#at this point ive brought her back from the brink of death so many times irt software that i know i can't kill her in any way that matters

[blueskittlesart]

if it's any help, looking up "[laptop model] teardown" & even just taking the bottom cover can really help you get used to what it's like inside (plus in my experience unplugging and replugging things & compressed air fix sooo many problems)

see the problem here is that fucking with the software is just me having like a fun silly hacker time like an extra in a cyberpunk movie but fucking with the hardware is like brain surgery. i dont want her entrails exposed on my desk im not qualified for that

[mediocre-writerr]

the nights [leah rilke]

leah rilke x reader

part 2 of 3:00

requested by anon: omg can we please get a second part of 3:00 where the girls come up with an escape plan and when leah goes to her room and she’s not there. she finds her hooked up to sedatives and did get sick like she was scared she would LETS CONTINUE THIS ANGST TRAIN

warning: mentions of overdose and ptsd

*not my gif*

“Isolation isn’t that bad,” you remember telling yourself that every time back before the island.

For example, whenever you said no to a party and they’d tease you about you would just say: “Isolation isn’t that bad,”

Turns out it is.

You don’t know what happened, but your PTSD got worse. The amount of times Dr. Fader was sending nurses in to sedate you was becoming more time than you could remember.

But as they kept coming in the less it started working and the more doses they started giving you.

You don’t remember what happened, but the entire day you were feeling a little uneasy. You had a bunch of dizziness, difficulty breathing, and felt cold the entire day. So you tried your best to fall asleep and for the first time ever you fell asleep peacefully. Little did you know, that your life was on the line.

The facility hallways were dark at night. After taking a page from Leah’s book the girls all snuck in napkins and shoved them in their doors. Everyone except for you, who apparently missed the memo because the girls were now on their way to grab you and get out of the shit hole.

Leah remembered putting the napkin there to allow you to walk in and out freely. But with your state of mind it was a lot harder for you to remember simple things.

She pushed open the door to see your room empty, even checking the bathroom to make sure you weren’t in there, but came up empty.

“Where is she?” Fatin whispered.

Leah shrugged, “I don’t know, but I don’t have a good feeling about this,”

“You never have a good feeling about anything,” Rachel pointed out and Dot smacked her arm, “What? I’m not lying,”

“We don’t have much time Leah, we got to find her if we want to get out of here,” Dot mentioned.

And for some reason the blue eyed paranoid brunette just knew. The aching feeling in her stomach just seemed to be proving her point.

She left her room in a quick dash leaving the other girls far behind, “Leah, wait,” Shelby whisper-yelled as the girls followed suit.

The brunette was already far ahead, walking as quickly as possible to the medical center. She peeked her head around the corner and made sure that there was no one there. Before entering the examination room.

And there you were. A IV hooked up to your arm and a ventilator covering your beautiful face. Leah let out a shaky breath rushing over to your side immediately, her face filled with tears.

She let out a small cry when she noticed a tube in your esophagus and a small machine sucking stuff up out and into this small bag.

“Baby, what happened?” she whispered, brushing the hair away from your face as she watched your sleeping face.

There was no way she could leave the facility now, not with you in this condition.

“Leah! How could you leave us-“ Toni was about to scold her when her eyes landed on your condition. The blue eyed girl turned towards her friends with tears pouring down her face.

“What the hell happened?” Fatin questioned.

Leah let out another muffled sob, “I knew. I knew she was struggling and I just wanted to be with her and stay with her, but they took her away. I knew she was going to be sick. I should’ve been with her, I should’ve,” she whispered over and over again.

Shelby rushed to her side, pulling her close and holding her. The two grew close ever since the incident where the blonde decided to cut her hair and have a small breakdown.

Dot just stood there in shock, horrid flashbacks started filling her mind from when her dad was sick. But she snapped it out of it as quickly as she could rubbing at her eyes.

She scanned the room for some type of chart and found one right by the door. As she skimmed over the chart she realized her mouth opened agape. All of the girls were sitting around your bedside or trying to console a now sobbing Leah.

“What happened Dot?” Leah asked, noticing the somber look on her face.

She didn’t quite know how to say it, but she tried her best, clearing her throat, “Y/N’s in a coma right now,” and that’s all it took for Leah to sob even louder, despite the crack in her voice Dot continued, “She was given too many shots of sedative liquids to the point where the higher does caused her to overdose,”

“They’ve been sedating her?” Rachel asked, “Like we’re in some fucked up asylum. Have they done it to anyone else?”

Most of the girls shook their head, but Leah nodded. It only happened to her twice, but never as more times as you experienced it.

“Agent Young found her unconscious in bed,” Dot whispered.

“I should’ve been there with her,” Leah mumbled.

