#and then she made things WHITE is white on the chart for black garments????? no... then you cannot use white?

[roseband]

....u literally do not get to complain about being "overwhelmed" at work, and try to push work onto me

when you tried to design an entire line of baby onesies......breaking all brand guidelines, u need to follow brand guidelines as a fucking graphic designer......??? like that's graphic design 101?

like i fixed this once 4 months ago, dealt with licensing depts to fix it but never again, we have pdfs and .ai documents filled with guidelines.. which fonts...... which colors... what sizing and proportions allowed

nope, not dealing with someone else's mess

[room-surprise]

I understand if this is outside your field of expertise, but do you think if the ornamentation of the clothing that (some of) the kobolds drawn by Kui wear is inspired by anything?

Actually this is exactly my field of expertise! I studied costume design for about two years in university before switching to something else :) So clothing is something I love looking at and talking about, and fashion history is one of my favorite elements of history in general!

HOWEVER, though I have some experience with subject, I'm not a fully trained expert in the field, and I know that I may not have all the answers, so please take what I say with a grain of salt. This is only my educated guess.

I'm assuming that you're talking about this page from the Daydream Hour book:

To start with, the caption says: "Kobolds that appear in foreign games and fantasy often have a reptilian appearance, but we chose an appearance that is more familiar in Japan." This doesn't tell us anything about their clothing, but I wanted to translate it to make sure it didn't say anything about their culture.

(You can read more about why the Dungeon Meshi kobolds are dogs in the Half-foot chapter of my Dungeon Meshi research project)

Kobolds likely live all over the world, but their large population centers are all located in the Western Continent, so that is probably the region they consider home.

So those two kobolds on the bottom left of the chart, who appear to be wearing European-inspired clothing, are probably living somewhere in the Eastern hemisphere, where Northern/Western/Central/Eastern European clothing is the norm, while the rest are likely from the West. So we can discard the European-looking clothes, since that's probably not a part of the kobold's traditional culture.

We have very limited information about the Western Continent, but these images plus what we know about Kabru (His name and Utaya's name are both South Asian, the dessert that comes from Utaya is South Asian) and the elves (several of them have South Asian names, some elves wear South Asian clothing and bindis) makes me think there's probably a strong Indian/South Asian influence in the Western Continent. It's a large land mass, so I don't think it's all South Asian, but South Asian culture is the only thing we have conclusive evidence of so far.

The majority of the kobolds are wearing brightly colored tunics with patterns on the hems, or what seems to be dresses/tunics made of draped fabric, also with hem decoration.

It IS worth noting that Kui avoids drawing elaborate patterns, even when it would make sense for her to do so. She does it only a couple of times in the manga and uses screentones instead whenever possible. So the simple hem decoration and single color fabric may just be an artistic choice that doesn't mean anything other than "I didn't want to draw a pattern." However, it's all we have to work with, so I'm going to assume it's intentional.

The repeated over-the-shoulder draped fabric the kobolds are wearing seems like it could only be a Greco-Roman style toga, palla, or cloak, or a South Asian saree. We have seen Western elves wearing garments similar to all of these on occasion, though obviously Kui has made some changes. As I say in my essay, I don't think any of the cultures in Dungeon Meshi is an exact copy of a real-world culture, Kui is remixing things together.

(Except for the Island of Wa, which seems to be entirely based on Sengoku-era Japan.)

Roman togas were just large pieces of cloth that they draped around their bodies, and they were usually white, with brown or black reserved for the lower-classes or for use during mourning, and purple or red reserved for extremely important people. Embroidery and trim, if they had it, was usually either very simple (plain colored stripes) or very elaborate (images of people, animals, or things).

So I think that rules out the toga as a possibility.

On the other hand, the saree and dupatta are also large pieces of cloth draped either around the body and over the shoulder (and sometimes the head), and usually they are either a single plain color, a plain color with a decorative trim, or an all-over pattern. This is a lot closer to what Kui draws the kobolds wearing.

(Pictures and more text after the cut)

Toga:

Saree:

The tunics the kobolds are wearing could be many things, as what's visible is not an uncommon neck shape. They could be something like a kurta, kaftan, or abaya (tunic/robe)... And there's probably a dozen other similar garments that I'm neglecting to name.

There are a million variations on the kurta, but these neck styles looks like what Kui is drawing on a couple of those kobolds.

However, some of the tunics COULD also just be a depiction of what is often called a "Viking tunic" or kyrtill (Nordic name for a kirtle or tunic).

However in Dungeon Meshi, the kyrtill is extensively worn in the Eastern hemisphere, primarily by dwarves, tall-men and half-foots. So I don't think the Western hemisphere kobolds are wearing them, and the style of trim looks different to me than what Kui drew.

Kobold fashion could also be influenced by any culture from North Africa, West Asia, or the Middle East, as these are also cultures that appear to dominate the Western hemisphere of Dungeon Meshi, and that have similar fashion cultures involving patterned textiles and draping cloth/veils/head coverings...

However, because of what seems like a large draping cloth over the shoulder, and the combination of trim with a solid color, I think the primary influence is South Asian rather than these other cultures.

I hope that helps! And keep in mind that Kui loves to remix things, so I'm sure there's elements from other cultures that would fit right in with what she's shown us of the kobolds, if you want to get creative with your fan works!

[nevernotwriting]

You, Me, and Yancy | Chapter 8: Rooftop Relations

Read me on AO3!

Previous chapter

Several weeks earlier…

“All right, here we are.”

Mark stopped the car and the two of you got out, grabbing your duffel bags from the backseat. The slam of the car doors echoed in the empty parking garage as the two of you made your way to a door reading “EMPLOYEES ONLY”.

This was your third rooftop night shift, but your stomach was filled with more butterflies than ever before, because this was your first one with Mark. You’d been eager to spend more time with him after how warmly he welcomed you to the group, and now your wish had finally come true.

“After you,” Mark said, opening the door for you. He tipped his beanie towards you as if it were a fedora.

“Cheesy,” you snorted, walking through the door. Mark followed you.

“Cheesy is my middle name!”

You ascended an endless staircase, eventually reaching one final door. Opening it, you stepped out onto the rooftop of the Glendale Galleria.

The glass sections of the roof revealed that the inside was lit up in a brilliant white. This was your first indicator that this place definitely had a night shift. You sighed internally, your last flicker of hope for an early night dying.

Mark finally appeared in the doorway, laying down his bag and walking to the edge of the rooftop. You joined his side as he stared out at the grid of lights that stretched in every direction as far as you could see.

“Nice view,” he commented.

“I prefer the one back home.”

“Oh yeah?” Mark turned to you with a curious expression.

“Yeah. You can actually see the stars at my parents’ house. And the Milky Way, if you turn the porch lights off.”

“That’s pretty awesome,” Mark smiled. “But who needs the Milky Way when you’ve got LA’s light pollution, right?”

You rolled your eyes with a loving smile. “Funny.”

“Funny is my middle name.”

“I thought cheesy was your middle name.”

“I have two.”

The two of you descended into laughter before picking up your bags once more and surveying your surroundings.

“All right, so what’s the plan here?”

Mark produced a rolled-up piece of paper from his bag; it was the map that Shrike and Gareth had compiled between them a few days prior. Mark scanned it and flitted his eyes up to the roof every few seconds. “Shark wants us to keep an eye on the guard rotation around the Swarovski store, which, according to this map, should be right… there.” He pointed to the largest glass dome in the middle of the roof.

“How about we get a quick scope of the whole place first, then settle in on the Swarovski store?” You suggested. “Might come in handy to know how many guards there’re gonna be overall.”

Mark nodded. “Good call.”

The two of you began to walk together from one edge of the roof to the next, sharing the map and marking out each guard you saw in light pencil. You caught Mark watching you out of the corner of your eye and you glanced at him, surprised to see an impressed smile on his face.

“You’re really good at this. And this is only, what, your third night shift?” His eyebrows raised along with his question.

You smiled, looking back down at the map. “Not like it’s hard.”

“Awh come on Zero, just take the compliment.”

“And if I don’t?” You teased.

“Well then this is gonna be a long night.”

You snorted, throwing your head back in laughter and continuing to walk. “That’s what I said to myself five minutes into what was possibly the worst date I’ve ever been on.”

Mark laughed, following you. “Oh no. What happened?”

You groaned. “I had to do like, ninety-nine percent of the talking. No joke. Me. Doing all the talking. You’ve seen how quiet I can be at work. God it was a nightmare, like why would you agree to a date with me if you don’t even really wanna be there?”

Mark shot you a sympathetic look as he scribbled on the map. “Maybe they were just super shy? But either way, that’s pretty rough. I’m sorry.”

You shrugged your shoulders. “No harm done. What about you, what’s the worst date you’ve ever been on?”

Mark paused, pursing his lips and looking up at the sky. “There was this one time I was asked to fill out my birth chart and do some online personality test before the date even started. That was… weird.”

You laughed, gasping in disbelief. “And how did that go?”

“Oh, the date?” Mark looked back down at you. “Technically, it didn’t even happen. My date decided we weren’t compatible cause I’m a Cancer and an extrovert, or some shit.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” Mark grinned at you.

 After about ninety minutes of slowly working your way up and down the roof and sharing stories, you and Mark finished up at the largest glass dome overlooking the Swarovski store. You were about to settle onto the cold concrete of the roof when Mark pulled out two foldable camping chairs from his duffel bag.

“Did you really think I was gonna let you sit on a roof all night without a bit of comfort?”

“Shrike did,” you replied, standing back up.

“That’s cause she’s an alien. I’m a human being.”

“That’s exactly what an alien would say if they were trying to pass as a human.”

“You got me,” Mark laughed, holding his hands up. “Got binoculars?”

You fished them out of your bag, throwing a pair to him. “Catch!”

Panic crossed his face, but he caught them just in time. “See that? Cat-like reflexes.”

“Sure thing, Catwoman.” You rolled your eyes, looking through your own pair of binoculars.

“Ten-fifteen, no guards,” you mumbled under your breath. Mark jotted down your observations on the sides of the map.

“What time d’you think they turn the lights off here?” You asked.

Mark shrugged. “Hopefully soon. It’s a little blinding.”

“Yeah,” you agreed. “Must be weird walking through a dark empty mall at night though. I dunno why, but it makes me think of this video game my friend made me play in college. You played as a security guard in a haunted pizzeria.”

“Not that animatronics one.” Mark’s voice was flat with dread.

You removed the binoculars from your eyes, shooting him a surprised look. “Yeah! You know it?”

“Man, don’t even talk to me about that game.”

You laughed. “It had me sleepless for days as well.”

There was silence between you two for several minutes as you went back to the task at hand, until Mark broke the silence once more.

“How’d you get into video games?”

You leaned back in your chair, surprised again at the inquisitive look Mark was giving you. You played with the binoculars in your hands.

“My dad got me into them, actually. He was always really into them as a kid, all the retro stuff. We used to spend a few nights each week completing a video game together whenever I was home.”

“That’s cute,” Mark smiled. “Do you miss Pennsylvania?”

Your stomach flipped. You normally hated that question, but something about the sincere, gentle look Mark was giving you made you want to open up to him even more.

“A little,” you replied, sitting forward and glancing down. “But LA is starting to feel like home. It took a while, but I’m getting there.”

You looked at Mark again. Your stomach continued flipping as a sweet smile spread across his face.

“Good.” His answer was so quiet you almost missed it.

“Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever actually asked where you’re from, Mark.”

Amidst the darkness, you could’ve sworn a hint of pink spread across his cheeks. “Oh, it’s fine. I’m from Ohio originally.”

“Shut up! We were state neighbours this whole time and you never told me?”

Mark’s eyebrows raised as he let out a hearty laugh. ��Yeah, I guess we were! But hey, look at us both now, living it up in the big city.”

“Damn right we are!” You held out your hand for a high five. Mark accepted it, the singular clap reverberating into the night.

 You settled into another comfortable silence, only breaking it to make the occasional remark about the guard patterns. When the lights finally dimmed inside the mall, you and Mark let out a quiet cheer of relief. You dug your phone out of your bag to check the time, surprised to see that it was 12:30 am.

“Wow. Time flies, huh?” You flashed your phone screen at Mark.

“Sure does when you’re having fun,” he smiled back, jotting down another note on the side of the map. “Lights out, twelve-thirty.”

You stuffed your phone back into your bag, turning away to hide the huge grin that appeared on your face.

“By the way, what was that on your lock screen?”

Heat flushed to your face as you retrieved your phone once more. Damn this guy, he doesn’t miss a beat.

You passed your phone to him. “It’s the view of the city from the Griffith Observatory. I’ve not actually been up there yet, but I found that picture online and I liked it, so…”

Mark raised his eyebrows at you in disbelief as he gave you back your phone. “You’ve never been there? You should totally go!”

“I know, I know. I just didn’t have time what with school. It just fell to the back of my to do list.”

Mark hummed in response, but he was staring at the sky as if he were lost in space. He bit his lip.

“I could take you there some time. If you wanted,” he offered. His voice was uncharacteristically quiet once again.

“That’d be fun.” You smiled, trying to keep your cool despite the butterflies filling your stomach.

Out of nowhere, a chilling breeze picked up. You shivered violently with a groan of protest, rubbing up and down your arms.

“Son of a bitch, where did that come from?”

Mark reached for something in his bag. “LA weather can still surprise you sometimes. Here, put this on.”

He threw something black onto your lap. You picked it up, realising it was one of his sweatshirts. You cast him a bashful smile. The hit of warmth was immediate when you snuggled into the garment, and a faint smell of cologne enveloped you. You sighed happily to yourself.

“You’re not getting this back.”

“I figured you’d say that.”

 After another hour and yet more watching and waiting, you heard Mark’s stomach rumble faintly. An idea popped into your head. You reached into your bag, pulling out a large flask and holding it out to him.

“Here.”

Mark took the flask, unscrewing the lid and sniffing with a curious frown. “What is this?”

“Chicken soup.”

“You brought soup?”

“Well we’re gonna be out here for a while, what did you bring?”

“… Cookies.”

You shook your head. “Good thing you have me to keep you in check. Go on, it’s homemade.”

Mark took a sip. His eyes lit up in delight.

“Damn Zero, that’s good. You made that?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded. “Family recipe. Warms you right through to your bones.”

“In which case,” Mark began, a hint of mischief in his voice as he handed the flask back to you. “If you have this, can I have my sweatshirt back?”

“Nope!”

Mark leant back in laughter, picking up his binoculars again. “So, you’re stubborn and a good chef. I’m learning a lot tonight.”

You scoffed back at him, retreating further into his sweatshirt.

“Chicken soup’s my favourite kind actually.”

“Yeah?”

Mark hummed, binoculars still glued to his eyes. “My mom used to make it for me when I was sick. You’d think I’d hate it cause of that reminder of feeling crappy, but the opposite happened.” He lowered the binoculars, gazing at you for a few seconds in silence. “I guess it just reminds me of… I dunno, that I have people lookin’ out for me.”

Your heart felt like it had been lit on fire. You swallowed, trying to summon the right words, but your mind was blank. You managed a shy, wordless nod, pulling down the sleeves of Mark’s sweatshirt to cover your hands.

 The next few hours seemed to fly by in a matter of minutes. By the time you were satisfied with the guard rotations you’d mapped out, it was nearly six in the morning. Your eyes felt like they had papercuts, and your brain ached for a dark room and warm blankets. You and Mark packed away your equipment into your bags. Just as you were about to make your way to the door, Mark unexpectedly grabbed your hand.

“Wait, this is the best part.”

“Whaaaat?” You groaned, desperate for sleep.

Mark led you to the edge of the rooftop once more. “Trust me, it’ll only take a couple of minutes, and it’s more than worth it.”

You looked across the landscape ahead of you. You were about to ask what the fuss was about when bright orange hues bled into the sky from the horizon, and everything stopped.

The sun was slowly rising over the city, bathing all of the buildings in a brilliant orange light. Wispy clouds drifted along, interfering with the sunbeams and creating dancing patterns in the sky. Your eyes widened, a small gasp escaping your mouth.

“You know, I’ve never really stopped to notice this before,” you admitted.

Mark turned to you. “Are you glad you did?”

You nodded at him. “Yeah.”

It dawned on you in that moment, after having looked at him through hours of darkness, just how incredible his eyes were. The early morning light blazed in them, highlighting all the brilliant brown tones that intertwined and danced with one another.

You cleared your throat, taking in a deep breath of the crisp air. Mark looked away, adjusting his bag on his shoulder.

“We, uh…” he shifted on the spot, smiling at the rising sun and scratching the back of his head. “We make a pretty good team, don’t we?”

You grinned back at him harder than ever before. “We sure do.”

Next chapter

[rohad93]

Sea Glass - Chapter 1 A Bellow diamond Pirate AU

The gentle rocking of the ship made all the glass bottles and knickknacks clack together quietly on their shelves, a constant and soothing background noise over the sound of the sea and the gulls outside her window.

The storm they had been sailing through for the last three days had finally passed over and they could finally pull into port to restock their supplies and go ashore. They had cut it a little too close on their last trip and she was going to correct that this time, she’s already made some allowances in their rations. 

Captain Marigold ‘Yellow Diamond’ stood, leaning over her desk, scouring the contents of the map. She was already plotting their next course, her compass moving slowly and deliberately along a newly marked path across the map. 

If they left the port by mid-morning tomorrow, the wind would be pushing from the perfect direction to take them just where they needed to be.  

A lone independent merchant ship carrying precious metals and silk was set to sail for Caracas in the morning from St. Lucia; they were going to take it. She already had a buyer for all the silk. The metal would be easy enough to sell in the markets of Aruba.   

Rolls of parchment sat on her desk, carefully rolled up and set off on either side of the map, several star charts she had been consulting, and some letter that needed to be mailed off while they were in port. She moved them into envelopes and sealed them with the nearby candle, pressing her signet ring into the soft, red wax.  

Straitening up, she rolled her shoulders and grumbled at the stiffness that had settled in her neck. She moved to the large wooden wardrobe and threw open the doors and pulled off the grubby gray shirt she had been wearing while doing chores around her quarters and pulled out the freshly washed white one, its newly starched sleeves were too puffy for her but the coat would fix that.

Strapping her pistol and saber around her waist, she pulled on the black and gold-trimmed long coat, stuffing the sealed letters into her pockets as she strutted past her desk, boots thumping rhythmically on the floorboards. She whipped the tricorne hat off the hook by the door and situated it carefully over her short flaxen locks as she stepped out onto the deck. 

The bright sun overhead made her squint as she walked across the deck, several deckhands nearby saw her and shouted greetings.

“Pulling into port now, Cap’n” A voice called from the rigging above. She only nodded, watching as the shore grew closer. The golden flag a lightning bolt emblazoned in the middle flapped in the wind. 

She looked carefully over the ships pulled into port and felt her shoulders loosen up when she didn’t spot the one she was looking for.

Small miracles.

“Jasper, take some of the crew and restock all the things on this list.” She handed a rolled-up bit of parchment over to her first mate. “We need to be prepared for the voyage to Caracus.  

“Aye, Cap’n” The large sailor hurried off with the list as some men lowered the gangplank onto the pier. She stopped at the top and turned to face the ship, most of her crew watching her as they worked.

“I want this ship scrubbed from stem to stern by sundown, then to the tavern!” 

“Aye aye Captain.” was the chorus of answers before she turned on heel and strutted down the plank, feet finally touching solid land for the first time in weeks. 

She pulled the pocket watch out of her coat and looked at the hands. She had plenty of time to take care of her errands before the crew scurried off to the tavern to get drunk enough to fall while laying down. 

They needed it after the last trip and their close encounter with that royal frigate.

It had proven much too cumbersome to avoid The Cluster’s cannons though and had sunk to the bottom of the ocean like a rock. 

Yellow couldn’t help but grin to herself as she walked through town at the thought of the look on her face when they had sailed by after sinking the royal pest. 

It honestly filled her with too much giddy delight, especially when she knew there would be consequences, but she just hadn’t been able to pass up the opportunity to show her up a little.

Those troubles would be something to deal with later.

By the time she’d delivered her letters and picked up a few personal parcels, the sun was starting to dip behind all the ships sitting in the harbor, casting their long shadows over the pier and a hazy orange glow over everything else.

She glanced out at the sea and could see another ship in the distance slowly pulling in to port, the setting sun, blocking it out in dark shadows. 

Yellow ignored it as she made her way to the tavern, the raucous sounds of drinking and merry-making could be heard before she had even stepped inside. 

Once she did a loud cheer of ‘Captain!” rose over the din. 

