copycat Killer. And I think Hannibal is aware of that. That is why he asks if Will felt the same way even after Hobbs was dead. And that is also why he gives that look to Will, when Will says 

“I know who I am, Dr. Lecter. I am not Garret Jacob Hobbs.” 

Will may know that he is not Garret Jacob Hobbs, but he does not really know who he is or with whose mind his still is bonded.

Just like Alana tells Abigail that she needs someone to relate to in this experience, so does Alana. She seeks comfort in Hannibal’s company, just like everyone else does. It is darkly funny how sheep come running to wolf even before wolf’s asking. Hannibal must have that predatory scent of trouble which for thousands of years kept our ancestors on their toes, made them fail staying away from indefinitely because of subconsciously not being able to deny themselves the thrill. Anyway, so what he does is to flirt his way out of disagreements with Alana and do what he wants to do anyway. Alana gets quite furious after he finds out about Hannibal’s getting Abigail out of hospital but she is still a way too enchanted by Hannibal ever to attribute this to anything other than him being unprofessional out of his feelings for Abigail.

Just as Hannibal’s agenda with Abigail was anticipated, Hannibal draws attention to the fact that as of now; none of Hannibal, Will or Abigail has a family. And as he tells Will that soon he is going to find out those three have more than that in common, he is not just talking about her aptitude for the psychological. He is talking about their murderous side. Will does not know it about Abigail yet but for Hannibal, this commonality is more than ideal to make a family.

That short scene where Will goes out to his garden with all his dogs, but they leave him alone in the yard in a matter of seconds… He sighs probably thinking Hannibal was right, that his best shot at making a family is not his collection of strays but Abigail -Will is not yet aware, that idea of a family has Hannibal who comes with the package- . Also the last scene of the episode shows Will’s dogs all sleeping in one corner and Will sleeping alone. Hannibal evidently succeeded to awaken the sense of loneliness in Will to strengthen his need of Abigail. As Hannibal also tells Jack, he thinks Will too needs his anchor to stream behind him in heavy weather. His family to keep him grounded when it all gets rough out there. His pack, even, to remind him of what he is… So Hannibal is simply trying to give Will that.

I would die if I did not mention this in between, that scene where Will storms in Hannibal’s office and throws his jacket and his bag on the therapy couch, but as the neat guy he is, Hannibal attempts to straighten up the gift but he does not really. And he does not even touch Will’s jacket. On the other hand, in the next scene, he does straighten up Abigail’s book with a great care. So this whole thing just made me feel like Hannibal is ready to accept Will as he is. That he does not even mind his mess that much.

Although Will felt responsible and parental for Abigail since the beginning, Hannibal familiarizes Will with the concept of family and Abigail in the same context at every chance he gets. He did not introduce those feelings to Will in the first place but surely he magnified them. Just like he does when he tells Will that Abigail is lost too and it is perhaps his and Will’s responsibility to help her find her way. 

On the other side, he supports Abigail emotionally and clears her doubts about herself, he does not let her feel remorse about what happened. 

He also makes her think that he needs her as much as she needs him: 

“I would surely feel safer if you were in the FBI, protecting my interests.”

Hannibal replaces her memories of her father which she associates with being victimized, with the new ones which has Hannibal himself and gives her her power back. Almost like, redirecting the flow of devotion and loyalty she had for his dad to now himself. As he played a role at the events that broke her down to pieces (just like that teacup that slipped out of Abigail’s hand and crushed into pieces), he is now building her back up to be unapologetically herself. At some point, Hannibal’s goal pretty well may have become making his own family, just like the woman who kidnapped the ‘lost boys’ was trying to do. Erase the old family and make space for the new one to come.

From the look Will gives to that woman after she gets shot, it is visible that he can understand the lengths she went in her search for a family. Actually, each time Will empathizes with a killer to help the FBI, he familiarizes himself with an aspect of Hannibal. It was Hobbs who taught Will the distorted rationalization of cannibalism (just like Hannibal does), then it was Stammets who taught Will the destructive lengths one could go to bind with those he loves (just as it is what Hannibal does all the time) and finally this woman who used murder as a palate cleanser for a new family to come that which she is a part of (just like Hannibal is trying to do both to Will and Abigail by normalizing murder to have a common denominator to make a ‘family’ out of them). So that is how at the end of the season, Will was able to see Hannibal’s true face without needing any tangible proof. Because he already had tried hard to understand and succeeded to see the shreds of Hannibal and those, when combined, were more real and clearer than any other proof there could be. (more to talk about that later)

[tealenko]

Somebody that I Used to Know (Chapter 2)

Chapter 2: Life Support

This one will be the most angsty of the bunch... I really wanted to show Kaidan getting worried about Shepard and being there for her before the full romantic stuff is back in the picture, to show that he really cares for her.

Summary: Shepard is having a hard time because of Thane's death. After a long shift Kaidan finds her in front of the memorial and tries his best to cheer her up.

Words: 1623 Rating: Teens and Up Warnings: Dealing with death

Previous chapter -> [link] Read in AO3 -> [link]

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Even though it’s been years she still looks as she did before. Same gestures, same routines, same kind of conversations.

Kaidan spends some time watching her as she goes up and down the ship, talking to everyone, fixing messes, helping people… she always has something to do, just as she used to back in the day.

He is concerned about her, what she must be enduring, and after a few weeks his worries increase as he starts to notice that there’s something off, and that whatever it is she’s keeping it to herself.

He knows she used to do that quite a lot. Fake a smile and pretend everything is fine, letting her problems sink as if everything else around her was more important. He has seen her do that before and he’s afraid that with all she’s carrying on her shoulders she is doing it again.

They have a few more conversations in between missions, things starting to normalize a little, before he realizes his fears are true after a long shift.

He should be sleeping but he can’t. Even though the headache that woke him up is long gone he cannot stop staring at the ceiling and he eventually decides to go to the kitchen to grab something.

He sees her as soon as he’s out of his room, in front of the elevator, with her eyes glued to the memorial. She’s so lost in her thoughts that she doesn’t notice the sound made by the door and neither does she hear Kaidan’s footsteps getting closer to her.

He stops halfway, and a fragment of his soul breaks, shattering into a million pieces, when he sees a small tear running down her cheek.

He has seen her fight, and yell, and fall… he knows she’s been through hell and back, but he has never seen her cry before, and the sight of it is piercing a hole in his heart.

Kaidan opens his mouth to talk, but the words don’t come up. There’s so many questions traveling through his head that he wants to ask: are you alright? Is there something I can do for you? Or something you need? But he already knows the answer to all of them: no.

Instead, he gets closer to her, and looks at the memorial, giving her a few seconds before talking just in case she wants to clear her face and pretend she is alright, but she doesn’t.

“What was he like?”

“Which one of them?”

“The one you’re staring at. I didn’t get to know him, but even through the distance he kept track of me back in the hospital, I think... he was trying to protect me.”

Shepard smiles a little, reminiscing how he told her he would watch Kaidan for her, and another tear starts falling down as her mind replays pieces of the conversations they had back in the day.

“Thane was.. he was one of a kind, even at the end.” Shepard stops staring at the memorial, turning her head to her right. “You know, I... haven’t had the heart to go into that room since... well, you know.” She stammers, taking a second to breathe before talking again. “It might seem stupid.”

“It isn’t, believe me I know how...” He cuts himself in the middle of the sentence and takes a deep breath. “If you wanna try… I mean, maybe it’s easier if you’re not alone. It doesn’t have to be now, of course, but whenever you are ready… well... you only have to ask.”

Shepard looks at him for a second to confirm his offer. When he nods at her she starts walking into the room and Kaidan follows her right away.

Everything is intact. The table, the cot, the chairs… the room it’s the same one, but for her it will never feel complete again.

“He always sat there,” she says, pointing at one of the chairs. “I always came back in between missions and sat in front of him.” She smiles softly, passing her hand through Thane’s chair.

“How did you meet?”

“He was trying to finish a job, his last one, he had given up on everything… he planned to die that night but… well, I guess I avoided it.”

“How?”

“I gave him purpose, I suppose.”

“You’ve always been good at that,” Kadan says, trying to meet her eyes. “What did he do to… I mean, he seems special.”

“He was… he… “Shepard takes a second, feeling her eyes getting ready to start pouring again.” He saved me.”

“From what?”

“Everything.”

The tears start flowing and that does it. Before he has time to overthink anything he turns her and gives her a hug, wrapping his arms around her body.

He knows what she’s going through, the pain of losing someone that important to you, and even though he cannot find the words to try to comfort her he can let his actions speak for him.

She leans into the hug, burying her face on his chest and grabbing onto his shirt like he is the only thing that keeps her from falling.

Kaidan can feel a lump in his throat, and tries to hold back a tear, but seeing her like this makes him fail and he starts crying too. Maybe they are tears out of compassion, friendship or maybe out of love… He doesn’t really know. Perhaps it’s a little bit of everything.

He moves one hand to her head and they stay like that for a while, almost an eternity, neither of them having the will to break the hug. So much time passes that the tears are long gone when she speaks again.

“After what happened to me… to the Normany, I needed someone, a friend… Thane was that and more, he was family. He listened to me whenever I needed, helped me, guided me in my darkest times and never expected anything in return.”

“But you helped him anyway, didn’t you?”

Shepard laughs at his comment.

“You know me… I couldn’t stand still knowing he was suffering. He didn’t need my help, but he said he wanted it nevertheless.”

“So what did you do?.”

“We saved his son and, with time, he ended up regaining a relationship he thought forever lost. I’m glad he was able to do so before it was too late.”

“Then you helped him go in peace. I’m sure that meant a lot to him at the end.”

“I guess I did, I… never thought about it in that way.” Shepard's smile gets bigger, finding comfort in Kaidan’s words. “I knew his time would end sooner than later, I should be prepared for this, but every time I see his name out there or even if I’m close to this place… You have no idea how much time I have spent here with him, talking, laughing, reading… we did everything together.”

“Tell me about it.”

They sit on the cot and she begins to talk, and they start traveling together through her old memories. Hours pass before the silence fills the room again, with both of them contemplating how the core of the ship glows through the window.

She turns to look at him, seeing how the blue light illuminates his features. There’s something in the way he carries himself, in his expression, that makes her feel at peace. He has always had the ability to calm her just with his presence, feeling like a safe port in the middle of a storm.

“I’m so glad that you had someone like that in your life.” He says, still looking through the window. “Who took care of you no matter what. I...” His head falls a little, fixing his eyes to the ground for a few seconds before meeting hers. “I’m sorry… for your loss… If there’s anything I can do…”

“You’ve already done it… ” She moves her hand and rests it on his arm before squeezing it a little. “Thanks Kaidan, for talking to me… I think I needed that.”

“My pleasure.” Kaidan smiles at her, and the grip on his arm starts getting tighter. She smiles back at him and he feels a little bit lost for a second, it’s been a long time since he’s seen her smile like that, and his heart starts hurting again, although now it’s for a completely different reason. “Whatever you need… you only have to ask, you know that right?”

She nods at him and the silence fills the room once again, but this time they’re looking at each other. Kaidan moves his gaze through her face, noticing little scars that weren’t there a few days ago, a small bruise on her jaw and dark circles under her eyes.

“It’s pretty late, you must be tired.” He starts wondering how long she’s been awake, worrying what the lack of rest will do to her in the long run.

“Yeah, you’re right, I should sleep a little.”

“Or a lot.” She laughs at his comment, and his preoccupation warms her heart a little.

“I’ll try my best to do so.”

Neither of them want to stand up, but they are indeed pretty exhausted. She is, in fact, more tired than ever, but at the same time she feels at ease, like she’s taken a load off her shoulders, and for the first time in months, she doesn’t feel alone.

They walk together out of the room, stopping in front of the elevator, trying to spend one more second with each other before going on their way.

“Goodnight Kaidan.”

“Goodnight”

Once she is inside she turns to look at him one more time before leaving.

“Thanks again.”

“It was nothing.”

And the door closes.

Not to me.

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Next chapter -> [link]

This one was interesting to write. I really wanted to include Thane in this fic. I feel like him and my Shepard really bonded in ME2 (friendly / platonic relationship), so his dead in ME3 really affects her. I've always loved Thane but for me the time they meet makes it impossible to develop a romantic relationship. My Shepard still wants to be with Kaidan and he is still mourning his wife. But I know there's people who goes for it, so I left it pretty ambiguous just in case you want to think there was a romantic relationship between them.

As always feel free to ask for fics or give me suggestions!!!

[alleiradayne]

Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story…

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE

Long is our list of ghost stories laid to rest. But when the dark rider returns thirty years after his exorcism at the hands of the Winchesters, Sam, Dean, and I are faced with the possibility that we’ve been wrong about one thing.

Some urban legends never die.

Part IV - The Midnight Ride

Summary: The end of an era. Warnings/Tags: Some fluff, general elements of horror and fear, graveyards, brushes with death again... Characters/Pairings: First Person Female!Reader/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Word Count: 5,104

"You alright?"

Lost in thought, I had hardly heard Sam. But the warmth of his presence roused me from my stupor. I shook my head and rubbed the burn from my eyes as I spoke. "Yeah, I… I'm just exhausted. And this research isn't exactly entertaining."

Sam took a seat beside me at the small motel table and pulled his chair so close I might as well have sat in his lap. The warmth of one massive hand enveloped mine, and he set the other on my bouncing knee. That quake subsided beneath his touch, something no other person in my life had managed. But then a sudden awareness sent a shiver down my spine, and I scanned the motel room, searching. Sam, perceptive as ever, answered my unasked question. "Dean's in the shower. He'll be a while. We've got some time. To talk. Only if you—"

I didn't want to talk. At all. What I wanted betrayed every common sense I had. At that moment, I’d do whatever I could, use whatever magic at Sam’s disposal, make a deal with Rowena, anything to cleanse last night's stain of indelible memories from my mind. And yet, I knew those options were anything but. Between Sam’s apparent affection for me and Dean’s overprotective brotherly nature, neither would allow me to harm myself willingly just to get rid of a few nightmares.

But as I stared into Sam’s prismatic gaze, the desire to replace those memories, to shadow them with newer, happier moments, overpowered me.

No. I didn’t want to talk. So, instead, I kissed him.

Myriad descriptions, all vastly varied from one to the next, could never capture the feeling of Sam's lips on mine. I could regale you with comparison after comparison. But none of them would do him justice. Though the moment lasted but a breath, eons passed in that explosive connection where I knew and felt and lived a thousand lifetimes with him. I wanted to do nothing more in that breath than melt into him forever.

My tablet chirped, and the case loomed at the edge of my subconscious. All those imaginary lifetimes vanished as I parted from him, replaced by a cruel reality. Not that I'd squander a reality that consisted of Sam Winchester's love. Or his crooked grin and half-lidded gaze.

"Good talk."

Despite my sour mood, I laughed. "I'm glad we could come to an understanding."

His fingers slipped between mine as he spoke. "Thing is, I forgot… what I said about us last night. When I asked if you wanted to talk now, I meant about what happened to you."

"Oh." Well, shit.

I have never known a person wiser, more emotionally aware than Sam. And Dean often gave him a run for his money. But after all the years hunting together, Sam and I operated on an uncannily similar wavelength. The guy read me like an open book. And when I balked at recounting my harrowing journey beyond the veil, he understood without another word.

"Only if you want," he repeated with a reassuring squeeze of my thigh. "Otherwise, I wouldn't mind a little more of your…" he paused with a coy smirk as his eyes darted to my lips and back. "... preferred method of communication."

"I…" My tablet chirped once more, obliterating the one desire I'd felt in months. "Sam, I promise, we make it out of this case alive, I won't leave your bedroom for a week."

His smile widened as he said, "Only if we spend the following week in yours."

I kissed him again, a little harder, more insistent. Parted, I agreed. "Done."

My tablet chimed for the third time, and I turned to it at last. Sam pointed at the screen and said, "What's cockblocking me?"

Though I laughed, a furious sting prickled my cheeks at the thought of Sam's… I forced the imagery from my mind and decidedly focused on the tablet instead of his face. "I was emailing the curator at the museum. She just sent me some documents about Sleepy Hollow's history."

"Oh?" Sam mused. "Anything worthwhile?" He reached for his laptop, pulled it across the table, and flipped up the lid.