Shelby wrapped her arms around the girl, “You couldn’t have known,”

“But I did. One night Agent Young got me out of my room to help her because her PTSD caused a panic attack. I knew she was gonna get sick and Dr. Fader came in and took me away. He wouldn’t let me stay with her and the next thing I know she’s in a fucking coma!” she explained.

“We can’t leave now guys,” Toni brought up, “Not with the state that she’s in. I don’t know about you guys, but we have lost way too many people to lose her too,”

“She needs us,” Fatin whispered.

There was a clearing of throat by the door. Everyone’s head snapped to the side. There Dr. Fader was, disappointed again at the sight of all of them out of their room.

“Why are you guys here? How did you even get out?” he asked, but none of the girls were going to answer, “All of you need to leave right now!”

“What are you gonna do, huh? Sedate us to the point of overdose like you did Y/N!” Toni screamed.

“See now that’s not fair, Y/N was struggling with some major anxiety and PTSD, she needed something to help keep her calm,” he explained.

Dot scoffed, “You’re a doctor, right?” he only nodded, “Then you should know that sedatives are highly addictive and your body gets used to them the more you use. You practically set her up for this!”

“I should’ve been there with her,” Leah finally mumbled, yet again, “I should’ve fucking been there with her!!”

Everyone seemed to shrink at the sound of her screams, “My girlfriend is on the brink of death because you wouldn’t let me stay with her. She didn’t need sedatives she needed me, she needed us!”

The girl collapsed back into the chair that she was once sitting in, lying her head on the edge of the bed. She grabbed your hand and intertwined your fingers together, your skin was cold against her warm ones. She squeezed your hand tightly.

“Love, please, I’m sorry. I should’ve been there, I should’ve been there,” Leah kept mumbling to you.

“There’s no harm in this,” Shelby tried to explain, “We just want to be here to support our friend and make sure she’s okay,”

“I’m sorry I can’t do that,” he snapped his fingers like an ominous villain in one of those classic movies.

There were five nurses with needles in their hands and bigger agents with them. Agent Young was nowhere to be seen. The agents wrapped their arms around each girl.

“Hey get your hands off of me!” Fatin screamed as the liquid was being shot through her.

Toni and Dot were putting up a fight even elbowing the agents in the face, but at the end of the day it was no use, “Fuck you!” Toni yelled before going limp along with Dot.

Every girl seemed to be out for the count when arms wrapped Leah to steady her. She flailed in their arms, “No let me go! Please! Just let me stay with her! Fuck!”

No one was listening to her though. She placed a small kiss against your cheek, trying her best to push off the inevitable doom.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve been there,” was all she could get out.

Isolation isn’t that bad.

[plaid-shirtsandvibranium-arms]

There's More Than One Way To Start An Apocalypse (3)

Summary: The Infinity War had happened and Thanos had won. 5 years later the Avengers try one last crazy idea to save everyone they lost, but a mysterious woman from Natasha's past drops in unexpectedly derailing their plans. They soon find out that Thanos was now not the apocalypse they needed to stop.

Fandoms: Avengers, Supernatural

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader (previous), Natasha Romanoff x Reader (previous)

Warnings: Angst, The Damn Snap, Mentions of depression and self-loathing, violence, mentions of death, copious amounts of blood, cursing, mentions of past trauma

Masterlist

3: Rewritten

Natasha woke up alone and disoriented hours later on one of the patient beds. Instinct dictated that she take a defensive stance immediately, but she relaxed when she recognized the plain white walls and the distinct sterile air of the medical bay. She pulled herself up and cursed whoever had knocked her out. It was probably Banner, she thought. He was the only one running around with needles most of the time. She would pay him back for that later.

The walk back to the section they kept the Cradle was quiet and only served to emphasize the clinical vibe from the fluorescent lights in the corridors. She vaguely wondered where the rest of her team was, but mostly she was focused on getting back to your side.

Her heart clenched painfully as she caught sight of you. They had transferred you from the Cradle to a bed when you seemed stable enough to heal on your own. She dragged a chair closer to your side and sat there watching your steady breathing while holding one of your hands carefully avoiding the many IVs.

They had apparently cleaned you up before transferring you because now you didn't look like you went ten rounds bare-fisted with a chainsaw. Only a few blotches of blood on your arms remained along with some flecks along your hairline and ears.

She gently brushed the stray hair away from your face, taking extra care not to touch the oxygen mask strapped to you. she took note of the color and length of your hair now. She smiled knowing that you had always preferred to keep it this way. the color was also returning to your skin. Aside from the many bandages, you looked exactly like how she remembered you.

She held your hand to her lips and closed her eyes as she allowed the relief to wash over her. The tension on her shoulders relaxed and the lines on her forehead smoothened.

" Are you praying, Natasha?"

"Oh my god!" Natasha jumped at the sudden unfamiliar voice. Quick as light she had drawn one of the knives she always kept on her person and pointed it at the threat.