Her crew sat gathered around the place, flagons of piss poor beer and rum in one hand, dice or cards in the other. The locals seemed to be holed up in one corner of the place, keeping to themselves. 

A wise choice.

The crew of The Cluster often frequented this tavern between runs and it was fairly common knowledge that if you stayed out of their way they would leave you be in turn.   

Yellow sauntered up to the bar and sat on a grimy wooden stool that creaked under her weight. Within a minute, a flagon of dark, murky liquid was sat down in front of her by a tavern maid, who quickly made herself scarce. 

She took a long, deep drink of the liquid and it burned every inch of skin it touched all the way down. She let the fire fade before turning around to face her crew, standing from the stool to raise the flagon overhead.

“Drink till you’re blind, men!” she called and the roar that followed drowned out anything else as she sat a bag of gold pieces on the counter, which the barmaid quickly snatched up. 

They had their marching orders. 

An hour into the festivities the tavern doors burst open and while it didn’t go quiet, it did go quiet enough for Yellow to turn away from her drink and curse under her breath the second she did.

The subject of many a nightmare she had suffered was quickly strutting across the tavern straight for her, followed by a motley bunch of bilge rats she called a crew. 

Black leather boots thumped across the wooden floor in a steady rhythm that Yellow was unsure if it was her or her heart, accompanied by the quiet tinkling of metal. 

“I see you washed up on shore just fine,” she smirked up at her new companion. 

Captain Ciel ‘Blue Diamond’ leveled her with a long look, one hand resting on her hip as she looked down at the other pirate from beneath an ocean blue headscarf, tied neatly around a head of long, silver hair, several charms and braids intertwined within the locks.  

Yellow didn’t let her eyes trail past the other captain’s neck. Like usual, Blue was dressed in an off-white blouse that had entirely too many buttons left undone, and were it not for the cobalt colored corset cinched around her middle it would have been left entirely useless as a garment, even tucked into the black trousers she was wearing. 

She let her eyes focus back on Blue’s face, passing the gold and blue gemmed necklace hanging around her neck, the gemstone dipping into her cleavage as she leaned forward.    

Brows the same color as her hair had dipped between a pair of obviously annoyed cerulean eyes at the self-assured smirk on Yellow’s face.

“We didn’t need your help.” She finally said. “My crew is more than capable of taking on some royal navy rats.” 

“It certainly didn’t seem that way…,” Yellow smirked behind her drink, pleased by the annoyance shining in Blue’s eyes. “and we weren’t helping you,” she corrected, setting the drink back down on the table. “I saw an opportunity to take out a future nuisance, so I took it. If you were aided by that... it was an unfortunate coincidence,” she mumbled quietly, not even trying to contain the delight that was no doubt shining in her eyes.

Cerulean eyes narrowed but just as quickly as the look appeared, it vanished, replaced by a sultry smile. 

“Well, even if you didn’t intend to help, I feel like I owe you something…” She said over her shoulder as she turned and walked away; blonde brows furrowed quizically.

She didn’t like any part of that statement, nor the look that went along with it. 

The members of the two crews were intermingled among the tavern, drinking, and trading tales of their recent voyages, but all the while keeping an eye on the two captains. Nothing good ever came of the two of them interacting for too long.

Yellow sat drinking, on edge, now that Blue had disappeared with the unnerving parting words. 

Eventually, the edges of her vision weren’t as clear as they had been before and she felt a little lighter. The cheap rum at work. It was around this time that the band suddenly went quiet and she looked up in time to see Blue, bottle in hand standing on a table. 

“The oh so goodly Captain of The Cluster did The Menagerie a favor ereyesterday and I think it deserves a song, what about you lads?” She called and the tavern answered in a drunken cheer. 

She turned to the band and they quickly began to play a jaunty tune…

“If you need someone to swab your deck there’s only one pirate who can do the trick, call Yellow diamond!” Blue belted out and Yellow jerked, almost dropping her drink.

The crew of The Menagerie stomped and clapped as their captain hopped off the table and began moving through the room.

“When the rum has got you limp, call Yellow diamond!” The Cluster’s crew didn’t know what to do, the more sober ones, anyway. The drunkest unknowingly or unhearing of the lyrics clapped or sang along.

Yellow had a white-knuckle grip on the cup in her hand, watching the other captain twirl around the bar, drinking straight from the bottle between lyrics. She was seething on the inside, listening to Blue and her crew sing and roar with laughter while her crew sat looking at her uncertainly.   

“If the local whore won’t heed your word, call Yellow diamond!” The crowd cheered and suddenly Blue was moving toward her with that damnable little smile on her lips till she was standing at Yellow’s table and leaning forward on her hands, a litany of rings on her fingers that sparkled and shined in the light of the sconces on the walls. 

“The easiest pirate of them all, Yellow diamond!” She sang with a look on her face that spoke volumes. Both crews were watching her with wide eyes. 

Amber eyes flashed with barely contained rage. 

In a flurry of movement Yellow jumped up, knocking over the table and aiming her flintlock pistol straight at Blue. 

All sound in the tavern died in an instant and the little grin on Blue’s face had fallen away, but not to one of fear but shock. 

At the very least it shut her up, but now Yellow was at an impasse. 

Though Blue was soon to fix that.

Her look of shock quickly morphed into one of deadly seriousness.

"Well?" She asked taking a step forward pressing the muzzle of the pistol against her chest. "Are you going to fire or not?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. 

Yellow said nothing and made no move to pull the trigger.

"Need some help? I'll start…," she said it so lowly that Yellow wasn't even sure she had heard her when suddenly her pistol was knocked aside and her world became a wash of white light and pain, quickly followed by the thundering of furniture being thrown and battle cries all around. 

She opened her eyes just in time to see Blue rear back for another punch but this time was ready and caught the fist as it sailed through the air, jerking the other captain forward on to her raised knee as their crews brawled around them. 

A table flew through the air and splintered into a thousand pieces against the wall raining wood shrapnel down around them, Yellow closed her eyes against the debris just long enough for Blue to lunge forward, tackling her to the ground just as one man was thrown overhead sailing straight into the bar shattering several bottles.

Punches were thrown and teeth fell to the floor among the blood and rum as the two crews duked it out.

Yellow scowled trying to grab the other captain's flailing fists as she straddled her waist. Her hat had flown off somewhere and Blue’s headscarf was askew atop her head, silver hair a wild mess as they rolled across the grimy floor, somehow not getting trampled by their men.

With a thrust of her hips, she managed to throw the smaller woman off her, twisting an arm behind her back that made Blue cry out, a sound that elicited emotions in Yellow that she had not expected, allowing Blue the moment needed to ram the back of her head into the blonde’s face. 

“Shit!” She cursed, hands flying to her nose and eyes watering.

Suddenly she was tackled again, Blue flying into her midsection and sending them both reeling through the tavern door and out into the dirt. 

Yellow managed to kick away from Blue long enough to scramble to her feet just as she did. 

With a low growl, she lunged forward, grabbing both her wrists in an iron grip, and shoved her back against the side of the building. They’d stumbled half into the alley beside the tavern, the roaring of the fighting inside raged on without them. 

Blue winced as her back hit the wall with a low thud. She hissed before looking up at the taller woman looming over her, wrists caught in her iron grip.

They both stood their, muscles taught, red-faced, and panting.

Blue could feel the blonde’s hot breath on her face, those amber eyes flickered in the low, distant light. 

She wouldn’t be able to explain what came over her tomorrow.

She lunged forward, capturing Yellows mouth in a sudden searing kiss that made the blonde’s grip go slack. 

She should have taken the opportunity to punch the blond pirate again, but instead, she just dug her fingers in those golden hairs and pulled Yellow closer to her, deepening the kiss. 

Calloused hands wrapped around her waist and suddenly she was pulled flush against the tall, solid form of her greatest rival and she didn’t think anything of it.

Yellow pulled away but before Blue could even comprehend what was happening that mouth was on her neck, biting at the skin near her pulse and it felt like her legs were going to fold beneath her.

Surely the only thing keeping her upright now was Yellow’s iron grip on her hips. 

She moaned, tugging on the taller captain’s short locks, eliciting a growl from her that shot heat all through Blue’s body. 

“Marigold…” She mumbled with a heavy tongue before the blonde took hostage of her mouth again, which Blue allowed gladly.

“Blue!”  A voice called and a petite woman with short curly hair slid around the corner, stopping to stare at them with wide eyes.

Blue jerked out of the embrace at the sound of her sister’s voice. Turning to look at her with wide eyes. It was fairly dark, she wasn’t sure just how much her sister had or could see.

She turned back to Yellow, who was looking back at her with wide eyes, mouth hanging open in clear shock at what had just transpired.

Making a quick decision she reared back and punched the blonde square in the nose.

Yellow cried out, hands flying to her face as blood began to drip from her nose.

Blue took off down the alley, grabbing her sister’s hand as she passed, pulling her along.

“What the hell was that?” Rose asked as Blue pulled them along back toward the docks to the ship.

“Later,” she huffed, pulling her down the dock. 

She still needed to decide that for herself.

Yellow cursed to herself as she held her hopefully not broken nose as blood dripped down her face and onto her good white shirt. 

That annoyed her more than anything else…, well, not by half, but it was on her list. 

The sounds of fighting inside the tavern seemed to have died down as she stepped inside, and grabbed her hat off the floor before raising her pistol and firing a single shot into the ceiling, bringing all the brawling to an end.

Most of the remaining members of The Menagerie’s crew scampered out of the tavern, climbing out through the windows of the holes they had bashed through the walls when their Captain did not reappear.

“Cap’n!” Jasper was at her side within a moment, a black eye already forming and a split lip dribbling blood down her chin.

“Gather the crew and get back to the ship!” Yellow barked, kicking a drunken deckhand laying near her feet. ‘We set out at daybreak!” With that she turned and stomped back to the ship, face set in a stony glare. 

“You heard the Cap’n!” Jasper’s loud, gravelly voice bellowed.         

Yellow wiped at the blood dripping across her mouth, but even it’s salty tang couldn’t make her forget the way Blue’s lips had tasted.

[hoodoo12]

Familial Ties (And How to Break Them) 1/?

Based on a rp that the witty and talented @turtlepated and I did over several months.  NSFW, Beetlejuice/OC f!character, actual plot, world building, Latin, other demons, violence, smut.  Enjoy!  ~

Pate sighed, shifting the heavy sealed plastic box in her arms as she padded down the dimly lit hallway. It was long after closing time at the archives, but her boss had wheedled her into staying late to assess some new arrivals. She shouldered open the swinging door into a restoration office, depositing her load on a sterile work bench and gathering up supplies: pen and notebook, cotton gloves to protect the delicate velum pages, the assorted cleaning tools, and laying them neatly at her station before opening the box. Inside were half a dozen leather bound volumes, purchased by her boss on a recent trip to Europe. She lifted them out one by one and looked them over, judging that most were in decent enough shape to be worth salvaging.

One, she noted with a puzzled frown, appeared to be in the worst condition of the lot. And strangest of all, there was a thick metal clasp complete with an ancient padlock holding the book shut.

She set the padlocked tome aside and quickly made notations and catalogued the other books, banal volumes of religious writings for the most part, and in good enough shape not to require much attention from her. Finally she was left with only the poorly locked book, taking it gently in her gloved hands and turning it around to get a better look. From what she could tell at a cursory inspection of the cracked and worm-eaten spine, it appeared to be a collection of astronomical dissertations.

She tried the lock, tugging on it as sharply as she dared with the state of the book.

⁂

Out of the ether, a deep thrumming startled him. It was almost too faint to be felt at first, but it grew in intensity.

"There's something I never expected to feel again," Beetlejuice thought, shaking his head of the literal cobwebs.

⁂

The rusty lock refused to give, and Pate gave it one more frustrated rattle against the metal loop. She had just decided to simply discard the thing into the shelf of other moldering texts when, with no warning, the centuries-old binding ripped free and the entire block slid right out of the leather coverings. Heart leaping into her throat, Pate just managed to catch it before it hit the ground, cradling the bundle of loose leaves against her chest as she set the now empty cover back on the bench.

"Shit, Paul's gonna kill me," she grumbled.

⁂

A minor jolt went through him, like someone had run their warm, living fingers down his spine. It was just a fleeting touch, but he grinned.

⁂

Sighing harshly, Pate lay the block on the table and examined the most recent damage with a twinge of guilt. The backing and both end papers had completely torn away from the block, still hanging on the cover. She frowned at the exposed title page, wrinkled by long-dried water, the ink faded and difficult to make out. It took a few minutes to discern the title stamped into the parchment, but as best as she could tell the book was entitled "Ens entium collectio infernalia". Since her forte was restoring old books and not reading or translating them, she turned to Google.

"Being a collection of entities most infernal," she read aloud from her phone screen. But wasn't this a book about astronomy?  

Frowning in thought, Pate pulled the text block closer and began leafing through the pages. They came away stiff, some sticking together after who knew how much time spent with the book tightly shut and locked. She carefully separated pages from one another, eyes roving writing that she could not read. Instead of star charts or graphs, there were woodcut illustrations of monstrous creatures, hand-drawn sigils in iron gall ink that had browned with age.

"What the hell...?" Pate murmured to herself, flipping the block closed and reaching for the empty boards that once held it all together.

Something caught her eye on the back cover, where the pastedown ripped harshly when the block detached from the spine. There appeared to be another page tucked under the end paper.

Peeling away the pastedown, Pate took hold of the folded corner of parchment and gently tugged it free, not wanting to risk ripping it before she got a look at it. It was folded several times over, so she pushed the text block and cover across the workbench to have room to lay it down and open it out. Going slowly, the parchment crinkling like dead leaves each time she touched it, Pate carefully unfolded the bit of parchment to reveal a page. It looked different to the simple black and white woodblock illustrations in the book; this was in color, and appeared to have been rendered by hand. It depicted a male figure dressed in a strange black and white striped tunic and leggings. On his face was a devilish grin, a peculiar pointed tongue protruding from between his leering lips. The unkempt hair on his head had been colored green, and he appeared to be holding some sort of bizarre black and white snake with two heads? Pate's eyes narrowed as she leaned closer to inspect it, though it was hardly the strangest medieval illumination she'd ever seen. Next to the grinning, green haired person in his striped garments were a few lines of slightly smeared text.

⁂

Beetlejuice shivered. That was closer. That was closer.

⁂

Pate squinted harder at the splotchy lines of ink, trying to make sense of it or at least figure out what language it was written in. One thing she was certain of: this page had been torn from a completely different book that the one she found it in. It was much older, smaller than the pages of the rest of the text block. And why had someone gone to the trouble of hiding it? Whoever had written... whatever was written next to the strange illumination had very shaky handwriting, which didn't make it any easier to decipher.

"Bhet el.... What's that last thing there?" She thumbed through the internet browser on her phone, comparing text to find a match. "Bhet, el, juz? Is that it?"

⁂

"Oh, shit," he groaned. This was happening? Out of nowhere, this was happening?!

⁂

Sitting back in her chair, Pate took the torn-out page and held it at arms' length, pondering the three peculiar syllables and wondering why they sounded familiar.

"Bhet el juz…." she murmured. It does sound different, taking a shorter pause between. It was on the tip of her tongue, teasing at the outermost edge of recognition.

⁂

 Oh fuck

Electricity flooded him, making him jitter. It had to be a joke, couldn't be true; he rocked on the balls of his feet, which helped release some nervous energy and also shifted his involuntarily hard-on to a more comfortable position behind his fly.

⁂

Sighing tiredly, Pate laid the page back on the workbench and looked at the time on her phone. Had she really spent an hour and a half picking apart the enigma of the locked book? And what had she really learned? Snorting softly through her nose, Pate wheeled the chair forward to prop her elbows atop the bench, resting her chin in her hand and regarding the striped tongue snaking out of the figure's mouth.

"Bheteljuz, what's your deal, huh?" she asked no one.

At least the dirt on his pants would hide the wet spot if he came right here and now. Like a grappling hook had been driven into his gut, he was pulled through the ether to whomever called him.

When he landed, bent knees and feeling better than he'd had in forever, he threw his arms out and shouted, "Suus 'showtime!"

There was a breather here, of course, surrounded by dusty books.

"Quis es?" he asked excitedly, eager to meet this woman who so thoughtfully released him. "Gratias tibi! Gratias tibi tam! Fortuna, suus 'sit bonum, de iterum.Quis es tibi nomen?"

Pate frowned at a sudden, short lived gust of wind that ruffled the torn out page and whipped loose tendrils of hair around her face, but before she had time to wonder at it a sudden voice made her yelp and spin in her chair so fast that she nearly tipped right over.

Standing before her was quite possibly the strangest looking person she'd ever seen:  a man dressed in a rather shabby and grimy looking black-and-white-striped suit, a tangled rat's nest of verdant green hair on his head and a broad, toothy grin on his face. She blinked stupidly, sure that she must be seeing things.

"Who... who are you?" she asked, pausing to clear her throat when the question came out a tad squeaky. "How'd you get in here?"

Beetlejuice shook his head.

"ENGLISH," he crowed, like he'd solved a mystery. "I saw the books and thought some goddamn alchemist had called me up again, but the fluorescent lights should've given it away."

He took a parody breath, like this air was fresh and clean, and gave his best grin to the breather. The one that he hoped didn't look too much like he wanted to take a bite out of someone.

"What's your name, beautiful?"

Completely taken aback, Pate answered without even thinking,

"My name . . .? I'm Pate, but . . . who--?"

She cut herself off, answering her own question even as she asked it, glancing from the illumination on the orphaned page to the man standing before her and making the connection.

"This is . . . is this you?" she asked, holding it up to show him.

He grabbed it out of her hand for a closer look, breaking into a wider grin.

"Oh yeah, baby, that's me! Good thing someone beautiful and smart called me up! So. What's your pleasure? Who do I have to kill?"

Pate's eyebrows shot up, her mouth falling open.

"Kill?" she squeaked. "No! Nobody! What? Called you? How?"

Questions spun through her mind too fast for her tongue to keep up and she leaned against the bench, tenting her fingers together and pressing them to her face as she breathed deeply.

"Ooookay, this is obviously some sort of . . . stress-induced hallucination."

His brow wrinkled.

"Nobody ever wants me to kill anybody," he groused. "Hey. Hey. Pate? Sweetie, you don't look so good. Almost as pale as me! Why don'tcha sit down, m'kay? Don't need a smart one like you falling over and injuring that big brain of yours."

He stepped up to take her elbow, and really fought down the urge to give her a peek at his brain and its resident maggots, to demonstrate the worst that could happen.

Pate peeked out from behind her hands enough to see him take a step closer, one hand extending towards her in an admittedly non-threatening way but she couldn't contain the tiny frightened gasp that escaped her as she backed a step away, bumping into her chair and sending it skittering across the linoleum floor.

"That's . . . ahem . . . i's fine, I'm fine," she said, making an effort to keep her voice conversationally polite even while her mind was screaming, overwrought and uncomprehending of what was happening. "Now you said I called you? How, exactly?"

Beetlejuice frowned. "Come on, beaut. I said you were smart! You picked up my flyer. Where was it?" He spied the destroyed book and picked some of it up. "Oh! Ens entium collectio infernalia". Good old Deitrich Fuchs. Herr Fucks had to hide this book so the church didn't know it was about demons."

He chuckled. "Herr Fuchs," he repeated, like a 12-year-old boy. Then he shook himself and got back to the question at hand.

"You read my flyer--such a sweet voice, like a nightingale!--and here I am, the Netherworld's leading, and only, bio-exorcist, at your service. Don't confuse me for a genie, though. Those guys think they're so great, what with that fucking Disney movie making them out to be fun and funky playmates, but a couple of things. One, they stink. Cooped up in a lamp? Come one. Two. They're cranky assholes, because you guessed it: they're stuck in lamps. Three? They can't show you the same kind of good time that I can, baby. If you catch my drift. And I think you do."

He clicked his tongue and winked.

"So if I'm not killing anyone, is that what you're after? I can most certainly accommodate you there too. There's usually this other guy that gets called more than me, but you've obviously got better taste calling me instead."

There was definitely a tension headache working its way into her temples as Pate blinked dumbly at the onslaught of words, only half of which her brain managed to process and understand. His flyer? Had he hidden the page in the book himself? But if that were the case . . . Like a lightbulb switching on, it suddenly clicked. That word! Bhetlejuz! She couldn't explain how, not even to herself, but somehow or another saying it out loud had brought him here! But from where?

