#at least according to the original script

[astirysk2electricboogaloo]

the godfather?! close, (ish) but ACTUALLY it's the looney tunes parody of goncharov from the early 2000's that got mostly scrapped because warner brothers didn't feel a childsafe version of goncharov was really possible or good to be associated with the looney tunes name, and the mess that was it's production.

and quite frankly, they were right. this thing has pretty much been buried and scrubbed out of existence. everyone that worked on it didn't want to be associated with it because the finished product was such a mess nowhere near the original after being handed off to three different teams that couldn't agree on anything killed it That Bad™. it has almost as many production hell issues as el terror, (the terror. b roll jack nicholson movie that is a HOT MESS) but somehow ended up way worse. by the time they got a finished product out, (at least as finished as warner bros was willing to keep spending time and money on) nobody wanted their name on this thing.

what did make it out in leaks cuts and adds so much from the plot of goncharov it may as well be an entire other movie. they also tried to add a few modern jokes but it really didn't match the tone this "parody" was supposed to have.

for starters, they cut out andre entirely and replaced him with some american woman named clara. clara's also a secret agent for the mi6, (and she's very southern. like southern as sweet tea.) who wants intel on the italian mob in naples to give to the us government, for some reason. this is supposed to be extremely significant and they never explain it.

also they put naples in australia. there's a globe zoom out where clara steps out of new york across the ocean into the middle of australia nowhere near italy. the next scene is her dramatically walking through a market where the background characters are speaking italian. one of them is a kangaroo.

goncharov and clara have an affair and it's very obvious. nothing explicit since this was supposed to be family friendly, but really obvious.

the clock scene takes place in front of a barbie pink version of big ben, in space, on the fucking moon. it's actually made of cheese and has a bite taken out of it.

apparently goncharov is actually an alien and there's an entire sub plot where he's sabotaging his superior's invasion of earth.

he's also in his original planet's military but got bored and hid on earth until "goncharen" found him. goncharen looks similar to him according to the script, but images leaked of her character are porky the pig in very oversized drag with double d's. kind of like bugs bunny but i guess since he's playing katya and clara, AND sofia they didn't want to seem too redundant. also she's his sister. this is mentioned briefly in a fourth wall break introduction of her by goncharov, (played by daffy.) and then her character literally vanishes and is never mentioned again. she fades out of reality with a wobbly ghost voice like she's giving him information from the great beyond.

there's a scene where katya and clara are arguing above an escalator. bugs accomplishes this by switching sides of the screen and outfits, even sofia who is watching this shit go down in the background from 15 feet away. he manages this for 11 minutes until he drops katya's shoe and watches as the stairs of the escalator lift up, form a mouth, and eat the shoe. it then catches on fire.

the scene then jumps to all of the characters screaming in some kind of argument with exaggerated hand gestures. it's a mess of yelling in italian, southern accent english, and italian again but in a british accent. one of the voice actors slipped "i am being paid peanuts for this bullshit. i am allergic." in italian into this scene.

the entire scene is also inexplicably on the ground floor. there was no explanation for how bugs got to the ground floor from the 9th.

daffy walks in struggling to eat a comically long piece of cheese off of a slice of pizza. he gets distracted by his three girlfriends argument with each other and everyone else, chokes on the cheese and fucking dies. (they also straightwashed katya and sofia.)

bugs is too busy arguing with himself and everyone else to notice until the room goes quiet with everyone having a somber expression including daffy who's fake dead on the floor. the only noise in the scene is coming from the burning escalator in the background. bugs starts screaming in a pitch only dogs can hear. the sound didn't change but it cuts to a group of dogs eating trash in an alley who perk their ears and all look to the left. this scene also looks like the simpsons and may be a reference to it.

it then ends with all of the characters singing some cheesy song about friendship (?????) and doing the can can behind daffy who's still pretending to be dead but now he has giant bug antennas on his head that has pink feathers taped to them. some of them fall off.

the credit music is a mashup of katya's song and everytime we touch by cascada.

they also cut out ice pick joe and did not give him a replacement. apparently yosemite sam was considered but they made him a sensei character that trains goncharov to fight. i still don't understand the point of this.

[zstartrixxx]

𝕻𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐓&𝕬𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐎

ᵖᶦᵉʳʳᵒᵗꜝʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳꜝᵃʳˡᵉᵏᵏᶦⁿᵒ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Russia, 1918. As the proletarian revolution rages outside, life inside a traveling circus pulses with its own rhythm. For Remmick, a vampire who arrived there because of you, this moment is thick with anticipation before their Moscow performance. Meanwhile, you find yourself caught in a spiral of small events pushing you toward an irreversible decision. In your customs, you are more than just people—well, at least one human and one vampire—playing roles. He is Pierrot, and you are his Arlekinno. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: i just wanted to write and i listened to myself and wrote this nonsense. this is my trashy-fun-fanfiction in celebration of 300 million followers, so thank you from the bottom of my heart to everything. there is a lot of love involved in it because i have been passionate about russian history (especially the soviet union) since i studied contemporary history I and II in my history course, so… yk lol 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +18 ADULT CONTENT. very alternative universe, sorry if it doesn't follow the original character-script of the movie. angst, hurt/comfort, lil bit of fluffy, established relationship, circus, all be in family, historical quotes, soviet union mentioned (as hours are set in that time), terms in russian and gaelic (google translator + google itself required), pierrot!remmick, arlekinno!fem!reader; smut (pussy rubbing e p in v), dirty languague. cry-for-this-pussy!remmick, cry-for-the-reader!remmick. i think here i pictured a almost melancholic-sonofabitch-needy millennial vampire but it's makes some sense. there is the use of two different aesthetic font formats: for the theatrical scenes, the typerwrite/chat font was used and for the rest of the text, the regular font. 𝐖𝐂: +10k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :) and if you liked this type of fanfic and want me to write something in another type of more historical setting, just give me the coordinates and i'll do it for the next celebration, i hope!!! <3

𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖬𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖯𝖨𝖤𝖱𝖱𝖮𝖳 & 𝖧𝖨𝖲 𝖠𝖱𝖫𝖤𝖪𝖨𝖭𝖭𝖮 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

“it gets harder for me to make you laugh with years, i'm not a jester at the king's throne! i'm hamlet in the madness of passions. which god plays for himself, everything seems—i'll take off the mask! but my tears are invisible to anyone... well, what, i'm arlekkino, apparently not bad!" (arlekino, alla pugacheva)

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐀, 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐍.

THE REVOLUTION ACCORDING TO PIERROT

Drama. Three acts. 66 pages.

CHARACTERS:

PIERROT: His makeup consists of a face painted white, with thick eyebrows nearly meeting in an expression of deep sorrow, painted black; his mouth may also be painted black. There are two variations of his costume: either a silk set with a wide blouse adorned with pom-poms on the front and a collar around the neck made of white tulle with black details, paired with loose-fitting pants and black shoes — or the inverse variation.

ARLEKINNO: Wears lighter makeup, the face painted white with a contrasting blush on the cheeks; lips painted red. His costume consists of a jumpsuit with stitched diamond patterns, ballet pointe shoes, and a red balaclava with two tips like horns, with bells attached to their ends. The alternate costume is a red ballet outfit.

KOLOMBINA: She is a metaphor. Pierrot’s projection of freedom, union, the communion of human beings with himself.

ACT I

EXT. FOREST OF FOOLS. DUSK.

PIERROT sits atop a small rock, one hand cradling his face in an expression of desolation, while the other holds his small banjo, staring into nothingness (audience).

SOUND: Behind him, small bells chime as the rustling of dry leaves grows louder, accompanied by a playful symphony of violins and accordion.

PIERROT

(sad)

Who dares disturb my sorrow?

UNKNOWN

(sarcastic)

And you still ask, Pierrot!?

PIERROT

(startled, looking over his shoulder, sharp gaze)

(stunned, PIERROT stands, pointing the banjo at the figure now beside him)

You!? How dare you show your shameless face after stealing my Kolombina from me!?

PIERROT

(shouting)

Arlekinno, either you leave me alone or I—

ARLEKINNO

(sarcastic, arms behind his shoulders, leaning forward)

Or I might just volunteer to take a beating from you! Pierrot, you know you couldn't even hit a fly... let alone little ol' me!?

PIERROT recoils, pulling the banjo to his chest, his expression growing even more mournful. ARLEKINNO begins to laugh, raises his hands to reveal the staff he carries, and starts hopping forward, brandishing it at PIERROT who...

"Stop! Stop! Wait..."

"Hmm, what did I do wrong now, Remmick!?" You immediately drop Arlekinno's mischievous posture, your sly expression shifting to one of confusion, frustration leaking from the corners of your eyes that squinted in the warm light of the small tent you shared through nights and dawns for rehearsals. The scent of earth mixed with rice powder, Remmick's cinnamon-and-copper perfume dulling your senses, provoking a certain ecstasy with its comforting aroma, while you sweated under the vibrant red velvet jumpsuit of the rogue clown, from the tips of the forked cap like two fallen horns, the small bells tinkling softly as you stood, clutching the staff to your chest. Strands of hair escaped the cap, stuck to your sweaty skin in contrast to the austere neatness of the man who pursed his lips, his thick eyebrows painted like two broken twigs giving him the saddest possible expression as they furrowed while he paced restlessly, dust rising around his feet clad in those clown shoes with little black pom-poms. He wore only Pierrot's pants and a simple shirt on his torso.

Your eyes followed the man's movements—the ripple of back muscles, biceps flexing as he raised his arms above his head, the gold chain gleaming faintly under that light, twisting at his nape. You stood there, frozen in place, trying to read him through your sleep-heavy eyes, wondering if perhaps your lethargy displeased him, only to be met with his outburst, a twist of his feet, spinning toward you, his voice now calmer for you:

"My Záyka (Little Rabbit), you were perfect as always... The problem is with me," he gave you a bitter smile, holding his banjo as if it were an extension of his body: "I just can't find the right voice for my Pierrot."

"I don't understand, Remmy—" you began with a gentle smile, approaching him with ballerina steps: on the tips of your red-painted pointe shoes, your movements as soft as a feather in the air, your right hand rising to cup his chin, tilting it up to meet his gaze, those dilated pupils consuming the turbulent anise sea of his eyes. "—I'm absolutely certain we'll crush this play, because if there's one thing you're good at, it's creating and telling stories like no one else. Don't fear the Reds or even our comrades, everyone will embrace this play..." You offered a tight smile, your fingers pressing into his chin, feeling the velvety texture of the paint mixed with rice powder. "...besides, you're an exceptional actor. You are Pierrot."

Remmick seemed deeply moved, almost exalted by these words of affirmation—especially when they came from your lips, painted cherry-red, highlighting the slight yellowing of his teeth from too much coffee and tobacco—yet still beautiful in his eyes. If I could breathe, I'd be sighing for her, he often thought when warmed by your smiles—even the most mischievous ones, Arlekinno in flesh and blood before him. Smirking, his canine slowly exposed, a crimson spark flashing through his eyes:

"My dear, you are the perfect Arlekinno for me!"

He joked affectionately.

He returned the gesture, his hand still on your chin: his palm was larger, somewhat calloused and cold against your warm, sweat-damp skin, a brush of skin against skin that sent shivers down your spine. Your eyes spoke to each other—your soul a vibrant red against his opaque blue. The ghost of a man who existed centuries ago in contact with the emerging pulse of a fresh, living soul. Your breath grew almost impossible to catch, your lips parting subtly in reflex, your bodies drawn together as if by magnetism or fate, your eyes closing for a pleasurable slumber where the dream would be to kiss him—

"Hey, hope I'm not interrupting you two—" A noisy interruption tore you apart as you both turned to face Bo in the tent's flap-door, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, a near-smug smile on his lips: "—but Dym (Smoke) says the caravans leave for Moscow at sunrise, so we'd better pack up unless we want three days and two nights of pure hunger." He clicked his tongue, winked at you, then shot Remmick a luminous amber-pearl glance before vanishing like a shadow from the tent.

When you were alone again, the harmony that had connected you slipped through the seams of the canvas, carried down the road, leaving you with that hollow feeling that something might have happened. Turning to face Remmick, you couldn't suppress a smirk at how ironic it was that this dramatic, pitiful makeup suited the nature of this creature, who didn't even need to exaggerately arch his brows to plead or lament. When he looked at you this time, it was with resignation—almost a blue tinge at the edges of the crimson rising in his irises, a sadness he swallowed, his murmured words filling you:

"That's my cue, Záyka (Little Rabbit). Now I must bid farewell to this performance, for duty calls!" In a theatrical tone, he bowed deeply: legs bent, arm muscles rippling across his torso, lifting his head to cast you one last lamenting glance. You smiled, nodding, listening to the familiar voices growing behind you.

"Remmick, don't dawdle, you tormoz (slowpoke)! We're starving!" came Stack’'s bold, gruff voice, followed by a chorus of giggles. Remmick rolled his eyes, handing you his beloved banjo:

"Keep it for me, my angel. I'll return when the moon sets and the sun rises..." He began walking slowly, as if forced, a weight in his steps as he left the tent, followed by your tired eyes and pale face, every subtle movement of your head making the bells chime a farewell song. He turned back to you, his smile sincere, full of sharp fangs that protruded—but you weren't afraid of them; on the contrary, it was a kind of admiration, like coveting a beautiful ceramic game piece, always seeing him with eyes full of mischief—asking:

"Wish me a good hunt?"

"Good hunt, Rem."

You winked at him, raising the banjo.

Almost like a secret sign between you two—because it meant a part of him was in your hands.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

The naturalness of things sometimes frightened you.

How on earth had you grown so accustomed to living not just with one, but several vampires, in a state of complete community and communion? Well, admittedly, it had all started because of you—once, it was your voice, your art, that caught the attention of the vampire creator—which led to this exact moment where, restless, between sleeplessness and racing thoughts, you found yourself pondering. Staring at the dark ceiling of your tent, listening to the canvas flapping in the night wind, your feet aching from hours of rehearsals wouldn't stop throbbing and shifting under the blanket, your hands clasped as if in prayer, your lips trembling with reflections flashing before your eyes:

'Remmick appeared like a shadow in the audience and stayed. Then that shadow grew, made a blood pact, and possessed those who wanted to join his cause... And so the community emerged—The Family—and I was so immersed that before I knew it, I was dancing with the vampire who promised me the kiss of eternity... If I wanted it. And we live off plays, dances, music... The sex is very good, but sometimes I feel he's afraid of hurting me—Stack seemed to grow braver after dying and wandering as one of them; Mary too. Now Bo was seduced by eternity, while Grace, like me, refused the offer. And what an offer! The temptation I live with every day... Nights without him are colder, even sleeping beside a body that doesn't even sweat. But he always weeps his love for me... Oh, God, if You exist, let this performance in Moscow be a success. For us, for the poor creature You condemned, for The Family!'

A stream of thoughts that collided and diverged, stealing precious sleep.