What her eyes met though was a fresh faced boy who looked like he couldn't be much older than Peter. He was sitting up two beds over looking at her with curious eyes and a wide boyish grin. He reminded her of a puppy or an excitable child.

He didn't seem phased at the fact that she had just drawn a knife on him and that she knew at least 70 ways of killing him instantly with it. It was only when she followed his movements and watched as he ripped off several IVs attached to his arm that she recalled who he was. The blonde boy was who brought you here on the brink of death in his arms.

She was slightly embarassed that she overlooked the presence of another person in her vicinity. So much for her world class spy reputation. She blamed Banner and his damn sedative.

"Jack," the boy said as he rubbed the spot the IVs were.

Natasha blinked. "What?"

"I'm not god. I'm just," he paused. "Jack."

His smile widened as he slowly approached your bed. A sudden urge to protect you bloomed in Natasha's chest but Jack looked decidedly non- threatening with his Bambi aura. It was confusing as hell to her.

He leaned in closer to examine you with his  head tilting to the side and a small furrow on the bridge of his nose as he focused. Satisfied, he turned his head to Natasha and beamed happily at her.

"You have saved her. I am truly grateful, Natasha."

"You know who I am?" she asked resolved to at least getting some answers from this boy disorienting though as he was.

He nodded his head excitedly. "She talks about you all the time! She talks so ..." he paused seemingly trying to think of the right word.

" Fondly," he decided proudly. "She always talks so fondly of you and you would know better than anyone how she gets when she tells her stories. I feel like I've always known you."

A knowing smile crept on her lips at the memory. Yes, you did have a habit of telling vivid stories with the goal to make sure whoever was listening feel like they were reliving it with you. Her heart warmed at the thought of you telling other people about her.

There were questions burning a hole in Natasha's mind. She couldn't help but take advantage of Jack's accommodating nature.

"Jack?"

"Yes, Natasha?"

" Are you - ?" she started.

He smiled knowingly. "Like her you mean? Well, yes. I guess you could say..." he paused again trying to find the correct term.

"You could say we're related. Like cousins!"

Her eyebrows raised high and her mouth opened in surprise. This was complete news to her. A thousand other questions sprung from one answer, but she didn't get a chance to ask because Jack suddenly slumped over with both hands gripping his head. He whined and grunted in pain as the high pitched ringing attacked his senses.

"Jack, are you okay?" Natasha asked urgently going around to check on Jack. She remembered that you would have episodes like that too. You always waived it off and said it was just a chronic migraine. She knew it was just an excuse to keep her from worrying and she wondered now if Jack would do the same.

"I'm good. Just a bad headache," he said with a forced smile. You certainly were related, Natasha thought.

"You shouldn't even be standing yet. You came in pretty banged up too," she grabbed his arm and urged him back to bed.

He waived her off and tried to straighten up. "I am completely fine."

He slowly turned back to your unconscious form, his eyes betraying the emotions he felt: gratitude, guilt, and a firey determination. There was a beat of silence where he only stared at you before speaking again.

"We're all completely fine because of her."

Natasha was surprised and grew more confused, but she pushed at the opportunity to find out more. The curiousity getting the better of her.

"Jack, tell me what happened," she swallowed the lump in her throat. She wanted answers but she was scared to know what you had gotten into to end up inches from death and needing 36 vials of super soldier serum to stabilize you.

Jack smiled sheepishly at her. "You'll find out soon enough. Besides, I think your friends are back. I wouldn't want to interrupt."

Natasha tried to not get frustrated at Jack's cryptic words. Whatever she was going to reply got caught in her throat though as her attention shifted  toward the sound of the doors swinging open. A voice she thought she would never hear again filtered through.

"Hey, Red," the unmistakable teasing tone of Sam Wilson rang in her ears coupled with his signature smirk.

Her eyes widened in disbelief. This couldn't be real. He vanished with the Snap. As if the universe knew she needed further proof, one by one they started filing into the room quickly crowding the small space.

"It's really us, Nat," Wanda said her eyes filled with tears holding her arms slightly open to invite her friend for a long overdue embrace.

She resisted the urge to rub her eyes for fear that it might dissolve the wonderful illusion in front of her.

She soaked up each face that she had missed terribly for the last 5 years and haunted her dreams all the while she felt her heart break and piece back together simultaneously.

She finally gave in and threw herself onto Wanda's waiting arms staining each other's shirts with tears as they clung to each other tightly. She went from one tearful reunion to another until the fear that this was all just a cruel dream had vanished.

Jack was right. Her friends were back.

Masterlist

Taglist:

@username23345 @closetbtstrash

[duskdragonxiii]

dusky in what ways do you think therapy would help q4?