Before a new flood of questions had time to wash over her, his innuendo filtered into her consciousness and she stiffened, mortified to feel warmth in her face that she hoped the overhead fluorescence would bleach out before he noticed. Clearing her throat, she made a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to a more . . .  professional topic.

"Wait, are you saying you actually knew the author? But that would make you . . . " She did the math in her head, guestimating the age of the tome itself. "Almost five hundred years old?"

He didn't miss the color that rose in her cheeks.

"Now you're looking a little flushed, sugar," he remarked, and sidled closer again, even though she'd rebuffed him before. His voice dropped. "It looks good on you. I'd be interested in seeing if that pretty blush shows up anywhere else . . ."

He cleared his throat and twisted his hips just a tad; it'd been a while since he'd been near, well, anyone, and having a raging boner wouldn't endear him to her! She didn't look like she'd appreciate a femur as a joke at the moment, either. He switched topics, for her sake.

"Let's table that and revisit it later, okay? Your question about Herr . . . Fuchs? Christ that guy should've changed his name. Nice guy. Nervous. Well, he would've been tortured and probably drawn and quartered, so I guess he had reason to me. But yeah! Well, I'm more like six hundred-ish, but what's a century or two?"

Her blush only deepened when he called her out because of course he'd noticed.... She tensed at the close proximity and the blatant flirting, but she still had questions.

"This book," she said, turning to the side to heft the flayed text block into her hands. "Did you say it was about demons? How did Fuchs know about them?"

Pate ignored the snicker at the author's name. "Did you help him write it?" Her curiosity was getting the better of her now, replacing the fear and the uncertainty of this whole strange turn of events.

"How the Fuchs indeed," he chortled. Her query sobered him up a little bit, however. "I'm not at huge liberty to divulge past summoner's requests. Well, mainly I don't want to. I will say that now that I think about it, Fuchs might have earned that surname fair and square. Foolin' around with a demon--even one as handsome as myself--would also earn you a stake in the middle of a bonfire, if you know what I mean."

Despite herself, Pate couldn't help but chuckle at the idea of a demon abiding by a client confidentiality clause. This whole ordeal was simply too surreal, part of her still wondered if she wasn't dreaming.

"I suppose that's understandable," she conceded.

The sound of voices filtering down the hall interrupted her chain of thought. Someone was coming! But who'd be here at this time of night? Pate fumbled for her phone and checked the time.

"Holy shit! It's almost 7! The first shift is coming in!" She turned, looking from the dismantled tome to the demon leaning against the work bench.

"Oh . . . were you doing something naughty down here you don't want them to find?" Beetlejuice asked. Then something occurred to him. "Wait! It's me, isn't it!"

"Well, not to be blunt, but yes! Can you... I dunno, hide or something?" she asked, scooping up the flier and the sad remnants of the demon bestiary.

"Why would I want to hide this prime specimen of demonhood?" he retorted, offended. Seeing the panic on her face, however, he downgraded his response. "Don't worry that pretty little head of yours, sugar. I can be discreet."

Pate rolled her eyes at his bravado, sliding the text block carefully back into its cover and stashing the whole thing in her bag. It was unlikely to be missed, but it wasn't something she wanted to leave lying around. And, if she were honest with herself, she was fascinated by it and unable to resist the temptation of taking it home for a closer look.

Bheteljuz, which she assumed now must be his name, was nowhere in sight when she next looked but she got the distinct impression that he hadn't gone far.

The first shift crew came in then, surprised to see her still in the office but not enough to raise alarm bells. Gripping the strap of her shoulder bag protectively in both hands, Pate did her best to play it cool and bid them all goodnight, exiting the parking lot with a stolen 15th century book of demonology and an invisible demon? ghost? man? at her heels.

 tbc

[soggywarmpockets]

I made the mistake of mentioning that I was casually interested in checking out Lularoe clothes to a customer at work after a plus size friend of mine showed me some of her leggings and dresses because I didn't know that they made stuff in my size and this customer added me to NO LESS THAN 15 selling groups and now I want nothing to do with the company because I'm pretty sure it's actually a cult? No one in any of these groups ever posted a sizing chart and they say stuff fits differently based on the material and my friend says she wears anywhere from an XL to a 3X depending on the garment and they want you to buy blind without ever trying anything on and even if you own a similar item in that size it may not fit and "no returns". Also in most of these groups, posting the price of the item is forbidden so you have to post an emoji if you're interested in something and the seller will PM you the price and people in these groups are crazy and will snatch items up quicker than you can imagine and I can't even begin to figure out what a good price for any of the stuff is. Or they want you to post your size (again, how do you know??) and they'll message you or post what they have in your size. Also at least one person in every group has posted the blue-lives-matter/thin-blue-line/black-and-white-american-flag-with-one-fucking-blue-stripe leggings at least once every day since George Floyd's murder advertising them as "rare" and "hot" and whatever the fuck a unicorn emoji is supposed to mean and if that isn't the most tasteless, white woman thing right now, I don't know what fucking is.

[turtlepated]

The Ghost and the She-wolf

Part 3

------ 

Heads up, this part is HELLA long, but I’ve been wanting to get through this exchange pretty much since the beginning!

Once again, Zhuk in all his variations belongs to @monsterlovinghours​ 

Tag list: @beetlejuicebeadoll​ , @insomni-snacc​, @do-ya-hear-that-sound , @young-erstill​ 

If I missed anybody I’​m sorry! 

Rough seas ahead, me hearties ;) 

-----

When Zhuk spoke of your “stateroom”, you had assumed he was making a joke at your expense. You were his prisoner, his enemy, naturally he meant to lock you in the brig to stew on your present predicament. So when the bosun opened a door that really led into a small cabin, you were surprised indeed. Surprise that was immediately followed by suspicion. What game was Zhuk playing with you now? The bosun remarked that you would remain here until called for by the captain and that dry clothes would be brought to you in short order. He closed the door with a definitive snap and you were left alone. You tried the handle at once, but it was locked from the outside. You couldn’t stop thinking about what you had witnessed on deck, how the sea serpent had obeyed his commands and deferred to his authority as surely as any horse had ever heeded it’s rider. How was such a thing possible? You began to pace feverishly in the cramped space, feeling more and more like a caged animal and growing angrier with each passing minute. The past several months of fruitless pursuit, the frustration, the loss of your ship and your crew… had he been baiting you all along? Why unleash his monster on you now? Why not before? Why had he saved you? The questions piled atop one another like a mounting wave, threatening to crash over you as you continued to pad back and forth from one wall to the other.

Minutes or perhaps hours later, a knock at the door interrupted your agitated patrolling. A perfunctory play at consideration since you couldn’t open it even if you wanted. It opened and the bosun reappeared in the aperture with a cloth parcel balanced in one hand. “With regards from Captain Zhuk,” he said stiffly. You took it without answering and he shut the door. You lay the parcel on the bunk, eying it with mistrust. From Captain Zhuk, he’d said. You half expected it to be some sort of provocative ensemble, but you were surprised again when you untied the string, raised the neatly folded garment and it unfurled into a modest but opulent gown. It was beautifully made, sporting a sweetheart neckline that would be flattering without being revealing, a floor length skirt with a plain bustle and full fitted sleeves. You scowled at the colors, certain that Zhuk had purposefully chosen this gown to suit his own taste. The bodice was black velvet, while the long skirt, the high, open throat collar and sleeves bore vertical black and white stripes. To fasten the collar, there was a silk kerchief of green brocade provided, as well as a broach in the shape of a bright green jeweled beetle. 

Your lip curling in fury, you gave real consideration to stuffing the gown right out the small porthole over the bunk just to spite the smug cur. But the sorry state of your own clothing: ripped, torn and singed after your harrowing ordeal, damp and chilly as it clung to your skin and growing stiff from the salt, was enough to make you reconsider. Sighing harshly you changed into the dress and sat fuming on the bunk, waiting to be summoned like some ridiculous courtier. Outside the one small porthole, the light was fading as the sun set. By now you were in a towering temper and you were only a moment away from leaping to your feet and hammering on the door when it swung open once more to reveal the bosun. “This way,” he said, clipped but not impolite. You hesitated a moment before raising your head proudly and striding out after him. You may be a prisoner here, but you were still a captain of the Royal Navy and you would carry yourself with all the dignity and decorum of your office. You followed the bosun aft down the narrow passage, pausing before a large wooden door that must be the captain’s quarters. You inhaled deeply, steeling yourself as the bosun opened the door and ushered you inside. 

Zhuk’s cabin was certainly the largest on the ship, lit by dozens and dozens of gently flickering candles. Because of its location at the stern, the rear wall boasted five large glass windows. During the day they would offer the best light anywhere below decks, all the better for poring over charts and maps and ledgers. The wooden floor was entirely covered with thick, luxurious rugs from every corner of the world. An ornate bureau desk stood against the left wall, a large globe in a dark wood floor stand beside it. Positioned at the back of the room to take full advantage of the windows was Zhuk’s desk, a formidable wooden table with thick, carven legs that was scattered with charts, maps, books and the expected navigational tools. The throne-like chair stood empty behind it, broad and imposing as its occupant must be when he sat there. On the right hand wall you could see his bunk, piled with pillows and draped in quilts. In the very center of the room, underneath the wrought iron chandelier, a dinner table had been laid out with a veritable feast. 

The captain, also changed out of his drenched clothing, was meticulously lighting the candelabra and did not look up immediately as you entered. When you got a good look at his attire, you bristled. Just as you’d suspected, your wardrobe selection had been quite deliberate. Zhuk had bedecked himself in fine evening clothes consisting of a sleek black waistcoat with silver buttons, form fitting black breeches tucked into black leather boots that shone in the warm candlelight. His coat and tails, like your own outerwear, bore vertical black and white stripes. The cravat knotted at his throat was green brocade that matched the kerchief around your own neck. Zhuk did not acknowledge you until he was satisfied that all was in order, blowing out the lighting stick and discarding it. He flashed you a roguish grin as his gleaming eyes looked you up and down and you tensed, refusing to back down or squirm under his scrutiny. “Don’t you look lovely, volchitsa,” he purred. “Come, you must be famished.” He gestured grandly to one of the two chairs at either end of the table. You chose the one nearest the door, visibly tensing as Zhuk stepped closer to pull it out for you to sit. He chuckled at that, and his amusement at your guardedness only made your hackles raise higher. Zhuk settled himself in the chair opposite you with an easy grace that belied his large form. “No need for such hostility,” he tutted. “I’ve asked you here as my personal guest. Why not try and enjoy yourself, eh?” Your lip curled but you fought back the urge to rage and swear at the playful look that never seemed to leave his face. “I rather doubt that’s possible,” you replied through your teeth. 

Zhuk hummed thoughtfully, reaching for a tall bottle of clear liquid and pouring a measure into his own glass. You couldn’t read the Cyrillic lettering on the label, but if you had to guess the contents you’d be willing to bet it was vodka. He extended the neck toward you with eyebrows raised in invitation. You shook your head and watched as he raised the glass to his lips and took a long draught before setting it down with a satisfied sigh. “Why am I here?” you finally bit out, struggling mightily to remain at least somewhat civil. He paused halfway through carving the roasted chicken on a platter between you, regarding you with his glittering emerald eyes but he did not answer until he had finished serving the both of you. “As I told you on deck, volchitsa, you and I have much to discuss.” Zhuk took up his own utensils and promptly tucked in. Though your stomach was achingly empty and the smell wafting up from your own plate had you salivating, you refused to give him the satisfaction. “What shall we discuss then, hm?” you asked with cloying forced sweetness. “How you led me on a months-long merry chase all over the Pacific? Or perhaps you’d like to touch on all the pillaging and thievery, abductions and ransoms you’ve committed against honest, law-abiding men?” 

Despite your best efforts your voice was beginning to rise along with your anger. “Or maybe you’d like to illuminate me as to how it was you set a monster loose against my ship?!” You were on your feet now, your chest heaving with emotion as you glared daggers at the utterly unaffected man seated before you. Zhuk waited for you to get ahold of yourself again, demurely wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin before leaning forward on his elbows, his fingers linked together. “I rather admire you, Captain, I don’t mind telling you,” he began. “A merry chase, you called it?” He chuckled warmly. “Yes, very merry indeed. I have deeply enjoyed our little engagements, it’s been a long time since any opponent has proven such a welcome challenge. You are fearless, volchitsa, I would even go so far as to say you are reckless. As many times as I slipped your noose, still you would not alter your course. Why, may I ask?” 

You blinked, taken aback by his question. “Why? You’re a pirate! I am charged with putting a stop to your criminal activity!” Zhuk nodded solemnly, as if this was the answer he’d expected. “But of course. And you have certainly taken no half measures to do so. Do you recall that storm in the Banda Sea? Waves thirty feet high, wind that nearly tore the masts up by the roots.” You scoffed impatiently. “Of course, how could I not?” “Any sensible captain would have steered clear, gone around, found a safe place to wait it out. Yet you charged forward, right into the jaws of the shark.” “After you!” you snapped. “I won’t have you calling my leadership into question! Not when you did the very same thing yourself!” Zhuk laughed out loud at your defensive retort. “That I did, volchitsa, I do not deny it. But unlike you, I knew my ship would not founder. You had no such certainty, but it did not sway you. You knew what you were after and you pursued it with all your might no matter the cost; kak sobaka s kost’yu.” You had long since grown irritated with the verbal tennis match, but Zhuk had, perhaps unknowingly, presented you with something like a clue. Breathing deeply, you beat back your frustration at his teasing and attempted to pry more from him. “How could you possibly have known you would be safe? We were sailing through the same treacherous waters.” Zhuk chuckled again, and you could have sworn his emerald eyes shone in the candlelight. Maddeningly, he declined to answer.

“At any rate, we have nearly completed repairs,” he said. “We should be ready to sail at first light. You will remain aboard until we make port, and then you are free to go.” You gaped at him, certain he was teasing you again. “What?” you managed, unable to articulate anything more. “Wh… why? Why would you let me go? Why did you save me to begin with?!” Zhuk shrugged carelessly, as though it were of no real matter. “As I said, I admire you. It would be a shame to lose such an intrepid adversary.” You leapt to your feet, slamming both hands on the table before you and making the cutlery clatter. “I am not your plaything!” you seethed. “You have the blood of my crew on your hands, and you sit there and have the audacity to treat it like some perverse game!” At your outburst, all traces of mirth left Zhuk’s face at once. He didn’t look angry, per se, but he rose genteelly to his feet and mirrored your posture. “Carefully now, volchitsa. Do not lay your crewmen’s bodies at my feet. It is as I told you: I enjoyed our chase. It was you who elected to change the tone of our relationship with that trick you pulled. It was a very clever trick, though I doubt it falls under your rules of engagement, no?” You bit the inside of your cheek, knowing he was right but refusing to admit it, knowing that he could see that he had you. “I could not simply throw up my hands and surrender, sentencing my own men to death. You left me no choice, volchitsa. Once that bar is raised, it cannot be lowered again.” 

Your body was going numb. Was he right? You thought of what he had said about the storm, how you had ordered your crew to plunge into the tempest after the Perperuna. Hadn’t your own lieutenant urged you, begged you to turn around? To wait out the storm? You had ignored him, so fixated on the escaping pirate that everything else fell to the wayside. You had risked your life, your ship, your crews’ lives again and again in the name of this endeavor, and now you were the only one left. You sank heavily back into your seat, the room spinning as it began getting difficult to breathe. Dear God, he was right: you had brought this upon those brave men who followed you. Your obsession had spelled their doom, but you had been too blind to see it. Vaguely you realized that there was a shadow falling over you, and you turned to see him standing at your side. “Perhaps you should retire to your cabin, volchitsa,” he said gently. “It was not my intention to upset you, forgive me.” He called for the bosun, and while the two men were occupied speaking lowly in Russian, almost without thinking your fingers closed around the knife by your place setting, concealing it up your sleeve. 

Zhuk took you by the elbow with surprising tenderness as he pulled your chair back to let you stand. “I will send food and drink to you shortly. It seems you did not have much appetite.” You nodded mutely, allowing yourself to be shunted back off to your cell. True to his word, a short while later the bosun returned with a cloth sack of bread and cheese and a canteen of water. You couldn’t bring yourself to touch it, still lost in the revelation of what your actions had caused. The night dragged on, moonlight filtering into the room through the small porthole as you stared at nothing, your fingers turning the knife over and over. The ship was silent save for the lapping of the waves against the sides, the creaking of beams and the intermittent footfalls of the men. As if in a daze you stood and knelt by the door, peering through. Experimentally you inserted the blade of the knife into the opening. You took the cloth bundle, leaving the food behind and flattening out the cloth, feeding it under the narrow gap beneath the door. Rapping smartly on the handle of the knife you heard a metallic clink! and a muted thud as the key landed on the cloth. You pulled the cloth back to your side of the door, and the key with it. You took it in trembling fingers and let yourself out. Of it’s own accord your hand pulled the knife from the lock as you passed it by. The hallway outside your cabin was dark, illuminated only by one lantern at either end. To your left, at the end of the corridor, was the heavy door to Zhuk’s cabin. 

Your feet carried you mechanically forward, your mind still strangely blank. Something much deeper and more visceral was propelling you, and in the wake of the terrible understanding he had thrust upon you, you felt no compunction to stop and think about what you were doing. Your footsteps were smothered by the general ambiance of the ship: lapping waves and low voices from high over your head above decks. You watched your hand reach for the knob to Zhuk’s door but it felt strangely distant from you, as though you were not in command of it. It was not locked and the door gave with a soft creak when you pushed on it. The dining table was gone and the room dimly lit by only a few flickering candles on his desk. You moved slowly over the plush rugs as your eyes adjusted to the darkness. You spotted Zhuk reclined on his bunk, nearly obscured by luxurious tapestries that had been tacked up like bed curtains. Something cold and sharpish coiled in your gut like a poisonous snake as you padded closer, gripping the knife tightly in your fist. Your crew were gone, your ship no more, your hard-fought, hard-won career potentially over, and whatever twisted logic he had employed to confuse you, you knew it was his doing. 

Zhuk lay on his back with his arms draped across his middle, his head nestled in a pile of cushions. His barrel chest rose and fell with the soft succor of deep sleep, and for a moment some part of your brain thought how innocent he looked like that, his eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Your hand froze halfway as it raised above your head, the knife in your fist angled toward his heart. It was justice, it was cowardice, it was righteous, it was immoral, it was vengeance. Baring your gritted teeth you brought the blade down in a deadly arc, feeling the metal slice through the fabric of his tunic and the flesh beneath, a jarring grate as it met a rib and came to a stop when your fist thumped down on his chest. Zhuk’s eyes shot open in an instant, catching your gaze and holding it fast. For a terrible long moment you simply stared at one another in silence before his eyes traveled down the length of your arm to the knife handle protruding from his torso. Your mouth dropped open in shock when he looked back up at you with his usual smile. “Well, that seems rather definitive, doesn’t it volchitsa?” 

With a gasp you released the knife and staggered back until you bumped his desk, unable to tear your eyes away from the captain as he swung his long legs off the bunk to the floor and sat up. He reached down and yanked the knife from his chest with a small grunt of effort, but no blood welled forth. “I wondered what you thought to do with this,” he continued conversationally, waving the tableware for emphasis. “That is why I allowed you to take it and why no one stopped you coming in here. Most uncharitable, for a guest to stab their host.” You jumped and gave a tiny, involuntary cry of alarm when the bosun entered, flanked by two other crewmen. “Excellent timing. Gentlemen, it seems our hospitality is not appreciated. Perhaps the good captain needs time to think on her conduct. Escort her to the brig and see that she had plenty of time to reflect.”  

------

[Translation : kak sobaka s kost'yu – “like a dog with a bone” ]

Uh oh, maties!

Part 1

Part 2

[let-me-love-you-loki]

Welcome to Oblivion--Ch. 6

Chapter 6

           Roman backed his truck into the parking lot at the overlook. For a moment, we just sat there, his arm curled around my shoulders, our fingers entwined. He leaned his jaw against the top of my head. My heart pulsed in my chest, calmly but still a sort of racing tempo that made me giddy.

           “You know you can talk to me,” Roman said quietly. His fingers flexed, squeezing mine. “Even if you don’t feel like it right now, you can.”

           I turned my head, nuzzling into the curve of his chest. I took a long, deep breath and tried to sort through my thoughts. The last thing I thought would happen when I came to Grand Mountain was that I would find somebody like Roman. I certainly wasn’t looking for any kind of relationship or whatever, but he had become a friend—like Drew or Ember or even Sonya. But there was something different about it… about him.

           He made me feel giddy and warm. It was like I lit up when he was nearby.