Your words were muffled by the growing noises outside—intertwining with the wind's song and the hoots of owls or wolves in the distance— swelling into a symphony. Laughter crossed with disjointed phrases, someone imitating a wolf's howl, bursts of guffaws, shadows projecting around your tent. The footsteps grew heavier, gradually fading. Your heart raced frantically knowing they had arrived. Closing your eyes, you could visualize Remmick returning to his tent, bathing in his wooden tub with prepared water, scrubbing away dried blood, submerging in that icy water for minutes, then dressing and slipping into his resting place: a trunk large enough to serve as a coffin—easy to carry and inconspicuous when boarding trains. It was padded inside with cotton stuffing and silk, even had a genuine goose-down pillow, and always carried the pleasant scent of wild jasmine mixed with talcum powder and whiskey, an eccentric combination that pleased the vampire's olfactory senses.

When imagining him undressed, your memories took you back to that first night when Remmick in his Pierrot costume made you an offer: 'Come sleep in my tent.' Simple, polished, with no frills to his desires. He was euphoric after the successful performance for a small audience in Omsk, his red eyes glowing at you; that night as you presented yourself nude to the man, shedding your Arlekinno persona to give yourself wholly to him, you swore with all the fear in your being that he would devour you immediately. Yet Remmick restrained himself, even as he lay atop you, inside you, filling you completely with legitimate carnality, the chill of his body contrasting with your warmth, making you shiver and ache with pleasure, slowly entangled on his narrow single mattress, sheets tangled at your feet, his movements so agonizingly slow it was torture—your arms pulling him closer, feeling his gold chain lightly brush your neck—when he stopped. He looked at you, the smeared makeup of the sad clown still on his face, the arched eyebrows now blurred, his lips messy from your kisses; he laughed, a trickle of saliva escaping the corner of his mouth which you caught with your fingers, your breath ragged under his weight—'What?', 'I'm just admiring you.', 'Fool!', 'I am...' He laughed deeply, kissing your cheek with a primal tenderness, then dragged the tip of his nose down to your neck where he kissed you lazily before resuming the slow roll of his hips, filling you completely in that rhythmic sway of bodies, groaning hoarsely against the pulse of blood beneath your skin, murmuring almost tearfully: 'Just a little drop, my Arlekinno! Just a little drop of red to color this blue Pierrot!' he teased.

When suddenly you felt an icy breeze touch your face, the creak of metal, warmth radiating toward you... Opening your eyelids, there he stood in sleepwear—black cotton pants, a button-up silk shirt stolen from Bo, feet clad in white slippers—holding an iron lamp that cast a fragile pale yellow-orange glow on your faces. His remained more immersed in shadow, except for the gleam of his bat-like eyes in the night—a dull, almost sanguine red—smiling. You could see the little creases in his cheeks.

“What is it, Rem”' you whispered, feigning a yawn, rubbing an eye, sitting up slightly, propping your back against the two pillows behind you. The man approached, crouching to face you directly, finally revealing his clean-shaven face under the light, without a single trace of dried blood, his voice a murmur:

“Can I sleep with you tonight?”

“Here...?” you furrowed your brows, gesturing to the bed, then glancing at the still-dark blue sky through the tent flap—perhaps three in the morning—before returning your attention to the man who nodded:

“Of course. Where else would I sleep with you? Unless you join me in my coffin—”

“'Not a chance!” you snapped. He opened his mouth in that nearly explosive laugh, stood up in one motion leaving the lamp atop some of your books piled at the foot of the bed before casually swinging his legs over your body, settling into the space between you and the canvas, curling up against you like a frightened child. You lay immersed in the orchestra of that cold night: the dew, the owls' calls, a pack's howling, distant voices... As if reading your mind, with his head resting on your shoulder, Remmick said:

“While we were hunting... Stack let slip that Smoke wants to expand the company's operations, perhaps secure some Party sponsorship to tour the country, maybe even go abroad…”

“And that's what's frightening you? I mean, you have that shared mind thing, right? So you already knew…” you whispered back, still staring at the ceiling. You felt weight on your hand—the vampire's hand covering yours, squeezing lightly:

“Yes, yes... But it's not that simple. I'm just afraid this civil war will continue and they'll end up discovering us.”

“You mean you vampires?” you finally looked at him, now nose to nose, his icy breath enveloping your warmth. Remmick's eyes were teary, the blue of his sadness expanding as he began tracing random patterns on your hand:

“Am I wrong to fear for our existence!? I've seen so much in my time as a vampire, wandering through revolutions and transgressions, changes and progress—man is capable of anything, my love. Anything. I wouldn't be surprised if this proletarian revolution fractures and we end up screwed…”

“Remmy…” your voice was an arrow that struck him, the vampire raising his brows almost helplessly at you:

“None of that will happen. No matter what, I'm by your side. Always.” You winked at him, nestling better into the bed, fitting yourself even closer against him:

“Until I die…”

Your voice faded as the vampire clutched your hand with a strange dread creeping over him—strange because for him, a monster who had learned to wear human disguise to live comfortably, feeling too small knowing that sooner or later your life would end while he remained rooted to that earth, waiting. For what? The end of an existence perhaps, a sudden death, or a miracle that would place you eternally by his side. Can a heart that no longer beats weep tears of blood and anguish for a mortal love—so fragile, so finite?

A silent crimson tear stained his pale cheek as he watched you succumb to the mortal sleep he had long forgotten.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

𝟐𝟒 𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟖.

People queued as drum music echoed through Moscow's spacious streets, waving red flags excitedly alongside the itinerant circus parade promoting its arrival with colorful blue, red and yellow posters. Among civilians, Red Army soldiers in military-green coats, black galoshes and communist-insignia caps watched curiously as the procession passed—like a Venetian Carnival with nobles and clowns jumping about. Grace and Lisa handed out leaflets, spotting fellow countrymen, while Smoke puffed his pipe proudly at the crowd's reception, Annie carrying their daughter nearby, ever vigilant.

You, dressed as Arlekinno, performed small acrobatics with your staff, the bells on your cap tinkling with each movement, rising en pointe to pirouette, enchanting children who reached for you like an idol. The caravan of cars and wagons rolled past the Kremlin toward a green area to set up camp—with important members hidden from the sun; almost comical knowing that beneath one horse-drawn wagon pulled by Delta, Remmick and Bo Chow slept deeply in their coffins, while in another pulled by cousin Samuel, cousin Elias slept with Mary, the two like Shakespearean lovers in premature death, united even in slumber.

Elijah suddenly stopped, signaling the procession to halt. Turning with the arrogance of one anticipating great success, he announced loudly:

“Dorogiye zriteli, ot mala do velika! (Dear audience, young and old!), I present to you the Circus Fumo&Fuliggine! (Circus Smoke&Stack) Russia's finest traveling circus! All are welcome at our opening tomorrow at dusk!”

Amid applause, Smoke gestured and the parade resumed through Moscow's streets toward their encampment. The winds whispered to you that this would be a magnificent beginning. And with each heartbeat, you willed the sleeping vampire to feel your exhilaration radiating toward him.

In his deathlike sleep, rocked gently by the wagon's motion, Remmick smiled faintly.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

Crates were being unloaded, family members coming and going, Annie tending to her daughter while Elijah observed everything with an analytical gaze. They were in a green area, a small hill about thirty minutes from the big city—Moscow rose in a colossal panorama, the splendid towers of the Moscow Kremlin visible, the massive concrete buildings like a stone jungle contrasting with the liberating feeling of that field, far from the clamor of people. In that small cosmos, you sat atop Remmick's bed-coffin-box, the clown cap in your hands, lost in thought. Kicking lightly at the grass with the tip of your ballet slipper, one leg propped on the surface, when you placed your hand to support your body on the polished wood, you felt a faint vibration beneath your palm—almost as if the vampire sensed you and pressed his hand against the lid from inside. Breathing that pure air, you heard Delta's excited shouts to Samuel as they hauled the upright piano up the ramp to the main tent, already set up in its slightly yellowed white and red colors. Atop the three peaks, a golden star glimmered under the sun.

Looking up, you felt a pang of anguish... The same sun that warmed you harmlessly was malignant to those weakened by its light—poor murderous creatures thirsting for human blood, condemned to a life in darkness.

It was almost ironic—you under the sun with that vampire hidden in his sun-proof box, both sharing the same space. You breathing pure, fresh air, grass and upturned earth while he, with his sensitive olfactory sense, was immersed in the scent of his own confinement. Life was sometimes so bittersweet. Sugar atop a lemon slice, dissolving beneath your tongue. Unconsciously, your hand slid across the wood, caressing the surface as if stroking Remmick himself.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

"I've witnessed every kind of popular revolt," Remmick's deep voice filled the room where the entire family was gathered around the large table used for meals. "Wars between kingdoms, monarchs losing their heads... Literally." Seated in a blue velvet armchair that served as both his favorite seat and a stage prop, Remmick had his arms possessively around you as you sat on the chair's armrest. He stroked your dark hair while smiling affectionately, his blue eyes flashing as memories assailed him.

"And what good was witnessing the Bastille's fall or the English Revolution if you never picked up a carbine to fight alongside humans, man?" Elias's sharp voice came from across the room, briefly silencing the overlapping chatter and Samuel's guitar playing in the corner, where Pearline sat at his feet admiring him. Sparks flew as Remmick stared intensely at Smoke, the air between them growing thick enough to slice with a knife. The vampires exchanged glances. You studied Remmick's profile—his prominent features expressing something beyond human comprehension. Or rather, beyond your ability to read. But why worry about vampiric matters when such morbid beauty sat beside you? His nose was perfectly curved, his forehead lined with expressions immortalized in his immortality, fine wrinkles revealing the age at which he'd been turned—you'd never discussed it, but he'd clearly been transformed in his late twenties or early thirties. Full yet narrow lips, a thin stubble that grew daily—just as he kept his thick, soft hair trimmed short, dark between deep brown and near-black.

And his eyes... The epitome of that sad clown: so blue that all the sorrow he needed for his Pierrot character was already there whenever he raised them to pale stage lights.

Remmick licked his lips, breaking the silence between humans and vampires after several seconds:

"You think you can read me completely, Elias, but don't forget I was the one who made you. There are things so hidden within me they're impossible to access... But regarding this—" His smile widened, nearly diabolical, a feral glint flashing across his typically passive expression: "—I've tasted the dried blood of Marie Antoinette on my fingertips and tongue; I've walked English fields with great pleasure, I might add, while men perished for the futile breaking of absolutism. I followed all those philosophers, from Robespierre and the Jacobins to the rise of Durkheim, Hegel, Kant... Marx and Engels... Don't presume to tell me what I did or didn't do on this vampiric road."

"Hey man, I was just messing with you! Where's your sense of humor, huh? Did the Reds steal it?" Elias raised his hands sarcastically. Mary giggled, as did you—she sat beside her partner, her eyes gleaming that same opaque blue as Remmick's returned to their natural color. Your hand now stroked his back, Stackhing him:

"I'm perfectly calm, Dym. You just don't realize how... inspired this makes me."

"Inspired how, Remmick? By civil war chaos?" Annie's voice held disbelief as she judged him. You knew she'd been the first to vehemently oppose the vampire's presence in their troupe, claiming her tarot cards didn't lie—until Remmick offered rubles and glory, and the twins immediately made their deal with the devil.

And so you sat in this strange communion—vampires alongside humans drinking beer and vodka while the undead quenched their thirst with animal blood, tobacco, and mulled wine. The vampire stared at Annie, lips parting slightly, some unspoken hostility clearly agitating him:

"Look, I want no discord among us, moya sem'ya (my family). What I mean—" He raised an index finger, eyes wide: "—is that this growing communal spirit in the fields inspires me. I understand these people, your people, wanting to return to an absolute primordial communion—what our ancestors knew before human selfishness corrupted everything. As a wandering vampire, I only ever wanted family." He clasped his hands together emphatically: "Friendship. Family. Love. Everything this new revolution preaches."

"Preaches," Elijah muttered from his corner, rolling a cigarette. Remmick arched a brow at him as you studied the circus owner curiously:

"It's easy to promise mountains and rivers from a podium. But making it work? An economy needs capital. A business needs money... If we bring these liberal ideas without material foundations into our family, Remmick, we'll end up on the streets."

"That won't happen, Smoke," Remmick clicked his tongue, leaning back with a roguish smile as he crossed his legs: "I've already secured more than enough for our success."

"Good."

Elijah exhaled sharply, lighting his cigarette. Your fingernail traced a line from Remmick's right shoulder to his left, leaving a faint crimson scratch on his marble-pale skin. Though smiling, the vampire had been genuinely affected by the exchange. The mood had soured, that metallic stench of curdled wine clinging to the air—the scent of a vampire restraining his rage.

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That night, Remmick retreated straight to his tent. He sealed himself inside his coffin, ignoring calls to feed properly. Bo stood with you before the closed lid, trying to reason:

"Come on, friend... If you don't hunt tonight, you'll be unstable by tomorrow's performance—"

"I fed today," came the muffled, curt reply. You rolled your eyes at Bo's pleading look. With an exasperated sigh, you tried:

"Remmy, listen to him. Animal blood won't sustain you through—"

"No."

"Well Bo, he's a big boy," you snapped, Arlekinno's devil-may-care tone slipping out. "If he wants to starve, let him." Bo chuckled incredulously as silence answered from the coffin.

With a shrug, Bo turned away:

"Your funeral, comrade. I'm heading out."

"Me too." Yet you lingered, staring at the dark polished wood as if will alone might open it. The black-and-white checkered tent flapped in the icy wind, revealing Remmick's spartan quarters—just the coffin, two suitcases, and the wooden soaking tub in the corner, its soapy water covered with cloth.

Nothing stirred. Not a whisper. Only that terrible silence between you.

Giving up, you stomped to your own tent and threw yourself onto the squeaky bed, squeezing your eyes shut against the strange sorrow weighing your heart.

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐖. 𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟓, 𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟖.

The noise of the gathering crowd outside mixed with the frantic backstage activity. You tried to keep up with everything happening around you, but exhaustion weighed heavily on your shoulders—you hadn't slept a wink, haunted by that strange melancholy that had followed you from Remmick's coffin to your own bed.

He stood in his corner now, in the makeshift dressing area near the stage, surrounded by vanity tables with fixed bulbs illuminating foggy mirrors. Grace and Lisa moved between performers, helping with costumes and makeup. Your face was already painted white with rosy cheeks, wearing the diamond-patterned Pierrot jumpsuit—its black silk details perfectly fitted to your body. All that remained was to tie the worn ballet slippers around your already bandaged feet and put on the cap.

Remmick couldn't see himself in a traditional mirror. The solution had been to polish a chrome surface until it provided enough reflection for him to apply his own makeup, albeit blurry. Yet he still asked for your help to outline his eyebrows and paint the solitary tear on his cheek, always whispering: "The left side, where the heart resides", as if your hands hadn't traced that teardrop shape a thousand times before, like a painter perfecting the same brushstroke until it becomes instinct.

When you caught his gaze over your shoulder, Remmick shot you an intensely serious look. He held the brush loaded with black paint, carefully outlining Pierrot's sorrowful expression. Now a nervous, troubled Pierrot stared back at you, while you stood there merely dressed as a masked Arlekinno.

Bo appeared like a shadow beside Samuel, who already wore his Phantom of the Opera costume—elegant black tailcoat and white mask pushed up on his forehead—his black guitar in hand as he announced excitedly:

"Sold out, everyone! Tonight we make history in Moscovo!" His shout through cupped hands was met with cheers from the troupe. Pearline, beautiful in her Christine costume, fluttered her fan; Mary and Smoke prepared their "magic" act. You and Remmick? Just two clowns in the middle of it all.