I'll be honest i dont know the exact benefits of therapy ive only had counselling a couple of times bc it was free and i was on the brink but i do have so many many thoughts DJSKLBF

Every character in vanguard has thier own issues and while some of them are nuanced some of them are really really obvious

Aichi is very clearly depressed it's not even subtle and as someone who's been through situations that make Aichi's story relatable I think therapy is something he really needs but I've stressed before that Aichi even goes through relapses and such. Vanguard is what's helping him through it its the closest he's getting to therapy. Maybe it's from being bullied in school but Aichi has serious self esteem issues and the core of Vanguard is imagining yourself as the best version of yourself- It's really not a subtle message. Kai brought him into the world of Vanguard and it completely changed his life. Slowly but surely. Even his family note how happy he becomes after getting into vanguard and meeting Kai again. The development on aichis part is really slow but in fairness depression is just like that.

Misaki canonically has PTSD after the death of her parents (this was more severe in V series but at the same time it felt really brushed over which is a real shame) and similar to Aichi was depressed and had little interest in anything before being dragged kicking and screaming into a game she was so scared of. Once again Vanguard is the key to getting through- not over- her issues and she's far happier with her life now.

Kamui is easy to overlook bc he's younger and isn't as clearly distressed as the rest of the team but I think he has serious social issues. He's a popular kid among his peers and he thrives on enthusiasm but he's also vulnerable in his own way. He's intimidated by change and finds it hard to understand other people I think. He has a hard time feeling he belongs with people. One of those people who has so many friends but rarely lets any of them close. He found where he belongs in Q4 and thats why when he finds Kai hard to deal with he finds is especially hard. It's really hard to say what Kamui's issues are tbh but I don't doubt therapy would benefit him too. (I hc he has adhd and dyslexia but that's more of a me thing) Kai in particular has serious issues with running and hiding from his problems. He acts all cool in order to push people away. Obviously he's already fucked up from his parents death and the first person who got him to open up after that was of course Ren (and Tetsu) unfortunately as a result he didn't realize how high a pedestal he was putting Ren on that it absolutely shattered him when Ren turned out to not be the person he had been in his imagination (Don't give me any of that he changed bc of psyqualia thing, that's a metaphor and you know it and you're missing the whole point) and instead of trying to accept Ren as he was he ran away. This is addressed again in the Psyqualia Aichi arc when Aichi starts to get lost in his own power- giving Kai the painful reminder when once again someone he's connecting to might not be the flawless and innocent person he imagined them to be. The difference is, Aichi brought him close to a whole lot of other people and Aichi himself made him realize that he can't keep running and that's what brings him to his senses and able to face it.

Not Q4 but relevant; Ren has abandonment issues probably due to his shitty parents (although this is only really established in V series where things are quite different but i still think that's the case in the og) so when Kai didn't approve of his new self and worst of all walked away without even saying goodbye it sent him over the edge and he became the nasty and aggressive cardfighter we know him as in season 1- all because he wants Kai to come back to him. He has a single minded OBSESSION with Kai that's really not healthy- and while after season 1 he starts to get better he never truely lets go.

Kai and Ren could BOTH get over their issues if they would just talk about it but unfortunately they both have issues with communication that make it impossible- hence why cardfight is so important to them now. with thier imagination and putting thier true selves in this game it gives them something in common and a way to communicate through all the issues they have with eachother and at the end of LM though it's been really slow its clear that they ARE healing. It may sound silly, but Kai making an off comment about how he doesn't like the way Ren is dressed is a BIG thing for him. I could analyse this moment till the cows come home because its the first time Kai manages to express himself with words, clumsy as it is. What "I don't like the old you" really means below the surface is I know and accept that you have changed. And Ren's playful response being "Then you like me as i am now?" while he is being playful that in itself means I'm still not the person you want me to be I will never be that again but I'm happy that you can finally see me as I am. It's really important to me....

Anyway Sorry for this ramble i really feel strongly about cfv LOL welcome to my KaiRen agenda--

[ussjellyfish]

fic: the brink | philinda | agents of SHIELD | mature

Sex pollen, pon farr... May has to have sex or she’ll die, and Bobbi and Hunter are willing, but Phil has some pesky feelings about that idea. 

Total crackfic. Many thanks to @unrequited-ship for helping!

read on ao3

Sweat runs down her neck, down her spine. The temperature in the quinjet is relatively normal, even a little cold because night's fallen. She sits, watching her fingertips tremble and glow with whatever that golden dust is. She didn't even touch the oh-eight-four, that's what makes it so frustrating. She brushed against it, through her jacket but whatever it is, this contagion is crawling up her fingers, sparkling down her veins towards her heart. 

Can't wear the jacket now, too hot. 

"May?" Phil passes her the bottle of water, hovering. His tongue flashes pink as he licks his lips and all she can think about is how that tongue will feel on her skin. He should kiss her, then lick his way down her neck. 

Bobbi releases her arm from the blood pressure cuff, shaking her head. "Pulse is way too fast, blood pressure's up ten points from earlier."