           “Sonya and I just had a… disagreement. And she hurt my feelings.”

           Roman nodded, not prying any further. Silence was heavy for a split second. Then he pulled his arm from around me and popped the door open. He stepped down from the truck and turned back toward me. A smile worked its way onto his face as he reached out.

           “Come here, baby girl,” he said smoothly, his voice dropping low. “Let’s eat.”

           A jolt ran through my nerves, and my heart melted in my chest. He smiled at me as I moved across the bench seat and stepped down onto the truck’s runner. I let my gaze meet his, and I suddenly found myself staring into his brown eyes. His smile crinkled the corners, the early evening light turning them bright and clear.

           Roman slipped his arm around my waist, tugging me close until I was flush against his body. He easily bore all my weight with one arm, walking back from the front of the truck to the tailgate. He popped it down and settled me in a perch on the edge. His smile faded, not quite disappearing, as he watched me for a moment before going back to the front to get the food.

           As soon as he walked away, my heart started pounding. I could feel it in my throat and my limbs, could hear it in my ears. The strength of it made me dizzy. My nerves tingled with the memory of his touch.

           He came back around the back of the truck with the food. I looked up, suddenly feeling shy, as he handed me a Styrofoam cup and sat down beside me on the tailgate. He sat the bag of burgers between us.

           “Hey, Addy?” Roman said at last.

           “Hmm?” I replied, already sipping on my milkshake.

           He went quiet. When I looked over, he was messing with his hair nervously—pulling it back into a ponytail and letting it fall away again. I was reminded again how long his hair was. I hadn’t thought about or noticed it before, but now I couldn’t ignore how beautiful it was. There was a sudden image flashing in my mind—of him with his head pillowed in my lap, my fingers slipping through his soft hair.

           “I feel kinda stupid asking this, but…”

           “Yes,” I said, a small smile on my face. I had a feeling—a hope—that I knew what he was trying to say, and I wanted him to know that I wanted the same thing.

           He chuckled. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

           I shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. “As long as you aren’t asking me to hide a body or anything or kiss a camel, I’m pretty open.”

           “A camel? How… you know, I don’t want to know.” He looked down, his smile returning. “Seriously, though. Would you want to go out to dinner or something? Like a real dinner.”            Butterflies took off in my stomach. Roman was asking me out. I smiled softly. “I’d like that.”

***

           As the darkness descended over the mountaintops, Roman and I climbed back into his truck and headed away from the high-traffic areas. The university had an observatory up near the highest peak. On a clear day, you could see the sunlight glinting off building’s the stark white dome. The gravel and dirt parking lot was already filling up with the cars of other people from our class.

           I swept my hair up into a ponytail as we walked up to the entrance. There was a sign posted by the door that read “Turn off all handheld electronics.” I dug my phone out of my pocket and turned it off.

           “I read that the blue light from the screen makes it harder to see the stars,” I said, glancing back to see him doing the same. Every time he looked down at his phone, hair fell over his shoulder and into his face, making him run a hand through it to get it back out of the way. Smiling, I reached into my backpack and pulled out another elastic band. I held it out to him with my finger and thumb.

           Roman saw it and grinned. As soon as he tucked his phone into his pocket, he took the band and tucked his hair back in a knot. “Always prepared aren’t you, Addy?” Without waiting for an answer, he slipped his hand into mine. We walked in together, not quite caring about the people who were looking.

           The professor spent the first hour giving us a tour of the observatory and talking through how to use the variety of computers and telescopes. Then we took another half hour to work at some of the computer stations to understand the star charts, calculations, and seasonal rotations of the constellations. It was almost midnight before we actually did any real stargazing.

           “There’s no way to get you all at the telescope tonight, so we’ll be using your lab schedules to ensure that everyone has a chance to get some time in. Make sure I’ve signed off on the schedule you put together with your partner before you leave tonight.” The professor waved to the door that lead out onto the clearing around the observatory. “Take your blank charts out identify as many of the constellations as you can. Start at one of the main cardinal directions and work clockwise.”

           Roman snatched up my backpack and threw it over his shoulder. “Sitting under the stars with you sounds like a great night.”

           My heartbeat sped up until I didn’t think I could breathe. Roman looked down at me with his dark eyes, and I had a sudden rush of desire. I couldn’t name it or really say what I wanted, but I knew without a doubt that I wanted something.

           There was a flash in his brown eyes that made me think he knew exactly what I was thinking. I tried to keep my cool as he reached for my hand, the touch of his skin enough to make me feel like my nerves were on fire. He pulled me along behind him… a riptide dragging me out to sea.

           Outside, people had taken up places along the edge of the clearing. Some had thought ahead enough to bring chairs or blankets. Roman and I ended up having to sit on the ground, the cold seeping in as we looked up into the sky, searching for a direction to begin with.

           “Orion is easy to find,” Roman said, looking up over my shoulder. He pointed up into the Northwest sky at a triangular cluster of stars.

           Smiling bemusedly, I wrapped my fingers around his wrist and moved it horizontally across the sky “It is. If you look East.”

           Roman looked from me to his notes and back up at the sky. “Aren’t we facing South?”

           I couldn’t help but giggle. “That doesn’t change where East is.”

           After that, he followed my lead when we looked to the sky. One after the other, we mapped the stars and constellations around the outer edges of the clearing. By the time we made it all the way around, it was close to 2. Cold and grass-covered, we packed up and made our way back across the grounds to Roman’s truck.

           By the time we climbed into the cab, I was shivering. Roman turned on the heater and dug around in the backseat for a sweatshirt. After a moment, he appeared with one, handing it to me as he slid behind the wheel. I breathed deeply as I slipped it over my head, happy to find that it both smelled like Roman and wasn’t entirely nasty from being in a gym bag.

           I tucked my arms into the cuffs, snuggled my neck and chin down into the fabric, pulling the hood up around my ears. The sweatshirt was soft and warm, the edges of the cuffs frayed, the fabric worn. The black was no longer quite as vibrant as it had been when it was new, and the purple and gold Pirates written across the front had faded and cracked. It was clearly a loved garment.

           “Oh, thank God,” I whimpered as the warmth began to sink into my bones. I curled into a ball in the seat and immediately felt sleep begin to tug at the edges of my consciousness. My eyes fluttered, the world went fuzzy, and I fell asleep with my head against Roman’s shoulder.

***

           Somewhere in my dreams, I imagined that Roman was with me. That he had wrapped me up in warmth and that I could hear his voice. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but the sound and timbre of his words reminded me of home.

           “Time to wake up, baby girl,” came a voice from deep in my dreams. I sighed, curling in toward the solid warmth against my cheek.

           I woke up slowly. It took a moment for me to come to my senses. When I did, I found Roman standing by my door, his brown eyes bleary.

           “It’s time to get you inside,” he said, a warmth in his voice that made me grin. “Come on.”

           He helped me down from the truck, my backpack over his shoulder, as he wrapped his hand around mine. The lot near Felton was full, so he’d pulled up on the curb. “I can make it,” I mumbled, moving to tug off his sweatshirt.

           “I can make it,” I repeated.

           Roman smiled. “Keep it,” he murmured, ignoring my pleas and walking with me toward the front entrance. At the doorway, he sat my bag on the ground and leaned in, his forehead pressed gently against mine. For a moment, his lips were a breath away from mine. A sigh would have brought us together.

           “It looks better on you anyway.”

           And then he was gone.

[goodticklebrain]

Q&A August: Christy Burgess of the Robinson Shakespeare Company

It’s the final week of Q&A August! Let me take  you back to 2016, to my first ever Shakespeare Theatre Association conference, hosted by Notre Dame University in South Bend, Indiana. It was the last day, and the morning’s warm-up session was being conducted by Christy Burgess and the Robinson Shakespeare Company, a community Shakespeare program for school-aged kids.  After several rounds of fun theatre games, Christy asked her students if any of them wanted to perform some Shakespeare for this objectively intimidating roomful of seasoned, experienced, and elite Shakespeare practitioners and educators.

Every single hand flew up into the air.

After some negotiation, a tiny girl in a pink dress, probably not more than nine or ten years old, stood up. Awww, this is so cute. Is she going to do Puck’s “If we shadows have offended” epil— NOPE. She narrowed her eyes and spat out Cloten’s “meanest garment” speech from Cymbeline with all the vitriol of a rejected privileged white man. My jaw literally dropped. HOW was this possible?

The answer was Christy Burgess. I’d actually met Christy the year before, when I drove down to  South Bend to see a couple shows at the Notre Dame Shakespeare Festival, and she immediately overwhelmed me (in a good way) with her energy, enthusiasm, and passion not just for teaching kids Shakespeare, but for giving them ownership of Shakespeare. Every single one of her students believes that Shakespeare is theirs. I’ll never forget Christy telling me what her students’ reaction was upon meeting a professional Shakespeare company: “Oh, you do Shakespeare too? That’s cute... WE  do Shakespeare.”

On a more personal level, Christy helped shepherd me through the impostor syndrome I suffered from while attending my first conference, giving me the confidence to find my place in the Shakespeare community without constantly apologizing for being “just someone who draws stupid stick figures”. Christy builds people up, and the world is better for it.

1. Who are you? Why Shakespeare?

My name is Christy Burgess and I am the director of the Robinson Shakespeare Company.  I am a teacher, director, and have most recently been christened “Shakespeare Maven” by my friend Julia.

Why Shakespeare? There are so many reasons for “why Shakespeare”.  The Robinson Shakespeare Company starts in 3rd grade and the first day of our 3rd-6th grade class is one of my favorite all year.  Many of our young actors have waited since kindergarten watching their older siblings or young adults they admire go through the program.  The anticipation and excitement on that first day of class is palpable, because they finally get to do Shakespeare.  It’s also become something that is a little subversive.  There are times when our kids are told “you don’t really like Shakespeare” or “shouldn’t you be playing sports?”, which has the effect of “don’t tell me what I’m supposed to like!”

In a meeting, someone asked one of my students “Why Shakespeare?”  She told a story I hadn’t heard before.  It was right after her father passed, before she went back to school.  She was walking around the track at her high school and passed an elderly white couple.  The woman said to her “shouldn’t you be in school?” to which her husband responded “Mary, don’t you know that’s how people get shot?”

This young woman said “when people walk by me, they might think I’m a hood or a thug, but Shakespeare is mine, something no one can take away from me.”  

When we study plays from Eugene O’Neil or Arthur Miller, it’s the world through their eyes, but when we play Shakespeare, it’s the world through OUR eyes.

2. What moment(s) in Shakespeare always make you laugh?

Scene 3.4 in Twelfth Night always cracks me up!  There’s something about the most non-threatening duel letter from Sir Andrew to Cesario/Olivia and the forced fight that is always funny.

Mya interjects: “Is’t so saucy?” is one of my favorite lines in Shakespeare. It’s such a stupid joke. I don’t care. I love it.

3. What's a favorite Shakespearean performance anecdote?

Every now and then there’s Shakespeare magic.

When I was teaching and directing in Alaska with the Fairbanks Shakespeare Theatre, I had made a comment to my young actors about performing in the rain.  I’m pretty sure they prayed for rain, because our last performance of The Merry Wives of Windsor, it POURED.  The audience ran for cover, but nothing could erase the looks of glee on the actor’s faces.  Falstaff’s line, “let the sky rain potatoes”, pretty much said it all!

In 2017, the Robinson Shakespeare Company (RSC*) was invited, and traveled, to England to perform in Stratford-upon-Avon the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust’s Shakespeare Garden.  The New Place recently opened and we discovered that we were the first group to perform there….if the weather held out.  There were numerous sunshine dances (involving jazz hands), prayers, and wishes.  The day of the performance, there was a storm coming right for us.  It was the closest thing to magic I’ve seen.  It was as if the storm was around us.  In videos, you can see the wind whipping the costume and the slightest drizzle of rain, but we made it!

*I know, I know, the Royal Shakespeare Company, Reduced Shakespeare Company, etc. I like to think of us as the Royal Shakespeare Company’s distant (many times removed), scrappy cousins that will be revealed if we do a deep dive on our genealogy chart.

This memory might be tinged with jet lag, because during the same trip I sat in-between two 12 year olds, who only fell asleep 30 minutes before landing.  When we arrived in Stratford, we were met by the incredible Cait Fannin-Peel (my Shakespeare wife and hero).  Our bed and breakfasts weren’t ready yet, so she took us on a tour of Shakespeare’s Birthplace.  They have an amazing little stage in-between the house and the giftshop where actors were performing bits of Shakespeare.  Cait asked if we would like to perform something.  Jet lagged, sleep deprived, and thrilled, it took about 30 seconds to plan out the opening to Cymbeline and start performing it.  Tourists surrounded us with their cameras and applauded when the scene was done.  It felt amazing as a director of young people to see them confident on stage in a setting that was incredibly different from what they were used to.  We have video evidence!

4. What's one of the more unusual Shakespearean interpretations you've either seen or would like to see?

Bart Sher’s Cymbeline at Intiman changed me.  The set was simple; a red raked stage, but by being so, it didn’t need massive set changes, we were with the story the entire time.  The production was funny, moving, and stunning.

I’m frustrated by Shakespeare that tries to distract you from thinking it is Shakespeare.  I’ve been in, or seen productions, where it’s like “look at these live animals” or “explosions” or “a fake ice rink that isn’t integral to the plot and is really slick in the rain, but look, people are ice skating for 30 seconds” that are unnecessary.  I believe you should be able to wear black clothes on a blank stage and get the story across; everything else is just icing.  If not, it’s not good Shakespeare.

Mya interjects: I am broadly in agreement with Christy here, except that I desperately want MORE live animals on stage. Dogs. Goats. Rabbits. Gerbils. I don’t care if they’re not textually supported.

5. What's one of your favorite Shakespearean "hidden gems"?

I don’t know if it’s a hidden gem, but I love Henry IV, Part 1 and 2.  I think it’s such a loss when they’re combined, because they are both stellar plays for different reasons.  Yes, Henry IV, Part 1 has all the action, but Henry IV, Part 2 has phenomenal speeches and you get to see just how devious Falstaff is.  Food for powder, anyone?

6. What passages from Shakespeare have stayed with you?

This quote from Romeo and Juliet is how I feel about teaching.  During the school week, I am in 24 classes in the South Bend community, mostly in Title 1 schools.  Last year, Tuesdays were long days.  I would teach six classes at a middle school, plus an after-school program, then direct the RSC.  That was approximately 190 kids and the day lasted from 9 am-9 pm.  It wasn’t, however, so bad, because I work with really great kids.  I feel what I give to them, they give back and the days don’t feel long.

“the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.”

Juliet, Romeo and Juliet, 2.2

Also “bless you fair shrew” which I say to my dog all the time when she sneezes.  

Mya interjects: BLESS YOU FAIR SHREW THAT’S THE BEST I LOVE IT

7. What Shakespeare plays have changed for you?

The first time I saw Franco Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet, I was twelve and locked myself in the bathroom and cried.  Seriously though, who didn’t?  Do you have a heart of stone???

Mya interjects: Yes. :P

During our 2017 trip, we took our RSC to see the REAL RSC’s Titus Andronicus.  Blanche McIntyre is a badass director.  It’s easy to dismiss, Titus, but she found depth, and urgency.  The show made our company better.  

My actors still refer to the performance when we talk about high stakes and urgency.

8. What Shakespearean character or characters do you identify the most with?

I love Viola.  She goes on such a journey and her “make me a willow cabin at your gate” speech moves me every time.  We don’t get to pick who we love.  I’m really lucky that I have a sweetheart who loves me, Shakespeare nerdiness and all.

If I could be a character?  Henry V.

9. Where can we find out more about you? Are there any projects/events you would like us to check out?

You can find more about us on our Facebook page, Instagram, and our website.

Notre Dame Magazine put together a gorgeous website that chronicled the six months they had a reporter with us as well as our adventures to England!

(Back to Mya) Thanks so much to Christy for answering my questions, but, even more importantly, for raising the next generation of Shakespeareans. I, for one, welcome our new Shakespearean overlords.

COMING THURSDAY: It’s two-for-one day with the bard bros behind one of my favorite Shakespeare podcasts!

[maevefiction]

Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 42

We left the Gold Coast on February 13th, returned home for two days, then were off again…first to Berlin for a screening of ‘The Night Manager’ with a Q & A session, then on to Vietnam, where shooting began the day after we arrived. The entire experience there was life-altering, in a way. The people, who were so kind, generous, and welcoming, and the locations, some of which had never before been filmed, were majestic and evocative of a land time had, to our benefit, forgotten…but most of all, the opportunity to immerse myself in a culture I had little knowledge of was humbling, and miraculous, and I made every effort to be out and about with every spare moment I had. When production wrapped in mid-March, Jordan announced that he was planning on relocating to the area, and I found myself just the tiniest bit jealous. There was such a sense of peace there, despite such a tumultuous upheaval in the not so distant past…a testament to the human spirit, our ability to keep pressing onward, to continue to live, and even thrive. A lesson in perspective, I suppose.

Tom was due in Los Angeles on March 20th for a photoshoot, so we opted to go directly there instead of heading home to London and then back out again. The 21st was booked with interviews, which would be followed by the official ‘I Saw the Light’ premiere on the 22nd. This was the first time I’d be walking a red carpet with him, other than the brief appearance at the Cube. Though Tom normally preferred the Beverly Hills Hotel, we were staying at the Loews Hollywood due to its proximity to the Egyptian, where the screening would be held, and Sadie’s Kitchen, the venue chosen for the after party. Our room was on the 15th floor, modern décor in shades of grey, white and burgundy, with a view of the Hollywood sign…currently packed with a team of stylists, garment bags and rolling racks making me feel like a sardine in a tin. Granted, a very lovely tin, but a tin nonetheless. Tom was almost ready to go, his bright blue suit complementing his eyes perfectly, black necktie offering a bold contrast to his white dress shirt. I was still in my skivvies, one of the gals taping me into my strapless bra ‘just in case’. Despite the opportunity it created for an epic wardrobe malfunction, I was totally in love with my gown. It was strapless with a sweetheart neckline, gradient purple, near black at the top, fading to pale lilac midway down in the front and plum in the back. The skirt was floor length and full, and both a portion of it and nearly the entire bodice were decorated with silver vines and leaves, cascading downward like a waterfall. I’d opted for dark purple heels, on the thick side because I figured there was less of a risk of tripping in front of the press line that way. Around my neck was my tourmaline necklace, and my hair had been pinned up in a loose bun. As I pondered what food choices awaited me at Sadie’s, the gal announced that my tits were secure and I was instructed to step carefully into the gown, zipped up, and released into the wild to fend for myself. Tom’s hands descended upon my shoulders as I inspected the contents of my clutch one final time, making sure I had a room key, my cell phone, tissues and a Snickers bar.

“You look gorgeous, as always.”

I turned my head to meet his gaze. “You don’t look half bad yourself.” He grinned, releasing me, and I spun around to get a better look at him. “Mmm. That is a nifty suit. To the left…to the right…where will…aha, LEFT. What’s that, eight out of ten or something?”

“I didn’t realize we were collecting data. Will the results be in the form of a bar graph or a pie chart?”

“A fifty page thesis, actually. Available for sale on Amazon. I figure we can fund our retirement with it.”

He laughed, interrupted by his phone chirping. “Car’s here. Let’s roll.”

“Walk. I’m going to walk. Probably. Rolling sounds like ‘a YouTube Star is Born’. But I suppose that could fund some shit too…”

We exited arm in arm, piled into the elevator with a bunch of other fancy people I didn’t know, then climbed into the black SUV waiting for us. It was still light out, the day bright and sunny. Our vehicle was sixth in line when we pulled up to the Egyptian Theater, and my jaw dropped at how old-school big-glam Hollywood it looked, the red carpet lining the courtyard, velvet ropes and press wherever I looked. It was far from my first rodeo, but it was the first time I’d be at such an event in the capacity of ‘movie star’s plus one’. A low whistle escaped my lips.

“Wow, so we’re like, really doing this. Surreal, Tom. Sur-REAL.”

He took my hand in his, pulling my attention away from what I could see outside the window. I smiled at the sight of the excitement written all over his face. “It is that, positively. And I’m…I’m…well, I’m like a live wire, Maude. Crackling and vibrating and super charged with energy because I’m not walking this one alone, you’re going to be right by my side and…” He let go of my hand, flinging both his up in the air and waving them around jazz-style as he grinned. “I. AM. UNCONTROLLABLY EXCITED!”

I leaned in to kiss his cheek, quickly wiping the lipstick I left behind away with one of my tissues. “My god you are just too cute. Does this car have a sick bag? Because the cute is going to make me barf, for sure.” I mock-gagged.