Bo glanced at his creator:

"You're opening the show."

As he turned to leave, he suddenly remembered something, his yellowish eyes gleaming:

"Oh, and Remmy? We've got Party comrades in the audience. Smoke's nervous as hell."

A wink.

You looked at the vampire. Behind Pierrot's black-and-white tragic mask, a smile emerged - Remmick showing through. Without realizing it, you felt the tension leave your shoulders.

He was back.

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ACT I

EXT. FOREST OF FOOLS. DUSK

PIERROT stands before a full audience.

(in a resonant voice)

"Menya zovut P'ero, i segodnya ya pokazhu vam komediyu. Menya budet bit' kuskom doski... Ved' segodnya ya budu oplakivat' svoyu pechal', Kolumbina. Eto budet ochen' smeshnaya komediya." (My name is Pierrot, and today I present you a comedy. I shall be beaten with a wooden plank... For today I mourn my sorrow, Kolumbina. It will be a very funny comedy!)

PIERROT raises his banjo as if to sing—but violins and giggles interrupt. Hopping from side to side, ARLEKINNO appears with his devilish grin, staff in hand, making faces at a row of children who burst into laughter.

ARLEKINNO

(mocking)

"If it isn't Pierrot, crying in corners over this so-called Kolumbina..."

PIERROT

(offended, clutching his banjo)

"You have no right to reject me like this, not after stealing my beloved, precious Kolumbina!"

ARLEKINNO

(rough voice, standing in en dehors position-feet and knees turned out, heels together, hands forward)

"What's so special about this Kolumbina that has you so emotional? I saw nothing remarkable about her."

Instead of getting angry, PIERROT approaches the edge of the stage. The spotlight highlights his pale face with its black-painted features as he holds the banjo close, looking up with pity.

(his voice projects to the entire audience)

"Ah, Kolumbina represents the freedom of my being. Something I envy in all of you... This freedom to walk beneath the sun, to hold warm hands, to celebrate life's union! Kolumbina is the object of my past affections, the poetry I play daily on my banjo, the blood that warms my tears... Oh, how can you be so selfish, Arlekinno?! You judge me for desiring what Kolumbina represents, while you enjoy your privileged position. Of course you wouldn't understand me from your high pedestal."

ARLEKINNO

(rolling his eyes, crosses his feet before executing a soft plié, rising to pointe as he walks toward Pierrot)

"Don't be so hopeful or dreamy, Pierrot!"

Arlekinno slaps PIERROT, who curls into himself, crying Kolumbina's name as the audience—children and adults alike—laugh at the gratuitous violence.

RED CURTAIN FALLS.

END OF ACT I.

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“My little brother, you all were amazing in that opening! I hope the rubles pour into our hands after this—" Elijah exhaled along with a thick cloud of pipe smoke in their faces. You were already sweating beneath that costume, while Remmick remained untouched. He gave the other a once-over before nodding curtly and marching into the tent with his banjo. Smoke looked at you, eyebrows raised.

"Don't bother him now, Dym. Let him forget about yesterday and do his job—"

"But I am! Boosting this old vampire’s morale—he’s just too stubborn for business!" he defended. You let out a sarcastic chuckle, shaking your head so the little bells rang louder, stepping aside to let Samuel and Pearline climb onto the stage. You walked down the narrow corridor of canvas and wooden slats framed with iron, the grass crushed under your slippers, passing Grace and Bo in an open annex, then Mary and Stack practicing one of their tricks, following the man.

Your feet led you to the end of the hallway, where, around a turn, there was an exit to the back of the tent. Through the opening, you glimpsed Remmick’s back, a wisp of white smoke rising beside his face, pirouetting in the sharp wind around his pointed hat. As you approached slowly, the sweet scent of tobacco filled your lungs.

Remmick turned to you—Pierrot with a sorrowful gaze, casting a melancholic stare. You smiled, pressing your lips together, countering the sad clown’s look with the mischievous grin of your restless Arlekinno. He extended the cigarette holder to you:

"Here, take a smoke, it’ll help you relax."

"You’re the one who needs it more, Rem—" you teased, amused by the way he looked at you.

Remmick had bat-like eyes, dilated black pupils with a red glow overtaking his irises. In the background, Sammie and Pearl’s voices intertwined in an emotional rendition of "The Phantom of the Opera", while the chilly autumn breeze made your sweat—sweet with a salty edge, mixed with the acrid rice powder used to set the makeup—taste like strawberry jelly and whiskey, causing the vampire to falter for seconds. You knew that languid gaze was hunger. Slowly, almost as if choreographing your own movements, you brought the rolled cigarette to your lips, sucking in the sweet, strong notes, diverting your attention from the vampire to a part of Moscow you’d never seen, mesmerized by the candlelit city, enchanted by the dazzling view of the vast metropolis. You stood side by side in the scandalous silence of an audience screaming in emotional rapture, each lost in their own thoughts, Remmick’s fallen gaze watching you with masked sadness, silent, feeling your blood pulse beneath the warm, vibrant, intoxicating fabric... He swallowed dryly.

"You must be starving, hmm?" Your voice cut through the cold air between you, snapping his attention back. He looked at you abruptly, as if caught red-handed—if he could, he would’ve blushed. Your eyes pierced him like spears, your playful smile blending your real self with the character, leaving him entranced, his hunger sharpening his sensitive senses: he could hear the steady beat of your heart beneath the costume, smell your bittersweet sweat... the texture of your skin as your fingers brushed lightly when you handed back the cigarette, the taste of your saliva as he took another drag.

"A dose of krov (blood) wouldn’t hurt right now, my Záyka..." He grinned, fangs already sharp, eyes gleaming red-opaque-bright, thick, almost milky saliva gathering at the corner of his mouth, drooling for you. Something inside you stirred—you weren’t sure if it was the autumn breeze that always energized you, the almost romantic panorama of Moscow before you, the angelic voices of Pearline and Sammie behind you, or simply your flirtation with the vampire—but something pulsed within you, making you want to throw yourself into his arms again, melt into his mouth, bare yourself in fresh blood and passion, offering the drink that would sate him.

You turned on your heels, fingers already slipping under your balaclava, the little bells chiming shrilly around your ears, while Remmick turned to you, wiping away the saliva that had smeared a streak of makeup with his fingertip—but in that moment, the last thing on his mind was his disheveled Pierrot. He only had eyes for you, his carnivorous, sharp-toothed grin demanding passage to your blood.

There was a time, long ago, when he had knelt before you, weeping like a creature who no longer cried—at least not the way you did, drowning in tears; streaks of blood running from his eyes as he sobbed, disbelieving: "My Záyka, my Arlekinno, do you condemn me to such misery!? H-how can you refuse my blood!? My salvation? W-why won’t you share eternity with me, a ghrá (uh ghraw | my love), a-am I not good enough for you!? Haven’t I proven how good I can be for you!?" The two of you were in your tent late at night, naked, your wrist slit thinly by his sharp nail, dried blood around the wound, as he clutched your wrist like the most precious thing in the world, begging for your mercy, your yes. But you were resolute—no matter how much you loved him with all your being, you knew that if he turned you, you’d have to surrender so much of what you cherished in your humanity. You saw how Stack, Mary, and Bo had fallen to temptation—they were enough. But Remmick wanted you—from the moment he saw you perform as a ballerina long ago in Sochi, he had an epiphany, something he hadn’t felt in centuries, beginning an anguished obsession, spending night after night, even starving himself just to watch you.

He had starved himself sick for you.

He followed the tour of that decaying circus, still under its old owner, while the twins scrambled to raise money to buy it. Remmick traveled even in daylight, through city shadows, chasing you. Starving. And with each performance you gave, he moved one row closer.

And so it went: seven different cities, seven rows forward, weeks of following you like his own shadow. Until the day he finally made himself seen by you—who, all that time, had been suffering a strange mental disturbance, as if something was draining your energy daily—smiling wide, sapphire-blue eyes, arms behind his back, dressed simply: high-waisted trousers, suspenders, a loose striped shirt with a white collar, a gold chain around his neck. He bowed, took your hand—the temperature shock between you made you shiver—his voice smooth: "Pleasure to meet you... Záyka. You danced beautifully, as always." You laughed at the silly nickname, dressed in a ridiculous rabbit costume that night.

"And what should I call you?"

"My name is Remmick." He winked at you, still holding your hand.

A cold but firm grip.

A voice almost angelic yet with a predatory gaze that stalked you.

Blood flowing with carnal desires, intentions hidden behind the guise of a man... Now before you, like a Pierrot suffering for a Kolumbina who left him, an allegory of the freedom and humanity he once had. He was already gripping your hand, nails sharpening to tear into your flesh, drink your warmth, eyes glowing so brightly they nearly blinded you, ready to devour you.

"Pierrot! Arlekinno! Where are you!? The second act calls!"

"Damn it," the vampire growled, frustrated by the interruption of his little feast, giving you that same apathetic melancholy look that made him oddly endearing, forcing you both to abandon the moment for now. Returning to your Arlekinno stance, baton firmly in hand, you flashed him a wide grin.

"Showtime."

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RED CURTAINS OPEN.

ACT II

EXT. FOREST OF FOOLS. DUSK.

PIERROT emerges first, banjo at his side, the light following him as he lifts his blue eyes upward, glowing under the amber spotlight. Behind him, bells jingling, AELEKINNO appears, twirling the baton between fingers, a half-mischievous smile as if plotting against the sad clown. PIERROT positions himself at the edge of the stage, hands clasped as if in prayer, eyebrows raised in a contorted expression.

(sadly)

"All these years I’ve searched for something like Kolumbina in my life! All these years in misery, starving and scorned by those who once thought they owned me… They condemned me to damnation! But you know what… Even as I still write poems for my beloved bride who will never come, even as I weep blood for her frozen soul… I endure. I remain. I am. The revolution of those who came before me, perishing in this eternal glory."

ARLEKINNO

(mocking, behind Pierrot)

"How adorable, this whole speech full of passion, Pierrot. Hard to believe it’s the same crybaby who was just lamenting his lost bride. Fool."

PIERROT

(suddenly emboldened, turns to Arlekinno, pointing the banjo at them)

"You! You! The curse upon my path! It’s you, the court jester who whispered poison to my beloved! And since you’re the guiltiest one here, I believe you owe me laughter. Go on, rise on your tiptoes and make me die laughing…"

ARLEKINNO

(feigning outrage, hops back, looks at the audience, raising the baton toward Pierrot)

"Me!? You’re the one who makes everyone laugh with your tears! I’m no court jester—I owe you nothing."

PIERROT

(smirking defiantly, crosses arms, sharp gaze fixed on the figure before him)

"We’ll see about that, oh Arlekinno! We’ll see!"

PIERROT turns to the audience with a triumphant grin, raises a clenched fist, and cries out in a rough voice;

"Deti i yunoshi, stariki i damy! Ob"yedinyaytes' — i da zaberyom my vsyo schast'ye u Arlekinno!" (Children and youths, old men and ladies! Unite—and let us take all happiness from Arlekinno!)

He spun back toward Arlekinno abruptly, raising the banjo in a sudden movement—so unconscious it caught you off guard—landing a sharp slap with the metal back against the side of your face. The impact was sudden and hard against your skull, a gash splitting open immediately, blood trickling like a spring. Your eyes widened in shock, hand flying to the wound, staring frozen at Remmick, who stopped. Locked in place. The chorus of laughter erupted as if it were part of the act, threatening to distract you from the starving vampire before you, whose expression had shifted in a blink—even in Pierrot’s makeup, his face twisted into something almost demonic. It was primal—thirst turned him into a beast, senses and reason lost in seconds, eyes blazing like fire, a fanged grin aimed at you.

He was a blur.

CURTAINS CLOSE.

END OF ACT II.

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By the time you realized it, you were being yanked back, pulled away from Remmick, who had raised his claws toward you, his disturbing black-and-white face twisted in murderous hunger. Elijah held you in his arms while his twin dragged the vampire away—drooling and completely lost to your intoxicating scent. Bo and Delta had to intervene, restraining him as you were taken away. But you knew deep down that this was Remmick’s beastly side, the one he couldn’t fully control—starving, even a drop of blood turned him into a shark that could smell wounded prey miles away.

And it was no surprise, even to yourself, that your blood was the vampire’s greatest weakness.

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"I don’t understand your reluctance to become like me. It’s almost as if you’re afraid. I’ve told you—everything becomes better when you’re on my side, sharing moments and memories as one." Remmick’s voice reverberated through your chest to your ear, pressed where your heart should, in theory, beat. He held you in his single bed, in the time between him becoming a partner and artistic producer of the circus under the twins’ management and the first night he invited you to sleep with him. It was a time of transition and change. By then, Remmick had already made his blood pact with the twins and brought two others into the fold, who in turn brought another. But his bat-like eyes were always on you, his greatest muse—the one who kept him awake late into the night, writing long plays with you as the lead. Well, that was when he wasn’t hunting or on top of you, growing increasingly possessive, craving your blood.

You smiled lethargically from pleasure, tilting your head to look at him:

"I’m not as committed to life as you, Rem... I have this thought that life is so much more than carnal love or anything like that—" He gave you an incredulous look, and you laughed: "—I want to die. But to die for real."

"Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t let that happen to you." He frowned, hating when you said those words. He took the hand caressing his chest, lifting your fragile wrist to his mouth, pressing a kiss there:

"Let me turn you tonight..."

"No, I’ve told you." You pulled back. Remmick raised an eyebrow as a breeze slipped under the tent, making you shiver. You slowly sat up to stare deeply at him. Remmick still held your wrist—your blood, your pulse, throbbing under his fingers. His eyes bore into your soul, scarlet, as his fangs and nails lengthened slowly.

Then, with his thumb’s nail, he pierced your flesh effortlessly, drawing a whiff of pain, bringing the now-stained skin to his lips, sucking your blood. It was always like this: he never bit you, afraid of losing control and injecting his venom—so he always cut you. It hurt, but it was worth it because you felt a strange pleasure in feeding him.

This was how things worked between you.

This was how you learned to love him.

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With a blood-soaked cloth pressed to your temple, Annie looked at you with concern, occasionally lifting it to check if the wound had stopped bleeding. You sat on a table, legs swinging, watching her sheepishly. She applied an herbal ointment to the gash and now waited to stitch it. The woman’s hands were those of a true healer—everything she touched seemed blessed, renewed, cured. Even when she touched the vampires, there was some enchantment that calmed them. She, Elijah, and their daughter wore protective amulets around their necks, and she recommended them to everyone else, fearing a vampire might turn on them.

Seeing her up close, smelling of milk and golden rosemary, her caring eyes focused as she threaded the needle to sew your torn skin, you felt a strange comfort. Behind you, Elijah exhaled smoke like restless thoughts, the circus noise alternating between laughter and emotional cheers. Your gaze shifted between the couple, your balaclava in your now-clean hands, wondering where Remmick was...

"Perfect! Perfect! Just what we needed..."

"Smoke, it was just a little cut..." you said over Annie’s shoulder, who stifled an ironic chuckle.