"So I'm having a heart attack?" Melinda shouldn't joke. All their faces are far too serious in a huddle around her, but that means she has to tease them. She's dying unless they can figure out what this is. 

"Not yet." Bobbi sighs, glancing at the dark control panel. "Simmons would have a better answer."

"We don't have Simmons, Bob," Hunter reminds them. King of stating the obvious. "We've got you and the rest of us who are much better at shooting things than science. No offense, sir."

Phil holds up a hand. "It's fine. Biology is definitely not my strongest subject. History, I can do a little better, but it's hard without power or internet." 

"That EMP was pretty intense. The quinjet is fried. We either get rescued by the team or we hike out to the nearest road."

May shuts her eyes instead of focusing on how attractive the curve of Bobbi's neck is. The way her hair's up in a ponytail leaves her skin exposed and she's so beautiful. She could rip off that shirt and show her a very good time. 

She's not, this isn't, but even Hunter looks not like his normal absolutely unattractive self and something is wrong if she's fantasizing about his hand stupid hand touching her knee.

Shake it off. 

Don't have a heart attack.

Simple. Don't die. 

"What did the stones around the oh-eight-four say?"

Phil opens up his notebook, checking his notes. "My translation is questionable without the database but I'd guess 'blood fever'. Something in the oh-eight-four causes a medical condition that's resolved through the ceremony."

"The ceremony meaning the orgy thing we saw in those statues? Because I'm not an anthropologist but I totally got that one."

Melinda leans back. The fuzzy sort of ache behind her eyes has built into a pounding that echoes her too fast heartbeat. "My head hurts."

Bobbi touches her temples, fingers light and caring. 

If she says her thighs hurt will she...? Dammit. Concentrate. Think about anything but the warmth of Bobbi's skin and how close she is. She could just--

"Hey, her heartrate got better when you touched her, just for a minute," Hunter pipes up. 

"Really?" Bobbi pulls her hands away and backs up and it's as if Melinda's been doused in flame. Without Bobbi (anyone really) close to her her skin's on fire again. 

"Go back," Phil says, watching the monitors in the emergency medkit. "Touch her face."

Melinda can do better than that, so she grabs Bobbi and pulls her close, dragging her head down from the clouds to kiss her. This is right, this is what she's supposed to be doing, kissing, pressing their bodies together, feeling her tongue.

"Bugger me," Hunter whispers, staring with his mouth wide open.

"May?" Bobbi says as she catches her breath. "Are you okay?"

"I needed too--"

"Look at her vitals," Bobbi says, staring at the lines that are back into the green, for the moment. "Kissing me brought them all back down, even her temperature."

"So that was it?"

"No, they're getting worse," Phil says. Is he blushing? What's wrong with his face?

"The sparkles are getting worse too."

"Sparkles?" 

"Look at her hands, her arms." Hunter touches her arm, turning it over so they can see the golden sparkles work their way up her skin. "They faded a bit when she pounced on Bob, but they're coming back."  

Melinda shivers when he touches her, moving closer. 

"Fuck."

"She finds me attractive," Hunter says, hands up. "That's not, I mean, I am, but not to May--"

"Okay, so it's some kind of libido enhancing oh-eight-four, maybe it was used in fertility rituals."

"Fuck or die?"

"It might be having a different effect on her, it's been hundreds of years, at least since anyone has touched that artifact."  

"Her vitals are worse again."

"My vision's getting blurry." Melinda waves her hand in front of her own eyes. "Kind of gold?"

"The sparkles are on your face, in your eyes." 

If Hunter's going to lean that close, she's going to kiss him.

Phil grabs her hand, and squeezes it. "We'll figure it out."

"I don't think we have much time." Bobbi looks at her vitals again, then crouches down to look at Melinda's eyes. 

"What can we try?" Phil says. 

She traces her thumb across his knuckles, and her entire being only cares about the touch of his skin to hers. 

"You're so warm." He releases her hand and she hisses. "Your fever's back."

"Those sparkles are getting pretty intense."

Bobbi and Hunter don't even look at each other, but somehow speak in unison.

"We have to have sex with her-"

"May needs a shag-"

"What?" Phil drops his hand from her forehead as if she's burnt him. "You can't--"

"Well, we usually share things," Hunter says, looking down a moment. "It's kind of our thing to do together."

"You and Bobbi are going to have sec with her."

Melinda peels off her boots, then reaches for her sweat-drenched t-shirt. "Great."

Phil's hands stop hers on her shirt. "Wait."

"We can't wait, Sir. It's amazing she hasn't had a heart attack already, or a stroke. If we don't do something to stop it, whatever this is, she'll die."

"Phil it's fine, Bobbi and Hunter are--" the hottest people she's ever seen right now in the moment and she shivers at the thought of touching them. 

"It's not fine--"

"It's just a little threesome, Sir, it's hardly our first."