When I opened the attached documents, my heart sank. They merely verified much of what I'd already learned. "Sleepy Hollow was a part of the Tarrytown settlement, originally called North Tarrytown. Most of this information is just facts and history about the town. While the Ichabod Crane story is all rooted in it, the urban legends and folklore are only related so far as this jackass on a horse with no head."

"Not surprising," Sam stated.

"No,” I whined, “but it is a little disheartening that he has next to nothing to do with the town he haunts.”

Sam nodded, then said, “There might be more, though. Earlier this morning, I read that Washington Irving was born in Manhattan. He traveled for many years, but he eventually returned to New York and lived out the rest of his life in Sleepy Hollow. He's buried in that cemetery."

"I suppose," I replied, "but I was looking for something a little more concrete than the author lived and died here. Like actual people that Irving modeled his characters after. Or other legends. He traveled in Europe for quite some time. There's even a Scandanavian story, The Wild Hunt, that has the same throughline. A headless rider that lobs his head at people."

Sam piqued at that, eyes narrowed and head tilted. "But Ichabod Crane is the original telling of the story here. Right?"

I nodded. "Forgetting that it's a hodgepodge of cultural ghost stories, yes."

He laughed at that. "I haven’t read it since I was a kid.”

“Me neither,” I replied. “I only know bits and pieces.”

Dean burst from the bathroom at that, a towel wrapped around his head and one about his waist. “Ichabod Crane was a new school teacher in Sleepy Hollow. And he was hellbent on marrying a woman, Katrina, who was set to inherit her father's very wealthy farm estate.”

"Oh," I mused with a mocking smirk at Sam. "Sounds like we have an expert in our midst."

Dean waved me off as he dug through his bag at the end of the bed. "Sam knows it, too. Right?"

“Yeah," Sam started, "there was another suitor, though. Arthur Van Brunt. He went by Brom Bones Van Brunt.” He paused as he stood. “It’s kind of funny, really, this story reads like a high school drama. The lanky geeky nerd and the oafish jock fight over a girl. Except they never get into the physical altercation Brom wanted. He goaded Ichabod constantly, pulling pranks on him. But Ichabod never took the bait.”

I looked at my tablet, where a black and white photograph of a man stared back at me, then returned to them both. Dean withdrew a change of clothes from his bag, then headed back to the bathroom. Through the open door, he said, “So the story goes, Ichabod went to a party at the Van Tassel farm where he intended to woo and win over Katrina. Brom, instead, scares the living piss out of him with a bunch of ghost stories, one of which was the Headless Horseman.”

“Yeah, I remember that much,” I said. “And then he tried to propose to Katrina, but she shot him down.”

“Exactly,” Sam chimed. “I love how ambiguous the ending is here. Ichabod leaves the party all upset about Katrina. He gets on his horse, Gunpowder, who is very skittish, and heads home. But the Hessian shows up and chases him. Ichabod had just learned the legend, so he heads for the bridge near the Old Dutch Burying Ground. He knows the spirit can’t cross the bridge. Ichabod would have made a decent hunter.”

Dean’s laughter echoed from the bathroom, and he emerged dressed and hair coiffed. “I forgot how innocent this story is. He gets to the bridge and crosses it, but the Hessian hurls his freakin’ head at him before disappearing. The head domes Ichabod and knocks him off his horse. Nobody ever finds his body. Only his hat, Gunpowder’s wrecked saddle, and a randomly smashed pumpkin were found near the bridge.”

A thought bubbled up in the back of my mind and raced to my lips. “So that’s where the jack-o-lantern head comes from. What if… holy shit, what if it was just a prank gone wrong? What if Brom was playing another trick on him and accidentally killed Ichabod?”

Hesitation stalled them both as Sam and Dean regarded one another. Then Dean turned to me and asked, “That does not explain what the hell happened last night. No fucking way that was a prank.”

I hated it, but I knew he was right. “But then what the hell! I’m almost beginning to think it is a tulp—”

“It’s notta tulpa!” Sam shouted. Dean clamped a hand over his mouth, and his shoulders shook with uncontrollable laughter. Sam rounded on him and barked, “Shut up!”

“I can’t help it,” Dean managed through peeling laughter. “Your Arnold impression is improving.”

“C’mon, guys, we need to figure this out,” I groaned.

Dean settled through a deep breath, although his face remained far too red. Sam slumped into his seat again, his stare glazing over, unseeing. When he remained silent, Dean said, “Alright, let’s say they’re spirits. And it’s still this mess of combined ancient myths, ghost stories, and cultural legends. We’re still on the same page there, right?”

Sam and I nodded slowly. “After what happened last night, there’s no way they’re anything else.”

“If they’re spirits that haven’t moved on, we have to burn the bodies,” I stated.

“Or destroy an object that might be keeping them topside,” Dean added.

Scrambled thoughts rattled through my mind as I ran down a list of objects. I soon found myself lost in a warren of possibilities, and as I stared ahead at my tablet, equally dazed as Sam. An answer picked at the edge of my subconscious, like a half-remembered dream. No matter how hard I tried to grasp it, the thought slipped through my hand like water.

“None of it is real.”

From the corner of my eye, I glared at Sam. He remained still, his glassy far-off stare yet unfocused as he spoke. "It's all stories. They're all stories that are too much of a mess for a tulpa. So none of it is real. Whatever these spirits have latched onto, it's nothing from those stories." 

With his words, the image on my tablet clarified as my mind focused. Understanding crept along my skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake. I stood then, spurred to my feet, and spoke. “The unmarked grave never mattered. It’s fake.”

Sam nodded. “There aren’t any bodies to burn because those bodies never existed to begin with.”

“It’s all fairy tales and make-believe bullshit,” Dean declared.

I looked first to Sam, then Dean, then back to my tablet, where an image of Washington Irving filled the screen. I turned the tablet to face them, and all at once, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Together, we spoke.

“Death of the author.”

Never in my entire life had I wished to be anywhere else more than at that very moment.

Three stark-white flashlights illuminated a grand headstone, memorialized by the town of Sleepy Hollow, for one Washington Irving. After so many years without care, overgrowth covered much of the base, and the stone desperately needed a washing. Beyond that, none of us made a single move to start the arduous process of digging five feet into the earth. We simply stood there, silent as the dead beneath our boots.

"Either of you uncomfortable with this?" Dean asked, breaking the silence.

"Yeah," Sam and I replied.

Dean started towards the headstone and said, "Good. Glad it's not just me. Something about this feels wrong."

"It's because we've never seen someone's spirit manifest as anything other than itself," Sam stated. "We're literally digging up a guy because his spirit might have transfigured into characters from his own story."

"Can spirits even do that?" I asked as I scanned the treeline of the graveyard. Though dense fog had choked the grounds last night, literal clouds suffocated the entire cemetery where we stood. "That seems like a lot of power for a single spirit."

Dean posted at the head of the grave. "Only one way to find out." He pocketed his flashlight and hefted his shovel. When he saw us still standing at the foot of the plot, he said, "I'm not digging this grave on my own."

Despite the need to end such a vengeful spirit, I had little motivation to help. Slower than necessary, I picked up my shovel and shuffled to the center of the plot. Sam stepped in behind me, shovel at the ready.

Dean raised his shovel to his waist. Before he moved further, a distant, indiscernible sound echoed through the woods. What was once visible of the nearby treeline no longer was. That thick fog filled the darkness, and I saw neither trees nor sky nor stars. I heard the sound again, too far to tell what it was, but not far enough to miss. My flashlight shook violently as I spun about, but I found nothing besides the Impala behind us.

I turned back to Dean just in time to watch as he plunged his shovel's blade into the dirt. Agonizingly slow, it descended each inch slower than the last. That distant sound echoed once more, ever so slightly closer. As though he conducted an orchestra, that sound crescendoed into an unbearable scream as Dean’ shovel descended until metal returned to the earth.

Earsplitting thunder exploded overhead, and instinct forced all three of us to our knees. That booming drum rolled, mutated until it rumbled through the ground. I knew that sound, too familiar with the feel reverberating through my feet. A fresh wave of icy dread coursed through my veins as those thundering hooves pounded the dirt.

Over the headstone, I pointed my flashlight as I stood. Terror incarnate barreled through the graveyard astride his deathly steed. Above his head, a readied missile sprouted flames as he raced towards us. Every instinct screamed to run. Fuck everything about the legend, the haunting, just get the hell out of there.

But I couldn't move. Frozen solid, I merely gripped my flashlight and shivered.

"Run!"

Dean's shove launched me into Sam's arms, kickstarting my senses. I sprinted for the Impala, desperate for her salvation. I reached it a beat behind Sam and Dean and dove into the backseat. The engine roared to life with a sharp snarl as Dean twisted the ignition. He wrenched down on the shifter, slammed on the gas, and I launched into the backrest as the car sped off in reverse.

"What are you doing?!" I screamed.

"What I should have done last night!" he barked.

I opened my mouth to demand a better answer but only managed to scream and gesticulate wildly. The Headless Horseman vaulted Washington Irving's headstone and, in one smooth motion, launched his flaming cannonball directly at the car.

The sickening crunch of iron on steel paled in comparison to Dean's wail of rage. He threw the wheel to the left, and I grasped onto the backrest as the car lurched, spinning about-face. The transmission groaned in protest as Dean threw the shifter into drive and slammed on the gas once more. With all her horses leaping down the road, the Impala raced into the night, and I flattened against the backseat.

"Mother fucking piece of shit ghost!" Dean bellowed. "Fucking hit my car with a god damned cannonball! I’ll kill you! Do you hear me?!"

“Dean, just watch where you’re going!” Sam shouted as he braced against the backrest and the frame of the car.

The speedometer slid past eighty, and I gripped the leather backrest, nails scoring the supple hide. Sweat coated my palms, and my heart railed against my chest. "Dean, what the hell are you doing! You're going to get us killed!"

The fork in the road appeared around the sharp corner, and Dean roared, "Just trust me!" as he took the paved road to the left.

One hundred. The blinding flash of a memory overpowered my senses. Nearly forgotten, the dull vision replayed in my mind, muted, as though it belonged to someone else. A car sped along a country road. A dog. Spinning, careening, crashing. I screamed as my seatbelt failed. Blood pooled in the cornstalks beneath a sky so blue.

"Try to follow me now, you son of a bitch!"

Dean's voice snapped me back to reality. Behind us, the Headless Horseman gained, and his whip gathered with a flick of his wrist. The vicious bones uncoiled, and another memory threatened to take me under once more. It seemed that death had its own wish for me and would not rest until it came true. Another flash of a fresh memory consumed my senses, dragged me down to my own personal hell. But then a light emerged amidst the darkness, warm and enveloping. I opened my eyes to find Sam holding my hand.

"Focus, Y/N. Stay with me, we're gonna get through this, I promise."

"There's the bridge!" Dean shouted as he pointed. The engine whined, straining under his insistent foot. He glared in his rearview mirror as he growled, "Let's race, motherfucker."

The Impala raced over the transition from asphalt to old stone and wood, rattling the car from nose to rear end. Sam’s fingers turned ghastly white in my grip, but he paid that no mind. His focus remained steady, wide eyes staring into mine. Though he tried to reassure me, the roar of the Impala swallowed his words, and they fell on deaf ears. Like a moth to the flame, I turned back to the Headless Horseman one last time.

The coiled whip unfurled laboriously, each bone rolling over the next and slower than the last. That crawl, that agonizingly painful creep blurred the liminal space between truth and myth’s fabrication until nothing but a swathe of gray smeared reality. My mind filled in that blank void, and I knew then that death had arrived to collect his escaped prisoner.

But the end never came. That infinite second ticked by, lost to the endless depths of space and time as the car breached the end of the bridge. I braced myself against Sam as he reached over the backrest for me. Dean stood both feet on the brake, and the car lurched forward as the tires seized, shredding on the asphalt. When the deafening roar of the Impala faded to its soothing idle, I eased my grip on Sam's arms, and he returned to his seat. Dean checked both of us before scrambling from the car, and we followed not a beat behind.

In the center of the bridge, the Headless Horseman and his nightmare steed hung in the air, suspended mid-gallop. A deep purple glow seeped through the grouted stone surrounding the horse, and beneath his hooves, the bricks quaked. Violent flashes of an eerie green mist lanced from the cracks in the centuries-old rock and lashed the rider’s raised arms to drag him from his horse. Wrenched free of the saddle, he crashed to the stone, his metal armor clattering with a sickening crunch. I winced, unsure of what I was witnessing, an unwitting and unwilling voyeur.

But I forced myself to keep looking. I had to. I had to see it through to the end, to know without a shadow of a doubt that we had indeed laid such a vengeful spirit to rest.

The Hessian launched into the air with a vicious twist of the mysterious green lashes. Gale winds swept over the bridge, filling my nose with burning brimstone, and then the horse burst into flames. He screamed his unholy cry, and I startled into Sam's arms. Though I continued to watch, I cowered into him, and he held me close without a word. The vile inferno consumed the horse in seconds, reducing him to a pile of ash.

The rider convulsed as though in pain, writhing and contorting so awkwardly to be free of his bonds. Metal twisted, grinding and scraping against itself in his bid for escape. I realized then that, in his death throes, the Headless Horseman would emit no other sound. He could not beg for forgiveness nor absolution. He could not plead for his continued existence nor one last moment on earth. No last words with a loved one. And for a minuscule second, I pitied him.

Lightning fractured the sky as the purple glow between the bricks focused in a circle encompassing the rider. As the edges brightened, the bricks inside slipped away into an endless darkness. I had seen nothing like it in all my years hunting. And as the green bonds lowered him towards the void, he thrashed, deeply aware of the end that approached.

A scream rent from my mouth as an arm of sinew and bone and rotted flesh burst from the black depths and grasped the rider's leg. Metal collapsed like tissue paper beneath the fierce grip, and bone crumpled to dust. Another arm lunged for his chest and cleaved his breastplate in two, embedding in his ribs. A third nearly ripped his arm from its socket, his forearm crushed, and a fourth pierced his thigh. Those horrifying limbs dragged the Headless Horseman to his doom, jailors imprisoning their captive.

Feet, legs, and torso succumbed to the darkness, and a defeated stillness settled his ruined body. At last, his arms and headless shoulders sank beneath the zenith, and The Headless Horseman was no more. Like so many grains of sand through an hourglass, the ashes of his steed followed him into the void. 

A final flare of purple and green light surged as lightning illuminated the sky once more. Wind settled, and clouds parted to reveal a full, brilliant moon and a night sky full of glittering stars. At last, the void receded, and the bridge stood whole once more. The sounds of night creatures returned, and the clearing surrounding the bridge expanded as though it took a full, deep breath to hold, its first in thirty years.

Maybe, it knew. Just as I felt it in my bones, the trees, the stone, the tall grass, and the creek beneath the bridge all felt it down to their tiniest molecules. It was over. At long last, the Headless Horseman was no more.

For now.

A clattering of bones cut through the peaceful calm, and I flung my arms out ahead of Sam and Dean. Not that I would protect them from much of anything, what with nothing but my bare fists at the ready. Tension crept across my shoulders when I spotted the source of the sound, and the three of us scrambled backwards towards the car.

The bone whip rattled to a stop a few feet from us, perfectly coiled with its handle extended towards my boots. I regarded Sam first, then Dean, only to then turn back for the Impala's trunk with a scoff. A readied can of salt lay on top of the stockpile, and I grabbed it as I grumbled to myself.

"Unless something's keeping it topside.” I slammed the trunk shut. “Gimme a break. Of course, something was keeping it here," I continued to myself as I stomped back to Sam and Dean. I prodded the latter in the shoulder and asked, "How? How the hell did you know?"

Dean shook his head as he held his lighter in one hand and withdrew a motel matchbook from his pocket. "I didn't. I didn't know the bridge would work. And I didn't know the whip had anything to do with it. I just had a—"

"Remember the last time I had a hunch and convinced you to drive the Impala over a hundred?" Sam interjected.

Before Dean could respond, I spoke. "Speaking of which…" I paused as I finished pouring a generous amount of salt on the neat pile of bones and snapped the can shut. "Don't ever drive that fast again."

Dean’s brow shot to his hairline as his jaw dropped. He gestured to the bridge, looked to it, then turned to the pile of bones and gesticulated wildly at them. After he stuttered the beginning of a few statements, he blurted, "What was I supposed to do?!"