"This 'little cut' nearly ruined an entire premiere, Arlekinno," she pointed out, pressing the needle’s tip into your skin—a sharp sting, then a burning sensation making you wince. Smoke rolled his eyes before glaring at you:

"Annie’s right. If not for this little mishap, everything would’ve gone smoothly, and we wouldn’t have to deal with a starving vampire about to pounce on one of our lead actresses—"

"Should I remind you that the reason said vampire is dying of thirst has a name, nickname, and surname, Smoke?" Your voice came out raspy, eyes narrowing as Annie stitched, tugging lightly, the thread scraping between flesh. Elijah froze at your audacity, raising a finger, but Annie’s calm, firm voice cut in:

"No use crying over spilled milk. You both know very well this is everyone’s fault... Long before yesterday’s stupid fight—it started when you let him into your tent. And then with you and your brother making a pact with the devil. We all share the blame." Silence.

Annie finished the suture with a snip of the scissors. The metallic sound made you think—she’s right... If not for me, for my curiosity with that stranger, maybe none of this would’ve happened... She had been the first to oppose, even suggesting they either drive the vampire out with garlic and silver or stake him through the heart. But the twins’ morbid ambition, seeing proof of the vampire’s special services, was fed when the old owner’s body was found dead, floating in the Volga River. Her words were drowned out. The ambition of men breeds that kind of friction—even with Elijah being madly in love with his wife, there seemed to be something greater between him and Elias.

Clutching the balaclava tightly, your reaction was to burst into tears.

It was as if the weight of a guilt you hadn’t felt before now crushed you, making you tremble with sobs, feeling like the most wretched person in the entire country. Elijah moved to say something, probably to calm you in his own way, but Annie stopped him with a gesture. Silently, they exchanged a look—let me handle her. Footsteps faded as the main tent’s drums and accordion grew louder. They were halfway through the band’s performance, soon there’d be a brief intermission, then Stack and Mary’s act—before you and Remmick closed the entire show.

"Hey, look at me... Look at me, my love—" Her voice was so maternal it made you crumble further into desperate weeping. You lifted tear-blurred eyes to the woman, opening your arms to be held. Annie embraced you firmly yet gently, a balance of her being, hands rubbing your back as if rocking you in that kitchen tent.

"Shhh... Shhh... Easy, easy. The last thing that’ll solve our problems is crying and panicking. Look at me—" She cupped your face, a small smile playing on her angelic lips, your guardian angel: "—only you and I know what we’ve been through in this family, all these years as wanderers. A vampire won’t destabilize us now, hm? My words are harsh, but time is too short for anguish—sometimes the best thing is to face the truth."

"W-what truth?" you hiccuped, wiping the tears that had smudged your makeup. Annie pinched your chin:

"That we invited the devil to dance with us. So now we hold his hand and watch his next steps."

She winked, patting your cheek like a child who’d just learned a life lesson. Then she walked away with her first-aid kit, leaving you alone with thoughts louder than the circus—but not loud enough to drown out that strange feeling nesting in your heart.

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There are things that need not be vocalized, for there exists a mutual understanding between people—a communication that precedes speech in human comprehension. A contained glance, a twist of lips, a hand gesture—even the void at the beginning of silence are all forms of communication. And you were a master at interpreting these subtle signals because something within always warned you that the greatest truths were embedded in details. You knew what Smoke wanted you to do, what Annie had told you, even Remmick's desperate urge to make you like him.

Your hurried steps led you to the dressing room - a tent crammed with costume trunks, makeup vanities, and an ever-helpful Grace and Lisa ready to assist with wardrobe changes. For the third and final act, you changed into a leotard and tutu, the leotard's thin straps bearing the same diamond patterns as your jumpsuit, the tutu red. The balaclava and pointe shoes remained. Your feet ached, crushed in those rigid shoes that even after years of use still made their presence known against your toes. Compressed bones, bruised flesh, nerves raw beneath skin. You opened the tent expecting the Chow sisters, but were met instead by the sight of a Pierrot undoing his blouse, his back to you as he faced his chrome-plated mirror where his blurred reflection stared back—Remmick watching you through the glass.

Your eyes met in silence.

"Where's Gracie or Lisa?" was all that left your lips as you tied the tent flap shut behind you. Remmick shrugged, continuing to undress: now shirtless, he sat on the bench, took a clean towel, soaked it in an aluminum basin of water and milk to better dissolve the face paint, dragging it across his chin. As you approached and watched him dip the paint-stained cloth, you glimpsed scarlet blooming in soft waves through the liquid's whiteness. Oh. The realization struck like a whipcrack.

You stopped an arm's length away, observing how muscles rippled beneath that pale skin, darker hair contrasting with his cadaverous frame, the gold chain at his throat. A deep breath, then you turned toward your trunk and vanity, assessing your own state: your makeup too had deteriorated, tear-tracks revealing skin beneath layers of paint and powder, like an ugly sketch someone had plastered over. There lay your truth. You touched the stitched wound with fingertips, counting:

"One, two, three..."

"Four and five."

Suddenly you felt his presence behind you. Instinct made you check the mirror - but it held no reflection. When you glanced over your shoulder, Remmick stood there with a melancholy smile, his smeared mouth exposed to you while half the sad clown's makeup still framed his face. You smiled faintly, turning back to the vanity where you resumed fussing with the wound, commenting:

"It's nothing Rem, don't worr—"

"How the hell can I not worry when I could hurt you badly at any moment, even kill you if I lose control?" His voice tore out, dry and wretched. You turned to see him with that cornered-animal look, fists clenched, milky water trails dripping from mouth to neck, collarbone to pectorals, translucent lines on already-pale skin. Remmick, Pierrot, Pierrot, Remmick, Remmick-Pierrot, Pierrot-Remmick. One and the same. Slowly he approached, arms enveloping you in a rough, desperate embrace, his face buried in your neck's curve, drowning in your warmth, your pulsing blood singing directly to where he hungered for you: inside him, through all his damned being. Remmick choked open-mouthed, thick drool on your skin, a sob—but couldn't suppress the fragile weeping. You stood motionless, arms limp at your sides, processing everything unfolding.

Some things need not be said—and one was how the vampire sought affection through flesh, how he buried his bitterness against you, stealing measured drops of your precious blood as respite. Before you knew it, your hands gripped his waist firmly, palms against icy skin as you listened to him whimper against your shoulder.

"Remmy... Remmy..." you began whispering in his ear. You felt him shift, reluctant, pulling away from your warm shelter to give you a pitiful look, those painted brows arched dramatically, the white face streaked with dried blood-tears. A masterpiece of melancholy, death's sweet eyes staring at you with immortal passion. Something you couldn't comprehend—only feel. Your smile tightened; the vampire twisted his lips, frowned, then sank to his knees, hugging your hips fiercely, nuzzling your lower belly. Again that ragged weeping:

"Y-you know how I s-suffer, my love? Only y-you know my damnation... And only you c-can give me what I w-want..." His nose slid from your navel downward, slow, shoulders shaking. You watched with mingled desire and sorrow; Remmick raised eyes—deepest blue, showing the bitter abyss of his soul, or what remained, in that moment. Tears framing the portrait of a clown who bled for you. Into you. His voice came low and muffled against your skin:

"I want you now."

"Wanting isn't getting, Remmy," you said thinly, eyelids fluttering shut, hands gripping the vanity behind you for strength. Outside, the crowd roared, oblivious to what transpired in this tent grown too small for you both. Remmick curled his lips, that anguish melting into something slick, lewd:

"I promise just the tip, my Záyka... Just the head—" He let the words exhale against your cunt, upturned nose nudging your pubis through fabric, inhaling your scent. A guttural sound escaped him. With a lethargic blink, his irises had bled to deep red; he continued his lament, seeing even this failed to sway you... Not explicitly.

"Come on, don't deny me. Just the head and I'll be satisfied..." he murmured, eyes shifting back from blood-red, rubbing his nose against you again, leaving white paint streaks on red fabric. You sighed deeply, one hand finding his hair, fingers tangling in straight strands, already pliant with adrenaline—this wouldn't be your first hidden act between performances—mentally calculating how long you had for costume and makeup changes.

Remmick opened his saliva-filled mouth to devour your cunt through fabric, staring up with provocation dancing in red-ringed eyes, tongue dragging along your cleft, making you yield with just a whisper:

"Fuck, yes, hurry up you bastard—Just the tip."

"Knew you wouldn't deny me some cunt-tea to cheer me up, my Arlekinno..." he teased, rising in one motion, hands firm on your body, squeezing flesh tenderly, letting you feel the delicious shock of his cold skin against your warm costume. Frenzied, Remmick seemed to transform into a beast in heat: his hands tore the jumpsuit's side seams ruthlessly, wooden buttons scattering. He laughed as you gasped his name in warning, yanking the top down to expose your breasts, skin pebbling, feeling his wet mouth surround one—velvet tongue, venomous saliva leaving everything slick and obscene, sucking your stiff nipple until whimpers escaped. Watching to memorize every detail, attuned to your sounds, his other hand trailed down your belly to where fabric still covered you.

With one motion, icy fingers found your clit, your soaked cunt awaiting him, index and middle fingers circling that throbbing spot. Chin tilting up, your voice strained:

"Fuck Remmick, you make me so wet... Shit..."

"Such a dirty mouth, my Záyka... Soon the whole audience will hear you." He pulled away just to taunt, amused by how your body responded to simple teasing: fingers rubbing your clit through fabric in slow drags, making you arch back, craving more, eyes squeezing shut, biting your lip to stifle louder moans. Remmick, patient as the ancient vampire he was, knew speed was essential now. Salivating with need, he withdrew, drawing a whine from you as you watched through half-lidded eyes while he shoved his costume pants down, his thick, veined cock springing free, head glistening with precum. He brought cunt-slicked fingers to his lips, tasting you with closed eyes, then used the same hand to spread your wetness over his length, gripping the base as he stepped closer:

"Spread those legs for me, my love." he ordered, already brushing the tip against your slit, drawing a sharp breath as you obeyed, perching halfway on the vanity for better access. His mouth found your ear, teeth grazing the lobe while his cockhead teased your clit in firm strokes, sending shocks through you - you clung to him like you might fall, head thrown back offering your neck, sweet sweaty temptation. Remmick restrained himself, grinding between rough groans:

"This feels so good Rem— "

"I know, I know... What if I just put the head in, hmn?" he murmured slyly against your ear, kissing your cheek. Eyes shut tight, torn between surrender and maintaining control. Remmick laughed darkly; with one hip roll, his cock slid from your clit to entrance, giving just the head, drawing a desperate whine.

"Just the head, little angel, and you're already crying on my cock, hm?" he taunted, resuming clit strokes. One hand gripped his shaft, feeling veins under your touch, guiding him as you rubbed yourself against him, trembling, laughing:

"That's it my love, fuck yourself on my cock so nice... Take it and I'll fill you up right here— "His free hand found your slit alongside his cock, thumb pressing your soaked flesh. Your moan stretched, lost between distant cheers and this growing moment, legs spreading wider as he pushed you toward the edge. Remmick grinned through lust, thick drool dripping, makeup intact save for blood-streaks smeared on your costume—that perfect mix of sorrow and desire in purest form.

"S-so beautiful..." you crushed the words between heavy breaths. Fire in your lung–Remmick clicked his tongue, predator-instinct surfacing, grabbing your right leg to hook around his waist, gripping his base to grind against your clit, sending pleasure radiating to your fingertips. Sweat-slick, vision blurring with tears that briefly washed away doubts, you felt him slide his tip inside again; you allowed it.

"Can I fuck this tight cunt, Záyka? Just to stretch it a little..." he near-wept, desperate, burying just the head. You hugged him tight, meeting those stormy red-brown eyes, lips brushing his to whisper:

"Fuck me Rem, fuck me good and let these people remember your damn name." You pulled him into a wet kiss as he sheathed fully inside, filling you like no other, drawing a ragged groan as your walls clenched him, giving that human, carnal pleasure so intense it felt unreal, hands fisting his hair as your tongues tangled, Remmick thrusting hard enough to shake the vanity, making you float outside yourself.

You arched back when pleasure crested, eyes squeezing shut, breath catching. Remmick drove you through this lascivious, profane dance, the sound of skin on skin merging with distant applause—as if you fucked onstage; one hand gripped your waist, bringing you back to the moment, your eyes meeting in wordless frenzy where only broken moans remained, his other hand finding your throat. You thanked him with a blink, lips parting to gasp his name as you melted into him:

"Remmick."

Legs trembling, spine arched, toes curling, your whole body spasmed as breath caught in your nose. Everything turned sweet and easy, sweat warming you, the moment's glow embracing you, the vampire's cold frame shuddering through his own release inside you, burning where he came. When you opened tear-streaked eyes, you saw with satisfaction that he too had wept through climax, as if purged.

Remmick stood like a Pierrot in rapture: makeup framing that pitiful image mid-carnal delirium. Fresh blood-tears streaked his face, which you licked away without thought, the ferrous tang of vampiric tears on your tongue. Meeting his gaze, euphoric, you saw such sincere immortal love that it nearly made you reconsider—to offer your life. So easy, with his fangs already bared, needing only your "yes" to seal this marriage. His hand cradled your face as he whispered proudly:

"Mne nravitsya, kak ty raskryvayesh'sya, kak tsvetok, kogda ya dozhozu tebya do orgazma...a ghrá mo chroí." ("I love watching you bloom like a flower when I make you come, my love.")

Your heart exploded between ribs—for this was what it meant to love an ancient being like him, immortal, so desperate for you he deified you madly, terrified of loss. You knew behind that dazed smile, that gentler gaze, even beneath the sad clown's guise, Remmick—that monstrous creature with trails of blood and horror, yet also memories and history, emotions no longer human—behind it all lay something primal, between soul and what remained of his humanity, simply loving you. Wanting you. Feeling you. Waiting with desolate core for your "yes."

Tears welled and spilled like springs of the Volga, born in Valdai's hills—vast, expansive, flooding outward. Your soul torn between immortal love for the vampire and passion for your humanity. And Remmick just pulled you close, still inside you, fused to your warmth, breathing your sweat mingled with his crimson torment. He hugged you with his entire being, for you were his world.

"Help me here, please?" He turned so you could button his final act's large black silk shirt. Remmick radiated melancholy beauty as a freshly made-up Pierrot, now in the black-and-white costume version; you too stood ready in ballet attire, pointe shoe ribbons loose, smiling as you fastened each button.

A quick cleanup—scattered wooden buttons, your ruined jumpsuit tossed carelessly into the trunk. You wiped yourself with a towel left soaking in the milk-water basin now streaked with black and white. The tent smelled of your sweet-sour sweat, sex, grass, and makeup-setting powder. You'd repainted his tear; your cheeks now bore brighter rouge contrasting with white base, lips a vibrant red heart-shape, one diamond on your right cheekbone. The balaclava hid your wound.

Your eyes met, silent promises exchanged.

"Let's go my Arlekinno, we've got a finale to kill." He winked.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

RED CURTAINS OPEN.

ACT III

EXT. FOREST OF FOOLS. NIGHT.