He continued to grin like a fool as he pointed to the window behind me. “We’re up! It’s time! Let’s go, my lady. LET’S GO!”

Before I could ask for a moment to get my shit together, he was out of the car, the roar of waiting fans greeting him as he ran around to my side and opened the door for me. I took his proffered hand and stepped out into the daylight, the roars growing louder, our names being shouted above the din by press and onlookers alike. As we made our way down to the entrance, Tom stopped to sign and take selfies as long as time would allow, and then it was time for us to strike a pose. The flashes were the worst part, a ceaseless strobing that made it very difficult to focus, but mid-way through my eyes and brain seemed to adjust and I found myself having a really good fucking time mugging for the cameras with the man of the evening. The interviews were a blast, Tom taking the lead and doing most of the talking, pulling me in here and there when it was someone he’d interacted with on previous occasions or mentioned my name. We were like a comedy improv team that sang on command, and by the time we made it into the actual screening I was totally high on fun. Not exactly the right vibe for such a serious, angsty, sad movie, but in the end I was grateful I went into it with a boost because the ended pregnancy talk scene was difficult to watch even though it was the second time around. There I sat, holding back tears with Tom’s hand in mine, shaking, and me rubbing his wrist with my thumb. As soon as the credits rolled we were ushered quickly to the car, and then it was off to Sadie’s. I was a very intimate setting, the décor an eclectic mix of woods, stones, metals and glass. The food was a bit too micro for my taste, and there were moments when I seriously considered grabbing an entire tray of hor d'oeuvres and making a break for the coatroom. Tom had been indulging in champagne all evening, and Rodney’s band was in the house, so I knew that it wouldn’t be long until an impromptu jam session occurred. I’d avoided going to the bathroom since we left the hotel, and the three sodas I’d guzzled made it impossible to postpone any longer. I kissed Tom on the cheek, leaving him with the drummer whose name I’d been given but could absolutely not recall and headed for the rest room. Fitting into the stall was the first hurdle, turning around was the second, and it actually got more and more complicated every step of the way until my hands were full of fabric and my ass was on the chilly seat. Figuring out how to wipe was the Rubik’s cube of the process, and I stared at the toilet paper dispenser for an untold amount of minutes. I heard the band begin to play Move It On Over, heard them finish, then start up with Long Gone Lonesome Blues. Tom’s yodeling snapped me out of my stupor and I bunched all the fabric in the crook of one arm, tore off the necessary quantity of sheets with my free hand and took care of business like a boss. As I thanked the gods for auto-flush, I unlocked the stall, dropped the fabric back in place and propelled myself outward…right into Lizzie, who was wearing a far more practical dress that wasn’t all floaty and poufy and just waiting for an accident to happen. She grinned.

“So? Enjoying the party? Or did you come in here to hide like, you know, I DID?”

I laughed. “So far, so good. Nice to know it’s not just me who seeks refuge in bathrooms, though. But this time it’s a legit visit. Which was terrifying.”

“Maude, there are more dresses in my closet that I wound up buying because they were unfit to return then I care to count. Wine, toothpaste, hair gel, lipstick, chocolate, things I don’t even know what they are and probably don’t want to…and lemme tell ya, I know all the best bathrooms for hiding in SO many cities all around the world. The private ones with really loud fans are just…” She sighed. “Perfection.”

Washing my hands, I nodded. “Oh yeah. Peace and quiet. If they only came with a Do Not Disturb sign…”

“Oh my GOD, there’s a bathroom in a restaurant in Toronto, I can’t remember the name but I know where it is, I can see it…damn…anyway, they HAVE that.”

“No they do not.”

She nodded, walking to the stall furthest from the door. “Yes they do! Best twenty minutes of my night a few years back.” Turning, she waved. “Okay, I’m goin’ in. If anyone’s looking for me…”

“I have no idea where you are.”

She blew me a kiss. “Bless you.”

As I re-entered the chaos, I was hit with an extra-loud, slightly slurred version of Hey Good Lookin’, and I couldn’t wait to round the corner and see Tom in action. And take a video. Which I’d totally post on Tumblr because surely it was something the entire world needed to see. The band had set up on one side of the dining area, which had been cleared of tables, and they were surrounded by cast and crew, some standing and clapping, others dancing. Tom was easy to spot, and as I worked my way through the crowd, I noticed that there was a woman hanging on him, her arm resting on his shoulder as she shimmied to the beat. She was waiflike, incredibly thin and tall, taller than Tom, even, in her white stilettos, her white mini dress so short I didn’t think it would be possible for her to sit down without putting on one hell of a show. There were triangular cut-outs at the waist, and her platinum blonde hair hung halfway down her back. Her eyes were huge, greenish-grey, and beautiful, the stand out component of her heart-shaped face with its perfect Cupid’s bow mouth. I’d never seen her before and had never asked him to point her out in the film, though I now recognized her from it, and as I registered that it was the woman he was terrified of running into, and that we’d forgotten the possibility of her being there, or at least I had, my heart began to pound in my chest. Claudia. Right there, in front of me, rubbing up against my fiancé.

As the song ended everyone cheered, and she placed her hands on either side of Tom’s head, turned his face towards hers, then kissed him squarely on the lips in far too intimate a fashion and for entirely too long. I heard a few gasps, but they were eclipsed by the roaring of my heartbeat in my ears, and I fought the urge to scream as I watched him gently push her away. He turned back toward the crowd, stone-faced, and when his mask slipped almost imperceptibly I knew he’d spotted me. I wanted to run, flee the scene, disappear into the night but this was a party full of his co-workers, part of the promo, and doing so would certainly hit the gossip rags in a flash and had the potential to damage the success of the film and so I stood, and I faked a smile as he walked toward me with the woman who possessed a cache of sex tapes starring them both at his side. Once they were two feet away, she opened her clutch and pulled out what I knew to be a hotel room key, as it bore the same logo as the one in my own. Her voice was a much higher pitch than mine, volume just loud enough for both Tom and I to hear when she spoke, pressing the plastic rectangle into his hand.

“Here’s my key. Panorama suite two. I’ll see you shortly.” She turned to me, smirking, then back to him, gesturing in my direction with her thumb. “You can bring her too, if you want, even though she’s not exactly my type. That giant cock of yours more than makes up for it.”

She grinned widely at me, then walked across the room, hair swaying back and forth as she rolled her hips, finally vanishing around the corner and into the hall that led to the exit after what seemed like forever. I heard Tom say my name, and I looked up, but I stared at the knot in his tie because I couldn’t look him in the eye. He took my hand in his, which I permitted, and after his first ‘good night’ it dawned on me that one, I should do the same because two, apparently he’d decided it was time to get the fuck out of there. As soon as we rounded the same corner Claudia had minutes earlier, I pulled my hand from his. Neither of us spoke then, and when he began to do so in the car, I silenced him with a terse ‘not now’.

The ban continued as we entered the hotel, and throughout the elevator ride. Once the room door was closed and locked behind us, I held up both hands, palms toward him.

“Tom. I’m going into the bathroom. I’m going to take this dress off. I’m going to take a shower. I’m going to try and calm down and return to some sort of quasi-rational version of myself. You are going to stay out here.” I could feel the rage bubbling up, words I shouldn’t say spilling out of my mouth. “Unless, of course, you’re planning on joining Claudia, which, FYI, I am NOT.” I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for that. That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid. I’ll be out when I’m ready.”

Once safely tucked away, I focused on each individual detail of every task. Zipper down. Dress off. Hang up the dress. Tape off. Bra off. Underwear off. Water on. Test water. Step into shower. By the time I’d dried off, I once again understood that the man on the other side of the door loved me, and that I loved him, and trusted him, and that we needed to discuss what had happened because there was a side to this story I’d yet to hear, and doing or saying or thinking anything without having that knowledge would be unreasonable. And wrong.

He was sitting on the floor, jacket and tie off, shirt unbuttoned ,back leaning up against the bottom of the bed with his knees up and his head in his hands. Hearing me pad across the carpet, he looked up at me, his forlorn expression shifting briefly to one of desire, which baffled me until I realized I was naked. Knowing that he wanted me in the midst of all this was strangely comforting, and empowering. I pulled a robe out of the top dresser drawer, wrapping it around myself as I walked to the bed and sat down, his body to the left of my own. His gaze was cast downward again, and I reached out and began rubbing the back of his neck, speaking softly.

“Will you sit with me and tell me what happened?”

He nodded, rising quickly and joining me on the mattress. His eyes met mine, and he inhaled deeply.

“I had no idea she’d be attending. I didn’t even think to ask. If I’m honest, I hadn’t given her a single thought in months, not until we watched the movie here, and even then the possibility of her turning up didn’t even cross my mind for more than a few seconds…and I pushed it away as me being paranoid. As soon as I started in on Hey Good Lookin’ I felt someone to my left, which wasn’t out of the ordinary as people had been all around me since we began playing, but the someone was incredibly close, and at first I thought you’d snuck up on me and were going to join in, but when I turned to look it was…her. And there I was, in the middle of a song, in front of everyone, and I wanted to stop and get away from her but…”

It was my turn to nod. “In front of everyone. I know that feel.”

He shook his head. “I told myself to remain professional, to keep going, and I thought if I pretended that we were filming I’d be fine. Then she…she…she kissed me in front of everyone, and I just couldn’t believe it and she just kept going and I wanted to shove her off me but that would have looked…and so I did it as normally as I could and the whole time I was hoping you were still in the bathroom but then I saw you…” He paused. “And when I started toward you she came WITH me and then the keycard and what she said…then watching you keep yourself together when I knew you were…I’m sorry. So, so sorry. If that kiss makes it online…my god. I’m sorry.”

His head was in his hands again, shoulders shaking as he wept, and I recognized that this experience had been so deeply traumatic for him that he didn’t quite realize it yet, his unconsciously focusing outwardly serving as diversion. I wrapped my arms around him and held him to my chest, stroking his hair until he quieted enough to listen. When he was able to look me in the eye again, I began to speak.

“Thank you for explaining. That’s essentially what I thought had happened, and, I’m very sorry it happened to you.” His left brow rose. “What she did was so completely inappropriate…I mean, that’s not really surprising, but…yeah. Is it okay if I go through my thought process here?”

He half-smiled. “Yes.”

“Obviously, there’s a component of jealousy. That hit me first. This beautiful woman that’s been intimate with you kissed you right in front of me, and you look amazing together, and she’s tall and blonde and skinny…and the way she presented the keycard to you made it seem like you had an arrangement, a plan in place. Most of way back here all what was going through my mind was that you’d been secretly contacting her and set this all up. But, then I reminded myself exactly who, and what, she was to you, and the jealousy turned primarily to anger, directed at her, but there was still enough jealousy left to generate some serious nastiness on my part directed at YOU. And, like I said before, I wanted to avoid that because it was likely baseless and unwarranted, the jealousy. So I showered, and I listened, and DAMN that anger is way worse now and you should probably keep that room key far the fuck away from me…” I took a deep breath. “Sheese. Again, I’m very sorry this happened to you. However you want to handle it, I’m here to help. Whatever you need, okay?”

He reached out to touch my face, letting his fingertips drag across my jaw and down my neck before grasping my hand.

“I wasn’t even thinking of anything happening to me. I was afraid of what you’d think, and…”

I entwined my fingers with his. “I know. And I appreciate that. We’ve been through some shit, my dude, and I’m a runner. Or, I was. Now…you’re more important than my internal bullshit struggles.”

A smile lit up his face, but it faded quickly, replaced with fear, then sorrow, then anger over the next several silent minutes as he stared at me.

“Maude, all I know in this moment is that I’m finished being afraid of her. I remembered what you said back in New Orleans, our options, and…well, it’s time, I think, for her to know that what she views as having the upper hand…isn’t. Not anymore.” He ran one hand through his hair. “So. I’m going up there, and I’m going to deal with this for once, and for all. Unless you think it’s utter madness to do such a thing.”

My mouth dropped open as my brow rose. “Oh, it’s madness, alright. But I like it. Hmm…”

He laughed, then poked my collarbone softly with his finger. “Ah, a plan is afoot, is it?”

“No. A plan is a plan. Not a foot.” He groaned and covered his eyes briefly, gaze returning to meet mine as I continued. “Okay. Several things to consider here. Ideally, you’d do this alone. Are you comfortable with that?”

“Well, yes and no. Going in, absolutely. But when I visualize reaction scenarios, I am concerned that a situation might arise that would result in an unfavorable outcome.”

I snorted. “Yeah, as in her recording the entire exchange and then heavily editing it to paint you in a…a…let’s go with ‘negative light’.” He nodded. “The hotel security feed would take care of pinpointing when you entered and when you left, but everything in between is up for grabs, and that’s not acceptable. Having a witness seems warranted, but who’s the witness? Am I the witness? Does my bias preclude me from being reliable in reporting the truth?”

Tom nodded again. “Likely, yes. But you’re the only witness available who’s privy to all the details of the history involved, and I wouldn’t trust anyone else to maintain any sort of confidentiality.”

This was something I had zero desire to participate in, for a multitude of reasons. It was pre-Maude, and in that aspect, none of my damn business. But since Claudia’s future actions could significantly impact my life, even if said impact was short-lived, that made it potentially my damn business. Then there was what I knew…what she’d done with him, and, far worse, what she’d done TO him. Unsettling at best, rage inducing at worst…in other words, I’d be walking into a situation wherein keeping myself in check was questionable, but of the utmost importance. And there it was, another lightbulb moment in the life and times of Maude Gallagher-soon-to-be-Hiddleston. I chuckled, and he stared at me, confused, head tilted to the side as he attempted to discern what was amusing.

I patted his knee. “I’m just laughing at my own stupidity, because I totally forgot that I’m a member of your PR team and thus have a rather valid reason to accompany you since part of the discussion will include…PR. And it ALSO gives me a reason to behave myself. Total coup, right?”

His arms wrapped around me, kissing first one cheek, then the other. “Oh, yes. Check mate.”

“No, that’s just the check. The checkmate is me recording the whole exchange on my phone, which will be tucked in my bra. Or somewhere.”

He pulled back, eyes wide. “Isn’t this a two party state? I recall you mentioning that…”

“Yeah. It is. But that won’t stop me from leaking it if the need arises. You know, someone could steal my phone at any given moment. It’s totally possible. I’m forgetful. I leave things behind ALL THE TIME…”

“Maude, you are deliciously fiendish. And I love you so.”

“Aw, thank you, baby. And I’m a total hypocrite, because I just admitted to being willing to do what I believe she shouldn’t. Anyway…criminal prosecution for this sort of thing is very rare. She could sue, of course. But I don’t think I care. Do you care?”

“I do not.”

“Cool. Hopefully we’ll never need to use it.” I rose, both hands finger-gunning in his direction. “Let’s do this.”

He stood, tugging at the fabric of my robe. “Should you dress first, do you think?”

I glanced down at myself. “Oh. Right. This is not one of my ‘don’t fuck with me’ ensembles.”

Snorting, he began re-buttoning his shirt. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

“Thomas. I’m struggling to keep a firm grasp on my professionalism. Cease.”

“Firm grasp, you say?”

I pretended to not hear him and searched my travel wardrobe for something that would work, in the end opting for black leggings, a fluffy, grey, oversize turtleneck sweater and my Birkenstock boots. As I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the way out the door, I decided my choices were just the right mix of business and badassery…but a V-neck would have made hiding the phone a whole lot fucking simpler.

****************************************

There we stood, outside Panorama suite number two, me turned away from the door with my shirt lifted and bra on full display as I wedged my phone into it and hit record. Tom and I exchanged a few words, and then it was Titty Time again. I was relieved to hear the playback was nice and clear and began another session, putting a finger to my lips to let Tom know we were on the record, so to speak. He knocked loudly, then even louder when there was no immediate answer. When he paused, a clicking that could only be high heels on tile was audible, its increasing volume indicating the wearer was travelling in our direction. The door swung inward to reveal Claudia, now clad in white lingerie, a lacy bra, bikini panties, garters and filmy white stockings, all paired with the same white stilettos she’d worn to the party. She placed one hand on her hip, smirking widely.

“Well, well, well. Hello, Tom. I expected you to turn up, but not…” A thumb with a fuchsia fingernail jerked in my direction. “…her. Not exactly a pleasant surprise, but, whatever. Come on in. I’ve gotten off with my vibe three times already but I’m still SO fucking horny. Just one kiss from you, that’s all it takes…mmmm…”

Tom held up a hand, palm towards her. “Stop, Claudia. Right now. Control yourself until we’re behind closed doors, for god’s sake.”

She bit her lip. “Oh my, someone’s feeling forceful. Must be my lucky day!”

We walked in past her, and she followed after closing the door and engaging the slide-bolt lock, stopping in front of the not-so-mini mini bar to face us.

“Anyone else want a cocktail before cock?” Neither Tom nor I replied. “Well I do. I need one. Who wears a turtleneck to a threesome? Christ.”

Tom’s jaw clenched, then released as he spoke. “I’m afraid you’ve misinterpreted the reason for this visit, Claudia. Hint, it’s not for a threesome. I’m only here to have a conversation with you, one we should have had quite some time ago. Maude’s presence is due to the fact that she’s a member of my PR team, and will serve as my advisor if necessary.”

She was stunned, silent, and the fingers she’d wrapped around a bottle of rum went white with the strength of her grip. When Tom noted it didn’t appear as if she’d reply, he continued.

“I’m not going to waste my time re-hashing the past, but I will say this…I made it abundantly clear that we were done when I discovered you were secretly filming our encounters. When I also made it clear that I didn’t love you, and pointed out that I’d never given you any reason to believe our relationship was anything more than purely sexual in nature, you threatened me. You threatened to provide a detailed account of our interactions to my family and friends, you threatened to publish all of the videos you’d made online, and you threatened to ruin my career and make my life a living hell.”

She’d done several double takes during his speech, looking at me, then back at him, then back at me, as if she couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that I might be aware that something had transpired between them. She finally relinquished her hold on the rum bottle, lifting her hands in surrender. “Tom, that was…I was…I just said all that because I was angry. I didn’t mean it.”

He scoffed. “Really? You didn’t mean it? Yet you accepted a million dollar payout from me?”

“I thought we had a future, Tom. Together. The money was like…alimony.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response, Claudia. What I want you to know is that from this day onward, you are to come nowhere near me. If for some reason we find ourselves at the same event or function, don’t approach me. Don’t speak to me. And most of all, don’t fucking TOUCH me. If you refuse to comply, I will not hesitate to file a restraining order against you.” He took two steps closer to her, his face now inches from hers. “Do you understand?”

She didn’t respond, and he repeated the question, his tone far harsher, volume ratcheting up five notches on the dial.

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

Crossing her arms, she sneered at him. “You know, I still have all those videos...it would be such a shame if they went public and Maude found out what kind of person you really are…”

And there was my cue. I pulled Tom backwards and away from her, then stepped in front of him.

“Maude is acutely aware of the contents of ‘those videos’, Claudia.” Air quotes. I felt like an Office Space character for a second, and really, really wanted to tell her that if she would kindly fuck off and die that’d be great. “Opting to publish them is entirely your choice to make.”

Her laugh bordered on hysterical. “So you’re fine with ruining his career and making yourself a laughing stock? That’s cool. I’ll totally publish them then.”

I shrugged. “Be advised that there will be repercussions that will affect you personally and professionally if you choose to take such action.” She opened her mouth to speak, and I held up my hand to cut her off at the pass, my right index finger pointing up toward the ceiling. “First, since you’ll be violating the terms of the NDA you signed, a suit will be filed for breach of contract wherein we’ll be requesting both expectation and disgorgement damages. That means you’ll be on the hook for repayment of the one million dollars you received as a settlement, as well as any lost revenue Tom incurs as a result of the breach. Secondly, criminal charges will be filed under California’s Revenge Porn Law, which defines said revenge porn as the publication of nude photos or videos of a person one used to be intimate with, without their consent, with an intent to cause serious emotional distress. Each video that was filmed in the state of California would incur a penalty of a fine in the amount of $1000 and up to six months in jail…based upon Tom’s estimate as to video quantity, you’d be facing a prison sentence of up to ten years. Thirdly, and lastly, criminal charges and a civil suit will be filed for your violation of the Invasion of Privacy act. California is a ‘two party’ state when it comes to audio recordings of confidential communication in situations and locations wherein there’s a reasonable expectation of privacy. Audio that’s a component of a video is covered under this particular statute, and penalties include a fine of up to $2500 and a year in jail. Long story short, Claudia…do you want to wind up in jail? Because publishing those videos is how you wind up in jail.”