"Not one-oh-five, that's for damn sure!" I stated. "We could have died!"

"We would have if I hadn't—"

"Alright, that's enough!" Sam interjected. "I'm sorry I brought it up. Let's just put this son of a bitch away for good this time."

"Yes, sir," Dean agreed. "One salt and burn, coming right up."

The book of matches took the flame of Dean's lighter with a sharp hiss. A flick of his wrist sent the little ball of fire cascading to the ground, and in a single beat of my heart, red consumed the world in a crimson concussion.

The ring in my ears faded, and the blinding light dimmed, darkness settling around us once more. Flat on my back, I stared up at the shimmering night sky, beyond dazed. When I sat up, Sam’s hollow voice called from afar. But the moment his touch soothed my shoulders, a shock of clarity rushed through me, and I saw he knelt over me.

“Talk to me, Y/N,” he repeated. “You okay?”

I thought for a moment, taking inventory once again. No broken bones, no blood. Not even a hint of pain despite the lingering soreness from the previous night. “I… I think so. What happened?”

Dean strode into view, an ornately gilded box cradled in his hands. He set it on the ground at his feet, and then I spotted it. The whip lay intact where it had rolled to a stop earlier. Salt scorched black cowered beneath the pale white bones as though frightened of its failure to purify the whip. I pointed at it and repeated myself. “What the fuck just happened?!”

Sam spoke when Dean hesitated. “It looks like the whip is protected. Somehow. Whether the Headless Horseman did it or it’s part of his curse, I’m not sure. And it’s irrelevant anyway. We’ll have to find some other way to destroy it.”

“But then… What happened last time? With your dad?” I asked as I stood. Sam hopped to my side once more, his gentle strength lifting me to my feet.

Metal rasped on metal, and my attention snapped to Dean. His hand rested atop the box, the metal gears working with fine clicks and clanks. When he removed his hand, the lid lifted half an inch and hissed a violent release of pressure. Of its own accord, the lid then continued to rise, revealing rich black velvet. Darker than night, the fabric lined the entire box, and it absorbed the moonlight, much like the void that had taken the Headless Horseman. When Dean withdrew a similar thick velvet cloth from the box, he spoke. “John did put the Headless Horseman away thirty years ago.” He paused as he grasped the whip with the velvet. Gingerly, he eased it into the box, then spread the cloth over it. The heavy lid shut with a hollow thunk and the metal gears worked once more, sealing shut on its own. “But, he came back.”

“Because of the whip?” I asked.

Dean nodded as hefted the box and turned for the Impala. Sam and I followed, eager to be on our way. Given our cargo, I doubted Dean would want to stay another night in Sleepy Hollow. Resolved, I figured I’d at least steal a pillow for the ride back.

We followed as Sam said, “We’ll take it back to the Bunker and find another way to destroy it.”

“Otherwise…” My question drifted, lingering like an unwanted guest that had overstayed their welcome.

With a grunt, Dean shoved the box into the trunk. “Otherwise, the next unlucky bastard that touches this thing will become the Headless Horseman.”

The terrifying implication settled in the pit of my stomach. An indestructible weapon possessing unwitting people. And yet, I knew that dichotomy well. Old as time, that one. The immovable object, an inanimate manifestation of immortality, meets the unstoppable force, the perpetual stupidity of human curiosity.

“We need to get on the road,” Dean stated as he shut the trunk, then strode for the driver’s door. There, he cried a soft, short sob and spoke to the car. “Oh, Baby, look at you. We’ll get you home and cleaned up.” Then he ripped the cannonball free, wrenched the door open, and slid into the driver’s seat. The awkward crunch of ill-fitting metal joints damn near broke my heart. And not just for Dean, but for the Impala as well, for she had seen us through a most harrowing night yet again.

Sam leaned in beside me then and asked, “Mind if I sit with you?”

“I’d… I’d like that. Very much,” I replied as a sudden chill crept beneath my skin. “I don’t think I could handle the whole ride back by myself.”

He opened the door and gestured ahead. “I make a pretty good pillow.”

As he slid in beside me, I said, “I look forward to finding out.” The warmth of his entire body, so close to mine, pulled me in, a moon to her earth. His long arm draped over my shoulder, and I curled into him. For a brief moment, the case ceased to exist. Only my exhaustion reminded me that I had gone toe to toe with the Headless Horseman and, for the most part, won.

But then a familiar thought occurred to me, and my weary eyes snapped wide open. “It’s true, then.”

“What is?” Dean asked as he turned over the backrest.

My breath caught in my throat, unwilling to put into the universe my worst nightmare. But between Dean’s confident stare and Sam’s soft gaze, I’d never felt safer. Even in my darkest moments, the Winchesters would be there for me. I put my faith and confidence not only in them but in myself as well. No matter what happened next, I believed in us.

“What’s true, Y/N,” Sam asked.

I gave him my best smile and spoke.

“Some urban legends never die.”

Dean shook his head as he turned back to the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. The Impala rattled as she started, exhausted as each of us. When she settled to idle, Dean looked at me in the rearview mirror and spoke.

“No. They live just long enough to meet us.”

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THE MIDNIGHT RIDE MASTER LIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN MASTER LIST

[thisbluespirit]

James Maxwell TV/Film List

More of a guide than a recs list, because old tv/film depends so much on availability.  It’s also hard as there’s nothing surviving that’s really like SotT for him (his voice is always slightly different, too & rarely the grand one from SotT) - I found it hard to find where to start back in the day, so I hope this makes it easier.  However, I have starred my favourites (rated for JM content only). 

I’ve divided things into categories and @jurijurijurious​ (or anyone) can make up their own mind as to what to go for.  (Also @jurijurijurious I have NO idea what old telly you’ve already seen, so forgive me if I’m telling you things you already know.)

Where to find it:  Luckily in the UK, it’s not too bad!  Network Distributing are the DVD supplier to keep an eye on (they do great online sales), you can find secondhand things cheap on Amazon Marketplace & eBay, and several Freeview channels show old TV & film, especially Talking Pictures.  I’ll note if things are on YT or Daily Motion, but they come and go all the time, so it’s always worth searching.

***

Film serials (ITC mainly)

British TV made on film in the US mode with transatlantic cash, so generally pretty light,  episodic (continuity is almost unheard of) etc.  Some turn up on ITV3 & 4 on a regular basis (colour eps). 

*** Dangerman “A Date With Doris” (ITC 1964)  James Maxwell is a British spy friend of Drake’s (Patrick MacGoohan) called Peter who gets framed for murder.  Drake goes to Fake Cuba to rescue him by which time JM is dying from an infected wound and faints off every available surface, including the roof.  It’s great.  On YT.  (The boxset is v pricey if you just want 2 eps.)

“Fair Exchange” (ITC 1964) JM is a German spy friend of Drake’s called Pieter who helps him out on a case.  Not as gloriously hurt/comfort-y as the other, but it does have some excellent undercover dusting. (Why  Patrick MacGoohan has JM clones all called variations on Peter dotted around the globeis a mystery.)  On YT.

The Saint “The Inescapable Word” (ITC 1965) This is pretty terrible, but  entertaining and James Maxwell plays the world’s most hopeless former-cop-turned-security guard. With bonus collapsing.  On YT.

“The Art Collectors” (1967).  JM is the villain of the week.  It does include a v funny bit, though, where the Saint (Roger Moore) goes for JM’s fake hair (and who can blame him?  How often I have felt the same!)  This one’s in colour so should pop up on ITV3 or 4. 

The Champions “The Silent Enemy” (ITC 1968).  Surprisingly good JM content as the villain of the week who drugs sailors and steals their clothes before realising that maybe he should have worked out if he could operate a sub before he stole it.

The Protectors “The Bridge” (ITC 1974, 30 mins.)  Not worth seeking out on its own, but ITV4 seems fond of it and James Maxwell gets to do some angsting and wears purple, so it’s worth snagging if you can, but too slight otherwise.

*** Thriller “Good Salary, Prospects, Free Coffin” (ITC 1975; 1hr 10mins, I think).  James Maxwell moves in with Julian Glover and runs an overcomplicated murdery spy ring where they bicker a lot in between killing girls by advertisement and burying them in the back garden.  What could possibly go wrong??  Anyway, it’s solid gold cheese, has bonus Julian Glover and a lot of natty knitwear.  What more does an old telly fan want?  (tw: Keith Barron being inexplicably the very meanest Thriller boyfriend.)  On YT but tends to get taken down fast.

***

Films

Design for Loving (1962; comedy).  Can be rented from the BFI online for £3.50.  Isn’t that great or that bad (or that funny either), but does have JM as a dim layabout beatnik, which is atypical.

***The Traitors (1962).  This is a low-key little 1hr long spy B-movie, but it’s also thoughtful and ambiguous with a nice 60s soundtrack and location work (it’s a bit New Wave-ish) and the central duo of JM and Patrick Allen are sweet and it all winds up with James Maxwell going in the swimming pool. One of the things where JM is actually American. (Talking Pictures show this occasionally & it is out on DVD as an extra on The Wind of Change.)  The quality of the surviving film is not great, though.

***Girl on Approval (1962).  A Rachel Roberts kitchen sink drama about a couple fostering a difficult teenager.  It’s dated, but it’s also really interesting for a 1950s/60s slice of life (and very female-centric) & probably the only time on this list JM played an ordinary person.

***Otley (1969).  Comedy that’s generally dated surprisingly well & is good fun, starring Tom Courtenay +cameos from what seems like the whole of British TV.  JM is an incompetent red herring & there are more cardies and glasses as well as a random barometer. 

Old Vic/Royal Exchange group productions

(Surviving works made by the group that JM was involved in from drama school to his death, made by Michael Elliott or Casper Wrede.  I like them a lot mostly, but they are all slow and weird and earnest & not everybody’s cup of tea.)

Brand (BBC 1959).  The BBC recording of the 59 Company’s (the name they were then using) landmark production, starring Patrick MacGoohan.  This was a big deal in British theatre & launched the careers of everybody involved.  It’s very relentless and weird but interesting & I’m glad they decided it was important enough to save.  First fake beard alert of this post.  It won’t be the last.  On YT & there is a DVD, which is sometimes affordable and sometimes £500, depending on the time of day.

***Private Potter (1962).  The original TV play is lost and this film has an extraneous storyline, but otherwise has most of the TV cast & gives a pretty good idea of why as a claustrophobic talky TV piece it made such an impact.  Tom Courtenay is Private Potter, a soldier who claims to have had a vision of God during a mission & James Maxwell his CO who needs to decide what to do about this strange excuse for disobeying orders.  Tw: fake eyebrows (!) and moustaches.  Only available on YT.

[???]One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch (1970).  Again, no DVD release (no idea why), but it is on YT.  I haven’t seen this yet, but it’s another Casper Wrede effort starring Tom Courtenay and apparently JM is especially good in it.  (I’m just not good at watching long things on YT and keep hoping for a DVD or TV showing.)

Ransom (1974).  A more commercial effort starring Sean Connery & Ian McShane; it gets slated as not being a good action movie, but is clearly meant to be more thinky and political with the edge of a thriller. JM’s part isn’t large but Casper Wrede shoots his friend beautifully, & it’s a pretty decent film with nice cinematography, shot in Norway, as was One Day.  I liked it.

[I think this post might be the longest in the world, whoops.  Sorry!]

Cardboard TV (the best bit, obv)

One-off plays etc./mini-series

Out of the Unknown “The Dead Planet” Adaptation of an Asimov short story; this is very good for JM, but hard to get hold of unless you want the boxset.  I think someone has some of the eps on Daily Motion.  (His other OotU ep is sadly burninated.)

The Portrait of a Lady (BBC 1968).  Adaptation of the novel; JM is Gilbert Osmond, so it is great for JM in quantity and his performance, but depends how you feel about him being skeevy in truly appalling facial hair.  Do the bow ties and hand-holding make up for it?  but he’s in 5 whole episodes, and Suzanne Neve, faced with Richard Chamberlain, Edward Fox, and Ed Bishop as suitors, chooses instead to marry the worst possible James Maxwell.  Relatable. XD

***Dracula (ITV 1968, part of Mystery & Imagination).  JM is Dr Seward, fainty snowflake of vampire hunters, who falls over, sobs and can’t cope for most of the 1 hr 20 mins.  More facial hair, but not as offensive as last time.  Suzanne Neve is back again, although now JM is nice, she’s married Corin Redgrave, who’s more into Denholm Elliott. Anyway, I love this so much because it turned out that I love Dracula as well as shaky old TV with people I like in getting to fight vampires and all be shippy.  Good news - TP keep showing M&I, the DVD is out, and there are two versions of it up on YT.

The Prison (Armchair Cinema 1974).  This is the one with Lincoln in it, but it’s not that great & JM isn’t in it that much, so depends how curious you are for the modern AU!  (But my Euston films allergy is worse than my ITC allergy, and I watched this when very unwell, so I may have been unfair.)

Crown Court “Fitton vs. Pusey” (1973) - part of the Crown Court series, set in a town full of clones who all keep returning to court.  JM is on trial for his behaviour in (the Korean war?  I forget?) although he ought to be on trial for his terrible moustache.  It’s not that great, but it is nice JM content.  He probably did it, but for reasons, and he wibbles & panics whenever his wife leaves the courtroom.  Also on YT.

*** Raffles “The Amateur Cracksman” (ITV 1975) - He is Inspector Mckenzie in the Raffles pilot & is a lot of fun.  At one point when there was a Raffles fandom someone in it claimed he was too gay for Raffles, which I’m still laughing about, because Raffles.  Anyway, watch out if you try to get the DVD because it is NOT included in S1, whatever lies Amazon tells. It is up somewhere online, though, I think.

Bognor “Unbecoming Habits” (1981).  Some down marks for possibly the worst 80s theme & incidiental music ever, but fun & has been shown on Talking Pictures lately.  JM is an Abbot running a honey-making friary that is actually a hotbed of spies, murder, gay sex and squash playing.  This is the point at which he chooses to strip off on screen for the first time, because strong squash-playing abbots do that kind of thing apparently.

Guest of the week in ongoing series/serials

Since even series with a lot of continuity tended to write episodes as self-contained plays (like SotT), these are usually accessible on their own.

Manhunt “Death Wish” (1970).  This is one of the most serialised shows here, but this episode is still fairly contained.  WWII drama about three Resistance agents on the run across France.  JM is... a Nazi agent & former academic trying to break an old friend (one of the series’ three leads, Peter Barkworth) with kindness, possibly??  (Manhunt is very angry and psychological & dark and obv. comes with major WWII warnings (& more if you want to try the whole thing), but it’s also v good.)  Up on YT, I think.

Doomwatch “The Iron Doctor” (BBC S2 1971).  “Doomwatch” is the nickname of a gov’t dept led by Dr Spencer Quist that investigates new scientific projects for abuse/corruption/things that might cause fish to make men infertile etc. etc.  JM is a surgeon who comes to their attention because he’s a bit too in love with his computer for the comfort of one of his more junior colleagues.  (I think it’s perfectly comprehensible & a nice guest turn, but it is hard to get hold of outside of the series DVD.  Which, being a cult TV person, I loved a lot anyway, but YMMV!)

***Hadleigh “The Caper” (S3 1973).  Hadleigh is a very middle of the road show, but watchable enough (lead is Gerald Harper, who’s always entertaining) and this is pretty self-contained as it centres around an old con-man friend (JM) of Hadleigh’s manservant causing trouble by pretending to be Gerald Harper, for reasons.  JM seems to be having a ball.

Justice 2 episodes, S3 1974.  He guests twice as an opposing barrister & gets to be part of some nice showdown court scenes.  Again, a middle of the road drama, but stars Margaret Lockwood, who was still just as awesome in the 1970s as she was in the 1930s & 40s.  On YT.

Father Brown “The Curse of the Golden Cross” (1974).  JM is an American archaeologist getting death threats; stars Kenneth More as Father Brown.  Just a note, though, that 1970s TV adaptations tended to be really really faithful and this is one of the stories where Chesterton comes out with an anti-semitic moment...  (JM was unconscious for that bit and, frankly, I envied him.)  But otherwise lots of angsting in yet another fake moustache about someone trying to kill him.