ARLEKINNO takes the stage, striding center where spotlight captures her altruistic figure, baton twirling. Behind appears PIERROT with banjo, face mournful yet hopeful. The band strikes up circus chords as ARLEKINNO's voice erupts, dabcing about while recounting her mischiefs and life wuth PIERROT. At chorus, she's joined by THE RED BAND and fellow performers, PIERROT moving to her side, and banjo stumming as they sing joyfully unisson;

ARLEKINNO, PIERROT & THE RED BAND:

(all in unison)

Pripev (Chorus)

Akh, Arlekinno, Arlekinno! (Ah, Arlekinno, Arlekinno!)

Nuzhno byt' smeshnym dlia vsekh! (You must amuse them all!)

Arlekinno, Arlekinno (Arlekinno, Arlekinno)

Est' odna nagrada — smekh (Your only reward is laughter)

Smeshit' vas mne s godami vse trudnej (Growing harder each year to make you laugh)

Ved' ia ne shut u trona korolia (For I'm no king's court jester)

Ia Gamleta v bezumii strastej (I'm Hamlet in passionate madness)

Kotoryj God igraiu dlia sebia (Playing God a year for myself)

Vse kazhetsia — vot masku ia snimu (It seems I'll remove my mask)

I ehtot mir izmenitsia so mnoj (And this world will change with me)

No slez moikh ne vidno nikomu (Yet none see my tears)

Nu chto zh, Arlekin ia, vidno, neplokhoj! (Well then, I'm Arlekinno, apparently not bad!)

Kha-kha-kha, kha-kha-kha (Ha ha ha, ha ha ha)

CURTAINS CLOSE.

END OF ACT III.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

"HUZZAH! For this triumphant opening night in Moscow!" Smoke raised his vodka glass, grinning ear to ear as the company mirrored his toast. His gaze locked onto Remmick beside him—both still in performance garb—"Thanks to our Centennial Lord too. Without his theatrical genius, we'd be nothing. Spasibo for the rubles, dear man!" He winked, gratitude laced with provocation. Laughter erupted as the circus owner downed his firewater, the chorus of "Huzzah!" shaking the tent before glasses shattered against the earth.

The cacophony of splintering crystal fused with Delta's harmonica wail and Pearline's powerhouse vocals as Sammie's guitar sparked a raucous chorus. This celebration thrummed with such vitality it made you feel alive, woven into the circus' very fabric. When you glanced sideways, the flickering lamplight caught the man's clown paint in chiaroscuro.

Remmick's eyes met yours with that same... gentleness.

Your mind spiraled through dichotomies:

Life and death.

Blood and brine.

Sacrifice and sovereignty. Love and loathing.

The world dissolved into a watercolor bleed—crimson to azure blossoms, sun-warmed breezes caressing your cheeks while your palm registered the coffin's glacial wood beneath your fingers. The ferrous tang of blood—pungent yet cloying—stained your lips. Tears of anguish became rivers. Humanity evaporated like morning mist. And through it all, you drowned willingly in death's saccharine gaze. Outside, the revolution raged. Within you, war raged fiercer: the temptation to live versus the siren call of his crimson embrace. Oh, this exquisite, cruel crossroads.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

That night, you melted into one being.

Saliva, blood, whispers—the pale moonlight piercing your tent, resonant murmurs, tears of pleasure, moans building into a carnal symphony. Bodies moved in perfect rhythm, Remmick devouring you with the roughness of a starved lover, taking you from behind with precise thrusts, hands gripping your waist before flipping you over, pulling you onto his lap to watch you tremble around his cock. Gasping his name, sweating out your passions, warming him with your blood.

When he finally drank from you, it was voracious - mouth wet with saliva and hunger, fangs buried in your flesh as you wept in unison. Naked and clinging, your blood spilled across the bedsheets, life flashing before your eyes: childhood memories blurring with tonight’s performance. Alive. Yet here you were, embracing his death—whispering as the vampire groaned around your blood:

"Drink from me... drink my blood... Take all of me."

Remmick tore away from your left breast (where your heart pounded) with a wet snap. He admired your morbid beauty, lips curling into a smug smile, face streaked with your scarlet essence. Thick droplets fell from his mouth onto your skin as he watched you, pupils blown wide.

"Wake, my love... for the night has only just begun."

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟐𝟗𝐭𝐡 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓.

Annie eyed you sideways as you prepared for your final night in Moscow—the twins’ plan was to head to Petrograd next, maybe even make it to the Winter Palace, as they put it, "to share a cup of vodka with Mr. Lenin himself." A notion Remmick found absurd.

You stood in your Harlequin costume, staring at your distorted reflection in the dull mirror, Remmick bent over your shoulder, putting the final touches on your makeup. Suddenly, the tent flaps rustled, and the brothers burst in, eyes gleaming—especially Elijah’s, who clapped his hands together with enough force to snap all attention his way.

"We’ve got fucking fantastic news, people. News that’ll knock your socks off!"

"What is it this time?" Annie asked, skeptical. You flicked your gaze to Remmick, reading the slow easing of his posture as he locked eyes with Stack, who winked at the two of you. Elijah pulled a letter from inside his coat, brandishing it like a revolutionary decree:

"Behold—the holy writ of our absolute triumph!" He paused for dramatic effect. "We’ve been personally invited by the revolutionary himself to perform at the Winter Palace—"

"Bullshit," Remmick spat, lips curling in disbelief as he strode over and snatched the letter, scanning it intently. His eyes darkened to crimson as he read. "But... this says the performance is during the day."

"Yes..." Smoke plucked the letter back from the vampire’s grip, exchanging stunned looks with his brothers.

"Look, I’ll try to negotiate, get something changed—but don’t get your hopes up..." Smoke turned on his heel, leaving Remmick standing there slack-jawed before following Stack and Annie out.

Remmick turned to you, voice a low, furious rasp:

"But the damn letter explicitly says they want us there. You and me. Pierrot and Harlequin... How the hell can they do this to us? We’re the goddamn stars of this whole circus!"

You stepped closer, movements soft, and cradled his face—twisted in a uniquely vampiric anguish—smiling warmly.

"We’ll figure it out, Rem... Even if we have to spill some blood to get what we want."

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: it was a hassle to edit this fanfic but it was worth it. i enjoyed writing this crazy little thing, ngl. and i hope to return with this story in the near future. idk, i think there are more things to be explored… anyway, thanks for getting here!!! (and if you have an idea with remmy in some historical context, i'm at your disposal to use my knowledge and studies in favor of fanfics ;)

[atompalmers]

i like lucas 😌 and so do the orphans pretending that the orphanage wasnt getting torn the fuck up at the very end

pretending that there was any story left after lucas woke up in the hospital bed. im sorry for making cute headcanons about stupid movies. it will happen again

[miaoumeowmiaw]

ST5 MAY LEAKS

Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome

Fremde, etranger, stranger

Glukich zu sehen, je suis enchante, happy to see you

Bleibe, reste, stay

Originally collected from multiple sources part of, and in contact with, Minou in the months leading up to May, these are the published leaks and conversations from that time. According to other leakers, this information was ~80% true and likely to have come from real extras, including military staff. Today, we have full confirmation for the vast majority. Screenshots from the time are publicly available, and as such will not be provided in this post.

Keep in mind some information may be omitted, as these leaks are not part of the recent batch. Feel free to contact The Cat's Meow or Minou directly to learn more!

PARTIAL NURSING EXTRA INTERVIEW

"Hey! I'm really sorry for not having talked much. There is a lot of work here. I have coffee on hand and [more information]! Personally, the filming is scattered. The military personnel, but especially [us] nurses, are recurring but do not play an incredible role, at least for our cohort. There are 2 [...] good guys and bad guys. My group is the [good cohort], we are generally in the background and we [...] take care of civilians and [the main] actors.

Extras for the military are sent in [shifts], so if the accounts of fans have not posted a huge ad saying 'EXTRAS FINALLY ARRIVED IN ATLANTA', that is why. It's something that they have done in all of the filming sessions. It is way too much work to have everyone here at the same time, and [we also experience] problems with travel and confidentiality.

[...] Most of us are leaving the area when we finish the work for the day. Some come in [only to] return home. I am staying in a motel with a handful of other extras.

The leaks on the time skip are true, but I think they have been exaggerated. It is [limited to the first episode] and taken slowly, given that we are moving from one season to another. It stops in autumn. The aesthetic of the season is similar to the first season [and] there are no flashy colours, if that can make someone happy. In fact, I think [it is] duller than season 1. It is very suitable for what [will be occurring]."

FULL LEAK RUNDOWN INTERVIEW

Was there any mention of the Upside Down duos or confirmed mid-late season pairings?

"The season is a lot more community-orientated. The 'pairings' they mentioned were small groups."

Did they confirm Mike's injury?

" [...] Almost all of the characters get hurt in some way [...] They have scratches, injured arms and legs with visual limps and gashes. One character has a deep wound near their midsection. There is a conversation about health and sickness [caused by the] Upside Down particles and environment, and how that might put people at [higher] risk."

Did they have solid information outside of the hospital, specifically regarding character arcs?

"They confirmed the time skip leaks, but it was blown out of proportion, as well as the Upside Down sicknesses. The parents, mainly Karen, have an increase in screen time because of [the sicknesses], and eventually become involved with the supernatural plot. There is a 'Byler' moment where the two [...] scout out [an area] together."

What additional information do you have?

"A large amount of the season focuses on the real world and Hawkins. The aesthetic and pacing is similar to season 1 and 2, [and it is] set around fall. [Hawkins] has aspects of quarantining. The hospital crew were sent to Hawkins by the military, [however they] abandoned those duties to help properly assist civilians. They are snuffed out eventually."

What are they unable to tell you?

"Extras almost never have the full script, and might not even have their own, unless [they have] speaking lines [...] I would not be shocked if parts were cut out."

How would you better describe Mike's arc?

"[...] His arc is separate, in the sense that he is not talking about his girlfriend every 5 seconds [like in season 3 and 4]. It's focused on self discovery [...] he is trying to get back to normalcy and figure out what [had] changed in him. He spends [most of the season] with Will, and there is more distance between him and El. [...] The vibes are similar to [those in] season 4."

Did you hear anything about Will?

"No. All I really know is that Will takes a leadership role because of his knowledge [and experience with] the Upside Down. They reacted positively to the rumours about Will having nightmares or discomfort. [I was only told about] 2 conversations [between] Mike and Will, and both of them are about health and well being. [It's possible that they are] in the same scene, with a transition between public and somewhere more secluded. The first is about the health of other people, and the second is about Mike and Will individually."

Have you heard anything in relation to the farm?

"They are not involved in those scenes and plots, but the characters consider heading farther from Hawkins because of everything that is going on with the military and gate exposure [...] It is not related to any Upside Down threat initially."

Does Will blame himself?

"Will takes on a [...] leadership role because of his experience with the Upside Down and general maturity. A chunk of his plot is him feeling [as if] he has a responsibility to support everybody else, and [he has] some negative emotions brought out when that does not go perfect. Not that the rest of the characters are happy, but nothing is explicitly said or shown except for Will and some other characters. There are a handful of remarks made about his responses to events."

How do these negative emotions contribute to the stories angst?

"The entire season is doom and gloom, but for Will, everything is discreet. [...] His relationships are strained. He lets his trauma take the wheel from what I'm hearing, [feeling] on edge early in the season, and [this] turns into snappy dialogue post-harm. There are comments from other characters that bring up and question this, specifically El, Steve and Robin. [There are] no destroyed friendships because of it [...] but it is uncomfortable."

INCOMPLETE SPACE RECORDINGS

There are multiple flashbacks throughout the season.

There is an angst parallel to season 2.

When asked about the church, a burning cross was presented.

El does not live in Hopper's cabin or Mike's house.

Will experience nightmares and trances.

Vecna targets his victims in a different way.

Vecna targets Holly.

Karen does not die.

Ted dies.

El does not attend school or live close to Hawkins.

Nobody knows the ending.

Will falls from a tree and the visual switches from the Upside Down to the real world.

Flashbacks, "false flashbacks", visions, beliefs, and control.

Characters are sleep deprived.

The scream was not Jonathan.

There is a conversation about nightmares.

Leakers do know multiple interactions and pairings but refuse to share them.

Jonathan, Robin, Hopper and Erica frequently get screen time.

Nobody knows the endgames.

El visits the mindscape.

There is a false sacrifice or loss.

There are multiple fight scenes with Vecna.

There are both "Byler" and "Mileven" scenes.

El and Max interact.

The flashbacks are only of the Upside Down.

[respectthepetty]

Hey petty,

😺😺😺😾

Welcome back! Are you going to create a color theory breakdown or just an analysis for Topform?

I'm going to watch the show quietly because I'm unsure if it is color coded even though I think something is happening with blue and green because that back-and-forth of which was better for the shot felt pointed.

Is the green XOXO can better or is the blue one?

But I'm not sure because if so, who is blue?

And who is green?

Because according to the messages, Jin is green and Akin is blue.

And the blue can was the original flavor while the green can was the newer flavor.

But the colors could just be a show thing and not necessarily a character thing.

And the only reason I even thought the characters might be color coded was because of that green mint that Jin dropped in the beginning.

Since the green seemed to connect him to Akin who was just walking in with a tiny green light emerging.

But instead of me dissecting every little thing like why the only colored shirts in the background are green and blue,

Or how the sticky tags on Jin's script are green,

I'm just going to sit here and enjoy the visuals for whatever they are.

Or at least I'm going to try.

[is-david-jacobs-jewish]

Evidence:

(In Rough Chronological Order from Concept to Musical)

Dave Simmons, on whom the character David Jacobs is (loosely) based, was Jewish according to some sources.

"David Jacobs" is a Jewish name. As is Esther, Mayer, and, Sarah. Les might have been given a non-Jewish name (Lester, Lesley) to avoid persecution or "Les" could be short for "Leshem" which is Hebrew for "Precious Stone."

In the Hard Promises script, the Jacobs family apartment is on Baxter Street which was a Jewish neighborhood (called "Jewtown") in the late 1800s.

Also in the Hard Promises script, Wiesel calls David a Jewish racial slur. Mayer Jacobs was also originally a tailor just like many Jewish immigrants of the time who found work in the garment business.

In the earlier film scripts, Yiddish words are used in relation to the Jacobs family such as when Les stops to kibitz a game of marbles.

The Jacobs family being Jewish lines up historically with an influx of Jewish immigrants (especially form Eastern Europe which includes Poland, from where at least Esther is canonically from) to the Lower East Side in Manhattan that occurred between the 1880s and the 1920s.

Assuming the Jacobs are all Polish, their immigration would also line up with the May Laws and the Warsaw pogrom.

We know that the Jacobs family values education just as Jewish families have historically and traditionally valued education. Education was particularly important to Jewish immigrants who had been barred from attending schools in their home countries.

David Moscow, who played David Jacobs in the original 1992 movie, is Jewish and has said that because of this similarity and others between him and the character he felt that being cast in the role was kismet.

In the adaptation from screen to stage, "Davey" has been described as Jewish in the original casting calls and later character descriptions.

Several Broadway actors who have played Davey have been Jewish including Ben Fankhauser.