While I spoke, I’d witnessed her face first going pale, then gradually reddening until it reached a final almost-purple hue. She was shaking with rage, and I just stood there, certain she was going to attack me Dynasty lady-feud style. But she didn’t, pausing, instead to digest what I’d said as best she could and find a way around it. Her eyes, now more grey than green, narrowed as she spoke.

“My attorney will drag out your breach suit for years, and if you win, I’ll hide all my assets and file for bankruptcy and you won’t see a dime, ever. As for the rest, there’s no proof Tom never consented to filming. Same with that distress bullshit. My word against his. I’ll take those odds, and when I’m acquitted of all charges I’ll sue YOU guys for damages and take even MORE of Tom’s money.”

Raising my brow, I leaned in a little closer to her. “Tom saved all your texts and voicemails. Every. Single. One. They’re tucked away, safe and sound, on the very phone you sent them to.”

If Tom hadn’t been paying such close attention, the highball glass she picked up and threw would have hit me right in the face. He’d jerked both of us to the side, and the glass shattered when it hit the wall. With me in front of him, he propelled both of us toward the door at top speed, slid the bolt and pushed me out into the hallway, slamming the door behind him in the midst of the sound of more shattering glass and her screams of ‘get out, GET OUT’. We headed for the stairs, not wanting to wait for the elevator, rushed back to our room, entered and locked our own door, both of us unsure as to whether we were pleased, frightened, or a bit of both.

I reached up under my sweater to pull out the phone, hitting the stop button to end the recording. Tom placed his hands on my shoulders, eyes on mine.

“Are you all right?”

Nodding, I felt my mouth twist into a half smile. “That went better than I expected, honestly.” I stood on my toes and planted a kiss on his left cheek. “Thanks for rescuing me from death by assorted beverage containers. How do you feel?”

His eyes shifted down and to the side, then returned to my face. “Relieved. Like I’ve gotten some closure, and that I’m no longer at her mercy. The fear, the anxiety in regard to my past actions becoming public…that’s subsided significantly. But there’s trepidation present, resulting from her expression of violence towards you, which I’m not quite sure how to handle.”

I slipped my phone into his pocket as I wrapped my arms around his torso. “She just realized she’s powerless, and she was NOT happy about it. Probably best to let it go and hope she finds a new hobby. Or a good therapist. Or Jesus. Something.”

“Maude, if that would have hit you…”

“It didn’t, though. I’m fine, you’re fine, and…that was over the top, wasn’t it? Was she aiming for me? Or you? Or the wall? Wow, I’m kinda freaked out now.”

He pulled me to his chest, kissing the top of my head. “I’m sorry. I knew her behavior as I experienced it was abnormal, and I shouldn’t have involved you.”

I leaned back, reaching up to caress his cheek. “You realize I knew too based on your description of your experience, yes? I’m glad I went with you. She would have spun that visit in the worst way possible, Tom, if the opportunity presented itself. Now she can’t, and I’m glad for that. As for the rest…we have a plan in place if she releases the videos, and we’ll follow through with it. She knows now that you’re no longer afraid of that happening, and that you’ll fight back, and I’m thinking maybe that will take all the fun out of it for her.”

A heavy sigh escaped him. “I hope that’s the case, my love. Truly I do. And I’m not going to dwell on it, because allowing her to diminish our joy is akin to giving her precisely what she wants, and she’s stolen enough already. This shop’s doors are closed. Permanently.”

“That’s an excellent way to look at it, Mr. Eternal Optimist. The doors are closed and the shop’s in the rearview as we travel the road ahead of us into our future.”

He simply stared at me, a small smile upon his face, his eyes once again full of all those things that made me both weak in the knees and disgusted with my sappy-ass self all at once. I rolled my eyes.

“Man, you’ve gotta lay off that adorable shit. We’ve got three months to go until the wedding and when you look at me like that…I just want to say fuck it and go find a judge and do it, like, right now.” Next came the tears shining, ready to spill over. “No. Oh my god, not helping, Tom. NOT. HELPING.”

He laughed. “I’m not even sorry.”

“Color me thoroughly unsurprised.”

“I’d rather color your inner thighs with love bites.”

“That can be arranged.”

Less than an hour later, we were spooning, and I felt his breathing change as he slipped into sleep. I lay nestled against him, wide awake until near dawn, trying to force myself to stop thinking about Claudia. Her actions seemed, as I reviewed the evening’s events, to indicate she hadn’t quite…let go. Far from it, actually. I wondered what she actually wanted, after so much time had passed. Was it more money? Was it revenge? Was it still…Tom? Was it all three, perhaps? And then I found myself wondering how far someone who behaved as she had tonight was willing to go in order to get it. Whatever it was she wanted. And it shook me, so I sang our wedding song to myself in my head until I calmed down, finally dozing off reminding myself that things which were terribly frightening in the dead of night were often immediately vanquished as nonsense by the light of day.

[syxjaewon]

expiration date, part 2 ‘shed no tears for the dead’

wakes in valluria are never black and never covered in tears. water must never be given for dead things

jaewon steps off his ship dressed in ritualistic garb, long white wrap-around garments, pants that require ten strings to hold fast, a cloth sitting heavily over his shoulders, draped around his tattoos and branding, covering the scars on his body except for his forearms, the ends of it flowing off him and trailing behind him as though he himself were made of wind, formed from winter, a son of the sun, bright and blinding. his hair and mouth are covered in more fabric, the tails of which tuck down into the rest of his ensemble, parts of it tight, others loose, the designs modeled after what the ancients must have assumed death looked like. he strides slowly down the cargo bay landing door, looking like someone from thousands of years ago, eyes dulled but steady, a low smoldering gaze hooded beneath heavy, long eyelashes.

three days have gone by at a break-neck pace, jaewon’s ship breaking all sorts of interplanetary space-travel laws to get to the desert planet on time, all throughout which, her captain barely speaks, barely eats, sleeps even less. three days have gone by and he is devoid of thunder, no color to speak of, the kaleidoscope of his temper landing flat like a base note, a monotone, broken only by the extensively higher rate of cigarettes he’s taken to inhaling, seemingly always lighting one up or snuffing it dead, going through more than three pack in a single day. he answers nothing about the funeral, nothing about vera, nothing about valluria, except to say they’ll only be there for a day and a night and they leave again at first light. and if anyone wants to attend, he won’t stop them.

he is not himself and he doesn’t try to be, doesn’t try to extend out, arms reaching, voice calling, burning like the head of a lighthouse, the way his crew is used to seeing him do, doesn’t try to hear them, see them, understand them; much like the ghosts who latch themselves to his wrists, his shoulders, his back, he wanders through the ship in the middle of the night, reminiscently disembodied, disengaging with anyone who attempts to get too close, to ask too many questions, want for too many details.

he tries to keep himself busy, but his mind always returns back to that same white-noise place, where a thousand memories squeeze and crush themselves inside his head, a thousand images flashing at once.

when the ship lands, kyoji meets him, gives him the proper attire necessary for his position in the wake, neither of them speaking much to each other. they gather with the others a short walk away, previous crew members who are happy to see jaewon, albeit not under these circumstances, the group of them heading towards the fringes of the lowkey city, where the dusts and sands swirl together in miniature tornadoes, the sun howling down on them all. he’s missed these people, these half-hidden faces, all older than him, congratulating him on surviving as long as he has, using the name “rat” synonymous with “friend.” they all know a piece of him, of who he was as a child, of who he can’t indulge any longer with the crew he’s with now, asking him just what you’d expect of old friends catching up on each other in hushed voices as they make their journey; has he married yet? still a grenade of a boy? how’s the ship, is she still flying true? still as beautiful as ever, despite the loss of her first love?

somewhere in the distance behind him, he can almost hear serenity crying for vera— figures one of them ought to be.

the arrangement is simple: kyoji and jaewon, named as family, sit at the forefront, dressed the same, kneeling in the sand, facing east while the sun looms along the western hemisphere, while behind them, everyone else kneels the same way, all in the same color, all with the same sentiments, and for the duration of the funeral, turning to the west is taboo. before the gathering is a single flat, square stone, noticeably grey a few centimeters above the sand; beyond it an altar, stone and incense, burning vallurian brews and spices, creating the inescapable scent of cinnamon, three shamans, and a large pyre with a corpse-sized box atop it.

they burn her body, the fire raging higher than anything jaewon’s ever seen before, but can still somehow relate to it, eyes caught in the flames, the cackling of the heat sending him into a daze for most of it. he listens to the shamans’ song, the holy rite passed for her spirit, the ghoul of her life collapsing down into dust inside the coffin held high away from them, and something inside him wants to be able to see it. to see vera, to come closer to her, to comfort her— as though she might be scared trapped inside that enclosure, as though he could hold her arm the same way she had held his every time he’d come to her, broken from nightmares and memories and demons.

illaia….. illaia…..

the word repeats itself over and over inside his head and he has to fight against the lump that keep rearing up in his throat, fight against his own heart breaking itself against his ribs, fight against the urge to stay here, rooted to the dunes of his homeworld. the wind kicks up the sands against his clothes but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, doesn’t sway. we are born of the desert, kyoji once told him, we are as much earth and stone and sky and light as we are flesh and bone; we do not let anything overtake us.

finally, the fire simmers out, the collection of her ashes and remains compiled, and they call him forward, initiating the next phase of the wake: the jan’hazal. jaewon swallows and inhales, bringing himself up, steeling himself against the tremble in his legs, the wavering of his soul, reminds himself he must be mountain, he must be lightning. he’s not ready for this, he doesn’t want to say goodbye, doesn’t want to give her up, doesn’t want to be here at all right now, inhaling the dusk, but he stands anyway and approaches the grey stone, shoulders back, the line of him tall and straight and shining. the way vera taught him to be.

he turns towards the west, the setting sun casting long, orange lines across his clothes, coloring him in the shades of his surroundings, of his history, of his people, and kneels down again on the stone, his arms outstretched for the shamans to unwrap his headdress and shirt off him, revealing his face, head, torso, and arms. blonde hair whips against his forehead and ears, sand scratching against his skin, but he doesn’t move, gaze locked on the setting sun as the mourners before him watch. two of the shamans begin painting his face in red dust, his neck, his shoulders, regardless of the scars or tattoos embroidered on him, a testament to the fact that no matter what else he does to his body, above and below the flesh, these sands will always remain on him.

the third shaman stands before him a few feet away, eyes black, features somber and serious, the urn in his grasp, and jaewon already knows this rite. “you have been named as the vigilant. you understand this.”

“i understand this,” jaewon answers.

“you are to take the remains of this woman into the desert. you are to ride an hour to the west, chase kalidasa until you can follow no more, until all light leaves the sky. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

“you will stop. you will bring body and dust together, allowing her to rejoin the sands from whence she came, so that she may unite with her lineage, so that her essence will once again flow with the darkened waters of the world below, where all time stops. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

“you will wait there throughout the night, you will keep vigil for her passage. vanashim the great witch, the howler, will come to you to tempt you with exhaustion and with hunger. you must not surrender. take nothing, believe nothing. keep your watch. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

“when kalidasa returns to the sky, travel to the east and return. remember, young vallurian… shed no tears for the dead. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

finger-painting finished, jaewon stands and receives the urn, small, hot, white, pretty unassuming considering the storm of a woman it used to be, and is re-wrapped in his headdress, torso still bare, red skin still on display. they lead him to a hovercycle and he gets on it, securing the urn, securing his footing, securing his lungs, his heart, his hands. don’t break. gold eyes flicker back to the rest of the still-seated mourners for only a moment, a strike of weakness, uncertainty, fear, dread, pain.

and then it’s gone again, shoved down into the corners of him as he clenches teeth tightly, eyes sharpening to knives, pinned on the horizon. white-knuckles grip the handlebars, the engine revving as sand spews outwards, the machine launching him into the dimming orange sunlight.

*****

the night is long and dotted with bright stars, smoke gathers around chimney tops in this sleepy desert town, some of the older crew rally to reminisce in taverns and bars, between beers and laughter, stupid stories about vera in her youth, about jaewon as a pre-teen, about the days when the skies were clear and much less charted, much less ruled, the edges of space still mysterious, still full of dragons and whirlpools, the days of real pirates, real deep-space hauntings. they sing old glory days songs, forgetting some of the words, making up others, they remember their last conversations with vera, their last goodbyes to the ship, their last voyages out into the black.

it is a night for endings, a night for expiration dates, everything letting down, the dust settling, the sands breezing, the air still scented with spices. there are glows that follow footsteps in the streets, lighted beacons to warm serenity as she sits and keeps watch, facing the desert still, facing the long edge of the world still, rigid and calm. everyone else tucks away their tabs of life, tucks away this chapter, says goodbye in their own small or large way, to a woman who’d always somehow managed to be stronger than anything that challenged her.

and only serenity sits and listens to vera’s son, the scarred boy, screaming into the dark, miles and miles away, the broken boy, tearing at the sands for all he’s lost.

*****

when the captain returns to his ship at first light, as promised, he is dusty, sandy, messy, and golden, the dunes of valluria having painted the bare skin of his chest bronze, the red paint on his face chipped, smudged, already half worn off. no shirt still, but the cloth for his headdress is slung over his shoulder as he strides through the metal gate, lips chapped and solidified downwards into a permanent frown, his brows heavy and dark, gold eyes blazing and resentful, the sun in him scorching and exhausted. he wants a damn shower and a cigarette, he wants to get back to his job, he wants to get off this world— this world that has seeped into his bones, dried him free of blood, fused itself to his life unwanted, each mountain his birthmark, each city an open, gaping wound.

he cannot cry, so instead he burns. he burns the same way everyone on valluria burns.

with a fist, he hits the intercom that connects to the bridge. “captain on deck. get us the hell off this planet.”

[shonacollins]

First Meeting

Within our first meeting it was a time for our group to get to know each other and put forward our ideas to what sort of brand and unique selling point we wanted our brand to have.

We got started extremely quick and work so well because we all had a similar idea on what sort of brand, we wanted to be able to create. We first decided on our brand garments being for special occasions making them luxury items post covid. We then instantly decided that our unique selling point would be for plus size women, we chose plus size as out USP as we all believed that there is a gap in the market for plus size women especially in luxury garments. Once we had the focus of our brand decided we then proceeded to branch off from our garments and focus on the ideal customer for our brand therefore making them our target audience. We chose to keep our sizing between 16 to 30, this is due to being a small brand we wanted to keep our size range small but still accessible to plus size women, with the aim for our brand to grown which we can then take the steps for our brand being open to bigger women in the future. We want to keep our prices affordable but still higher end and more upmarket than your average high store shop. We chose to keep out price range within £50-£150 spending on the item. We chose these figures as an estimate for our garments as we wanted to make sure plus size women have the chance to experience luxury, high quality garments catered to flatter them in all the rich places whilst also making them feel comfortable Aswell as glamorous no matter what size you are. The thought process behind the pricing was from taking inspiration for House of CB and how much they charge as we aim to provide the high quality a luxury items and service that they also do. We then moved forward into deciding initial colours for our garments, we all thought that we should stick to classic colours, including black, white, and pink. For our brands clothing as it is currently only a small brand, we wanted to make sure all our clothes are wearable and there will be high demand for them, whereas in the future we could expand into bright colours, patterns as well as several varied materials as we grow, and more people get to know our brand and quality. The items we chose to focus on initially are dresses and co words e.g., tops and trousers/ tops and skirts. This is because these are classic evening clothing that are wearable and suitable for all evening occasions. We also agreed on our garments being different shapes and lengths to give a variety of options for our customers on what suits them the best. We also want them materials to be stretchy but thick and luxurious for example duchess satin as it is stunning quality Aswell as being less expensive giving us a higher profit compared to using satin of silk.

Vision a Purpose:

To make pause size women feel empowered, confident, and sexy in a voluptuous silhouette as well as producing attainable items with a luxury aesthetic.  

Slogan:

“Stand out, Show out.”

Promotion:

As we want our target audience age range to be between 18-30 years old we decided we would use social media as a huge focus on promoting our small business. This is because this is how many people grow there business’s instead of advertising. As our target age range is well known to social media, we believed it would be the best way to put our brand on display for everyone to see. We decided on creating an Instagram for our page Aswell as using lower states plus size models/ influencers to promote our Brandy wearing it in their pictures. We would use lower stars influencers as it would fit our budget as it can cost a huge amount of money for influencers to promote brands on just one Instagram post! We as a group believe this would be the perfect way to promote our small business because it is the way forward for promotions and can grow your small business so fast as well as get you company name known.

We also decided another form of social media Tiktok would be a massive help in growing our business as it is known for growing small businesses, therefore we would need to post lots of content videos about our business and brand to help get our videos on the for you page and help people interact with them as any single video created could blow up and be seen by thousands of people. Therefore, I believe these forms of social media would be the perfect way to help our business become more well-known especially to our target audience.

I then went onto researching into some of the brands we admire and want to take inspiration from to help make our brand the best it could be. I firstly started to research into House of CB as from personal experience the quality and make of their garments are such high quality which we want our brand to also be to make the item luxurious. House of CB “design everything they release in their London design studio, by hand. They design months ahead and make sure that the quality and fit of their pieces are perfect for you. From sketch to store, everything is created from scratch in house by their team of incredible designers and creatives, just for you.”  House of CB’s founder Conna Walker started her successful business from her bedroom at the age of 17! Now 28 years old. Her business now has 3 Million Instagram followers and stores across the U.K. and USA. Conna Walker is inspired by “iconic women, killer curves and all things empowering. She wants women to feel sexy and powerful simultaneously when wearing House of CB. So that is exactly what she created, a brand that makes pieces for real women who own their femininity. "From House of CB’s stands for it is the perfect brand for us to be inspired by as we want our brand to also make women feel empowered within their own body and feel sexy within our garments specially designed and made for plus size women to insinuate their body in all the right places. Therefore, House of CB is an inspirational brand as we want to aim to make high quality, luxurious clothing for women and become a well know, high market high street brand. Ranging from size 4 to 16 Uk size chart, we want to expand the market and make plus size women also be able to wear such beautiful and high-quality garments, showing there is a gap in market for our unique selling point of plus size women, which is why I believe our brand could be a tremendous success for a high street store.

[elegiesforshiva]

Ghosts XI: Medicate

Masterpost

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“It's medically futile,” Tsunade says, latex gloves slapping harshly as she all but rips them off.  Sakura leans against the sink and hones in on the plip plop of the leaky faucet behind her.  She tries to swallow the burning feeling in her chest but finds her mouth is dry.

“There's no family to notify, is there?” Shizune asks.  She is wringing her hands together again, as if it they will leak a miracle cure if she twists long enough.

Tsunade scoffs.  “No.”   She tosses her gloves into a plastic bin and stares down at the linoleum tiles by Yuuto’s bed, arms crossed. “Just Kakashi.”  The sporadic beeps of the EKG monitor cuts through the air—a haunting mantra.  Sakura tries to block it out.

“Sakura-san, you're quiet,” Shizune says.

“What's there to say?” Sakura asks, her eyes tracing the strands of damp, teal hair.  She thinks of the white droplets that had drifted outside her bedroom window.  “He'll be dead in a few hours.”

Tsunade and Shizune don’t respond to this.  Shizune continues to fidget nervously and pretends to look over the chart.  Tsunade clinically studies the body in front of her.  Her face is a trained expression built from the purple beneath her eyes that harbour too many years of disappointment.  

“We’re fucked if we don't eventually find an antidote for this,” she says.

“We will,” Sakura says, her nails biting into her palms.  The words come out with more passion than thought.  She has Yuuto’s smile playing in her head, the carefree one that was there before the more careful ones started to come.  Now he’s this, and his clan will be no different.  It’s just like those two little orphan boys, kin lost like shogi pieces.  

Sakura’s hands are shaking.  “I’ll be in the lab,” Sakura says, because she can’t stare at Yuuto’s lying in his white grave anymore and something has got to give.

“S—Sakura-san,” Shizune calls, half surprised, and half admonishing. “You should res—”

“Don't come back out until you have something,” Tsunade interrupts, “I’m sick of this, we’re running in circles.” She shifts, meeting Sakura’s eyes.  “And I want you to be the one to meet with the Hokage.”  

Sakura’s breath catches in her throat, not harsh enough to make a sound but enough for her to feel it.  This is a statement—an honor that speaks of her coming advancement.

But it feels like a punishment.

“Yes, shishou.”