The Hanged Man “The Bridge Maker” (1975).  Confession time, I have v little idea what this one was about apart from Ray Smith being an unlikely Eastern European dictator, as this whole series went over my head and was not really my thing.  (Ask @mariocki they’re cleverer than me and liked it & can probably explain the plot!)  I don’t know if it’s available anywhere off the DVD but on a JM scale it was v good/different as he was a coldly villainous head of security & it wouldn’t be too bad to watch alone, but there was an overarching plot going on somewhere.

Doctor Who “Underworld” (1978).  This is famously one of the worst serials in the whole of classic Who, but largely because of behind-the-scenes circumstances, not the guest cast.  There is some nice stuff, though, esp in Ep1 (JM is a near-immortal alien who’d like to lay down and die but still the Quest is the Quest as they say... a lot) & it’s bound to pop up on YT or Daily Motion.  The DVD has extras that include v v brief bits of JM speaking in his actual real accent (which he otherwise does in NONE of these) & making jokes in character.  Honestly, though, this is the only DW where the behind-the-scenes doc is genuinely the most exciting bit as they desperately invented whole new technologies & methods of working to bring us this serial, and then everybody wished they hadn’t.

*** Enemy at the Door “Treason” (LWT 1978).  This is a weird episode but I love it lots - from a (v v good) series about the occupation of the Channel Islands.  (So obv warnings for WWII & Nazis.)  JM is a visiting German Generalmajor, but he’s come for a very unusual reason - to ask for help from his brother-in-law, a blackballed British army officer (Joss Ackland).  It’s all weird and low key and JM is doomed and nevertheless probably my favourite thing of his that isn’t SotT.

* The Racing Game 2 eps (1979).  Adaptation of Dick Francis’s first Sid Halley novel Odds Against (ep1) + 5 original stories for the series.  This is an interesting one - JM plays Sid’s father-in-law & they have a lovely relationship that’s central to the book BUT Dick Francis loved this adaptation and Mike Gwilym who played Sid and was inspired to write a sequel Whip Hand, which he tied in with TV canon - and adopted at least three of the cast, including JM.  Which means that all the Sid & Charles fanfic is also JM fic by default and it’s quite impressive. (There’s not much but it’s GOOD.)  On YT.

Bergerac “Treasure Hunt” (1981).  Not a major role, but pretty nice & it’s one a Christmas ep of the detective show (also set on the Channel Islands) that involved Liza Goddard’s cat burglar, which was always the best bit of Bergerac.

His guest spots in Rumpole of the Bailey (1991) “Rumpole a la Carte” and Dr Finlay (1994) are both really just cameos, but both series come round on Freeview; the Rumpole one is funny and the Dr Finlay one his last screen appearance before his death the following year.

Not worth getting just for JM: Subway in the Sky; Bill Brand and Oppenheimer.

These films only have cameos but some quite fun ones and they come around on terrestrial TV: The Damned (1962), The Evil of Frankenstein (1964) & (more briefly) Far From the Madding Crowd (1967).  (I think his cameo in Connecting Doors must be at least recognisable as someone spotted him in it just based off my gifs, but it’s not come my way yet.)  I’ve never been able to get hold of any of his radio performances, not even the 1990s one.

ETA: I forgot The Power Game! This is the one surviving series where he occurs as a semi-regular (at least until halfway through S1 when he went off to the BBC to be in the now-burninated Hunchback of Notre Dame).  This isn’t standalone, but it’s a good series and it is on YT.  See how you go with crackly old TV before you brave it but it’s the snarkiest thing ever made about people making concrete and stabbing each other in the back.  JM is a civil servant who tries to run the National Export Board and is plagued by Patrick Wymark and Clifford Evans as warring businessmen.

***

[... Well, now I just feel scary.  0_o  In my defence, I have been stuck home bored & ill for years, and often unable to watch modern TV while trying to cheer myself up with James Maxwell, so I didn’t watch all of this at once.  It just... happened eventually after SotT. /waves hand 

But if anyone feels the need to unfriend my quietly at this point, I understand. /o\]

[maotranslates]

Chapter 4

Novel: Life Going Wild With Plug-ins 带挂装逼, 最为致命 by Shi Zi Qing 十字卿

PREVIOUS / TABLE OF CONTENTS / NEXT

Before sunset, at the doctor’s place, I finally learned how to eat sunflower seeds with the little medicine boy who lacked front teeth. When the doctor wiped his hands and came out of the building, the children around disappeared.

　　 The night wind was very cold.

　　 I shook off the sunflower seed shells from my body and eagerly looked towards the doctor.

"The injury is really not light. Fortunately, as long as he carefully recuperates for three to five years, he won't be disabled." The doctor spoke a bunch of words solemnly, and then concluded while shaking his head, "But to do martial arts again, I am afraid it is not very possible."

　　 I couldn’t really understand what he was saying, so I picked a question that I was more concerned about: "When will it stop hurting?"

　　 The doctor was at a loss when he looked at me.

　　 "The wounds on his body, when will they stop hurting?"

　　 "...This...will heal in less than a month."

　　 Such a long time, having to lie down for a month, I felt that he was a bit miserable. I nodded to the doctor and slipped inside to visit him.

　　 The Shadow Guard lay quietly on the bed, breathing so softly to the point that it was hard to perceive. The former tattered clothes on his body that were mixed with blood and adhered to his wounds were all removed and replaced with layers of bandages. Probably due to serious injury, there was no rosy color anywhere on his body.

　　His hair had also finally been tidied up, and it fell softly over the edge of the bed, making his complexion look even paler in comparison.

　　 Hey, this face is so good-looking, and I haven't seen it on Taobao before. Could it be that I, the creator god, customized it myself? I'm kind of awesome.

　　 I sat next to him, gazing down at him silently, using my eyes to soothe his trauma.

　　

　　 "...Master." He spoke first, asking, "Where are your clothes...?"

　　 I said, "I exchanged them for money to buy medicine."

　　 "……"

　　

　　 The night was very cold.

　　 Us two naked men, were mutually silent.

　　

　　 "You haven't eaten anything, aren’t you hungry?" I took out a handful of sunflower seeds from the only remaining underwear on my body, passing it over to him.

　The Shadow Guard glanced, and painfully shook his head.

　　 So he doesn't like sunflower seeds. Feeling disappointed, I tucked the seeds back into my underwear.

　　

　　 The doctor said that he needed peace and quiet to recover from his injuries, so I quickly took my leave.

　　 There was nowhere to go, so I squatted back outside the building to eat sunflower seeds. Yet, it was not fulfilling.

　　 Hungry and cold.

　　 It felt a bit miserable to be alive.

After squatting for a long time, I heard the sound of people walking and talking in the hall. The male voice was low so I couldn’t hear clearly, but there was a woman whose pitch was higher, and a few words floated to my ears: "I already heard of robbers and bandits being rude and unreasonable, but they actually deceived their way into our Changluo!... I already thought that the materials of those clothes were by no means ordinary people's... No problem, no problem, don't thank me, this little bit of help is not a problem... It's not peaceful over there either, you guys take care when you leave..."

After talking inside for a while, the woman's voice sounded farther as she walked away. There was the sound of footsteps coming towards me, and someone put a piece of clothing on me, blocking most of the cold wind. Feelings of unspeakable gratitude flooded my heart. I turned around and saw it was the Shadow Guard, hey, why did this guy get up?

　　 "Master, the wind is strong here, let's go inside first."

  "Alright."

　　

　　 After a while, seeing that I didn't move, the Shadow Guard asked in confusion: "...Master?"

　　 "My legs are numb, I can't stand up." The human physical body is truly hard to control.

　　

　　 "..." The Shadow Guard sighed lightly, leaning over and holding my hand. Probably because I was sitting in the cold wind for a long time, his temperature seemed particularly hot.

　　 The Shadow Guard checked my hand temperature that was like cold stone.

　　Suddenly, he picked me up.

　　 I was curled up in a strange posture.

　　 "Wait, what about your injuries that haven’t healed?"

　　 "It’s already fine." The Shadow Guard carried me back into the room without any explanation, and put me down on the bed.

　　

　　 After putting me down, the Shadow Guard sat up and found my hands firmly under his armpits.

　　 "...Master, what are you doing?"

　　 "It's warm here."

　　 "……"

　　

　　 The Shadow Guard resolutely forced my hands out of his armpits.

  Oh!! Cold! Heartless!

　　

　　 The Shadow Guard expressionlessly helped me put on layers upon layers of clothes. The plain cotton and linen, without the former mess of jade ornaments, was actually comfortable to wear. It was only then that I realized he had also changed into plain robes, his hair tied low. The bloody smell on his body was long gone, and the scent of herbs was faintly released. Hm? Where did you get clothes?

"This servant told the mistress that Master was originally a wealthy merchant who was robbed on the road to Changluo, so all his belongings and servants are gone. Master’s clothes and accessories were all very valuable, so the mistress trusted the story and agreed to help for a few days." After reporting this, he repented as usual, "This servant is incompetent, and has even made Master spend so much money and be ashamed."

　　 After putting on my clothes, the Shadow Guard tucked me back into the bed and then reached out to hold my ice bar hands. His hands were large and broad, just enough to cover my ice bar, no, I mean my hands. When my temperature recovered a little, he conscientiously let go and took a step back, kneeling at the side of the bed.

A woman lifted the curtain and came in with a smile. Based on the voice, it was the same woman who had just talked to the Shadow Guard. She put a large plate on the table and said, "Come here come here, I just made a few small dishes, eat it while it’s hot! I don’t know your taste, but if it’s too salty or too mild, make sure you let this big sister know."

　　

　　I cheerfully sat down, and the woman put down the food and left. The Shadow Guard refused to dine at the same table with me, which made me spend some time convincing him before he moved his chopsticks. I didn’t know how to use chopsticks, so I grabbed the food with my bare hands. After a few bites, I couldn’t help saying, “This is better than what you make.”

　　 "...This servant is incompetent."

　　 You’re incompetent again? Why are you always incompetent? How old are you* incompetent?

* “How old are you” is written in English in the original text

　　 "Does being a Shadow Guard require cooking skills? Are other Shadow Guards very good at cooking?"

　　 "No. Most of them only know how to make a few dishes needed to maintain health," the Shadow Guard said.

"Then since cooking is not in the Shadow Guards’ skill range, why do you blame your own ‘incompetence’?" I frowned and said, "Right now, I don’t understand a lot of things, and your wrong wording is very misleading. I hope you pay attention to it in the future."

　　 The Shadow Guard was mute.

Not sure if he understood, I added: "I find that you always like to blame things on yourself. This is your own problem. Regardless of what your mentality is, I hope that when we talk, you can convey more intuitive and effective information to me, rather than ambiguous self-loathing. Is that difficult? Can it be done?"

　　 "...This servant...will do as you say."

　　 I nodded in satisfaction. He doesn't look stupid, so he should be able to understand.

　　

　　 I continued to eat after speaking, and the temperature of the stir fried dishes was not low, it hurt to grab the food with bare hands, and the temperature of the soup was even more scorching... But those floating meatballs were truly really tempting, and I thought about it over and over again, making up my resolve to get them.

　　 It burned so much that I wailed out miserably.

　　 Fortunately, the Shadow Guard’s eyes and hands were quick, immediately wrapping a towel soaked in cold water around my burned hand, and the temperature dropped and eased the pain by a lot. Huh? When did you prepare the cold towel?...

　　 "Master..." The Shadow Guard hesitated many times before asking, "Is it that you think the chopsticks here are not clean? How about, I go down and find new chopsticks..."

　　 I shook my head in pain: "I don’t know how to use chopsticks."

　　The Shadow Guard looked lifeless, unable to continue.

　　 "Can you get me a meatball?" I had suffered a serious injury, but I still could not forget, it could be said that my appetite was like a drug addiction.

　　 Shadow Guard hurriedly took up a new pair of chopsticks, then hesitated after picking up a meatball, looking at my face and then looking at my bowl, then finally deciding to put it in the bowl. I used my uninjured hand to dump the contents of the bowl into my mouth, chewing and carelessly saying thank you at the same time.

　　 "...I don't... dare..." His tone was awkward.

　　 The Shadow Guard removed the towel, held my hand and inspected it carefully, and said with relief that there were no burn wounds. Then he found several spoons of different sizes so I could avoid suffering a burn again. A true confidant, I shed tears of gratitude.

　　 After peacefully finishing the meal with no more incidents, the mistress of the doctor’s place came to clean up with a smile. While chatting with her, I asked about the Shadow Guard’s injury and heard that he needed to lie down for more than a month before getting out of bed. Hey, he just said that he was already fine and started going everywhere, it turned out that this guy lied to me again.

　　 I angrily shoved the Shadow Guard back into bed, reprimanding him for a long while. The Shadow Guard's small and pale face was hidden in the covers, and he listened quietly to my criticism, very pitifully.

　　 "This servant… Although I am overstepping my boundaries, I have some questions… I would like to ask Master." Before I left, the Shadow Guard opened his mouth, seeming to have misgivings.

　　 "Did you not hear anything I said just now? The doctor wants you to rest, so rest first." I blew out the candle for him and moved out of the room step by step, feeling my way in the dark. "There will be ample time for us, we are in no hurry."

　　 The inner room was extremely quiet, there was a long pause before a barely audible "thank you" was heard.

PREVIOUS / TABLE OF CONTENTS / NEXT

[kc-anathema]

I’m so sorry I did another long post so soon...

So a long time ago, I received a flame on Spec Ops 98: Jazz's Interrogation at Soundwave's Pedes. I hadn’t received a flame in a long time, and I haven’t received one since (which is amazing, since this was on chapter 26 back in...dear heavens, 2015. This fic is officially an epic.)

In fact, I stopped reading the flame once I realized it was a flame, about four chunks in. 2015, five years ago, I was changing principals, changing schools, trying to figure out how to marry my Canadian then-fiance and figure out immigration. (Fun type--marry her in Vegas, wait a couple years, bring her over. Use a lawyer to make sure it’s all kosher.) So yeah, didn’t read.

And then a concerned reader mentioned to me that I didn’t deserve this awful flame and that they loved the story. And I thought...oh yeah, there was a flame on this. That was a couple months ago.

I finally decided to break the flame apart like I used to. This feels very nostalgic to me. I found out that this is really the flamer’s only claim to fame--they flame fics and troll writers. I’m not going to name them then, although you can find the easily on the ff.net review page for this fic.

My father once told me that, if anyone ever spraypainted slurs across my house...leave the slurs up. Don’t pay to remove them. Let the awful words stay up until everyone in the neighborhood is begging us to take them down again.

I think leaving the review there says more about her than me. And I’m going to enjoy clawing this apart, I think, like a cat scratching apart a lizard.

Flame begin:

We’ve got a problem if Soundwave is involved here and he’s not pulling his usual ‘Decepticons, Superior’ line. Add on a fic about perverts and we get this. Ah, well. What are you gonna do?

Remember the character Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory, and how he said “Bazinga” all the time? That kind of went from a joke to an overused character crutch. Like ‘dynomite!’ or ‘did I do that’? Is it really good to rely on a character line to the point where we can call it ‘usual’?

“I’ll take my pleasure and that sweet aft” – Sounds like a cheesy commercial for Robot Chicken. Fireflight is locked up in a dungeon and is about to be whipped by a BDSM Starscream. That’s not at all OOC. Basically it’s a fanfiction that talks about fanfiction.

I...um. Yes. Yes, it’s an OOC line modeled directly after pulp fiction zines and tijuana bibles. I literally looked up several of those on the Internet Archives and various old men’s magazines covers. It’s not fanfiction directly, although it’s certainly what fanfic evolved out of.

Do these look subtle? Low key? Classy? Tasteful? It’s cheap trash and it’s fun as hell. I don’t think readers at the time thought that these were in any way true. This is right along the lines of drawn hentai. So I think the flamer admitted despite themself that I did good.

“We’re stuck here in the middle of a war...we don’t have time for sex” – That’s right. But that fact doesn’t apply does it?

...reading trashy, porny magazines is not sex. It’s actually something you do when you can’t get sex for whatever reason. I would know. A lot of us would know. Apparently not the flamer. No one thinks that “hey, I got a chick/dude willing to bang right now...but the new issue of Men’s World is out! Can’t miss that!” Unless you have some serious fetishes that your partner is too weirded out by, I think this does indeed apply.