[bigmack2go]

Hi

The newsies are physically disabled btw

Jsyk (is this me projecting? Maybe)

Albert needs a cane thats canon and i think most people agree that he’s at least hard of hearing or deaf

Spot also needs a cane which again is canon

Crutchie obviously needs a crutch

According to the original script mush has problems with his eyes

blink is probably MISSING a whole ass eye or its at least very disfigured if he thinks he can’t show it.

Same for york

I feel like finch has a stutter and he also probably has like leg problems

Jojo is blind on one eye and that’s also canon!

Maybe thats just me but I headcanon graves has dwarfism

skittery is missing a finger (dont ask why it just makes sense okay leave me alone!!)

My girl splint needs a splint

And henry can’t use his right arm!

Specs has terrible eyesight

Also odds are that most of them were flatfooted. Just saying

I’m just saying lets make disabled newsies more of a thing. It’s not just crutchie. One disabled character doesn’t count as representation!!!

[mask131]

November is usually my Shining month, and so I want to bring forward again something I have been repeating for a long time now but that I don't see being picked up a lot by people. A detail that is well-hidden inside the Doctor Sleep movie, but that makes the piece even more infinitely appreciable and shows it was made by true Shining fans.

And this detail is... the ghosts of the Overlook Hotel.

Now, when this bunch appeared during the final scene some familiar faces could be spotted. Grady of course, the Injured Guest from the "Great party, isn't it?" scene, the Twins, and of course the Woman of Room 217 -sorry, 237. But there are other faces there - seemingly random people in fancy outfit just for the sake of it. People were confused as to who these people were...

But all you have to do is look at the end credits. And you have a big surprise.

The familiar faces are confirmed to be the ghosts we always thought we were, or to correspond to famous ghosts of the original novel. The twins are confirmed as Grady's two daughters, while the woman in the white dress (not on the picture above but you can her in the scene) is Mrs. Grady. Meaning we have the whole Grady family as ghosts. The woman of room 237 is confirmed to be indeed Mrs. Massey, just like in the book ; as for the Injured Guest (only referred to as "injured guest" in the original scripts of The Shining), the sequel decided to make him Horace Derwent. Meaning he likely can switch between a young/attractive and older/more gruesome form, just like Massey's ghost, since in the original movie Derwent was clearly seen though not named in the scene with the man wearing a dog-bear-like costume (the script confirms it is supposed to be a dog costume though).

Alright, but what of the others? Now this is where things get interesting! The bald man to the right of Grady? That's Vito the Chopper. Yes, the Vito the Chopper from the novel by King, the mafia boss who got his head blown off in the Presidential Suite - as for the two men near him, they are his two bodyguards, Victor T. Boorman and Roger Macassi. Also from the book. These three characters are actually an Easter egg for those who read the book (and we know from the original treatment of Kubrick's movie that the criminal paradise-era of the Overlook and the murders at the Presidential Suite were originally supposed to play a big role in the cinema version of the story too).

But things get even better with the last ghost of the group. He doesn't appear in the picture above either, like Mrs. Grady, but you can notice him during the scene, a large man right behind Mrs. Grady when the ghosts first appear (he is played by Marc Farley). And the ghost's name, as revealed in the credits is... James Parris.

Now, fans of the novel might wonder "Wait... Who's that? I don't recall reading about him". And indeed, you did not! At least if you just read the regular version of the novel! James Parris is however a true character of the Shining, a true victim of the Overlook Hotel, a character written about and invented by Stephen King... But he is part of the deleted prologue of the novel, "Before the Play". You know this prologue that was not part of the published novel but was released in various TV magazines several times, and then finally re-added to the main novel in the collector Cemetery Dance edition of "The Shining"? You must have heard of it - even before the Cemetery Dance release the prologue was going around the Internet, published on small fan websites and discreet literature blogs...

And James Parris was, according to the first part of this prologue (detailling the building and creation of the Overlook... and its first victims) the second owner of the Overlook Hotel. A man that was touched by the same obsession and madness for the hotel that had overtaken Watson's grandfather (the actual builder and first owner of the Hotel), and, if I recall well, ended up dying of a heart attack on the hotel's garden-grounds (near the topiary beasts if I recall well, but I am not too sure, I haven't read the prologue in a while).

So all of that to say - not only did they bother placing an Easter Egg for the fans of King who had read the original book ; but they also placed an Easter Egg for those that knew of or had read the Before the Play prologue, which most regular fans of the novel never even heard about! If this isn't commitment to researching your source material, I don't know what is!

[gemsofgreece]

Mycenaean Greek

(and examples of lexical evolution to Modern Greek)

Mycenaean Greek is the most ancient attested form of the Greek language (16th to 12th centuries BC). The language is preserved in inscriptions of Linear B, a script first attested on Crete before the 14th century BC. The tablets long remained undeciphered and many languages were suggested for them until Michael Ventris, building on the extensive work of Alice Kober, deciphered the script in 1952. This turn of events has made Greek officially the oldest recorded living language in the world.

What does this mean though? Does it mean that a Modern Greek could speak to a resurrected Mycenaean Greek and have an effortless chat? Well obviously not. But we are talking about the linear evolution of one single language (with its dialects) throughout time that was associated with one ethnic group, without any parallel development of other related languages falling in the same lingual branch whatsoever.

Are we sure it was Greek though? At this point, yes, we are. Linguists have found in Mycenaean Greek a lot of the expected drops and innovations that individualised the Hellenic branch from the mother Proto-Indo-European language (PIE). In other words, it falls right between PIE and Archaic Greek and resembles what Proto-Greek is speculated to have been like. According to Wikipedia, Mycenaean Greek had already undergone all the sound changes particular to the Greek language.

Why was it so hard to decipher Linear B and understand it was just very early Greek? Can an average Greek speaker now read Linear B? No. An average Greek speaker cannot read Linear B unless they take into account and train themselves on certain rules and peculiarities that even took specialized linguists ages to realise and get used to. Here's the catch: Linear B was a script inspired by the Minoan Linear A, both of which were found in the Minoan speaking Crete. (Minoan Linear A inscriptions have yet to be deciphered and we know nothing about them.) The Mycenaeans (or was it initially the Minoans???) made only minimal modifications to produce the Linear B script and used it exclusively for practical purposes, namely for accounting lists and inventories. Linear B however was an ideographic and syllabic script that stemmed from a script that originally was not designed to render the Mycenaean Greek language, and thus it could not do it perfectly. In other words, the script itself does not render the Greek words accurately which is what made it extremely hard even for the linguists to decipher these inscriptions. Due to its limited use for utility and not for prose, poetry or any other form of expression, the Mycenaean Greeks likely did not feel compelled to modify the script heavily into some more appropriate, accurate form to cover the language's needs.

Examples of the script's limitations:

I won't mention them all but just to give you an idea that will help you then read the words more easily:

In the syllabic script Linear B, all syllable symbols starting with a consonant obligatorily have a vowel following - they are all open sylllables without exception. Linear B can NOT render two consonants in a row which is a huge handicap because Greek absolutely has consonants occuring in a row. So, in many cases below, you will see that the vowel in the script is actually fake, it did not exist in the actual language, and I might use a strikethrough to help you out with this.

For the same reason, when there are consonants together, at least one of them is often casually skipped in Linear B!

There were no separate symbols for ρ (r) and λ (l). As a result, all r and l sounds are rendered with the r symbol.

Exactly because many Greek words end in σ, ς (sigma), ν (ni), ρ (rho) but in Linear B consonants must absolutely be followed by a vowel, a lot of time the last letter of the words is skipped in the script!

Voiced, voiceless and aspirate consonants all use the same symbols, for example we will see that ka, ha, gha, ga all are written as "ka". Pa, va, fa (pha), all are written as "pa". Te, the are written as "te".

There are numerous other limitations but also elements featured that were later dropped from the Greek language, i.e the semivowels, j, w, the digamma, the labialized velar consonants [ɡʷ, kʷ, kʷʰ], written ⟨q⟩, which are sometimes successfully represented with Linear B. However, that's too advanced for this post. I only gave some very basic, easy guidelines to help you imagine in your mind what the word probably sounded like and how it relates to later stages of Greek, and modern as is the case here. That's why I am also using simpler examples and more preserved vocabulary and no words which include a lot of these early elements which were later dropped or whose decoding is still unclear.

Mycenaean Linear B to Modern Greek vocabulary examples:

a-ke-ro = άγγελος (ágelos, angel. Notice how the ke symbol is representing ge, ro representing lo and the missing ending letter. So keep this in mind and make the needed modifications in your mind with the following examples. Also, angel actually means "messenger", "announcer". In the Christian context, it means "messenger from God", like angels are believed to be. So, that's why it exists in Mycenaean Greek and not because Greeks invented Christianity 15 centuries before Jesus was born XD )

a-ki-ri-ja = άγρια (ághria, wild, plural neuter. Note the strikethrough for the nonexistent vowel)

a-ko-ro = αγρός (aghrós, field)

a-ko-so-ne = άξονες (áksones, axes)

a-na-mo-to = ανάρμοστοι (anármostoi, inappropriate, plural masculine. Note the skipped consonants in the script)

a-ne-mo = ανέμων (anémon, of the winds)

a-ne-ta = άνετα (áneta, comfortable, plural neuter, an 100% here, well done Linear B!)

a-po-te-ra = αμφότερες (amphóteres, or amphóterae in more Archaic Greek, both, plural feminine)

a-pu = από (apó, from)

a-re-ka-sa-da-ra = Αλεξάνδρα (Alexandra)

de-de-me-no = (δε)δεμένο (ðeðeméno, tied, neuter, the double de- is considered too old school, archaic now)

do-ra = δώρα (ðóra, gifts)

do-ro-me-u = δρομεύς (ðroméfs, dromeús in more Archaic Greek, runner)

do-se = δώσει (ðósei, to give, third person singular, subjunctive)

e-ko-me-no = ερχόμενος (erkhómenos, coming, masculine)

e-mi-to = έμμισθο (émmistho, salaried, neuter)

e-ne-ka = ένεκα (éneka, an 100%, thanks to, thanks for)

e-re-mo = έρημος (érimos, could be pronounced éremos in more Archaic Greek, desert)

e-re-u-te-ro-se = ελευθέρωσε (elefthérose, liberated/freed, simple past, third person)

e-ru-to-ro = ερυθρός (erythrós, red, masculine)

e-u-ko-me-no = ευχόμενος (efkhómenos or eukhómenos in more Archaic Greek, wishing, masculine)

qe = και (ke, and)

qi-si-pe-e = ξίφη (xíphi, swords)

i-je-re-ja = ιέρεια (iéreia, priestess)

ka-ko-de-ta = χαλκόδετα (και όχι κακόδετα!) (khalkóðeta, bound with bronze, plural neuter)

ke-ka-u-me-no = κεκαυμένος (kekafménos, kekauménos in more Archaic Greek, burnt, masculine)

ke-ra-me-u = κεραμεύς (keraméfs, kerameús in more Archaic Greek, potter)

ki-to = χιτών (khitón, chiton)

ko-ri-to = Κόρινθος (kórinthos, Corinth)

ku-mi-no = κύμινο (kýmino, cumin)

ku-pa-ri-se-ja = κυπαρίσσια (kyparíssia, cypress trees)

ku-ru-so = χρυσός (khrysós, gold)

ma-te-re = μητέρα (mitéra, mother)

me-ri = μέλι (méli, honey)

me-ta = μετά (metá, after / post)

o-ri-ko = ολίγος (olíghos, little amount, masculine)

pa-ma-ko = φάρμακο (phármako, medicine)

pa-te = πάντες (pántes, everybody / all)

pe-di-ra = πέδιλα (péðila, sandals)

pe-ko-to = πλεκτό (plektó, woven, neuter)

pe-ru-si-ni-wo = περυσινό / περσινό (perysinó or persinó, last year's, neuter)

po-me-ne = ποιμένες (poiménes, shepherds)

po-ro-te-u = Πρωτεύς (Proteus)

po-ru-po-de = πολύποδες (polýpoðes, multi-legged, plural)

ra-pte = ράπτες (ráptes, tailors)

ri-me-ne = λιμένες (liménes, ports)

ta-ta-mo = σταθμός (stathmós, station)

te-o-do-ra = Θεοδώρα (Theodora)

to-ra-ke = θώρακες (thórakes, breastplates)

u-po = υπό (ypó, under)

wi-de = είδε (íðe, saw, simple past, third person singular)

By the way it's killing me that I expected the first words to be decoded in an early civilisation would be stuff like sun, moon, animal, water but we got shit like inappropriate, salaried and station XD

Sources:

gistor.gr

Greek language | Wikipedia

Mycenaean Greek | Wikipedia

Linear B | Wikipedia

John Angelopoulos

Image source

[hordikawins]

Viren’s Path

This line here is probably the most significant for Arc 2 Viren.

“The path of freedom is the path of truth.”

On the surface, it seems counterintuitive. Freedom and truth shouldn’t have much to do with each other—especially when, in Viren’s case, choosing truth led him to willingly surrender himself and accept imprisonment in Katolis.

But the freedom that Viren is talking about goes beyond this. It isn’t about following desires or having unlimited options. It’s the freedom to act in accordance with who you truly are—its authentic autonomy.

Viren wielded more power than perhaps any human in history. Yet he was completely enslaved: by his desires (protecting family, serving humanity), his fears (losing Soren, losing control), and external manipulation (Aaravos’s influence). Even his original embrace of dark magic was driven by desperation to save his dying son. Every choice emerged from compulsion, not genuine freedom.

But after entering his dark magic coma and being forced to wrestle with his own mind, Viren finally comes to know himself—his own truth. In realizing this truth, he becomes free to act according to his principles: returning to Katolis to face justice, and ultimately correcting his cowardly decision from Season 1 by sacrificing his own life for the kingdom. And this is honestly one of the biggest parallels he has with Callum - Callum has been walking the path of freedom for over two years now, since learning the Sky Arcanum or at least since Harrow’s letter. With Callum, this freedom leads directly to truth - Once Callum determines what's morally right, he acts with remarkable consistency and integrity, even when it's difficult or dangerous. Even when it would cost him his life.

In both instances, Callum and Viren are willing to sacrifice their lives entirely on principle, demonstrating that they do have free will. Aaravos’s manipulation depends entirely on exploiting basic drives—hunger, curiosity, fear, desire. His control works by making his targets predictable through their compulsions. But as both Callum and Viren show, morality confounds and breaks this dynamic completely.

When someone acts on principle rather than impulse, they become genuinely unpredictable because they’re operating according to internal moral logic that Aaravos cannot account for nor understand. This is why when Callum attempts to use dark magic in a way that would sacrifice his life, Aaravos is genuinely surprised and caught off guard

The deeper question these characters explore isn’t whether humans have free will in the abstract, but whether we can exercise free will when resisting systems of control and oppression. The series reveals how those with power maintain dominance: by controlling both sides of conflicts, creating the illusion of eternal struggle, and convincing dissenters they are powerless—caught in loops without end.

The show’s radical conclusion is that through freedom, truth, and moral courage, you can indeed choose your own destiny. But only by stepping entirely outside the predetermined scripts that power depends on.

[whencyclopedia]

Britomartis

Britomartis, also known as Diktynna (Dictynna), was the Cretan goddess of hunting and fishing nets in Greek mythology. Although referred to as a nymph and worshipped locally, she had at least two significant and active shrines, one in Crete and another in Aigina, where worshippers would bring offerings. They regarded her as a vanished maiden immortalized and deified by Artemis.