"May?"

"Yes." She takes off her shirt, startling all of them as she stands up in her black bra. The sparkles have overtaken most of her skin, and they move within her skin, forming rivers down her belly. "I want them."

"Yeah, I get that." 

Bobbi and Hunter look at each other and start taking off their jackets and tac vests. Is Phil going to stay and watch? Is he going to join them?

Melinda looks at him, meeting his eyes, and with the clarity of fever dreams, she sees it. He wants her. That apprehension? He's jealous. 

Phil Coulson wants her.

Of course she wants him, she wants all living beings right this second, but he looks at Bobbi and Hunter and then at his feet and back at her and--

"Phil?"

"I'll just go look for the road-" he starts, but she stops him, catches his hand. Her fingers close around his robotic wrist and even that's enough for her to start fantasizing about knocking him to the deck and having her way with him. 

"You want it to be you." 

"I just want you to be all right"

"You're jealous of them."

"To be fair, most people are," Hunter says, but he looks at Bobbi and shrugs. "Coulson and her would work too. Kind of too bad though."

"Whatever we do, she needs to have sex as soon as possible, waiting could kill her."

Melinda touches Phil's chin, running her finger over his stubble up towards his lips. "What a difficult choice, let me have sex with them or admit you want me."

His eyes widen, and darken, and he feels it, he has to. "May--"

Her heart thuds in her chest, aching, burning, threatening... "Make a choice," she says, resting her hand on his chest. "You step up, or you step out of the way."

"May, you'll die if you don't--"

"I said Bobbi and Hunter are fine-"

Hunter smirks. "We're a little bit better than fine."

"Phil--" She rests both hands on his chest and looks up at him, melting into the idea of kissing him, standing on her tiptoes. "Just fuck me." 

Bobbi reminds him to keep the sensors on her temples, they need data. Hunter pats her shoulder and winks at Phil, then they're gone and she has her hands on his belt. 

"May--"

She doesn't have much left to tell him to hurry. Her control's sizzling away, burning as the gold sparks start to fill her vision. Tugging him down, she kisses him, hard and deep, nearly bruising her lips in her hurry. It helps, because with his tongue against hers, she can think a little. 

"I have to be on the brink of death before you admit you want me?"

Phil takes off his jacket and tosses it aside, then yanks off his t-shirt. "Do you want me to get Bobbi and Hunter back in here?"

"If you're going to be tentative about it."

"Tentative?"

She wraps her arms around his neck and tugs him close. "I might die in the time it'll take you to get me undressed."

Rolling his eyes, he kisses her, hard and demanding and maybe she might ive. His hands find her bra and when she bites his lip, he tugs it off. The rest of their clothing falls away, catching and sweaty skin, falling empty to the cold metal floor. She kisses him and he lifts her up, pressing her against the cold wall of the quinjet, her legs around his waist. He's inside her a moment later, desperately, drunk with worry but finally her heart starts to calm. 

Her vision starts to return as he stares into her eyes, filling her, thrusting up and in again and again. They don't have time for foreplay, and her first orgasm rushes up almost as an afterthought. Is she dead?

No, that wasn't a heart attack, though her chest is hot.

"Sir?" Bobbi's voice carries through the door. "Her vitals are better, but they're still--"

"Got it, thanks."

Melinda's feet rest on the deck and she laughs, pulling his hands to her breasts. "Maybe we bought ourselves some time for foreplay."

"I thought you didn't like it to take a long time?"

She tugs him close, her lips brushing his ear. "I just wanted you to touch me, and I hate waiting."

He sits her down on the bench, parting her thighs and rusing his hands up to slip inside of her. He wrenches another orgasm out of her with just his hands, and starts kissing her towards a third before she can even stop panting. 

It blurs after that. His skin, her skin, their breath and sweat. She gasps and cries and growls and moans. The sparks are in her and in him and behind her eyes and the last time she orgasms his inside her again, and over her and then she's on his lap, they're legs tangled together. 

The air shimmers above them and the gold rises from her skin as if becoming a mist. She sighs into his neck and the pulsing is gone. 

"Her vitals are stable," Bobbi says from the door, and there's a roughness to her voice, like she's been running. "We'll have to do some more tests."

"But she's stable?"

"Yes. Good work, Sir."

"Yeah, work, terribly hard work," Hunter teases.

"You thought he was sexy," Phil reminds her as she melts into his chest.

"I would have found any willing adult irresistible in that state."

"I'm flattered," he teases, brushing her damp hair from her forehead. "Glad I could be a warm body."

"You did all right." Her entire body tingles and she can barely move she's so content. "Good effort."

"Thanks."

"You're not going to say it?"

"What?"

"You rose to the occasion."

Phil kisses her forehead and groans. "I should have let you have that threesome."

"You couldn't."