Sakura is barely present on her walk to the lab room, hardly registers the greyness of its features.  Her head is swimming in white pulses, her steady hands possessed as they reach for beakers and measuring cups and not-so-docile lab rats.  She has to do something.  They’re going to die.  A whole clan.  Another family.  Lost to political warfare and this time there won’t be a survivor.  The guilt, the guilt—the pulsing.  Her head roars.  Her heart aches.  

She has to do something.

Her notes are sloppy but her solutions and procedures fastidious.  Cancer she thinks.  This thing is like a blood cancer.  It spreads quick and confuses the body.  Her previous antidotes have all been much too gentle.  She needs something aggressive, like chemotherapy, but maybe with more precision.  She needs the patient to live through the treatment.

Eventually she injects a new solution into four new rats, writes copies more notes, and heads off into another lab where the first rat had been implanted with poison.  She looks down and exhales forcefully, fingers trailing along an unbearably stiff and cold body.  

Rigor mortis, she knows, staring into its dead, dead eyes.  She remembers sliding the needle in its lithe body and embraces the guilt that comes with taking an innocent life.  In truth, it lasted much longer than she thought it would.  But it’s dead all the same and it’s her fault.

Sakura slides the eyelids shut and remembers she did this with her okaasan too.  She whispers half apology, half prayer and turns off the lights before leaving the room.

When Sakura returns from her shift, she returns with a body made of lead.  She wonders how the sheer weight doesn’t have her plunging past layers of dirt and into the molten hellfire of the planet’s mantle.  She wouldn’t mind it if it happened.  Not right now.

She desperately wants to pass out on her bed, to strip off this cognizant despair and slip into blissful unawareness.  But she worked with chemicals that were far too strong today.  She doesn’t bother to turn on any lights as she sheds off her clothes in the hall and slugs into the bathroom.  

She has to pat around cold tiles to find the knob for the shower, but once it’s on, Sakura finds she might even prefer bathing in darkness.  She scrubs herself quick with full intention to leave fast, but the water is too warm and outside too cold.  She sighs and tilts her head up to meet the warm spray, mind falling through the wormhole of away.  Towards a graveyard and into the embrace of a black and white ghost.

Teme would do anything for you.  Naruto had said.  The bastard loves you!  And Sakura was absolutely certain he was out of his mind to suggest such a thing.  Sure, she had thought, maybe Sasuke thinks he loves her.  He’s got so little left of what once was, he probably clings to all things familiar like a child to a mother’s palm.  She knows this and doesn’t blame him for it.  Still, that’s not love.  Not the sincere kind, anyway.  

But that morning, she saw it—felt it.  The respectful distance, and yet, the tenderness and acknowledgement in his gaze.  That instinctive knowing, gut churning.  Familiar, but foreign.  Powerful.

Sakura throws her head back and cackles at the absurdity of it all.  The sound is disturbing and high pitched behind the rush of water, but it does not compare to this harrowing game of push and pull with the loves in her life.  It’s too bad Sasuke electrocuted her in a genjutsu.  It’s too bad her mother swallowed pills till she dropped dead.  Oh, how she just wanted to drown in the white torpor.  Anything to shut it off.

Sakura walks back into her bedroom dripping wet, too tired to bother finding a towel. Her eyes lazily take in the sight of her room, illuminated by the pale blue of her open windows.  It’s slightly messy, small appliances and clothes scattered here and there, which is a sure sign she’s been doing better, despite it all.  

Her eyes set on the black cloak sitting on the floor in the same place she had numbly tossed it in when she had returned to her apartment.  It is the one article that seems out of place.  It is ghastly, threatening, and somehow—in Sakura’s exhausted mind—the most inviting thing in her room.

She lifts the cloak off the floor steadily, and is once again taken aback by the weight of the material.  Languidly, she presses her nose to the fabric and is hit with the sweet smell of petrichor intertwined with a 12 year old genin she once knew.  Sakura sighs into the cloth, and she could almost feel a sweeter version of Sasuke with her then, palming her waist.  No more games.

She lays down on her bed, wrapping the thick cloak around her nude form, and a slight breeze wafts into the room, chilling the air.  Sakura bundles the black garment closer and it sticks to her wet skin like a coat of glue.  She’s so tired and so far that she sinks her face into the cloth and imagines.  His powerful chakra hovering over hers, his stern, stern gaze, his deep musk—it all crawls through her then.

How did she used to think of him, again?  With his chest bare, and eyes hooded, and that permanent frown on his face quirking in anticipation.  She thinks he’d be easy, despite it all. He’s been so starved of love, he couldn’t say no.  She would usurp him from his throne with a reverent kiss against his jaw and a cradle of his nape.

His eyes—those intense, meticulous eyes, that can rake through every emotion with a glance—is submerged in pure, unadulterated need.  

Sakura, he says in her mind, almost teasingly.  His hands trailing down the length of her side.  You’re still mine, aren’t you?

“Always,” she breathes.  “Always yours.”

Good.  And he kisses along her collar, shapes her breast against his palm before plucking at the peak.  She likes him this way.  Touching her lewdly, murmuring hotly and not even meaning to.  His hand tucks itself between her legs, and a single digit drags her moisture up and down and Gods, she aches.  Then he circles around her hidden gem and she is mewling.

Sakura, I love you too. He’d suck on her lobe and move along her jaw.  Always have.  He whispers, and it didn’t feel empty to think of it as real when she was younger.  Always will.  Sometimes this did.  But everything dissolves when a finger manages to brush a puckering nub, making her cry out.

It’s fucked up, Sakura knows.  It’s fucked up how she has a panic attack over him one night, then masturbates to the thought of him the next.  But as Sakura imagines his eyes on her, his hand on her breast and his finger strumming her sweetly instead of her own, she can’t get herself to care.  She is too fucked up.  Too fucked up and too tired and she never gets wet this fast, and gods does it feel so good.  She wants him.  She needs him.  

In moments she’s gasping and moaning, gripping his cloak as her hips buck off the bed.  Her hand spasms as she moves her fingers harder and faster.  Then her mind blanks and her back arches.

And Sakura swears she can feel him then—his chakra spasming with hers, his eyes ablaze and roaming, his sage scent invading her.  She can taste the burden of eternity on his tongue, she can hear his desperation inside his (no doubt) stifled grunts and hot breath and—oh how we need this—him finally filling that persistent hollowness as he sinks into her.  Her hips buck into her hand, her lips part to cry nonsense.

Her first orgasm violently tears through her, and she is so starved and needy, she moves a single finger in and out of her to get started on a second. She only tires out as her fourth ripples through her—the tips of her fingers, her toes, and her heavy heart. She buries her face in the cloak then, gasping for air against the thick material, mind swimming in an immortal circle.  

It’s the moon that she sees first, when her senses resurface.  A full moon painted in the sky with rich yellows and whites.  And Sakura doesn’t think about what she’s just done because she doesn’t want to.  But there’s remnants of Sasuke everywhere, and it’s haunting and easing all at once.

The moon doesn’t look right.  Too white.  Too yellow.  It’s skewed through the window.  Genjutsu, she thinks.  No.  Paranoid.  It’s the adrenaline—the orgasm.  You’re being paranoid.  But she can’t help it.  

Sluggish, Sakura raises a sticky hand up towards her face, still panting from the aftermath of her last climax.  Her eyes focus on one particular tree, black bark shadowed in the foliage.  Two fingers stretch out, and the others curl in—the hand sign for ram, but she doesn’t circulate her chakra.  She inhales against the cloak again, reminds herself it’s okay.  Baby steps.  We’ll check just this once.   (She’s getting better, she thinks, but isn’t sure.)  A breeze slips through the night and then her chakra pulses.  Kai!

...nothing.

Sakura’s hand drops to fist into Sasuke’s cloak, relieved.  She catches her breath, shuts her eyes, and lulls away.

.

.

.

And she dreams of that strange man again.

“And here you call me the ridiculous one,” she says, in a body that feels like a distant home, sprawled along lush green beside him.  The sun is molten hot, but the draft of wind settles cool and perfect.  She can see it sweeping up the loose tresses of his dark fringe.  “How could you ask for that?  I’m surprised he didn’t behead you.”

“I can have whatever I want,” he says, calm and matter-of-fact.  “I’m a deva.”

She stares up, thinking how every inch of him falls in tandem with his words.  The blase confidence and mystic beauty echoes all over.

“How arrogant of you.”  She stretches her arms out and sighs, heavy and dramatic, and frought with a taunting quality.  “Will you ever learn?”

“Guess not,” he says, in utter apathy.  For a debilitating moment, she thinks that maybe she’s offended him.  But then she turns and sees his coy smile.  

His slender fingers roam over the fine green blades, then plucks a flower out of the field.  “But if it’s so important I learn philosophies of complacency, I’ll let you teach me.”  His lips thin, although she thinks he might be trying not to smile, Sharingan eyes pretending to study pink petals.

She snorts.  “How gracious of you,” she mocks, propping up on her elbows to face him properly.  “And it’s not complacency.  It’s peace,” she says, “There’s a difference.  And it’s a difficult way of life even for someone as humble as me.” She ignores his mocking scoff.  “You’re so stubborn, it would take more lifetimes than I have to offer for you to learn such a thing.”

“I'll just have to give you some of mine, then.”  He tucks the small flower neatly in her hair, brushes her dark tresses out of her face.

“I hope not.  You’re a descendent of Kaguya,” she says, slides a hand to pet the plush petals on her head in approval.  It feels soft, velvety.  “No matter the era, you’re our guardian.  We need you.”

“I didn’t realize I requested a novice’s cryptic reading of my soul,” he says, and his smile only grows when she tilts her chin up and pops out a pink tongue.  “Well, if that’s the case, there’s always my otouto,” he says, looking back up towards the sky.  “Dull-witted as he can be, I think he could carry the torth in my absence.”

“Ah, your brother.” She sighs, closing her eyes and nuzzles her face in the mossy grass.  The smell is fresh, and pollinated and she loves it.  Almost as much as she loves the sound of his voice. “I’m not so sure.  He is wonderful, but he is not you.”

He scoffs.  “He is not wonderful.”

She giggles light and edges close enough to press against his leg.  When she looks at his face she sees a beacon of tenderness in his gaze.  It’s beautiful, shining inside the contrast of ruby eyes and the sapphire liner coating his bottom lids.  “Those gifted eyes give you away, my deva.  He is dear to you.”

He looks down at her then, stares for two beats too long, and reaches to trace the curve of her cheek.  “You are dear to me,” he breathes.  

She sighs in mock disappointment in his grasp.  “And we have come full circle,” she says, fingers reaching to explore the edges of his yukata.  “With you wanting that which can’t be had.”

“Oh?” He asks, then lowers himself so dangerously close, his hand sliding down the curve of her jaw, tilts her chin just enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath on her lips. He whispers, low and husky, “Are you not to be had?”

Her hands knot in his white yukata.  He’s so close that maybe she can’t see his mouth, but she sees the mischevious smile in the creases of his taunting eyes.  “N-no.”  She gulps, before regaining her footing.  “I’m struggling to get away from one man, I’m not going to tether myself to another,” she says, defiant, before pushing against his chest with a playful shove.  “And certainly not to one as impossible as you!”

His smile widens incrementally. “I beg to differ.”  He brushes his warm fingers along a sliver of her exposed collar.  “I think you want this impossible man.  And who better to suit an impossible woman?"

She laughs.  “Is this how you court, my deva?  You ‎Ōtsutsuki have awful etiquette.”

He hums before lying backwards, pulls her close enough for her to meet the heat of him.  “Another subject you’ll need to teach me,” he murmurs into her hair.  “Maybe you should ask your otousan to relieve you from that busy schedule.”

“Oh yeah?” she asks.  “On what pretense?  I don’t think he’ll approve if I tell him it’s to flirt with an arrogant ass.”

“International relations,” he suggests.

“Mmm,” she sighs contentedly, inhaling the scent of sage.  “If only,” she says.  “Gods, I really miss you all the time.  I wish we could steal more of these moments.”

She feels him stiffen, before he eases her off him and sits up again.  His voice is still soft, despite the sudden density in his tone.  “You know we can.”

She frowns.  The ground feels rougher than before, and almost painful compared to the contrast of his warm body.  She turns from him and stares at the field of flowers, not feeling a single one.  “Not this again.”

“I’m not going to stop,” he says, and when she steals a glance, she sees him staring at her with a frightening, wolfish quality. She can’t tell if he wants to violently attack her or slowly undress her.  Probably both.

“Another token of your stubbornness, huh?”  she says, meeting the haughty challenge in his voice.

“My name and power is known everywhere.  Fool that Puloman is, he won't say no if I asked for your hand. You’re the one who invites me on these little trips, only to say you don’t want me,” he says, sounding calm, but she knows he’s frothing at the mouth with a well fermented bitterness.  His eyes always give him away.  “And you won’t even give me a reason.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that some matters are private?”  She asks, before sitting up, shoulders squared and arms crossed.  “I’m not doing this again.  It’s none of your concern, Ind-”

“It is,” he hisses, leaning forward.  His arms shake, as if they’re holding back from reaching forward.  “You are my concern.  I’d have dropped this ages ago if it wasn’t absurdly obvious that you’re not refusing me because you actually want to.”

“Gods, you really are arrogant,” she says, feeling hot all over and not in a good way.

“Are you denying it?”  He asks, lifting a short brow.

She thinks to spit at him.  She hates how sure of himself he is, how there isn’t a pinch of vulnerability in his expression because he’s so damn dogged in his convictions.  

But it’s why she loves him too.  

And she remembers that more and more the longer she stares at that beautiful, regal face.  “No,” she finally says.  “I want you—a fact I wish I could refute.”

She sees the tension in his jaw slacken, and then his arms finally come to palm her cheeks on each side.  His fingers are callous but perturbingly gentle.  “Just tell me,” he says, and leans his head close.  Close enough for her to feel his hot breath fanning against her mouth. “Tell me, and I will fix it.  I am no one’s guardian more than yours.”

She melts into his touch, more than she expects to. The tension rolls out with her words, the tumult of years sitting on the tip of her tongue.  “My imouto is everything to me,” she says.  “Don’t you understand?  You have a little one too.  I can’t leave her there with him,” she pauses, searching, “She’s…she’s not like me.  She’s good.”

He frowns, pulls his right hand away to gently wind his fingers through her clenched fist.  “You haven’t been telling me everything.”

“I thought you would have figured it out,” she murmurs, breaking away from that hot look in his red eyes.  “A cruel king is a cruel king.  Maybe we have privileges, but we are his subjects too.”

“You are not subjects, you are family.”

“Some would argue there’s no difference.”

“Some,” he parrots mockingly, turns his head away, “the only person who thinks that is my idiot otouto.”

She lets out a breath that is as much amusement as it is relief, before sinking forward into his chest.  “I happen to agree with him, you know.”  He ignores that. 

“I guess I have no choice,” he mumbles, rubs her arms repetitively, like he’s trying to keep her warm.  “I’ll have to take you both.”

She snorts.  “Still as ambitious as ever,” she says.  “What will you do?  Abduct us?  You would start a war.”

“I wouldn’t abduct you,” he scoffs.  “I have some tact, you know.”

“So a diplomatic approach then?   Would you marry the two of us?” She hears him nearly choke on his spit, his chest rumbling as he clears his throat.  “I suppose you could,” she muses, and she fingers the pale skin around his neck, palms his nape soothingly. “Polygamy isn’t celebrated in your culture, nor is incest.  Your otousan would probably have your head for it. But you could.”

“Shut up,” he grunts, before tenderly pressing his lips to her temple.  The pressure lingers sweetly before he pulls away.  Her stomach is in knots.  “I’ll find a way.”

She hums, trying to hide the heat in her cheeks by keeping close to his chest.  “You and your circles,” she chides, tracing rings on his skin—a sore excuse to touch him.

He takes her hand in his, lifts to fit the back of her fingers against reverent lips.  “All for you, my love,” he teases, mouth trailing over to the underside of her small hand.  She feels him smile against her palm.  “All for you.”

The meeting should be more formal than this.  But they’re Team 7, with experiences as loving and loaded as they come, and it extinguishes all the facades of etiquette.  Kakashi looks exhausted as ever, staring blankly at a piece of paper in front of his desk.  Naruto, who has nothing better to do than pretend to prepare for his inevitable promotion to Hokage, is slurping noodles by his desk.  

Sakura helps herself to a corner by the window, just far enough so she doesn’t have to smell the heavy broth of his ramen. “Yuuto Ashi is dead,” she says.  

Kakashi doesn’t look at her, but his body is tense all over.  If she thought he wasn’t reading the paperwork in front of him earlier, she’s sure of it now.  “When did he pass?” he asks and his voice is even enough to fool most.

“This morning,” Sakura says.  “We’re still working on the antidote.”

Naruto, for once, is quiet, occupying his mouth with clumps of noodles.  His eyes are keen, attentive to his sensei more than his teammate.  Kakashi folds his fingers together and leans back on his chair.  “Do you think you’re close?” He asks.

Sakura hesitates, before her eyes fall on her lap.  She gently slides her hand along her thigh, smoothing her skirt instead of wrinkling it with her distraught.  “I always think I’m close,” Sakura says, and she can’t quite manage to keep the regret from her voice.  “But it’s more like an infection than a poison.  Every time I think I’m finally going to kill it, it adapts.”

“Hm,” Kakashi hums in mock nonchalance, despite the quiet terror in his eyes.  “This is more serious than I thought.”

“This is connected to the incidents in Suna, isn’t it?”  Sakura asks then.  “And that mission you were going to put me on with Sasuke too.”

There’s the briefest moment of hesitation before Kakashi nods.  “Yes,” he says.  “That’s what I’m worried about.”

“Ah don’t worry about him,” Naruto chimes in with a grumble.  “With that damn Susanoo and the Rinnegan, nothing can kill that bastard.”

“Naruto,” Sakura says gently.  It’s not that she disagrees with him, because she’s absolutely certain both of her original teammates are irrationally and disturbingly impervious in battle.  But neither of those stated techniques make one immune to toxins and she can’t help but ask, “Do you have any concept of how poison works?”

The jinchuruuki scowls.  Kakashi turns to Sakura then. “What should I tell the Mizukage?” he asks.  “Should they be prepared to lose a clan?”  She knows his question isn’t meant to be accusing, but it feels like it is.  She hears it in Naruto’s loud, forceful gulp.

Sakura looks out the window.  “Yes,” she says.  She’s so close she can see the snowflakes coming down, sticking to the pane like tiny white spiders.  “Even if we find an antidote, I don’t think it’ll come fast enough to save them.”

Kakashi says nothing for a long moment, but she sees him turning away in her peripheral.  “I see.”  The subtle sorrow in his voice tells her he is as disheartened as she feels.  Sakura places a finger on the glass just where a snowflake has landed, as if to melt with it.  

“Still, don’t let up or postpone this project.  Under no circumstances.”  Kakashi says with a thick authority that calls her attention back onto him.  “The Ashi may not make it, but that poison will inevitably show up again.  Hopefully we’ll be ready next time.”

Sakura nods, head dizzy at the prospect.  She’s considered this before, of course.  But the pressure to find a cure has never felt greater.  The quivers in her stomach are punishing and she begs to be good enough this one time.  “Of course, sensei.”

“Don’t worry, Sakura-chan,” Naruto gleams, voice vibrant.  “You’ll figure it out.”  He says it with such blaze confidence, if it were anyone else she’d be downright confused.

“He’s right,” Kakashi says, “You’re the best poison expert in all five nations.”  Sakura has to bite back a retort, because that’s not true if someone has already bested her.  She wishes they would just stop trying to hand her false confidence.  The compliments skin her alive.

“We have a medicine,” Sakura says, unsure whether to fight the hesitation in her voice because this piece of information is nothing but appeasement and she is all too aware of it.  “It’s not a cure, but it’ll slow the venom down.  We can send them as much as they need, the materials are easy to gather.”

Kakashi looks at her, pensive, before seeming to come to a decision and nodding.  “Last I heard there were about twenty clansmen left.  Assuming they’re still alive, when can this medicine be ready to ship by?”

Twenty.  She’s not surprised to hear that.  

“Tonight.”  Sakura says.  It will be a hassle, but it’s the least she can do.  “It won’t make a difference in the outcome,” She says this with a raw and agonizing certainty.  “But it’s something.”

“I assumed as much,” Kakashi says.  “Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t be worth the resources,” he admits. “But...just in case.”

“Just in case,” Sakura echoes.

Naruto grumbles, gripping his ramen bowl so hard it looks like it’ll break from the pressure.  “Geez, under normal circumstances?  What the hell, Kaka-sensei!  You should always try.”