Then Jazz gets captured and lo and behold, Soundwave is revealed to be the Christian Grey of the story. I hope he has some maid outfits for Jazz.

...our flamer hits the sludgy bottom of the joke well and grabs their shovel. They do not try very hard for originality in their insults. And, while Grey was a jerk, Fifty Shades wasn’t quite a prisoner of war scenario. No, that was a cheap romance for chicks. I’m writing more akin to men’s...oh.

The flamer is a chick.

Their only bdsm or bad romance experience is with Fifty Shades.

I don’t think they read much.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnd we have a shower scene. Damn if it’ll be Carrie!

Iiiiiiiiiiiii did not write a shower scene?

Dudette, did you even do the reading you say you did?

There’s no point in adding moral ambiguity, especially in regards to Soundwave. He won’t be swayed easily, or at all, by Jazz’s speech. He’s cold hearted for a reason. He serves the Decepticon cause until the very bitter end. He’s a lot like Shockwave that way. Highly doubtful he would find meaning or even the relevance of writing pornographic fanfiction, but eh, this was never meant to be serious, was it?

...no. It’s a humor fic. The flamer is criticizing a humor fic for being humorous. Kudos for identifying the genre? I mean, the flamer is also complaining that I did not write Soundwave as a one-dimensional factionalist without examining what that means for him and how the mission creep has left the original political crusade behind. It’s not like I took pieces of Soundwave from Gen1, IDW, and the comics and blend them all together.

This reminds me of the fanboys in the TMNT fandom who keep pushing for every iteration to simply rehash their nostalgia boner for the original toon. I feel like I’m getting the Transformers version of wanting less of this:

because it isn’t the familiar characterizations of this:

“So what’s the down low?” – You, Jazz. You’re going to give the down-low to Soundwave. I can’t wait to read how shiny his robo-vagina is.

...wow. Classy there, flamer. Also I really don’t think they read anything. This whole fic is plug n’ play. There’s exchanging of cables, talk of code and positronic souls and sparks and revving engines. There isn’t a drop of sticky, spike, or fluids.

Chapter 15’s sex scenes bore me. Nothing is worse than having a guy ask to remove every bit of clothing. Just do it already! And why is Jazz a virgin? Come on!

Look--the thing about sex and fetish and whatever revs your engine is that it’s not going to rev everyone’s engine. You don’t like the type of interfacing here? Fine. I don’t like those kind of sex scenes in my porn either. But I wasn’t write that scene for porn. I wanted write warbuild Jazz dealing with violent subroutines while interfacing with Prowl. I had fun with it.

Why is Jazz a virgin? The previous 15 chapters discuss that.

I really don’t think the flamer read the fic.They scanned for anything remotely sexual, so I don’t think I’m going to take anything they say about this fic being ooc for perversion’s sake.

“Everyone here is damn pervy” – In which a character talks about the author.

“We gotta get Soundwave to finish writing his story” – Why? I mean, what’s the point? It’s not doing anything for them, unless it’s to show how castrated Soundwave is. I’ve seen him act better in Mary-Sue fics.

There is a whole plot about Starscream and Skyfire, and I thought I could trust the readers to be intelligent enough to make the leap with the parallels between Soundwave and Jazz.

This is literally the only review that questions why Jazz said that.

The Mary Sue shot just echoes the Fifty Shades swipe. I think this flamer did most of their flames roughly ten years ago--the insults are pretty dated.

The Decepticons don’t know about Ratchet? Why? I mean, he’s one of the oldest dudes there. He has a reputation. When you have a reputation, people know about you. It’s inevitable. I think your inner logic slips a lot.

At this point, I literally have 21 previous chapters of world building.

I am not surprised that the story’s logic was slipping away from one of us.

It’s funny to read the forum responses in the story. It’s like the author is trying to make fun of detractors yet ends up making fun of herself.

Okay, this part is hilarious for a reason only briefly noted in the fic. I think that the only things this can refer to are the comments from the chapter titled Flames of the M4gn1f1c3ntSkyPr1nc3--because those are literally the first flames/comments I put in the fic. And I didn’t write them!

My wife wrote them! I don’t write Starscream well but she just poured those out like water--she’s seen more of the hysterical side of fandom, particularly the earlier TF fandom, and I snipped out pieces for the fic.

So...I mean, we’re pretty happily married, so I don’t think she counts as a detractor. ^___^ Ultimately I started writing this fic for her.

“Your optics make me crazy” – Not at all a cliché.

Good thing I didn’t write that, then. Here is that little section in the Prowl/Jazz section. (Took me a bit to find it since I plugged that into the Find and couldn’t bring it up.)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I like what you do to me. Jazz allowed him in, tilting his helm. I never really understood it, y'know? How mechs could lower their guard so much. Let someone this close.

And now? Prowl drew back, wanting to see Jazz for the answer. With a quiet ping, he warned the other mech even as he raised his hand, touching Jazz's visor.

I still think you're crazy always going on about my optics, Jazz said, venting even as he disengaged the locks and let Prowl gently remove the blue polycarbon.

Your optics are perfection, Prowl corrected him. And you let me see them. Hundreds of mechs wondering what's under that visor, but I get to see.

Still shy about letting someone else see them, Jazz turned his head, only for Prowl to touch his cheek and turn him back, coaxing his optics to open with a soft brush of his thumb.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Not bad for an asexual, I think. I mean, it’s not like I have a ton of hands on experience, being kinda broken that way. But I have read plenty of pulp magazines and pulp radio shows!

This didn’t take long. I skimmed through this work, because there was so little content. Lots of ridiculous shit, though. Soundwave writes fanfiction, the Autobots are weirded out/turned on, capture Soundwave, Soundwave realizes that his whole life was a life and decides to defect. Yeah, about that. He wouldn’t do it lickety split, let alone EVER. Hell, the reactions in the forum bits show what some would think of this, if they weren’t too busy fapping.

The funny thing is I don’t think the mechs can even fap. I don’t write them doing that. But yes, flamer, I do believe that you skimmed through the work. Particularly since you’ve recounted it backwards...Soundwave captures Jazz as the capstone to a long internal conflict within himself, but rather than go through chapters of internal monologue and Decepticon politics, I started the story as close to the inciting action as possible, not quite in media res.

I won’t hash out why Soundwave defects. I mean, I spent 22 chapters at that point explaining it. But it’s my fault the flamer skimmed, I guess?

Needless to say: the romance bored me senseless. It was poorly written, and overall there’s really no skill attached to this. You don’t grip the audience and Jazz’s virgin mode made me roll my eyes. Reads like a first-time waifu manga.

Nah.

I’ve been writing way too long and am more than self-aware enough of my own failings that I’m also pretty self-aware of my own strengths, too. And no. It’s not poorly written. I definitely feel I could improve the first few chapters a bit, but that’s because I wrote those over five years ago and I’ve improved since then, too.

Empty insults. Maybe if the flamer had gone so far as to give a critique beyond a couple of misquoted lines and their own headcanons, I might have listened, but there’s literally nothing of substance here beyond a child tantrumming that I’m stupid and bad and should feel bad.

As for the other pairings, booooooooooooooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring.

Usually I have a fun time setting these fics on fire, but this one bored me senseless. Yes, it was stupid, but the author’s attempt to authenticate it are just as sloppy as anything else.

“Authenticate”?

Is this person talking about using fandom tropes as my setting?

There are 22 chapters at the time, and now 51 chapters, building up this world and using roughly 20 years of fandom background to inform the fic.

Maybe if they hadn’t skimmed, they might have found something interesting. But considering that they skimmed over anything character related and stopped for the sex scene--I don’t think that says anything about my writing and more about their own proclivities.

They were trying to read one-handed. A plug n play fic. A long meta look at fandom in war in a humor fic. And they came here for the sexy times.

I don’t have to draw the conclusion here, do I? Well, for the flamer, probably. And then they’d glance at it for a second, call it sloppy, and say I showed nothing, and what I showed was boring, and that boring stuff was ooc anyway.

One thing I am thankful for is the fact that it is not long.

51 chapters later and I’m still not done.

Nothing’s worth remembering in this and I don’t need to tell you that these characters either act like simpering imbeciles, or are virginal waifus. All I’m missing is a senpai in the bed, some tissues, and some high quality lotion.

...why do they keep referencing gay human sex? I mean, I get it, they’re saying that it’s similar to yaoi fics, but.

This is anti-yaoi with its last hurrah, isn’t it? The late 90s, early 2000s, rising from its sludgy well to try to shame the easily cowed and intimidated, the young writers easily startled by long lines of text. No wonder the citations used are so...15 years ago. I mean, who was talking about Sues even 5 years ago. That criticism kind of faded a long while ago, even then.

I think the sad thing is, even the badly written Sue sex fics end up being more interesting than this. If Ebony Darkness D’Mentia Raven Way were to come along, I think this story would get better. What with her ‘I shot him a gazillion times’ lines.

...and there’s the cherry on the top. Third cheap shot firing blanks. Sue + Fifty Shades +...shit, I can’t even remember the title for that infamous fic. It’s that old.

...this fanfic flamer is old.

Like, don’t get me wrong. We’ve got fandom moms and grandmoms who cut their teeth on fandom print zines in the earliest conventions. They’re not “old” in the same way.

This person has lost any joy, humor, or playfulness that fanfic comes from. No one should go into fanfic expecting fine art. I mean, sure, it happens sometimes, but this is a playground of pulp, experimentation and just plain childish fun.

All in all, not worth remembering. It’s makes me tired to read it. It’s not even stupid enough to make me laugh. You’ll still get a fail rating for me, especially with the shitty version of Soundwave here.

Yes, fanfic flamer. You are indeed tired.

He should be on Big Brother. He’d be great making soy lattés and purees.

Big Brother in 2015 was in its 17th season. There were roughly around 6 million viewers at the time. The demographics for the tv viewing audience were graying even by the 2000s, and by 2015-18, it was significantly older.

Granted, it’s a very tenuous conclusion to draw, but combined with the old fandom references, the anti-yaoi vibes I’m getting, and the fanboyish desire to curate their own headcanon of a character to the point of insulting writers on the internet...

Flamer grew from being a reader to a bitter, old person angry and the whipper snappers for writing stupid, trashy crap that they criticize with broad, unspecific insults.Flamer is the stereotypical mean adult in any 90s cartoon or heavy metal rock video.

A little depressing. Poor flamer. I do hope they found more creative, engaging, and positive things to do.

Me? I just wanna rock.

Thanks for coming to my ted talk on pulp fiction and bitter cultural creators.

[destroyyourbinder]

the day i was a man

In the summer of 2019, I decided to fully shave my head into a buzzcut, something I had never done before. I had a lot of feelings emerge and re-emerge at the time. While I was still visibly female in my day to day life- something that felt uniquely frightening given the utter dykeyness of my haircut- I accidentally discovered one day in August that my haircut could allow me to pass as male. While I had deliberately tried to “pass” in an earlier life, at the height of experiencing gender dysphoria, I was never taken to be a man except by chance (such as from behind or from afar). So potentially being able to pass as male was a new and disorienting experience, one I felt compelled to explore out of multiply perverse kinds of curiosity. As a context note: I mention my partner frequently in this piece, who has detransitioned from her transition from female to male, but chooses to handle her situation through continuing to pass as male at work and in public. Her experiences unavoidably framed my experience trying to pass for a day, and this experiment changed permanently how I see both her passing persona and the public presentation of female transgender people. If you can pull it off, and perhaps even if you can’t (a different, but also nervewracking experience), I recommend women try this at least once, especially if you claim to understand the experiences of transgender female people. It is a female experience to which there are truly few comparisons, and to which even the majority of living gender non-conforming lesbians cannot relate. Having largely recovered from gender dysphoria, I cannot imagine having to permanently live my life this way nor finding it affirming to do so, and I am disturbed that this experience was one I once aspired to and envied. However, I am glad I had it, and I plan to try again sometime in this upcoming summer when I can cut my hair without freezing. My partner now knows I did this, and I am especially curious what it might be like being seen together.

I wrote this the day I chose to do this experiment. My goal was to take public transportation to a shopping center so I could check out some shoes I was considering buying. The first part (in present tense) I wrote before leaving the house and while dressed in preparation, the second part (in past tense) was written after I returned, using my memories of the experience. It has been mildly edited for readability and to include a few details and pieces of context.

----

I am scared of what happens not if I pass but if I don’t pass. In trying to become a man I have become a woman I am afraid of and afraid for. It’s often the same thing when you are a woman watching women. I am having trouble breathing under three sports bras when I usually wear none. My chest is flat unless I actually stand up straight and proud. I have to be ashamed to become a man, although they say men are confident and becoming one will make you so. I debate whether or not to put some kind of fake dick in my pants, although I doubt that will do anything, and I shudder to think what will happen if I do and it doesn’t work. Being a woman with a dick stuffed in your pants: at best I’m pathetic, at worst I am a monster.

I don’t know how to explain this to my girlfriend. I don’t know how to explain that I had to do this, at least once. I don’t know how to explain to her something she already knows.

I wonder if I’ve been watching too many music videos. I wonder if this is about sex. I don’t know how I can wash our dishes while being a man, but I decide I should try before I try something bold like letting people look at me.

The danger of not passing is violence. The danger internally is that it would be deserved. I realize there’s no real way to justify wanting to do this, nonetheless actually doing it. I think wanting to transition is sublimated fear. I wonder if this will help me with my social anxiety, because this fucking sucks. This is not the exposure therapy the doctor ordered. It feels familiar to be ashamed of myself and hold my body this way, like an old chair molding around my butt, like stepping into old shoes. Dykes go to the outdoor store but do bulldykes go there? I realize I don’t know anything about bulldykes. I understand why so many trans people are so preoccupied with being fake vs. real, false vs. genuine. There is something intrinsically very fake about passing. You are faking the other sex. Of course you feel fake. It is a pretense. It feels very odd to pretend so seriously, so people pretend that they are not pretending after all. I am fixated on the small things all over again. I find myself wondering when I tie my girlfriend’s boots to my feet whether or not men have ankles like mine. My laces are too wide at the bottom, too small at the top. I worry that this will lead me to be discovered or worse, mocked. I know this is absurd but in this state I don’t feel like I can take any chances, like I would even know what chances to take. When I went to get the bus I thought I saw my coworker. It ended up not being her, but I crossed the street and circled back because I didn’t want her to see me so strange, doing something so weird and incomprehensible. I understand now why people change towns, friends, abandon their family. This is difficult to explain, even if you say you are “trans”. It doesn’t make sense, fundamentally, to anyone with a grounding in their body. The bus driver was a big black woman, serious face, tattoos. I think she was a dyke. I got the sense she was looking at me out of the side of her eye when I got on the bus, but that might be paranoia. I didn’t know because I didn’t want to look her in the face too hard. I get why my girlfriend’s so avoidant in public. You don’t want people to know what you’re doing, you don’t want people to see your face. It’s real hard to know what emotion to put on there when you’re a dude. It’s real scary to not have the barrier of a woman’s smile or laugh anymore. It almost feels nice to not have to do it, but how do you handle anything? I’m the type of woman who’s been able to get away with this gender weirdo shit throughout my life because I gave an oh-shucks smile at the end of it, that little woman’s laugh that means I’m not a threat, not serious, not anything at all. When you’re “a man” you can’t do that anymore. You’re naked under six layers of clothes. When you can’t do that anymore you’ve got nothing except sheer bravado and nothing to back it up. What if it doesn’t work, what if you suddenly become the type of girl who doesn’t smile? I get why my girlfriend doesn’t look anybody in the face, even though she looks real fucking shifty sometimes. You can’t look a man in the face and not be able to back it up. Men are like reactive dogs. They’ll get fucked up if you look them in the eye. On the bus I realized all of the sudden even though I’ve read a billion passing guides, and I’ve stared down dudes real jealous my whole life I do not know how a man sits. I had fixated so much on the legs and where they go that I didn’t know what they did with hands, elbows; how do you look out the window if you’re a guy? What do you look at? I snatched glances at the dude up front, an ambiguously brown teen who could probably pass as white in the right places but not the wrong ones, a dude with a big mop of floppy curly dark hair and what looked like a serious case of apathy. He was scrolling on his phone, and I could see the divots of acne scars forming on the side of his face. Guy didn’t look like he could grow a lot of facial hair but probably made up for it with encyclopedic knowledge of Fortnite or some shit. I knew he had a life, but he seemed like most men, kind of constitutionally dull. He wasn’t looking at anything, really, I guess only kids and women really look at stuff. Which made it hard to do the whole clandestine observation thing, I decided, a guy who looks at stuff is not really a dude. I tried to look kinda dumb and wasn’t sure where my jaw should go. The girlfriend does this thing sometimes with her mouth that makes me cringe when she does it at home. Sometimes she phases in and out of her passing persona if she’s talking about work or feeling threatened for whatever reason, if she’s in a different place and time than the place and time where she’s home and a wife and all that. She does a little underbite, doing that thing that internet FTMs do in the pictures they take; I figured she learned to do it like a little bird puffs itself up, it makes her little head look bigger and squarer. I tried to do it when out and about; my teeth don’t fit together that way. I’m sure I looked like a moron. But men do dumb shit all the time.