"If that was what you wanted--" 

She holds his face, touching his mouth. "I wanted you."

His little smile is worth her brush with death. "Next time--"

"Oh there's a next time?"

Phil kisses her, this time soft and full of affection. "Oh yeah."

"Pretty cocky."

He groans as his fingers tease him and he twitches in her hand. "I might need a little recovery time."

"I think you earned it."

"I just saved your life."

Melinda lays back, her head on his chest beneath the emergency blanket. "You're welcome." 

[alifeincoffeespoons]

part ix of the avatar au: the red spirit

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii

Lily’s sick, and saying that James is panicked would be an understatement.

He barely knows how it happened. One day she was fine, and then they walked ten miles during a thunderstorm, and then she was sick.

Okay, it actually does make sense, if you look at it that way.

“Cute,” she giggles, poking his cheek, and James gulps. If she’s calling him cute, something is definitely wrong. “Handsome.”

Okay, yep, she’s delirious. 

He paces around the cave they’re staying in. Lily’s wearing her warmest cloak and is tucked into her sleeping bag, a blanket on top as well, but she still seems to be shivering, and her forehead is burning. He needs food and medicine, more than anything else. 

Wormtail bounces up to him, and he pats the flying lemur on his head. “Wormy, do you think you could get some food for us? Something cold, preferably, to help Lily.” He tries to gesture with his hands, and Wormy nods—well, as best as a flying lemur can nod, anyway. James grins. “Good Wormy.”

He spends the next hour worrying over Lily, pressing a cold compress soaked with water to her forehead. He can’t risk taking her to a doctor in town, especially now that the Fire Nation definitely knows what he and Lily look like. They’d just as likely be arrested as helped. 

It doesn’t get any better when Wormtail finally returns. Instead of food, he’s brought back what looks to be an expensive wristwatch. It’ll be helpful when they can sell it, but right now, it’s about as useful as a rock.

Actually, even a rock would probably be more useful. 

Then, suddenly, it comes to him. He recognizes the mountain in the distance—at the last town they docked in, one old woman had told him about a healer who lived in the green mountains. That mountain looks pretty green to him. 

“I’ll come back soon, Lily,” he whispers. Lily mumbles incoherently, turning over in her sleep, and James smiles at her softly. “Don’t worry.”

He bounds out of the cave, running as fast as he can. If he conjures up a dust cyclone to bring him to the top of the mountain faster, well, no one saw him, right? It’ll be fine.

Finally, he reaches the top of the mountain, panting. He rushes inside the building to find an old woman with long white hair, walking slowly as she waters plants.

“Hi,” he breaths. “My friend is super sick—like, really, really sick—and I need medicine for her. I think she has a fever, and she’s coughing too. Do you have any—”

“Shh,” the woman whispers. “Let yourself connect with the elements, and all will be revealed.”

“Okay, I’m the Avatar. I’m the most connected with the elements. Anyway! Do you have any advice for my sick friend? Please?”

“Frogs,” the woman says sagely. “She will suck on frozen wood frogs, for only then can she be well. You may find them in the swamp at the base of this mountain. But take care that the frogs don’t thaw, because then they’ll be useless. Useless!”

James looks at the woman dubiously. She smiles. Her mouth definitely has too many teeth. “Okay?” And then, studying her face, “Oh man, you don’t have a clue what you’re doing.”

The woman just smiles back, and James groans. The problem is, he doesn’t actually have any other ideas besides having Lily suck on frozen frogs, as unpleasant and frankly disturbing as that idea is. “Right. Frozen frogs it is.”

He grumbles as he wades through the swamp, which is definitely unsanitary and probably the spawn point for multiple infectious diseases. Finally, he sees a frog, and he traps it in a circle of earth quickly, smiling. He tucks the frog into his pocket. For good measure, he scoops another one up too, and breathes a sigh of relief at his good fortune. Now, he can go back to Lily, and she’ll be fine, and—

And he’s been pinned to a tree by archers. Wonderful.

Surprisingly, being hung from chains on all fours isn’t as uncomfortable as it could be. It would almost be kind of fun, if he wasn’t in a life-and-death situation and being held captive by Admiral Malfoy. Again. He really needs to get better at evasion tactics. Briefly, he wonders if there’s a way he could just turn invisible. That would solve a good 50% of his problems. 

And now Malfoy’s monologuing. Again.

“You see, Avatar—”

“Okay, like I’ve told you five times already, my name is James.”

“You see, Avatar, you seem to be under the impression that I’m here to kill you. No, no.” Here, Malfoy laughs, and James wonders why his life is just so uniquely terrible. “No, Avatar, I’m going to keep you alive. If you die, things will only get even more complicated. I can’t afford to let the Avatar cycle continue, after all. No, I’ll bring you to the brink of death, so much that you wish you could be dead, but you’ll be alive. Always alive, at the end.”