For a moment, Kakashi is silent, and Sakura catches the slight tremor of his fingers before they smooth out along thin papers.  “I do, Naruto.”  He says, and there is a subtle sadness in his voice, almost reverent.  “We always do.”

Naruto isn’t quite sure what to say, his mouth curves strangely before he stuffs it with more ramen.  

When Sakura looks back at her sensei, she sees him studying her.  It’s neatly intense and focused, and this is one of the handful of traits that make him the most similar to Sasuke.  It’s the worst among them, in her opinion.  

Sakura swallows her nudity and says, “I’ll have the medicine packaged and ready by 9pm, if that works.”

Kakashi stares blankly, holding her captive for a single moment longer before tenderly crinkling an eye.  “Perfect.  I’ll send someone over at 9 then.”

Sakura nods, and stands, brushing the slight shake of her hands over her skirt.  “Well, I guess I should get to it then,” she says.

Kakashi nods.  “Thank you for coming in, Sakura.  Daunting as this news was, I’m glad I got to hear it from you, at the very least.”  His eyes are as sweet as his words, and she can tell he means it.  

Sakura nods and smiles with a tender and grace that is nearly foreign to her face.  “Thank you, sensei,” she murmurs.

“Will you two stop flirting?” Naruto says with a scowl.  “You always do this!”

She can see Kakashi smirking under the mask.  “Maybe I would flirt with you too if you were a little easier on the eyes,” Kakashi says, and Naruto makes mock gagging noises.  “And I’m kicking you out too, today.  Sorry, but there’s an omen about having too many blondes in one building, and we’re about to reach capacity when the secretary comes back in.”

“Pffft, yeah right,” Naruto says, though stands anyway.  He tosses his empty ramen bowl. “You probably just want some alone time to jerk it after seeing Sakura-chan in that tight skirt.”

“Naruto!” Sakura admonishes, horrified.  Kakashi merely chuckles, entirely amused before they both leave with a tender goodbye.

Sakura and Naruto are halfway down the hall before rounding on a familiar chakra signature.  When they turn the corner, it’s to see Hinata.  

She’s just standing there, eyes pasted to the floor, wide-eyed and red in the face.  Her lips are terribly swollen, chewed up between pearly teeth.

“H-Hinata?” Sakura asks, watching the Hyuga’s white hands cradle her abdomen like it is going to fall out any second.

Naruto is in front of her in an instant, pulling her close, his face hard and soft at once.  “Hinata-chan, what happened?”

“I-I-...”  Hinata stutters, trembling everywhere, and Sakura thinks she might as well be a 12 year old genin with no sense of self or security all over again.  “I d-didn’t know what t-to do...I…S-so I came …here.  I knew you w-were here so..I..came.”

Sakura places her hand on Hinata’s shoulder and rubs comfortingly, “It’s okay.  We’re here.  We got you, Hinata.”  

Naruto punctuates her words, gripping his wife closer to his chest and running a bandaged hand through her silk hair, tilting her head enough for her eyes to find his.  “What is it?” he asks gently.  “What happened?”

“Naruto, I—”  Hinata chokes on oncoming tears, but she turns and looks at Sakura then.  White eyes cry out to her green, pleading—begging—on the last legs of a coveted denial.  “I’m bleeding.”

[rassilon-imprimatur]

The Infinity Doctors Prologue: The Old Days

Each snowflake melted as it batted into the thick walls of the Citadel, but still they came, like an invading army.

Eighty‐five storeys below, everything was black or white. Only the tallest of the ruins were visible now, the snows covered the rest. Not that there had been much to see before the ice had come, merely the ancient temples and amphitheatres, the last evidence of a race that had ruled by the sword and built an empire planet by planet until it had spread across the universe.

When the temples had been built, the future had been an open sea. Gallifrey had been ruled by seers who remembered the future as they remembered the past. Destiny was manifest, the bountiful cargo that filled the holds of a thousand thousand starships. The prophecies had been bound and bound up to be the charts used to circumnavigate infinity. Explorers travelled ever outward, apprised of the marvels they would find, aware of the dangers. Prospectors rushed to the stars, knowing where to look for gold. Heroes took great risks, certain of the outcome. The future had shone as bright as the moon, and had been just as incorruptible.

Those times had gone, swept away in a few short years. The statues and towers had toppled and the fleets had been scuttled. The heroes had died, blind and alone, as all true heroes must. And as the temples and libraries had burned, the Books of Prophecy had been lost to the fire, along with all the other books. Only one fragment had been salvaged from the rubble. Now there were only memories of those definitive, intricate maps of what was to come. But the memory cheats, it steals, it lies, it tells you what you want to hear.

Today was a day to live in the memory.

The ships were a dream come true, and looked the part. Just from the vivid coloration of their hulls it was obvious that they didn’t belong here – they hung like vast tropical fish amongst the half‐submerged clock towers and minarets, light like the planet hadn’t seen for a generation pouring from their

portholes and hatches and into the evening. No wonder that the crowds of Newborn thronged around the observation levels of the quays. The older generation were more sceptical, seeing the whole enterprise as wasteful, potentially catastrophic. The ships hadn’t been in the prophecy, they insisted. This was a betrayal, a calculated attempt to sever all links with the future they knew: it hadn’t been foretold that the Gallifreyan race would become sterile, there was nothing in the Fragment about Looms, Houses, Cousins, this, that or the other.

Only a handful of the Elders had ventured out here from the shelters, obvious from their stature, let alone their robes of office. Many of them still begrudged the decision that the ships would be crewed by the young, that only a handful of crew members would be over ten years old. But the announcement came as no surprise. Those born since the darkness had fallen were a race apart from their ancestors. The young were eager, enthusiastic and their best days were still ahead of them. They didn’t dwell on the glories of the past, they wanted to live in the future, shape it, rather than merely remember. The new order was no longer shocking, indeed it was becoming comfortable, familiar. The Old harboured a new resentment: the New should have been temporary, they had been meant as a substitute while things settled down, a poor substitute at that. But now they were the only future. And with the wisdom of the ages, some of the Elders knew it would only be a matter of time before the younger generation began to see the past as a dead weight, one holding them back, preventing them from reaching their potential.

Teams of the young were loading the last supplies aboard the ships, passing boxes and modules along in carefully orchestrated lines. In their designated dome, the flight crews would be putting on their uniforms, with the help of the necessary attendants and helpers. A phalanx of the Watch stood guard over proceedings. An army of engineers in protective garments swarmed around and inside the ships, checking every last detail. A small band of musicians had started playing a tune, and the Newborn had taken up the chant.

‘Sing about the past again, and sing that same old song.
Tell me what you know, so I can tell you that you’re wrong.

Just sing about the past, and the past’s where you belong.
Let’s travel to tomorrow, and learn a brand new song.’

Their voices drifted up on the wind. Two robed figures, a man and a woman, watched proceedings from their own balcony on the highest level of the Citadel. It was open to the elements, but the snows and the winds circled around them, not daring to intrude.

‘They are magnificent,’ Omega declared without needing to speak.

‘A dream come true,’ his wife agreed silently. She was slender, with green eyes. Beneath her fur cloak she wore a close‐fitting bodice and leggings.

He towered over her, he seemed to be twice her size at least, an effect only magnified by his immense armour. It was bronze, studded with aluminium, with a lead breastplate. ‘I must go to my ship. We have to embark before nightfall.’

‘Good luck,’ she said wordlessly.

‘We have prophecy, so who needs luck?’ he laughed, hugging her. She nodded, and they parted. He strode away, leaving the woman alone on the observation balcony with her thoughts and memories.

Or so she had thought.
‘Who indeed?’ the little man said, breaking the silence. She turned to face him.
‘How long have you been here?’ He stood in the middle of

the tiled floor as though he always had been there.
‘Time is relative.’ He checked his pocket watch. ‘Or at

least it might be from lunch time tomorrow.’
‘We know from the last line of the Fragment that the

expedition will succeed. It is written.’ She turned back to face the ships. ‘It is what comes afterwards that is uncertain. But soon we will not just know the future, soon we will walk amongst it.’

‘The Fragment,’ he said, walking over to her, placing his hand easily on her shoulder. ‘I thought you must have guessed.’

She knew what he was about to say.

He spoke softly, deep sadness in his voice. ‘Rassilon needed to rally his people, he needed to justify his insane plan. You remember what it was like a decade ago, after the Curse. The Elders were looking to the past, they were giving up. All we had was our memory. All those golden ages and legendary adventures, all that infighting over which past glory was the best past glory. Gallifrey had died.’

‘Even without Rassilon, we would have lived for many millions of years. We are very difficult to kill.’

‘Oh yes. We’re immortal, barring accidents. But accidents happen, my Lady. We would have died in the end without Rassilon and his plan. Didn’t it ever occur to you how contrived the situation was? A workman clearing away the rubble of some fallen temple just happened to find a page from the Book of Prophecy. A single page, a little charred around the edges. Didn’t you think that was odd? Didn’t you wonder what had happened to the rest of the book? And it was such a useful page – the very one that told of the coming decade, showed the whole of Gallifrey that we would become the first of the Lords of Time. Even Rassilon’s enemies conceded that the future seemed to be quoting word‐for‐word from Rassilon’s manifesto half the time. An interesting coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’

‘The discovery of the Fragment was the clearest possible indication of our destiny,’ she said firmly. ‘The universe moves in mysterious ways.’

‘The Fragment!’ the little man snorted. ‘Rassilon wrote it himself, placed the paper under a stone during one of his walkabouts. He doesn’t want to see the future, he wants to shape it. The Scrolls are what might happen, what he wants to happen, not what will. Without the Fragment, Rassilon and the Consortium would not have been allowed to continue the time travel experiments, we’d have squandered the planet’s resources just trying to stay alive, rather than investing them.’

And it made sense, but it made the future an abyss.

She shrugged his hand from her shoulder, turned to face him. The little man didn’t speak for a moment. Finally, in that soft voice of his, he said, ‘There are many races across the universe who have never remembered the future.’

She shuddered. ‘It has been bad enough not knowing what would happen this last nine years. To be blind for ever is that how you want to live?’

‘You would be surprised how easy they find ways to explain away what happens. They have many beliefs that we would find strange. They talk of “cause and effect”, “quantum mechanics”, “prediction”. Mostly they put their trust in their gods. They believe that the gods can directly influence the mortal sphere, rewarding their followers, punishing the unbelievers. The laws of physics bend to tile will of the gods. They call it “divine intervention”.’

She stared at him.
‘A curious notion,’ she said finally.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Without it, we are forced to create our

own miracles.’
He pointed back at the ships and she turned. The sun was

behind her, and barely above the horizon. The shadows were long, matt black, beginning to flow together, like droplets of mercury. The ships hung above the ruined Capitol, inviolate. The gangways and docking tubes had withdrawn, the ground crews were retreating back to the safety of the Citadel. The singing had stopped some time ago.

Without further ceremony, the air filled with an unearthly wheezing, moaning sound and the massive ships faded away like memories. Then there was nothing there except the ruins of the Capitol, the shadows of the past, and a winter’s evening.

‘Shouldn’t you have been with your ship?’ she asked. But he had gone.

[anamnesis-archive]

Too Fast to Live, Too Young to Die

In grade 11, I watched Alexa Chung’s “Future of Fashion” 6 part mini series on the British Vogue’s YouTube channel.  I was first introduced to Central Saint Martins, an art school in London, in episode 2.  Since then, the university’s fashion programs have been the object of my dreams and aspirations.  Their notable alumni include Craig Green, John Galliano, Kim Jones, Lee Alexander McQueen, Phoebe Philo, and Simone Rocha, to list a few. CSM is located at 1 Granary and alumni have created an eponymous magazine, with annual publications.  I have their latest issue and it only fuelled my desire to at least visit the university (and if you ever have the chance, I highly recommend giving the magazine a look, it is beautiful -- without advertisements, the content shows the work of young creatives and seeks to educate those interested in following a future in fashion).  I also follow their Instagram and saw that they had an exhibit at Lethaby gallery.  I made it my mission to attend, and so, I went to London for a fashion filled weekend.  

I first went and saw an exhibit at the the London College of Fashion titled The Real Deal, that had to do with counterfeit culture in fashion.  Multiple perspectives on the subject were shown and brought about questions of authenticity and appropriation.  There were works displayed that played with branding for a political purpose (and could be deemed more as a ‘customization’), and others showed bootleg apparel from street vendors.   For instance, one group’s work appropriated the Hugo Boss logo and used BOSS as an acronym for Black Obsidian Sound System , a group  of LGBTQ+  creatives and activitsts of colour who wanted to create a support network for those  marginalized.  To contrast,there were portraits of people donning blatantly counterfeit  apparel, that were genuinely trying to pass as designer pieces.   I think that the counterfeit paradox is shown in these two examples.  While neither are authentic (meaning they are not the product of the original brand, they are fraudulent imitations), the Black Obsidian Sound System is not claiming to be HUGO BOSS, but is rather using their logo for their own means. They have appropriated BOSS to render it authentic to themselves and for their own brand. The exhibit further questions authenticity and asks if it exists anymore in our day and age.  Are all designs mere imitations of others?  Quotes adorned the walls of the gallery space that had to do with counterfeit culture by notable people in the industry.  Amongst them, was Dapper Dan, the infamous Harlem ‘couturier’ that dressed the hip-hop stars of the 80s and 90s.    As Houghton (2018) puts it, Dapper Dan created

one-of-a kind counterfeits of the trendiest upmarket brands of the day: Gucci,Fendi, Louis Vuitton, and MCM—acts of sartorial piracy so  extravagant, so daring, that they demanded to be described with the neologism “knockups” rather than knockoffs. Whereas conventional bootleggers “stepped on” the street value of their chosen logo—making expensive brands cheaper, more accessible—Dapper Dan made luxury even more luxurious, producing custom looks in fur and designer leather, scarcely affordable for anyone outside the elite circles of sports stars and drug kingpins. 

Instead of looking down upon the bootleg, Dapper Dan’s garments were to be praised and revered because there was so much craftsmanship and uniqueness to the items. Those who wore his pieces were wearing ‘Dapper Dan’ in what happened to be Louis Vuitton monograms. In recent years, Gucci’s creative director, Alessandro Michele, has reached out to Dapper Dan to collaborate with the brand, ultimately creating ‘authentic’ renditions of his work.   However, is it truly authentic to Dapper Dan’s brand and his empire to be creating ‘real’ Gucci ? Or because D.D.’s  creativity has produced the garments, that it still remains authentic to him?  Much to question and reflect upon...

I made a visit to 430 Kings Road, home to Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McClaren’s revolutionary punk store. This place has played a pivotal role in the 70s and “[t]heir store, through its many iterations, cemented an unprecedented relationship between music, fashion and counter-culture, shaping generations of fashion designers who followed” (Rotman 2017).  Vivienne, was a school teach,er, and Malcolm was an art school dropout and member of the Situationist movement. Wanting to go against the current trends brought about by the Beatles in the 60s, this duo was the vanguard of a political counterculture.  430 Kings Road changed names as their style evolved; from ‘Let it Rock’ -->‘Too Fast to Live, Too Young to Die’ --> ‘SEX’ --> ‘Seditionaries: Clothes for Heroes’ --> ‘World’s End’ (after Vivienne Westwood’s first runway show that had a pirate theme), the name that the store holds to this day.  Throughout the years, it became more than just a store, it was a hangout for rebellious youth.  Malcolm had done some band management in New York and was fascinated by the talent of some of his store regulars : Glen Mattlock, Sid Vicious and John Lydon... the future Sex Pistols. Westwood and McLaren ended up “styling and managing the most successful punk act in the world. Through McLaren’s work with the Sex Pistols, the duo managed to dictate the punk aesthetic, dominate the charts, airwaves and streets simultaneously” (Rotman, 2017).  430 King’s Road has now become a pilgrimage site.  I admire Vivienne Westwood a lot and felt compelled to make the ‘pilgrimage’ (and buy a few things ... ) as an act of reverence.  I believe she is a brilliant woman with an intelligent head on her shoulders and her work has been very influential to me. It was a surreal experience to have step foot in the ‘birth place’ of punk, of the anarchist, DIY culture that Vivienne and Malcolm embraced and continues to be diffused today. When talking about her store, Westwood states:

“Worlds End” has always been a crucible for my ideas, political and cultural. In 2005 I asked myself, “What would I tell young people today?” We are dangerously short of culture; trained up as consumers and not thinking. Beware of Propaganda! – Its greatest evil is Non- Stop- Distraction (a head full of rubbish can’t discriminate between truth and lies and will suck up anything that gives a buzz). NINSDOL

“Get a Life!” Stop sucking up; our motto is, “You get out what you put in”. Read, go to art galleries, find out the names of trees and birds, study the past – to understand the present; knowledge is armour for the Freedom Fighter.

I put my ideas down as graphics on T-shirts and wrote the AR Manifesto. The AR Manifesto (Active Resistance to Propaganda) is a journey to find Art. Art gives Culture and Culture is the antidote to Propaganda.

I now realise that Climate Change is the most urgent problem the human race has ever faced. Everything is connected and Climate Change is connected to lack of Culture.

She takes concepts from Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, which is work of literature more relevant today than ever. She combines Huxley’s ideas and her own to create a philosophy, that I believe, more should adopt.

I ended my weekend in London by visiting the pièce de résistance : Central Saint Martins.  Their exhibition, titled Fashion: Central Saint Martins, was a retrospective on the fashion programme that the university has to offer showing works of present students and past alumni.  Upon walking in to the gallery space, we are greeted by a hanging banner with a synopsis of the exhibit that stated :

Fashion continues to be a key method of communication. From revolutions and protests, clothing an be an indispensable messenger in an abundance of ways. The tutors of the Fashion programme at Central Saint Martins have always championed this notion; encouraging students to express their individual visions, however controversial they may be.  It is here that some of  the most politically challenging pieces of clothing have taken shape.Whether in the form of words, material or process, the objects on display all show examples of how designers who have gone against the grain and warped the boundaries of the fashion industry. (Fashion: Central Saint Martins, 2020). 

I would say that the school is quite proud of their accomplishments and what their students have been able to contribute to the fashion industry.  The walls of the gallery were covered in portraits of faculty members done by students.  Each had a corresponding description which highlighted  their contributions to the programme.  There were areas showcasing Fashion Communication, notable works in print by previous students  from magazines to books.  Illustrations and sketches were also on display, projects from students that went on to work for Dior and other major brands.  Most notably were the white garments present and hung up all around the gallery.  Every year, first year students partake in the ‘White Show’, where they are each given five meters of white cotton and are asked to create a garment representative of their respective design identities.  While all using the same material, this creates an even playing field and truly showcases the individual’s creativity when given materiality restrictions.  I noticed a common trend amongst the garments on show: deconstructivism à la Rei Kawakubo, the breakdown of traditional clothing shapes by playing with proportions.  Iconic items from past graduates were  also present.  The plaid vest on the previous page was part of John Galliano’s graduate collection from 1984! I was in awe to say the least. Central Saint Martins is clearly doing something right in terms of instruction to have bred such talent throughout the years. 

When going to these fashion schools, I felt a sharp pain in my chest, brought about by jealousy and the desire to be a part of these communities.  I went to the London College of Fashion on a Friday while classes were in session so students were present.  Seeing the students roaming their campus filled me with such longing, I just wanted to be one of them.  I’ve always loved fashion and design and despite not really knowing what I want to do career-wise, the dream has always been fashion oriented.  Physically attending these schools really impacted me; they represented the environment that I want to continue my education in and solidified my desire to work in this field.  It was a profoundly moving experience for me -- I cried on multiple occasions and am very grateful to have done this little trip to London .

Works Cited

Fashion: Central Saint Martins. Feb. 5th - March 10th 2020, Lethaby Gallery, London.

Houghton, Edwin  Stats. “Dapper Dan Talks His Gucci Partnership, Dressing Harlem’s Notorious Gangsters, and Getting Busted by Sonia Sotomayor (Exclusive).” GQ, GQ, 29 Mar. 2018, www.gq.com/story/dapper-dan-gucci-harlem-atelier-exclusive-interview.

Rotman, Asaf. “How Vivienne Westwood’s Punk Revolution Changed Fashion Forever.” Grailed, Grailed, 11 Jan. 2017, www.grailed.com/drycleanonly/vivienne-westwood-sex-punk-fashion.

The Real Deal. Feb. 7th - May 2nd 2020, Fashion Space Gallery, London.

Westwood, Vivienne. “About.” Worlds End, worldsendshop.co.uk/about/.

[daziran1]

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