According to her most popular myth, Britomartis, meaning "sweet maiden," was an exceptional huntress and a beloved companion of Artemis. As such, she had vowed to remain a virgin. Nevertheless, King Minos desired her and relentlessly pursued her for nine months. He eventually caught her atop a high peak and attempted to seize her, but Britomartis leaped from the cliff into the sea to escape. She was recovered by fishermen's nets (diktuon) and brought to the island of Aigina. There, Artemis transformed her into the goddess of the nets, Diktynna, to preside over her own cult.

Despite her clear Cretan origins, Britomartis/Diktynna was likely a minor goddess who was reintroduced into the Bronze Age pantheon of the island by Classical Greek writers. Over time, Diktynna came to be associated with divine genealogies and was even included among the children of Leda by Zeus, Apollo and Artemis. Her cult remained popular throughout the Hellenistic and Roman Imperial periods, as evidenced by the archaeological remains of her sanctuaries and the coins bearing her image.

In Minoan Religion

The Cretan system of sacred beliefs and practices is marked by impressive processions, bountiful sacrifices and offerings, mystery symbols such as the double-axe (labrys), and ritual activities such as bull-leaping. It also features painted and sculpted images of female characters commonly interpreted as goddesses or priestesses, most typically with raised arms. Some of these goddesses/priestesses are shown holding snakes, which led Sir Arthur Evans (1851-1941), the key figure in the discovery of the Minoan civilization, to suggest they may represent a 'Great Mother Goddess' and her fellow associates.

The discovery of numerous inscriptions at Knossos, an archaeological site he believed to be King Minos' palace, convinced Evans that deciphering these inscriptions would reveal a clear understanding of his material finds and their significance in the Minoan religion and culture. He dedicated his life to this effort, only to find that the inscriptions represented three different scripts: Cretan Hieroglyphs, Linear A, and Linear B. While the first two scripts remain undecoded, the Linear B script was eventually deciphered by Michael Ventris (1922-1956). As nearly all the tablets read since then contain administrative and commercial records, understanding the Minoan religion has largely remained dependent on drawing parallels between pieces of visual evidence from art, archaeology, and architecture. In other words, we have no written evidence yet that can directly tell us what the Minoans used to call their goddess or goddesses.

Minoan Snake Goddess, Knossos.

Mark Cartwright (CC BY-NC-SA)

Still, there is a foundational agreement among the scholars that the Minoan religion, like many other aspects of this culture, was later adopted or adapted by the Mycenaeans and Greeks. Just as Michael Ventris demonstrated that the language of Linear B inscriptions is an early form of Classical Greek, scholars such as Jennifer Larson explain that

From its beginnings in the Bronze Age, “Greek” religion was a synthesis. The strong influence of Minoan ideas and aesthetics is clearly discernible in the material culture of Mycenaean religion…

(138)

The idea of the persisting prominence of several gods and goddesses such as Zeus, Apollo, Dionysus, and Athena from the Minoan down to the Mycenaean and Greco-Roman cultures finds material support in the names of these deities on a few Linear B tablets. These tablets were discovered at the Palace of Nestor in the Mycenaean city of Pylos, c. 1200 BCE. The tablets list the offerings and sacrifices that were dedicated, or must be dedicated, to each deity. On one tablet, Tn 316, the divine recipients of gold vessels include Zeus, Hermes, Hera, and Potnia. The name Potnia, written as po-ti-ni-ja in Linear B, means "The Female God Who Has Power." This title was given to several important goddesses in Minoan Crete, sometimes as an epithet, e.g. Potnia Athena, sometimes denoting the geographical or functional attribute of the goddess, e.g. Potnia Hippia (Mistress of the Horses), and sometimes solely as her name or title. If we trust that Potnia must be the Minoan/Mycenaean designation for sacred female figures in the Minoan art because they are both noticeably frequent, then it is likely that this Minoan/Mycenaean great goddess survived the Bronze Age Collapse and made her way into the Archaic Greek pantheon in the form of one or more female deities.

Since the Bronze Age goddess was often featured concerning warfare and protection, most scholars suggest that Athena is the Greek revival of Potnia. Nevertheless, the Cretan goddess, who was consistently honoured and praised by Greek writers from the 5th century BCE onwards, was Britomartis/Diktynna. And she was explicitly linked to Artemis and, later, to her divine family.

Minoan Gold Signet Ring with Three Figures before a Temple

Nathalie Choubineh (CC BY-NC-SA)

Continue reading...

[mariacallous]

Julia is a 22-year-old model, student, and self-proclaimed “princess” from Malibu, California, with one nonnegotiable: She refuses to shovel cow shit. But she’s down to play the part, she tells Farmer Jay, handing him a framed black-and-white photo of her in a bikini and cowboy hat. Grace, 23, dreams of being a stay-at-home mom with four kids. Jordyn, a 29-year-old country singer who lives in Nashville, Tennessee, says she would relocate across the country for her partner.

The three women are among 32 contestants on the most recent season of Farmer Wants a Wife, Fox’s rustic spin on The Bachelor. They come from different backgrounds and have all sorts of interests, but their goals are ultimately the same: to settle down, get married, and have kids.

While the women don’t explicitly talk politics, their focus on traditional values fits into a genre of entertainment that is rapidly reshaping the industry: Welcome to Hollywood’s MAGA reboot.

Hollywood is in the midst of another evolution. Studios are releasing fewer movies every year. Broadcast and news ratings are in decline. Screenwriters are struggling to sell scripts as salaries for studio heads have skyrocketed. Television and feature film production in Los Angeles shrunk by 30 percent in the first quarter of 2025, compared with the previous year, according to a report by FilmLA.

At the same time, Hollywood is also undergoing a resurgence in anti-woke conservative content thanks to the Trump administration’s anti-DEI agenda.

“More conservative projects are getting greenlit,” says Colin Whelan, a former studio executive at TLC and founder of Conveyer Media, which has produced reality shows for Netflix, HGTV, and Investigation Discovery. “People are pitching more shows like that because they realize that’s what’s selling.”

Maybe you’ve also noticed the subtle changes on your TV screen—content that favors Christian values, heartland themes, or law-and-order style programming.

Yellowstone, the Paramount drama about cattle ranchers in Montana, gained a massive audience during Trump’s first presidency, routinely breaking ratings records, and has since spawned successful spinoffs. Tim Allen’s Shifting Gears, about a grumpy widower with manosphere viewpoints, is a ratings hit for Disney’s linear broadcast audience, with “more live viewers on average than The Conners season 7 and Abbott Elementary season 4,” according to ScreenRant. It pulled in 3.7 million viewers for its season one finale. Farmer Wants a Wife has held steady ratings, averaging 1.5 million viewers weekly, and works as easy counterprogramming to more raunchy dating fodder like Temptation Island and Too Hot to Handle (both on Netflix).

In 2024, Trump Media and Technology Group launched a streaming service called Truth+, and the company made clear that it would prioritize “news, Christian content, and family-friendly programming that is uncancelable by Big Tech,” a mandate that now seems to be shaping the look of Hollywood more and more. (The streaming service also features at least one documentary—included among its most watched programs on the platform in May—peddling conspiracy theories about “serpent or lizard-like aliens who are secretly wielding influence over the human race,” according to an investigation by Talking Points Memo.)

In Trump’s version of Hollywood, old-fashioned values are in vogue again. The Christian drama 7th Heaven, about a Protestant minister and his seven children that aired for 11 seasons on The WB (later The CW), is in early development at CBS Studios and will “focus on a diverse family,” though it’s not clear what that means. Jessica Biel, who was in the original cast, is executive producing the reboot alongside Devon Franklin, a producer of faith-based films. Roseanne Barr, whose namesake show was canceled in 2018 after she posted a racist tweet about former Obama White House adviser Valerie Jarrett, is shopping a series that “saves America with guns, the Bible, petty crime, and alcoholism,” she told Variety.

Duck Dynasty, a duck-hunting reality show that ended in 2017, is also returning to television screens this summer on A+E, which experienced its first big hit of the year with Ozark Law, a show that followed multiple police departments in the Missouri region. Duck Dynasty producer Rob Worsoff is in talks with the Department of Homeland Security about a reality show where “immigrants compete to prove they are the most American,” according to The Wall Street Journal. Potential challenges include mining for gold or working on a Model T assembly line in Detroit.

What’s happening is a “cultural recalibration,” says Carri Twigg, a founding partner and head of development at Culture House, the production company that created Ladies First: A Story of Women in Hip-Hop and Hair Tales. The recalibration has led to a “generalized chill” in the industry that has caused more diverse projects to suffer.

“I’ve heard from multiple executives that there’s a noticeable hesitancy around content perceived as too progressive, especially if it centers non-white leads or tackles social issues explicitly. Even projects with mild inclusivity are getting flagged in internal discussions,” Twigg says. “Colleagues have expressed frustration that kinds stories they were encouraged to pitch just a couple years ago are now getting passed on as like ‘too niche’ or ‘not resonant right now’ by the same execs who once called them ‘visionary’ and ‘universal.’”

Twigg says there are two key reasons for the hesitancy.

“The political climate has emboldened executives who were always uncomfortable with the industry's post-2020 shifts. The power that DEI-era storytelling offered to historically excluded creators was unfamiliar, and in some corners, unwelcome.” The second, she says, is fear of reprisals from the administration.

In February, Federal Communications Commission chair Brendan Carr, who previously said he would end the agency’s DEI initiatives if appointed, opened a probe into NBC parent company Comcast, and later Disney, promising to take action if the investigation uncovered “any programs that promote invidious forms of DEI discrimination.” Carr has since said that the FCC plans to look into broadcast network affiliation agreements to help “constrain some of the power of national programmers.” According to Variety, Disney, Amazon, Paramount, and Warner Bros. Discovery have all rolled back programs aimed at increasing diversity.

Talk shows are also being encouraged to shift their programming. In a recent meeting with the cohosts of The View, the popular morning gabfest with Whoopi Goldberg and Joy Behar, ABC News president Almin Karamehmedovic urged the women to soften their criticisms of Trump, saying “the panel needed to broaden its conversations beyond its predominant focus on politics,” the Daily Beast reported. Disney CEO Bob Iger also suggested that the show “tone down” its political rhetoric.

One former executive at Amazon MGM Studios tells WIRED that Trump’s anti-DEI agenda, whose impact on film and TV only seems to be growing more pronounced, is a part of the administration’s Trojan-horse playbook to roll back civil rights. “It’s just the rhetoric they’re using to articulate what they really believe and who they really are.”

The White House did not respond to WIRED's request for comment.

The anti-DEI backlash threatens to make Hollywood even more out of touch than it already is to younger audiences, who increasingly prefer TikTok and YouTube to traditional viewing formats. An estimated 50 percent of Gen Z identifies as non-white, and nearly 30 percent identify as LGBTQ+. “These audiences aren’t just asking for representation—they expect it,” Twigg says. “If the industry starts backing away from inclusive storytelling, it won’t just be regressive—it’ll be a bad business decision.”

Original, inclusive storytelling is trending right now, as Sinners, Ryan Coogler’s vampire drama, proved by becoming the biggest box office success story of the year so far, earning $316 million globally. Hulu’s Paradise, about residents of a postapocalyptic town, and HBO Max’s The Pitt, a medical drama that follows an emergency-room crew over a 15-hour shift, have also felt like watercooler moments at a time when the industry is starved for them.

Beyond the cultural and commercial risks of a less diverse Hollywood, Twigg says there is a strategic one: Film and TV take years to develop and produce.

“Hitching your content strategy to a political moment that may not last through the next election—or the next news cycle—is short-sighted,” she says. “The stories being greenlit today will premiere in a future that may have swung back toward the very audiences currently being sidelined. If anything, the smartest strategy right now would be to build with resilience and relevance in mind—not reactionary politics.”

Whelan says that in over 20 years as a television producer, he has taken the same approach, regardless of the political and social climates of the time: to create shows that “entertain and inspire and maybe teach.”

In 2014, following stints at Syfy and TLC as a network executive, he applied that mindset to New Girls on the Block. It was the first follow-doc reality show with an all-trans cast. The series focused on a group of women in Kansas City, Missouri, who faced changing relationship dynamics in a society struggling to make space for trans women. The reality project he just wrapped probably sounds like a complete 180. It focuses on a Christian family who runs a ranch and takes in at-risk youth. But there’s more to it, he says.

“What’s interesting to me, having done it for so long, is I don’t see a huge difference between a show about a group of all transgender women and a group of ranchers trying to help at-risk youth,” he says. “It’s two groups of really amazing people trying to change their lives for the better, and change the world around them for the better as well.”

Tonality aside, fewer projects overall are moving forward this year, Whelan says, but that hasn’t stopped genuinely good ideas from finding an audience—no matter who sits in the Oval Office.

“Ozark Law would have sold regardless of the administration. The Netflix scripted series is all about breaking the law, so you know someone’s gonna come up with the idea of enforcing it. That’s how we pitch reality shows,” he says, before admitting, “I wish I had thought of that.”

[katyahina]

Okay so, according to Moonlight Ruin who datamines Dark Souls 2, almost all the summons and invaders use the same preset faces

(Source: ( x )) So I guess I had to put my own take on them.. Donna, Bellclaire and Scarlett are not altered as I felt like at least someone from each list should use this data! I don't include Abyss people since they're just mirrors of characters/enemies, and 'Nameless Usurper' is actually Licia!

(Also have bonus Melinda pre-Gutter I guess)

Some thought process under cut!

I assume Foreigner Wandering Phantom is one of those outsiders that failed to make it from the start like the Hollows we fight in the Thing Betwix, they literally invade there and wear this set.. That's where Hollowing traces come from. There is a NPC preset for Hollwing though that this NPC doesn't use though, so it is not that profound

Dingy Cleric Phantom HAD to have an "interesting" hairstyle, because she is implied to be Anastacia's descendant! She is the only character wearing full Ana's set, not just a piece, and the only way player can get it! Plus this set mentions "original owner" in DS2 and does not reappear in DS3! She deserved "anime character" treatment fdhfhds (And a small lighning scar upon first tries of wielding her every Warrior of Sunlight miracle). Basically Lautrec canonically dies and I will NOT let you forget about it lololololol

Roenna's look is actually @val-of-the-north's fault because when he was doodling DS2 shitposts, he drew Roenna like Chara from Undеrtale fjdjfddffd I at least altered the colors well enough, but the joke stuck and I can NOT unsee it ;-; xD Also, pupils of different sizes are intentional!

With Donna, you also need to design an outfit because HER equipment is frankensteined out of pieces you can't compromise lore with, so I decided to at least give the preset face to her or else it would be 100% OC lol

The phantom that was 99.99% Durgo is actually jossed from SotFS edition and is now just a corpse, but I still use that one for a reference! Fun fact: Japanese script doesn't have pronouns for Durgo, English localisation just opts out for a 'he' in every uncertain situation! Don't let me to stop you from making a twink though fdshgdgfh

Guthry is one of the characters with whom I just could not help almost ignoring the initial NPC preset... I needed someone with curly hair or so help me, also, helmeted character so even more freedom. Skin rash due to her (seemingly) spending too much time with rats lol

Melinda is in the Gutter, so I thought about very harrowing side effects. The twins from Black Gulch would probably do no better. Also, I am thinking that since she can be summoned (in Dragon Temple) only after being killed in the Gutter, her spirit actually sorta jumps in our pocket and sticks out to warn us about fake nature of the "dragon" too x) Pursuer somehow claims the spirits of the Undead that he haunts, so I think with her Bearer of the Curse somehow accidentially did the same, just only once, and she isn't suffering. She is free, actually.