I transferred to the train, and when I got off at the station I ended up walking kinda the wrong way for a while. I imagined all the people in the cars staring at me. I hate walking on the sidewalks along highways and strip malls. I dunno if they look, and if they do, what they see. I was real nervous but I figured I didn’t know any of them anyway and made it into the shopping center where the store was. It occurred to me that if this was an adventure it was quite a stupid one, but it was an adventure nonetheless, complete with the actual lack of excitement and the actual presence of fear. I had never been in this particular store before and everything was displayed so tastefully. I was dismayed to notice the presence of a million salespeople, and realized I didn’t fucking know which gender of shoe I even wanted to try to look at because I didn’t know how I was coming across. I was not going to be a dude who asks for women’s shoes, a.k.a. a woman who’s obviously doing something real weird asking for women’s shoes nonetheless. And at this store you gotta ask for the shoes, and I didn’t want to use my voice because I’m pretty sure I’m obviously female by voice. So I just stared awkwardly at the shoes, mostly, I checked the prices and the clearance racks, and they were too expensive anyway. At one point I realized I was looking at the women’s shoes (which seemed like a huge fucking big deal) and I went to cross over to the men’s shoes, there was a group of bros standing in front of the men’s shoe wall and they parted like the red sea when I went over. I think this was passing because frankly I’ve never had men ever get out of my fucking way. I ended up circling around the store and leaving because no way was I going to afford any of the shit in there, and they didn’t even have very many shoes of the kind I was looking for. I went into the chain pet store next door and wandered around in there. There was a young person working the register who was a young lesbian or a trans kid or something. Every time I saw a woman I felt guilty, it was real weird to be separated so much from women. I had thoughts of jumping out, you know, and saying “boo”, following a woman a bit too close to see what would happen, even though I knew that would be real fucking mean. But it would be the test. See how women react to you: are you still a woman yet? What happens when you’re not a women to women anymore? It seems real fucking lonely. I was already lonely, and it had been maybe three hours. Men are real rude to other men. Some old white sales guy was like,“excuse me”, real curt and direct in a way I’d never got before, not gentle but not with the contempt-force they use towards a fucked up woman. It was empty of all the shit I’d learned to expect. How men deal with the emptiness I don’t know. They must fill it with all sorts of nonsense just to pass the time, just for kicks, is that why they want to hit each other and fuck things? There was a little girl with her family outside the stores, she had a floppy autistic hand and was wearing cargo shorts, I wished her luck inside my head but couldn’t smile at her and my heart broke.

I walked around and tried to find the other location of a store I used to work at. I knew it was around there somewhere but couldn’t find where the building was. My stomach was grumbling and it occurred to me that if I needed to use a bathroom I’d be screwed. Even if I was still plausibly visibly female I was female in the way that’d get me bathroom trouble, and I wasn’t quite dudely enough to stride into the men’s. The store I used to work at had gender neutral bathrooms, and I realized a hell of a lot of trans people must be in a huge pickle all the time. I understand the bathroom resentment even if trans people project their validation shit onto it. It’s easier to believe you’re being invalidated than that you’re scared because you’re doing something real weird and you’re in hiding all the time. I don’t know how people live like this full time. There’s got to be a lot of grief, nihilism, resignation when you finally make it so you can’t go back. The tension’s unbearable: I imagine a lot of trans people think that the tension will be resolved if they make themselves undiscoverable, if they just push themselves more towards perceptibly male.

The sports bras were hurting me. It was hard to walk so much in this get up. I found I was breathing with my mouth open a lot to get enough air, and the word “mouthbreather” kept occurring to me. I realized the shit that I had to knock out of me as an autistic woman was double-edged as someone trying to pass. A lot of it actually helped, a healthy and hamhanded disrespect/disregard for etiquette is very male, but I realized I was still real weird with weird motivations and weird in ways that would make me stick out even as a dude. I understood why the girlfriend has a persona-- she says he’s some nobody, a stoner dude, a guy who doesn’t have all that much to say and of course it’s kinda stupid if he did-- to cover the incongruities. Before I got back on the train there was this young black woman with a swagger, wearing what looked like men’s pants, wandering around the platform. I figured the universe was fucking testing me today because she might be gay too. She was talking on her phone in a video chat, getting way too close to the edge. She wobbled over the edge a couple times, then decided to sit on the fucking platform with her legs out over the tracks . Some shady white guy wearing gloves was doing some weird shit with the ticket machines, a lot of coins were coming out and he was rustling around. I figured he had some kinda scheme and decided to leave him very alone because I didn’t know how the fuck I was supposed to react as a fellow guy if he wanted something from me. The woman didn’t look up when the train coming the opposite way signaled, and I got scared I was gonna have to drag her off the tracks, like maybe she wasn’t doing good and she was gonna try something. I realized I didn’t want to die as a man, didn’t want that woman to be saved by me as a man, what if they called up my girlfriend and said I was some dude, what if she found me in three sports bras and three shirts in the hospital, what would everyone think. Swagger gal jumped the hell out of her skin and scooted away when our train was coming, so I didn’t have to worry about it. When I got on some family plopped down in front of me, and I felt that grief again. If I was a man I couldn’t look at kids with the same gentleness, there was no solidarity with the mom and her weariness, I couldn’t take the load on my hips alongside her. I didn’t want to do this any more. I had planned to catch the bus on my way back but the bus wasn’t going to come for a while. I decided to walk from my home train station and see if I could catch my girlfriend at work but realized I didn’t want her to see me like this. I didn’t know who I was, walking through the dark back into the neighborhood. I peeked into a dark bar with sports on the televisions, a lot of normal heterosexuals doing their thing. But back on the main drag it was trendier heterosexuals everywhere. I stopped beside a dark park to take off two of the bras and tucked them in my pockets. I had no idea what the fuck I looked like when I was walking somewhere more familiar, didn’t know where to put my chin, didn’t know whether I was incongruent, incomprehensible, or I was just myself. My clothes were all mine except the beanie and the boots. It was nothing crazy but I felt crazy, I felt split in two, schizophrenic in the old-school definition way. If my coworkers saw me they’d know me, but maybe I wouldn’t know me in return. When I got to my girlfriend’s workplace I realized she wasn’t in the building; she had stepped across the street to take a break and get some air. I don’t think she recognized me coming across the street. I felt all fucked up for a long hot second until she broke into a smile. I couldn’t tell if she was astonished I was out and about in the area at that hour or that that body was me. I wandered on home, got an Arizona iced tea, went up to the corner pharmacy all weird in the head and high on drag to get some mascara to see if I could make me a beard someday. The people at the pharmacy usually know me, and I didn’t want to be some weirdo who was trying to be a guy in front of them. The guy who I think’s a manager was around, then a barely-outta-adolescence woman with a bob of orange hair and strange makeup and a big old nose ring. These days they make eyebrow mascara, in each brand there were a million different kinds. Who knew, and who knew it cost 12 bucks for a little tube. I went around the corner feeling lucky: there was some in the clearance section. Why someone like me’d buy mascara for your eyebrows, who knows. I was titillated by the tiny brushes. The young woman at the counter wanted to talk to me about my nose ring, hers was only a tad bigger, and she told me she must’ve hit a nerve when she stretched. Her piercings were nice, I was happy to have a conversation with a woman as a woman of some sort even though she was a different kind of woman all in all. When the wall comes down it’s terrible. I can’t imagine that wall all the time and what that must do to women behind it.

[radinagames2020]

What Remains of Edith Finch

Rating: 4/5. A beautiful, haunting game. Sometimes felt a bit unfinished. Also, much creepier than I anticipated.

I’m not sure exactly how to talk about this game. It appears to have been an indie darling, receiving accolades and praises from all over the place. I totally understand why! It’s a remarkable piece of storytelling. The game tells the story of a sprawling, unusual family by exploring their rooms in a sprawling, unusual house. Each family member’s story is told by a different minigame, which is an amazing feat of game design and programming. It’s a great way to make the game more interactive and keep it on the game side of a walking simulator. Finally, the ending is ambiguous in the best way, leaving the player to figure out what they think it all means.

I’m not giving this game full marks though, for 2 reasons. One is that it does at times feel unfinished. The ending is somewhat abrupt and ambiguous - is that on purpose? Or deadline-driven? And there are a few stories that feel unsatisfyingly shallow and brief in their experience. Especially the character that is at the center of one of the main mysteries of the story - finding his part so short was irritating. 

Secondly, this game creeped me out a lot more than I anticipated/was led to believe! Nothing bad happens, exactly (although everyone in the family is dead, so, that’s something). There (probably) isn’t anything supernatural happening. There are no jump scares or explicitly frightening parts. But it’s unnerving and creepy, and really got under my skin. Some people love that kind of thing, but I don’t really - and having this game compared to Gone Home and Tacoma left me expecting something more positive, or at least neutral. So for me, I don’t think I’ll be replaying this game anytime soon. 

Not to say it wasn’t a great game, because it was! If you like exploring big old creepy houses and hearing ghost stories, definitely go check it out.

[englass]

Holy Gold

Pairing(s): Polyseed x Deputy

Warning(s): Moral ambiguity, mentions of murder, blood, sexual thoughts/interpretations, possessive thoughts/interpretations.

Word Count: 4,230

A/N(s): Been working on this for months now and it had me stumped for a good while; wasn’t sure where I wanted it to go. It’s definitely been a labour of love though, I’ll say that. Any likes, reblogs or feedback is more than appreciated!

- - -

There is something peculiar about the deputy. Everyone notices it, can sense it in the subtle shift in the air as they enter a room or confrontation; all eyes turning toward them in a magnetic draw that traverses any form of reasonable comprehension. Air pressed down by a heavy pressure that is swiftly eased by a lighter touch, dunked underwater only to be pulled into the cool embrace of newly birthed air. Their presence on par with a spiritual baptism, enlightening and unburdening. Catching on forgotten instincts, profound and unnamable.

Even away from conflict and in a more public setting – out in the wild where they are the most at ease – people can still feel that distinct air, can see it like a slipping glamour in the way they move and hold themselves. A controlled certainty in the slightest movement, a pivotal purpose that holds them tall and hauntingly regal; an old deity in a tale now lost to time. The sweet and evocative scent of a freshly watered earth hangs off of the young deputy like a heaven-forged shroud, cotton soft and compellingly serene. Oozing a reposeful safety and a forbearing reassurance.

People can even see it in their eyes. An abstruse gleam that ripples like a pebble skipping across the surface of a vast and empty loch. Their honeyed eyes a hidden cenote filled with mystic treasures that reflect the iridescent wink of lonely stars. A concealed sorrow twinkling benignly within the depths of their veiled eyes, watching the ripples, as they throw an enigmatic glance; silently eluding but never telling. A fond and near teasing smile on their lips, a secret not yet shared.

And that never will be.

Even the Heralds of the resident cult, key figures in this long-awaited plan, know that this rookie deputy is not all that they appear to be. There is so much more to them (old and pained and lonely) than appears at face value, but what that is even God’s chosen messenger cannot say. They are a special kind of child, that they do know. In need of righteous guidance like any other member of God’s shepherd’s congregation. But they are different, they are something special. God has told him so.

They are a painting posed with resolve and weighted by troubles unseen, bowed to a higher authority that cradles them as lovingly as a mother would her babe. Littered with many meanings and interpretations, clues scattered and inconspicuous like the remnants of an old world in the shadows of the new dawn. Joseph Seed wants nothing more than to tear that picture down, peel back the canvas to look inside, and discover the truths that the rogue lamb so selfishly clutches with greedy hands.

God has whispered to him of their significance, hinted at it as vaguely as the deputy speaks. Spoken of their attachment to this polluted world, how they refuse to bend to the task they have been divinely given even though it is a plan long in the making. Their loyalty to this world is boundless, and as much as they long for a time past they cannot bring themselves to destroy the one they have worked so hard over. It is why they hold still, buy time, and barter over the fates’ of those that are still yet undecided; those that could be saved. No matter how futile the endeavour.

They have amassed an abundance of experience, secrets from times gone and nonexistent, that now aids them in their own self-appointed task; goals not yet fully known. Yet, despite their newfound use, they are still secrets, theirs to keep and look upon, theirs to weep and toil over. And weep they surely do; their sorrow unmissable. It is a glue that keeps their determination so strong, keeps them high and raised with an aura of assurance, never arrogance, in the face of certain adversity.

It is because of this accumulated wealth of garnered experience that they are so efficient at their sworn duty. Why the Voice whispered in the remnants of an osculant tone, that is only ever felt and never heard, with a sensation of forlorn surprise, known betrayal turned resignation, brushing against Joseph’s edges as the deputy came forward that destined night. His words, existing within the cosmos of ideas, leaving his prophet cold.

Oh. It’s you.

No matter how Joseph asks, begs and prays on the crutches of a wavering faith as his flock perish under the jaws of roaming wolves, the Voice does not answer. Letting him stew in the many possibilities that such ambiguity creates. Although, the chosen prophet does take notice of the change within the Voice; the edge of a scolding twang vibrating through the air, tinting it with a parental disappointment as the deputy marches upon His prophet’s people; against His awaited plan.

The Voice does not outright speak of the deputy, of who they are or exactly what it is that their duty entails, nor give a number to the secrets they have banked, but It does concede in the slightest brush of an absent touch that they are wayward. The knowledge they are in possession of a burden that no one else but they can withstand; but that it has also wounded them the sensitivity of mortality. Their position, and all that surrounds it, whatever that may be, is sacred. Even when coated sour in the wake of this rebellion.

And Joseph can believe that, and not just because the Lord has told him so. The weight in the deputy’s eyes, even through the film of a picture, is a turmoil unexplored; treacherous and unfathomable. There is a deep sorrow, a scratching want, and a dormant rage that swim with the fluidity of an eel beneath the reflective lakes of their eyes. Each blinking star upon the surface a new flare of emotion, another tale within an untold saga, all obscured from view; distorted in the ripples.

From what the Lord has told of them to Joseph, shared what little pieces He can of the lonely martyr, and what the prophet has heard from the conflicted whispers of his flock, he believes he understands the part that they are meant to play in this long promised prophecy. What their role may be in this divine scheme.

And Joseph refuses to be denied any part of it; any part of them. He will see it through, see them down the path God has dictated they walk. The Lord’s chosen lamb was always meant to be his; his to nurture and coddle, his to guide and direct and to heal. A child should not be without its parents, nor be keeping secrets from said parents; and the secrets of the deputy are vast and unnamable.

No doubt they will need to be cleansed, shown the path to atonement so that their burdens may be unpacked from their weary vessel. Gifted the opportunity to seek salvation and acceptance in the arms of those that will listen and truly love them unconditionally. The lost gleam in their auroral eyes given new life under Joseph’s promised salvation, and the love they would share; the love he was promised and they are bound to share.

Yet, the price for such hypocrisy is a steep one, for gifts are nothing more than veiled investments.

Herald John knows this better than anyone, and still his hypocrisy runs deeper than the bed of the darkest seas. He preaches beliefs and teachings that he does not practice, pounding pulpits with the fervour of a man with too much power and zero regard for the responsibilities that follow it. He claims to be another sheep in the flock, another humble follower looking for salvation, yet he wraps himself in self-aggrandisement and forces needless suffering upon those who are brought before him on bended knees.

However, for all his flaws John does not stray too far from his brother (his reverence for Joseph‘s praise exceeding the one he should hold for God), nor his desires concerning the elusive deputy.