Rachel seems to be one of the soldiers that served Vendrick, judging by her equipment! But those are overall found Hollowed, so I thought that'd apply to her too! She is also in Brume Tower and her helmet is replaced with Alonne Helm now, so I think she left with Raime?

Painting Guardian Phantom was my second potential pick for unaltered face data for this preset, but I decided to give that one to Bellclaire instead! O'Harrah is wearing Monastery Long Shirt as well but is a bit more "removed" from it. The Guardian, on the other hand, drops the full set pieces with each invasion! And the braid is an important detail in their designs, their hoods even imitate it, so I could not help giving her the braid as reference too!

That last preset was the simplest I guess, with only four character and only Scarlett not having a head piece! So, the choice of who gets the unaltered preset is obvious here? I also changed stones coloration for the Pyromancer to make it more individual, but removed them from Butcher Phantom (thought she was not supposed to wear this set from context stanpoint)

[electronickingdomfox]

Star Trek TOS ships. Part 2

Continuation of this other post. I list here the TOS alien vessels, as well as ships from the Animated Series. Ships from the movies are here.

Romulan ship

Introduced in Balance of Terror, it appears in The Deadly Years as well. The Romulan ships from The Enterprise Incident, however, are of Klingon design (see below), though the remaster replaced one of these with the properly Romulan ship. They're equipped with cloaking devices and plasma cannons. Although this design is popularly known as a Bird-of-Prey, this name was never used in TOS for the Romulan ships. The early outline of The Search for Spock, where the villains were still Romulans, refers to their ship as a Bird-of-Prey, but it wouldn't be until "Voyager" that this design was named on-screen.

Klingon ship

It makes its debut in Elaan of Troyius, and reappears in Day of the Dove. The Romulans seem to have been using them as well (The Enterprise Incident). Earlier versions of this script specified that this was due to an alliance between the Klingons and Romulans. The remaster introduced Klingon ships in episodes where none was seen originally: Errand of Mercy, A Private Little War and Friday's Child. This model is popularly known as a D7, but this name wasn't canonized until "Deep Space Nine".

Fesarius

The gigantic First Federation vessel, commanded by Balok in The Corbomite Maneuver. It could dispatch smaller pilot ships, as well as tamper with the Enterprise systems.

Tholian ship

Appears in The Tholian Web. Commanded by Loskene, this ship along a second one start weaving an immobilizing web around the Enterprise.

Eymorg ship

Piloted by Kara in Spock's Brain, this vessel used an ion propulsion system. It looks very different in the remaster.

Orion intruder

The ship that follows the Enterprise in Journey to Babel. It also looks quite different in the remaster.

Gorn ship

Only seen in the remaster of Arena, and barely.

Medusan ship

Again, only visible in the remaster of Is There In Truth No Beauty?. Ambassador Kollos' ship.

SHIPS FROM THE ANIMATED SERIES

Bonaventure 10281 NCC

According to Scotty, this was the first ship ever to have warp drive (something that later series obviously retconned). It must have been at least 100 years old, considering the Horizon and Archon had already visited distant planets by that time. It was lost inside the Delta Triangle and thrown into a parallel universe, as seen in The Time Trap. Looks just like a fat Enterprise, if you ask me...

SS Huron NCC-F1913

A freighter commanded by Captain O'Shea, attacked and raided in The Pirates of Orion.

Ariel

A ship commanded by Lt. Commander Markel, and found in orbit around Lactra Seven, in The Eye of the Beholder. Never seen on-screen.

Robot grain ships NCC-61465 and NCC-G1465

Two automated cargo ships that the Enterprise escorted to Sherman's Planet in More Tribbles, More Troubles. They were attacked by Koloth. This design was the inspiration for the remastered Antares and Woden in TOS.

Several Enterprise shuttlecrafts

The animated format eliminated budget problems when it came to showing more ships, so the Enterprise was given a ton of new shuttlecrafts. Among these, there are the ones seen in Mudd's Passion: NCC-1701/4, 9 and 12. Four and twelve seem to be a new model. Also notice the new tubular shuttle in the first image.

Strangely enough, the shuttle Copernicus from The Slaver Weapon is also numbered NCC-1701/12, yet it's not the same as the previous one.

The aquashuttle from The Ambergris Element can sail on water and under it, as well as flying. The registry appears to be NCC-1701/A5 (the "A" probably stands for "aqua")

In the same episode, there's also a scouter-gig sent to rescue the crew, after the aquashuttle is destroyed. Its number appears to be NCC-1701/R6 (the "R" for "rescue"?)

Winston's trading vessel

The ship, apparently piloted by Winston Carter, that sends a distress call in The Survivor.

Cyrano Jones' scout ship

The ship that Cyrano used to escape from the Klingons, in More Tribbles, More Troubles.

Klothos

A Klingon battle cruiser commanded by Kor, that becomes trapped in a parallel universe along the Enterprise, in The Time Trap.

Dramian patrol ship

The ship that Demos (a Dramian alien) uses to pursue the Enterprise, in Albatross.

Traitor's Claw

A Kzinti police vessel from The Slaver Weapon, used to imprison the Enterprise crew.

Orion vessel

The ship that attacks the SS Huron in The Pirates of Orion. Quite different from the one that appears in Journey to Babel.

Phylosian ships

Strange plant-like ships intended to impose peace by the Phylosians, in The Infinite Vulcan.

Pod ship

An insectoid massive ship, destroyed 300 million years ago by an evil entity. Appears in Beyond the Farthest Star.

Antimatter universe ship

Piloted by Karla Five at impossibly high speeds, in The Counter Clock Incident. Originally from an antimatter universe, Karla Five was trying to escape the positive universe by driving this vessel into a supernova.

[eddieredmayneargentinablog]

"Day of the Jackal: Why Eddie Redmayne Couldn't Resist Returning to TV".

"I had massive trepidation," Redmayne tells emmy, but reading Ronan Bennett's scripts convinced him to join Peacock's adaptation of the classic thriller.

by Benji Wilson, for Television Academy, June 4, 2025.

📸 Photos by: Charlie Gray / TRUNKARCHIVE

In Frederick Forsyth’s classic thriller, The Day of the Jackal, the titular “Jackal” is a master of disguise. So when it came to casting Peacock’s TV adaptation, the first requirement was a lead actor who could transform .

“We all knew that Eddie Redmayne was a fantastically talented, ferociously intelligent actor who had chameleon-like qualities,” says director Brian Kirk (Boardwalk Empire, Game of Thrones). "But we were most taken with what he did in The Good Nurse; he was playing very aggressively in a contemporary space. And he was playing a character who was inherently unknowable and very dangerous — perfect for the Jackal.”

“With Eddie, it’s not just what you can do with prosthetics and how you can change looks, but also his physicality, his gait and all of those things,” says executive producer Nigel Marchant. “He has that ability for you to empathize with him, but then he can also play very, very cold. You believe he could be an assassin that can kill people. So, we were thrilled he came on board. It's an iconic role. We've got an iconic actor for it.”

In the last decade, Redmayne has played a transgender pioneer in The Danish Girl, a genius diagnosed with motor neuron disease in The Theory of Everything (for which he won the best actor Oscar), a gentle and eccentric wizard in the Fantastic Beasts film franchise and a psychotic serial killer in the Netflix film The Good Nurse. What he hadn’t dabbled in, at least since 2012’s Birdsong (a 2012 BBC limited series available on Netflix), was series television.

“All of it was slightly new to me,” Redmayne says, speaking from his home in the U.K., “because I hadn't done TV for a good decade.” But Redmayne, who was educated at Eton and Cambridge, is a fast study. “In that time, I'd watched friends work in television and seen shows like Succession and The White Lotus and become a massive fan of this ‘golden age.’ So I was always curious a bout how the system worked.”

Back in 2023, three scripts entitled The Day of the Jackal, written by Ronan Bennett, arrived in his inbox. “I had massive trepidation because I admired the original movie, but when I started reading them, I loved the fact that they were modern," Redmayne says.

Producer Christopher Hall (Showtrial, Bloodlands) explains how the series differs from the movie: “We're making 10 episodes, so it's a much bigger, richer canvas. It's the Jackal’s backstory; it's his personal life. In the film, you didn’t know who the Jackal was, even to the last frame. He’s on a mission to carry out a single hit, to kill [French President Charles] de Gaulle, but the Jackal himself is always a mystery and a cipher. Obviously, we play into that, but we do answer some of those questions.”

Bennett — whose latest show, MobLand, is on Paramount+ — has a very particular view of the world, according to Hall. “When you talk about AI writing scripts, I don’t think AI could come up with Ronan Bennett. He’s an original and a one-off. Look at [crime drama] Top Boy. He has that piercing intelligence and a particular worldview that’s really interesting. If I were to encapsulate his worldview, it’s that everyone has both good and evil in them. The Jackal is ultimately a sociopathic killer, but there’s something that we warm to in him enormously.”

In this series, the Jackal echoes classic action heroes, and for Redmayne that was part of the appeal. “This is a genre that I love, you know? The Bournes, the Bonds and those ’70s thrillers like The Parallax View — but it was never necessarily a genre that I thought would come my way.”

He says his success in roles such as Stephen Hawking in The Theory of Everything had sidelined him from consideration as a gun-toting action hero. “Sometimes people go, ‘Oh, you’re the sort of actor that always transforms,’ and I really was never that actor. I just got cast as Stephen Hawking and had to play a real person, and suddenly it’s that cliché that after something successful you get sent more of the same thing. It was, ‘You’re the guy that plays real people.’”

Ironically, playing the Jackal required multiple transformations, personas and prosthetics — but it was undoubtedly a move away from introverts in tweed jackets. “I love that he’s a more physical character. He’s a peacock,” Redmayne says. "I love that every time you see him, he’s wearing something different, going somewhere different."

Playing the Jackal required Redmayne to portray several different roles: He speaks German as a janitor who roams silently through the 30-minute, wordless opening scene; he plays an urbane family man back in his Cadiz villa with his wife, Nuria (Úrsula Corberó, Money Heist, Snatch); he jousts and parries with Bianca Pullman, an MI5 operative played by Lashana Lynch (The Marvels, No Time to Die).

He also had another role on this production: executive producer. Being an exec on a TV show is often a trophy title, but Redmayne was a committed and passionate fan of the original story, and of English actor Edward Fox, who starred in the 1973 film. So if he was going to be an EP and the star, he wanted to do The Day of the Jackal justice.

“Control freakery,” is how Redmayne describes his character type, adding, “There’s a control freakery to the Jackal that perhaps bled into my producorial role.”

In film, the director is usually the control freak, the person in charge. But The Day of the Jackal runs 10 episodes with four different directors using different cinematographers and multiple noncontiguous locations. (A second season has been greenlit.)

"That was all new to me, and I wanted to understand how one found the continuity, or who was overseeing the whole thing," Redmayne recalls. “The answer was: There were tons of eyeballs on it, but it became clear that for Lashana and I, we were the continuity — we were the tissue between it all.”

According to Corberó, being that connective tissue meant a lot of hard work for Redmayne during the shoot. “I was a little bit worried about him, because he was carrying all the pressure. He was shooting every day, spending hours putting on all these prosthetics. It was hard work. I remember, at like 9 p.m., he was texting me asking, ‘Should we rewrite the scene for tomorrow?’ So we were having a lot of conversations.”

Corberó says Redmayne is demanding of himself and of other people. “But the craziest thing is that at the same time — maybe it’s because he’s British — he knows how to do it in an elegant way. He’s charming. And he fights for you. I know that I’m in this show because of him, because he was the one who insisted, ‘We need Úrsula for this.’ I will always be grateful to Eddie for that.”

Corberó’s role in the drama is a new one, but a vital one. As the Jackal’s wife, Nuria, she adds a home life, a backstory and a modicum of compassion to a character who in the book and film is just a stern-eyed shadow. “Nuria is the Jackal’s weakness,” she says. “It’s good for the viewers to see him being a very bad man, like super professional and dangerous, but then just being afraid of his wife. I think that’s what humanizes the Jackal.”

Humanizing the Jackal was the intention from the outset, Redmayne says. “The archetype of the empathy-less assassin whose blood runs cold couldn’t work in this version.” Television demands character depth. This new telling of the Jackal’s story offers explanations for why he is how he is. “We have him as a family man with a military background. Is he also sociopathic? I believe there was a juncture in his life from which point he has held those two things at the same time,” Redmayne says.

Part of the puzzle that Bennett’s scripts unlock is the Jackal’s logic of empathy. How does he square his love for his young child with the brutal demands of his job?

“He had assumed he would be alone all his life, and that’s how he was always going to function,” Redmayne says. “And yet when he meets Nuria and is floored by her charisma, you know that it’s an Achilles heel. When we meet him, he’s made a huge amount of money, he’s married with a child and he wants this to end. He’s lied to his wife from the word go but thinks he can wrap it up if this thing ends, so they can start a new life. And that’s his weakness as an assassin. We’ve been leaning into their love for each other and his love for his kid. That’s really important, and I hope that, again, what slightly differentiates the piece is that you’ll believe all that and you’ll care.”

The Day of the Jackal is executive-produced by writer Ronan Bennett along with Gareth Neame, Nigel Marchant, Sam Hoyle, Sue Naegle, Brian Kirk and Eddie Redmayne. The series is a production of Carnival Films, part of Universal International Studios, a division of Universal Studio Group.

*This article originally appeared in emmy Magazine, Issue #7, 2025, under the title: "Assassin's Lead."

[wolvertooth]

origins on the brain again....according to the script, james is 13 when they run away, and victors slightly older, so probably 14 or 15. between 1845 and the start of the civil war(1861), thats like. 16 years. so just barely shy of their 30s. and im assuming the whole immortality thing didnt kick in till mid 30s? still, by that point they had been living with eachother longer than half their life so far.

the civil war only lasted till 1865, and between that n wwi was 49 whole fucking years.

then after that was another 21 years between the next.

the movie really glosses over just how LONG they hungout with eachother when not busy being traumatized in the wars. by the end of wwii, theyd known eachother for longer than a CENTURY.....and still stuck by eachothers side. like. no wonder they had to make them brothers.

i like to think the cabin james lives in with silverfox probably used to be one of theirs. probably had a couple around the country they built together during the down time. but what kinda stuff did they get up to?? in the scene with stryker, its kinda implied theyd never done black ops work before, so thats likely outta the question. cant really see them holding up jobs. or at least not victor, so maybe james did some work. i see james being better with socializing, so he most likely handled a lot more of the 'human life' shit. they probably had phases of living in populated areas, either towns or cities, and also living in the middle of fuck all nowhere(occasionally likely due to being on the run).

i wonder at what point james started to become the older brother.