John has always been exceptional at reading people, finding their truths, washing out their real colours, and scrubbing the numerous sins that stain their tainted souls away. A master at his own deep-rooted hatred and resentment, twisting it into a deranged form of salvation that has him mutilating all those that come to him; some willing and others not.

The deputy is just another sinner. Another poor soul that has not yet been warmed by The Father’s light, lost to wander a blackened void where sins fester like mould. They must be cut from it. They must atone. They must be shone upon by the light of The Father, dragged from the depths and forced under its righteousness. Wrestled and hauled and torn asunder so that they may emerge free from the cage of their own transgressions.

At least, that’s what John thought. That’s what he believed. But he knows now. John sees a lot more than people give him credit for; a lot more than what other people see in general.

On the surface they may be another sinner, another drowned vermin that John would take an abundance of pleasure in squeezing until they have bled out across his floor; grin manic in questionable ecstasy as they spill secrets like viscous liquid, bright and raw and unavoidable. Holding, bending, twisting, pulling, cutting until they have been broken down to the core, shredding through inhibitions like a power saw through iron-forged bars. Soul laid bare for him to reap like a God-given harvest.

But the deputy... they are different. John can see it. The bars to their cage have long been eroded, their sins nothing but rust. Grounded down and then forged into a courage that does not drool over the spilling of life. Wielding a dedicated fury and a divine mercy within each hand, scales even and in balance, at peace in their coalition as they kneel side by side beneath the reigning banner of ‘Deputy’.

John is not close to said deputy, does not know their stance on God or religion, but he knows they have been touched. They radiate a glow that is not there, move with an elegance that outshines the noblest of steeds and the craftiest of snakes. Holding strong despite the burdens at their back; the world trembling in the knowledge that they could bring it all down should they share in those veiled troubles, yet they choose not to.

Instead, they ease the suffering of others while they drown beneath a disembodied pressure. Offering assurance to even those who are undeserving of it. Reaching out with a tender touch and a slipping smile as they whisper with a forgiving hush, stars submerged in the water of their eyes, that it’s okay, that you don’t have to worry anymore; everything will be okay.

It was never your fault.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

Let me save you, John.

And John believes them. For some inexplicable reason he believes them – trusts them, as surely as he believes and trusts in his own brother; their words a cooling hand on blistered skin, a refreshing drink after days without. Their accent holds and nurtures and pleads for an alternative to the path they walk, a raw passion built from the fury of their mercy as they compel you to listen and consider. Never forcing you on bended knee, making you bow your head in subjugation toward them, but raising it. It is personal and close and strikingly reminds him of his brother. They are just like Joseph.

Only their edges are cashmere soft and universally merciful, not forged from broken pieces and laced with eclipsing threats. Tones rigged with a soul-tearing disappointment. Instead they are cleaner and sweeter than the freshest nectar, pure in their sincerity and melodious in their understanding. Yet, so distant and doleful. Ancient and unexplainable. Thunderous in their ire as they are restless in their compassion.

And John wants to crumble at their alter. Wants to lay praise upon them a million times over, until his throat bleeds raw and his hands are carved white. He wants to sacrifice the sinful, flagellate the faithless, and swear himself beneath their reigning banner. Purge his hunger for materialism and drought his thirst for bloodied salvation so that he may collapse wantonly within their tender embrace, mouthing at the swell of their fulfilling fruit that they would so submissively offer him, creating a safe haven solely for him within the cradle of their thighs so that he may sate his thirst by drinking deeply from their divine deluge; allowing him to take and indulge as he givingly and exclusively explores the plains of their sanctity. If only they would let him (he’d be good).

They could ask him to sell his soul, to let them own it and do as they sordidly pleased with it, and he would scrape his knees in order to thank them for that privilege. If only they would give him the opportunity. They could ask him for anything, to reveal every detail, no matter how small and no matter how petty, about himself and he would not miss out a single day. Someone could hurt them, desecrate their purity, and no matter how they pleaded, begged that he rise above the corrupted, he would descend in order to enact his own form of rightful punishment; carved in blood and formed from rusted iron.

He would let the world burn if it meant he could have them. He would rather Joseph be wrong than risk losing them and the gift they so graciously offer him with hands outstretched. He would do anything for them, for no one but them, and all because they are different, because they can see and they can understand; because they are something special. It is not a sin, it is not lustful, if it is with the divine; it is praise and it is worship. And if his family cannot accept that, cannot accept the love that he so greedily wishes to feast upon, then he would rather forsake them with reluctance in his blackened heart and blasphemy for their false god on his vile tongue than lose his sacred deputy.

They are heaven sent, divine in every way, and John only wishes that they would keep their light upon him. Remain at his side and bless him with all that they are as he would surely do for them and more. All jagged lines begging to be filed down to a smoother edge by their loving guidance. They can teach him, show him the love that he is so sorely lacking and desperately searching for. The love that his older brother says will change his fate. He knows they can offer that to him, he has glimpsed it, tasted it in their sweetened words and smelt it within their rain-fallen proximity. He knows they would. He just needs them to accept him, for them to allow him this greatest of gifts.

Show to him the path that they speak of with an ethereal reverence, guide him down that fate changing road with their fingers interlocked in a picture of genuine love and intimacy. Just the two of them, for no one else but the two of them. Only that is not what they do. They cannot walk that path with him, only show it, stepping away the moment he is on it (no, don’t leave me). The journey is his alone to make. They can only watch and follow and steer him back when he falls astray. They are not meant for him. They are meant for all who are lost, who are troubled, who need direction in the dark. He wants – needs all of those things and more, so, so much more.

But what about them? What do they want? Who is there for them?

Surrounded by companions that sing their praises with insipid tones, uninspiring and lacking in the true majesty that they deserve. John could do so much better, could give them so much more. He can see the void in their far off gaze, a lonesome lake that makes the iridescent stars in their eyes shimmer like glitter and gold. He can hear its echo in their voice, a forlorn undertone that murmurs between the splinters. Pleas that they know with regretful smiles will go un-listened to.

John’s brothers and makeshift sister are left conflicted by the youngest brother’s shift in attitude toward the deputy, his growingly frenzied need to capture them stirring a mixture of emotions within the crooked family.

Joseph is mutely elated by the interest and selfishly wishes to know everything that John has gleaned from their wayward lamb, every touch and word and utterance they have been gracious enough to bless his broken brother with; anything that may draw them closer to understanding the troubles that plague their lost and weary child. Joseph knows more – silent whispers gossiping in nonexistent tones around veiled words –, but also less than John (we can’t have that).

The eldest brother, Jacob, on the other hand is wary of his siblings fevered interest. For a sheep can still bare its teeth like any feral wolf.

Unlike his siblings Jacob has seen a lot more of the tactile deputy than either of his brothers, or his farce of an adopted sister, have. Not necessarily in terms of time spent in person, but rather through the monitoring of their actions and all that they interact with; every person killed and saved, every battle lost and won. And the picture this deputy paints for Jacob is a very different one to the piece that Joseph preaches so sweetly of – a soul to polish and love and make his own – and that John chases after with a desperate abandon – his to love and cherish and worship with bloodstained offerings.

Jacob’s deputy is a tactician looking down upon the board, places held by pawns marked with nicks and notches. A sharp eye for all that is seen and all that is not.

Jacob has run them through his trails, thrown them into the pits with his wolves, both literal and otherwise; beastly soldiers with copper on their tongues and flesh on their teeth. Corralled and trapped them in a room stained with viscera and littered with chalked bone, cracked and whole, under a twinkling melody that chisels the cave of the mind into a tunnel directed at a singular purpose: to cull the weak, and all those that threaten them.

Yet, they hardly budge. Standing tall with a stilled expression, remorseful shifts of water in every glance, in every flowing action and blow that merges into the next; streams to rivers and rivers to lakes. But Jacob is nothing if not observant, and he catches the sunken sheen of ice, glistening within the star filled void of their auroral eyes, with a stilted breath. A primal glare buried beside a dormant rage.

Despite the compassion they twirl like a finely crafted staff, the gentle hands they may outstretch with a tranquil smile, they also brandish a blade forged from hell-risen flame. Merciless in every swing, vicious in every trigger pulled without a single glance, and cruel to every cowering wolf that they hum and hush to before snapping with a loving smile; soft words of praise to their corrupted souls, horrors made real, before freeing them with a sudden flick. Their smile a brand worse than any nameable scar.

Just like God is all merciful he too is equally as wicked, his mercy a cruel mistress which knows no bounds.

The scales even and in balance.

Jacob can see the duality within the deputy a lot clearer than his siblings, the caring murder of his brother’s latest version of Faith a testament to that, and suddenly the eldest wolf of this pack begins to shift his paws, head tilted and fangs flashing; interest peaked and curiosity gained. And when his chosen hunters finally capture the miscreant deputy, an easy endeavour that Jacob questions with instinctual suspicion, they merely smile at him. Sitting amongst the dead and dying, hand placed upon the pale pallor of a sickly man, they speak in a tone that barters no interruption; quiet and calm, but weighted by motives unknown. A dangerous hint of something more undulating beneath the waters.  

You don’t have to keep fighting.

They’ve lead you down the wrong road.

Faith doesn’t play a role in our game, Jacob.

And Jacob does not doubt them. War is a game that harbours little need for faith, for having faith does not win you wars. Faith is – and was – a loose end, a means of control over the weak and worthless. Jacob knows it. John understands it. Joseph does not, but the deputy certainly does. They understand the need to remove the pitiful and undeserving, when to save a life and when to extinguish one. When to turn your back on those that can no longer rise, strength diminished to an exhausted lick of fire.

It is why Jacob is unsurprised when he turns away, catches the soothing murmur of a poisoned prayer, then hears the echoed crack of bone and the rattled wheeze of a final breath; a life stolen and claimed under a monochrome mercy.

He merely chuckles when he finds their cage empty.

His brothers however are less than amused by the loss, their respective rage and disappoint rearing their heads like threatened cobras, eager to tag and reprimand, but Jacob hardly cares. They do not see what he does; their poor, sweet deputy a warrior who understands the battlefield, the plans laid upon it, and the stakes at which this hunt is played at. Chips made of flesh and bone placed upon a gambled tactic, an uncertain move that can lead you to certain victory; or down the wrong road.

While his brothers chase and pursue the slippery deputy – the days drawing on and turning to weeks, creeping toward the fall of the month – Joseph starts to wonder if his own subdued hunger toward the mystery of a deputy is actually a blessed gift or a veiled curse from the Lord himself; each sibling stepping off their labelled path. In a way it is a blessing, for his brothers are not motionless husks strewn at his feet; but it is also a curse, for how will the promised Collapse occur without the spilt blood of fallen martyrs staining a broken seal.

Yet, when all stand as one, a trifecta of blood as they each stand united in the presence of the other, does the deputy come before them. Content amongst the screaming birds that flock toward the distant north, the screech of warning sirens piercing the thickened air. Eyes placid pools that sparkle like dying stars, glittering off the treasures they conceal in the wounded chasm of their soul; endless and bleak and shielded by a smile that speaks in different tones. A whisper forgotten in the void of time, the echo of one without a home, a broken cry of a fractured spirit; the lonely whine of an abandoned child.

You don’t have to be alone anymore.

I only want to save them.

You have to believe me, Joseph.

And Joseph wavers. The sincerity of their plea resurrecting a long silent doubt. His brothers praise and respect, and Faith’s gentle removal, causing him to question the only companion he had for the majority of his difficult life; the Voice’s guidance and promises for the future the only thing to give him hope when all else seemed dark and dire.

The sky rumbles, the wind roars, and the ground quakes; and through it all the deputy stands before them like an immovable tower within the storm, unconcerned by the approaching destruction and the liberation it will bring. Expression fierce as the world begins to burn (an unplanned variable in a well laid scheme). Hand outstretched toward them all, palm skyward, in an unspoken gesture; a silent offer.

John lunges for their hand.

Jacob prowls to their side.

Both call in a blended mixture of panicked, excited and hurried tones to their dispirited brother.

And all three follow as their peculiar deputy leads them to the gates of their promised salvation; beneath the earth and into the womb of their metal tomb. The brothers arm in arm, never to be separated again, huddle close as they hold and cry and preach in equal measure; all that they worked for finally coming to bloom. A prophecy made true. Not as intended, or as foretold, but true all the same. A far better outcome than the many that Joseph had once envisioned.

And as the deputy watches them, iridescent stars drowning beneath the darkened water, something shifts in the lonely loch of their eyes; a ripple upon a still and empty pond. The bulwark breaking as a serpent born of ancient sin skims the surface with withered scales, fins rotted and horns splintered. Their eyes flare, water dyeing, as a hidden geyser drools a molten sunset; lips tilting, twisting with ill intent and the sweetening taste of a ripening revenge, as the lake in their eyes droughts into a scorching sea of holy gold.

[dustedmagazine]

Dusted’s Decade Picks

Heron Oblivion, still the closest thing to a Dusted consensus pick

Just as, in spring, the young's fancy turns to thoughts of love, at the end of the decade the thoughts of critics and fans naturally tend towards reflection. Sure, time is an arbitrary human division of reality, but it seems to be working out okay for us so far. We're too humble a bunch to offer some sort of itemized list of The Best Of or anything like that, though; a decade is hard enough to wrap your head around when it's just your life, let alone all the music produced during said time. Instead these decade picks are our jumping off points to consider our decades, whether in personal terms, or aesthetic ones, or any other. The records we reflect on here are, to be sure, some of our picks for the best of the 2010s (for more, check back this afternoon), but think of what follows less as anything exhaustive and more as our hand-picked tour to what stuck with us over the course of these ten years, and why.

Brian Eno — The Ship (Warp, 2016)

You don’t need to dig deep to see that our rapidly evolving and hyper-consciously inclusive discourse is taking on the fluidity of its surroundings. In 2016, a year of what I’ll gently call transformation, Brian Eno had his finger on multiple pulses; The Ship resulted. It’s anchored in steady modality, and its melody, once introduced, doesn’t change, but everything else ebbs and flows with the Protean certainty of uncertainty. While the album moves from the watery ambiguities of the title track, through the emotional and textural extremes of “Fickle Sun” toward the gorgeously orchestrated version of “I’m Set Free,” implying some kind of final redemption, the moment-to-moment motion remains wonderfully non-binary. Images of war and of the instants producing its ravaging effects mirror and counterbalance the calmly and increasingly gender-fluid voice as it concludes the titular piece by depicting “wave after wave after wave.” Is it all Salman Rushdie’s numbers marching again? The lyrics embody the movement from “undescribed” through “undefined” and “unrefined’” connoting a journey toward aging, but size, place, chronology and the music encompassing them remain in constant flux, often nearly but never quite recognizable. Genre and sample float in and out of view with the elusive but devastating certainty of tides as the ship travels toward silence, toward that ultimate ambiguity that follows all disillusion, filling the time between cycles. The disconnect between stasis and motion is as disconcerting as these pieces’ relationship to the songform Eno inherited and exploded. The album encapsulates the modernist subtlety and Romantic grace propelling his art and the state of a civilization in the faintly but still glowing borderlands between change and decay.

Marc Medwin

Cate Le Bon — Cyrk (Control Group, 2012)

There's no artist whose work I anticipated more this decade than Cate Le Bon, and no artist who frustrated me more with each release, only to keep reeling me in for the long run. Le Bon's innate talent is for soothing yet oblique folk, soberly psychedelic, which she originally delivered in the Welsh language, and continued into English with rustic reserve.

Except something about her pastoralism seems to bore her, and the four-chord arpeggios are shot through with scorches of noise, or sent haywire with post-punk brittleness. In its present state, her music is built around chattering xylophones and croaking saxophone, even as the lyrics draw deeper into memory and introspection, with ever more haunting payoffs. It's as if Nick Drake shoved his way into the leadership of Pere Ubu. She's taken breaks from music to work on pottery and furniture-making, and retreats to locales like a British cottage and Texas art colony to plumb for new inspirations. She's clearly energized by collaboration and relocation, but there’s a force to her persona that, despite her introverted presence, dominates a session. Rare for our age, she's an artist who gets to follow her muse full time, bouncing between record labels and seeing her name spelled out in the medium typefaces on festival bills.

Cyrk, from 2012, is the record where I fell in, and it captures her at something close to joyous, a half smile. Landing between her earliest folk and later surrealism, it is open to comparison with the Velvet Underground. But not the VU that is archetypical to indie rock – Cyrk is more an echo of the solo work that followed. There’s the sharp compositional order and Welsh lilt of John Cale. Like Lou Reed, she makes a grand electric guitar hook out of the words “you’re making it worse.” The homebound twee of Mo Tucker and forbidding atmosphere of Nico are present in equal parts. Those comparisons are reductive, but they demonstrate how Cyrk feels instantly familiar if you’ve garnered certain listening habits. Songs surround you with woolly keyboard and guitar hooks, and one can forget a song ends with an awkward trumpet coda even after dozens of listens. The awkwardness is what keeps the album fresh.

She lulls, then dowses with cold water. So Cyrk isn't an entirely easy record, even if it is frequently a pretty one. The most epic song here, reaching high with those woolly hums and twang, is "Fold the Cloth.” It bobs along, coiling tight as she reaches into the strange register of female falsetto. Le Bon cranks out a fuzz solo – she's great at extending her sung melodies across instruments. Then the climax chants out, "fold the cloth or cut the cloth.” What is so important about this mundane action? Her mystery lyrics never feel haphazard, like LSD posey. They are out of step with pop grandiose. Maybe when her back is turned, there's a full smile.

Who are "Julia" and "Greta,” two mid-album sketches that avoid verse-chorus structure? Julia is represented by a limp waltz, Greta by pulses on keyboards. Shortly after the release, Le Bon followed up with the EP Cyrk II made up of tracks left off the album. To a piece, they’re easier numbers than "Julia" and "Greta.” The cryptic and the scribble are essential to how Cyrk flows, which is to say it flows haltingly.

This approach dampens her acclaim and her potential audience, but that's how she fashions decades-old tropes into fresh art. She’s also quite the band leader. Drummers have a different thud when they play on her stage. Musicians' fills disappear. She brings in a horn solo as often as she lays down a guitar lead. The closer tracks, "Plowing Out Pts 1 & 2," aren't inherently linked numbers. By the second part, the group has worked up to a carnival swirl, frothing like "Sister Ray" yet as sweet as a children's TV show theme. Does that sound sinister? The effect is more like heartbreak fuelling abandon, her forlorn presence informing everyone's playing.

Fuse this album with the excellent Cyrk II tracks, and you can image a deluxe double LP 10th anniversary reissue in a few years. Ha ha no. I expect nothing so garish will happen. It sure wouldn't suit the artist. In a decade where "fan service" became an everyday concept, Le Bon is immune. She's a songwriter who seems like she might walk away from at all without notice, if that’s where her craftsmanship leads. The odd and oddly comfortable chair that is Cyrk doesn't suit any particular decor, but my room would feel bare without it.

Ben Donnelly

Converge — All We Love We Leave Behind (Epitaph)

Here’s the scenario: Heavily tatted guy has some dogs. He really loves his dogs. Heavily tatted guy goes on tour with his band. While he’s on the road, one of his dogs dies. Heavily tatted guy gets really sad. He writes a song about it.  

That should be the set-up for an insufferably maudlin emo record. But instead what you get is Converge’s “All We Love We Leave Behind” and the searing LP that shares the title. The songs dive headlong into the emotional intensities of loss and reflect on the cost of artistic ambition. The enormously talented line-up that recorded All We Love We Leave Behind in 2012 had been playing together for just over a decade, and vocalist Jacob Bannon and guitarist Kurt Ballou had been collaborating for more than twenty years. It shows. The record pummels and roars with remarkable precision, and its songs maniacally twist, and somehow they soar.  

Any number of genre tags have been stuck on (or innovated by) Converge’s music: mathcore, metalcore, post-hardcore. It’s fun to split sonic hairs. But All We Love… is most notable for its exhilarating fury and naked heart, musical qualities that no subgenre can entirely claim. Few bands can couple such carefully crafted artifice with such raw intensity. And few records of the decade can match the compositional wit and palpable passion of All We Love…, which never lets itself slip into shallow romanticism. It hurts. And it ruthlessly rocks.  

Jonathan Shaw

EMA — The Future’s Void (City Slang, 2014)

When trying to narrow down to whatever my own most important records of the decade are, I tried to keep it to one per artist (as I do with individual years, although it’s a lot easier there). Out of everyone, though, EMA came by far the closest to having two records on that list, and this could have been 2017’s Exile in the Outer Ring, which along with The Future’s Void comes terrifyingly close to unpacking an awful lot of what’s going wrong, and has been going wrong, with the world we live in for a while now. The Future’s Void focuses more on the technological end of our particular dystopia, shuddering both emotionally and sonically through the dead end of the Cold War all the way to us refreshing our preferred social media site when somebody dies. EMA is right there with us, too; this isn’t judgment, it’s just reporting from the front line. And it must be said, very few things from this decade ripped like “Cthulu” rips.

Ian Mathers

The Field — Looping State of Mind (Kompakt, 2011)

Looping State of Mind by The Field

On Looping State of Mind, Swedish producer Axel Willner builds his music with seamlessly jointed loops of synths, beats, guitars and voice to create warm cushions of sound that envelop the ears, nod the head and move the body. Willner is a master of texture and atmosphere, in lesser hands this may have produced mere comfort food but there is spice in the details that elevates this record as he accretes iotas of elements, withholding release to heighten anticipation. Although this is essentially deep house built on almost exclusively motorik 4/4 beats, Willner also plays with ambient, post-punk and shoegaze dynamics. From the slow piano dub of “Then It’s White,” which wouldn’t be out of place on a Labradford or Pan American album, to the ecstatic shuffling lope of “Arpeggiated Love” and “Is This Power” with its hint of a truncated Gang of Four-like bass riff, Looping State of Mind is a deeply satisfying smorgasbord of delicacies and a highlight of The Field’s four album output during the 2010s.

Andrew Forell

Gang Gang Dance — “Glass Jar” (4AD, 2011)

Instead of telling you my favorite album of the decade — I made my case for it the first year we moved to Tumblr, help yourself — it feels more fitting to tell you a story from my friend Will about my favorite piece of music from the last 10 years, a song that arrived just before the rise of streaming, which flattened “the album experience” to oppressive uniformity and rendered it an increasingly joyless, rudderless routine of force-fed jams and AI/VC-directed mixes catering to a listener that exists in username only. The first four seconds of “Glass Jar” told you everything you needed to know about what lie ahead, but here’s the kind of thing that could happen before everything was all the time:

I took eight hours of coursework in five weeks in order to get caught up on classes and be in a friend's wedding at the end of June. Finishing a week earlier than the usual summer session meant I had to give my end-of-class presentations and turn in my end-of-class papers in a single day, which in turn meant that I was well into the 60-70 hour range without sleep by the time I got to the airport for an early-morning flight. (Partly my fault for insisting that I needed to stay up and make a “wedding night” mix for the couple — real virgin bride included — and even more my fault for insisting that it be a single, perfectly crossfaded track). I was fuelled only by lingering adrenaline fumes and whatever herbal gunpowder shit I had been mixing with my coffee — piracetam, rhodiola, bacopa or DMAE depending on the combination we had at the time. At any rate, eyes burning, skull heavy, joints stiff with dry rot, I still had my wits enough to refuse the backscatter machine at the TSA checkpoint; instead of the usual begrudging pat-down, I got pulled into a separate room. Anyway, it was a weird psychic setback at that particular time, but nothing came of it. Having arrived at my gate, I popped on the iPod with a brand new set of studio headphones and finally got around to listening to the Gang Gang Dance I had downloaded months before. "Glass Jar," at that moment, was the most religious experience I’d had in four years. I was literally weeping with joy.

Point being: It is worth it to stay up for a few days just to listen to ‘Glass Jar’ the way it was meant to be heard.

Patrick Masterson

Heron Oblivion — Heron Oblivion (Sub Pop, 2016)

Heron Oblivion by Heron Oblivion

Heron Oblivion’s self-titled first album fused unholy guitar racket with a limpid serenity. It was loud and cathartic but also pure beauty, floating drummer Meg Baird’s unearthly vocals over a sound that was as turbulent and majestic as nature itself, now roiled in storm, now glistening with dewy clarity. The band convened four storied guitarists—Baird from Espers, Ethan Miller and Noel Harmonson from Comets on Fire and Charlie Sauffley—then relegated two of them to other instruments (Baird on drums and Miller on bass). The sound drew on the full flared wail and scree of Hendrix and Acid Mothers Temple, the misty romance of Pentangle and Fairport Convention. It was a record out of time and could have happened in any year from about 1963 onward, or it could have not happened at all. We were so glad it did at Dusted; Heron Oblivion’s eponymous was closer to a consensus pick than any record before or since, and if you want to define a decade, how about the careening riffs of “Oriar” breaking for Baird’s dream-like chants?

Jennifer Kelly

The Jacka — What Happened to the World (The Artist, 2014)

Probably the most prophetic rap album of the 2010s. The Jacka was the king of Bay rap since he started MOB movement. He was always generous with his time, and clique albums were pouring out of The Jacka and his disciples every few months. Even some of his own albums resembled at times collective efforts. This generosity made some of the albums unfocused and disjointed, yet what it really shows is that even in the times when dreams of collective living were abandoned The Jacka still had hopes for Utopia and collective struggles. It was about the riches, but he saw the riches in people first and foremost.

This final album before he was gunned down in the early 2014 is full of predictions about what’s going to happen to him. Maybe this explains why it’s focused as never before and even Jacka’s leaned-out voice has doomed overtones. This music is the only possible answer to the question the album’s title poses: everything is wrong with the world where artists are murdered over music.

Ray Garraty

John Maus — We Must Become Pitiless Censors of Ourselves (Upset The Rhythm, 2011)

We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves by John Maus

Minnesota polymath John Maus’ quest for the perfect pop song found its apotheosis on his third album We Must Become Pitiless Censors of Ourselves in 2011. On the surface an homage to 1980s synth pop, Maus’ album reveals its depth with repeated listens. Over expertly constructed layers of vintage keyboards, Maus’ oft-stentorian baritone alternately intones and croons deceptively simple couplets that blur the line between sincerity and provocation. Lurking beneath the smooth surface Maus uses Baroque musical tropes that give the record a liturgical atmosphere that reinforces the Gregorian repetition of his lyrics. The tension between the radical ironic banality of the words and the deeply serious nature of the music and voice makes We Must Become Pitiless Censors of Ourselves an oddly compelling collection that interrogates the very notion of taste and serves an apt soundtrack to the post-truth age.

Andrew Forell

Joshua Abrams & Natural Information Society — Mandatory Reality (Eremite, 2019)

Mandatory Reality by Joshua Abrams & Natural Information Society

Any one of the albums that Joshua Abrams has made under the Natural Information Society banner could have made this list. While each has a particular character, they share common essences of sound and spirit. Abrams made his bones playing bass with Nicole Mitchell, Matana Roberts, Mike Reed, Fred Anderson, Chad Taylor, and many others, but in the Society his main instrument is the guimbri, a three-stringed bass lute from Morocco. He uses it to braid melody, groove, and tone into complex strands of sound that feel like they might never end. Mandatory Reality is the album where he delivers on the promise of that sound. Its centerpiece is “Finite,” a forty-minute long performance by an eight-person, all-acoustic version of Natural Information Society. It has become the main and often sole piece that the Society plays. Put the needle down and at first it sounds like you are hearing some ensemble that Don Cherry might have convened negotiating a lost Steve Reich composition. But as the music winds patiently onwards, strings, drums, horns, and harmonium rise in turn to the surface. These aren’t solos in the jazz sense so much as individual invitations for the audience to ease deeper into the sonic entirety. The music doesn’t end when the record does, but keeps manifesting with each performance. Mandatory Reality is a nodal point in an endless stream of sound that courses through the collective unconscious, periodically surfacing in order to engage new listeners and take them to the source.

Bill Meyer

Mansions — Doom Loop (Clifton Motel, 2013)

I knew nothing about Mansions when I first heard about this record; I can’t even remember how I heard about this record. But I liked the name of the album and the album art, so I listened to it. Sometimes the most important records in your decade have as much to do with you as with them. I’d been frantically looking for a job for nearly two years at that point, the severance and my access Ontario’s Employment Insurance program (basically, you pay in every paycheck, and then have ~8 months of support if you’re unemployed) had both ran out. I was living with a friend in Toronto sponsoring my American wife into the country (fun fact: they don’t care if you have an income when you do that), feeling the walls close in a little each day, sure I was going to wind up one of those kids who had to move back to the small town I’d left and a parent’s house. There were multiple days I’d send out 10+ applications and then walk around my neighbourhood blasting “Climbers” and “Out for Blood” through my earbuds, cueing up “La Dentista” again and dreaming of revenge… on what? Capitalism? There was no more proximate target in view. That’s not to say that Doom Loop is necessarily about being poor or about the shit hand my generation (I fit, just barely) got in the job market, or anything like that; but for me it is about the almost literal doom loop of that worst six months, and I still can’t listen to “The Economist” without my blood pressure spiking a little.

Ian Mathers

Protomartyr — Under Colour of Official Right (Hardly Art, 2014)

Under Color of Official Right by Protomartyr

By my count, Protomartyr made not one but four great albums in the 2010s, racking up a string of rhythmically unstoppable, intellectually challenging discs with absolute commitment and intent. I caught whiff of the band in 2012, while helping out with editing the old Dusted. Jon Treneff’s review of All Passion No Technique told a story of exhilarant discovery; I read it and immediately wanted in. The conversion event, though, came two years later, with the stupendous Under Color of Official Right, all Wire-y rampage and Fall-spittled-bile, a rattletrap construction of every sort of punk rock held together by the preening contempt of black-suited Joe Casey. Doug Mosurock reviewed it for us, concluding, “Poppier than expected, but still covered in burrs, and adeptly analyzing the pain and suffering of their city and this year’s edition of the society that judges it, Protomartyr has raised the bar high enough for any bands to follow, so high that most won’t even know it’s there.” Except here’s the thing: Protomartyr jumped that bar two more times this decade, and there’s no reason to believe that they won’t do it again. The industry turned on the kind of bands with four working class dudes who can play a while ago, but this is the band of the 2010s anyway.

Jennifer Kelly

Tau Ceti IV — Satan, You’re the God of This Age, but Your Reign Is Ending (Cold Vomit, 2018)

Satan, You're The God of This Age But Your Reign is Ending by Tau Ceti IV

This decade was full of takes on American primitive guitar. Some were pretty good, a few were great, many were forgettable, and then there was this overlooked gem from Jordan Darby of Uranium Orchard. Satan, You’re the God of This Age, but Your Reign Is Ending is an antidote to bland genre exercises. Like John Fahey, Darby has a distinct voice and style, as well as a sense of humor. Also like Fahey, his playing incorporates diverse influences in subtle but pronounced ways. American primitive itself isn’t a staid template. Though there are also plenty of beautiful, dare I say pastoral moments, which still stand out for being genuinely evocative.

Darby’s background in aggressive electric guitar music partly explains his approach. (Not sure if he’s the only ex-hardcore guy to go in this direction, but there can’t be many.) His playing is heavier than one might expect, but it feels natural, not like he’s just playing metal riffs on an acoustic guitar. But heaviness isn’t the only difference. Like his other projects, Satan is wonderfully off-kilter. This album’s strangeness isn’t reducible to component parts, but here are two representative examples: “The Wind Cries Mary” gradually encroaches on the last track, and throughout, the microphone picks up more string noise than most would consider tasteful. It all works, or at least it’s never boring.

Ethan Milititisky

Z-Ro — The Crown (Rap-a-Lot, 2014)

When singing in rap was outsourced to pop singers and Auto Tune, Z-Ro remained true to his self, singing even more than he ever did. He did his hooks and his verses himself, and no singing could harm his image as a hustler moonlighting as a rapper. He can’t be copied exactly because of his gift, to combine singing soft and rapping hard. It’s a sort of common wisdom that he recorded his best material in the previous decade, yet quite apart from hundreds of artists that continued to capitalize on their fame he re-invented himself all the past decade, making songs that didn’t sound like each other out of the same raw material. The Crown is a tough pick because since his post-prison output he made solid discs one after each other.

Ray Garraty