“Wow, you’re so very kind,” James simpers. 

Malfoy sneers at him. “No one is coming to help you, Avatar. No one can penetrate the walls of this fortress. Not even your little waterbender girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend!” Wait, why did he say that? He’d love for Lily to be his girlfriend. “I mean—”

Malfoy laughs cruelly again. He strides out of the room, shutting the door behind him harshly.

James looks around the dimly lit room. There’s no earth to be found, but there is air. If he could just get out of these cuffs, maybe he would have a chance. And then he feels the frogs start to wriggle in the pocket of his robes, and he groans again. Just wonderful.

He struggles against the cuffs again, wincing as they bruise his skin. Then, suddenly, he hears a commotion from outside the room, and he cranes his neck to hear.

It’s unmistakably a fight—he can hear the clashing of swords and the shouts of soldiers. Maybe Malfoy’s army has finally mutinied. He’d deserve it. 

Then, he hears the turning of the lock to the door, and he swallows hard. He prays that it’s not Malfoy again. 

Slowly, the door opens, revealing a figure wearing a red mask that looks almost like a lion, the mouth open in a roar. It’s kind of terrifying, to be honest. And that’s not even to mention the two swords the figure is holding, sharp and deadly. 

He stifles a gasp when the figure brings down the swords, but instead of feeling pain rush throughout his body, he falls to the ground as his restraints are cut. 

“Who are you? And thank you—” James starts, but the figure shushes him, beckoning James to the door. James follows the figure as they quietly creep through the doorway, though he can’t help but protest when the now-thawed frogs bounce out of his pocket. “Hey, guys, come on! Lily needs to suck on you guys to get healthy, you know.”

“Shut up,” the figure hisses in a low voice. “Do you want to be recaptured?”

Mutely, James shakes his head. Something about the figure’s clear distaste for this situation is vaguely familiar, but he doesn’t have much time to worry about that as they creep out of the fortress through the ground and begin to climb up the tall wall surrounding it with a rope. 

And then the alarm sounds, blaring, terrifyingly loud, and alerting every single soldier in the vicinity of the wall to their presence. He feels them falling before he even sees the guard who severed the rope. 

“FIND THE AVATAR!” he hears Malfoy bellow, and inwardly, he sighs, because that just had to happen now too, didn’t it.

The ensuing battle can be described as nothing short of chaotic. He manages to throw back a good amount of Fire Nation soldiers, and the masked figure shields him from the soldiers when he can. They make a good team, James realizes, this random red-masked guy and him. He wonders what Lily would think if he brought back the figure in the morning—hey Lily, I made a new friend! I don’t know what his name is, but he saved me from a lifetime of torture at the hands of Malfoy, so he seems to be pretty all right. 

They manage to almost scale the wall for a second time, this time with bamboo letters, but unfortunately, once again, a soldier manages to stop them. This time, James realizes, they’re completely surrounded by firebenders, and he gulps. And there’s no earth around him at all, of course. Even the ground is metal. 

“Stop!” he hears Malfoy call. “Do not harm the Avatar. I want him alive, do you hear me?” And then he feels the two swords at his throat.

Okay, maybe he shouldn’t bring this new friend back to Lily.

Slowly, with the swords still at his throat—vaguely familiar situations again—he and the masked figure back away. They’re almost at the gates—finally!—when the masked figure crumples to the ground. There’s no time to dwell on that, though—he can hear the firebenders running behind him and Malfoy’s increasingly deranged shouts, so the moment they’re finally clear of the gates, him dragging the masked figure behind him, James sends up an enormous wall of earth. That’ll take them a while to get past, hopefully. 

He pulls the masked figure up and onto his back as he runs, as far away from the fortress as possible. Finally, panting, he stops in a forest, tugging both himself and the figure up into a tree.

“Er—hi,” James starts awkwardly. “I’m going to remove your mask now, if that’s okay, just to, you know, check for internal injuries and all that. Wait, that doesn’t make sense. Facial injuries, I meant—if it’s okay with you, of course.”

The masked figure gives no reply. Oh, right, he’s unconscious. 

He’ll take that as a yes, then. Slowly, James peels back the mask from the figure. He doesn’t even have time to stifle the gasp.

It’s Prince Sirius. Again.

“Why do you keep saving me?” James asks softly. Prince Sirius, of course, gives no reply. “Well, thank you for doing it, even if I don’t know why you’re doing it. I didn’t get the chance to tell you thank you last time you saved us—because you were saving us, weren’t you—so thank you for that too. You really got me and Lily out of a tight spot there.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Prince Sirius snaps, suddenly conscious. “I just don’t want Malfoy and my fucking bastard of a father to destroy the world.”

James shrugs. “Well, you still saved me.”

“And I don’t want to have to do it again,” Prince Sirius replies. “How do you manage to keep getting captured? Malfoy doesn’t even have two brain cells to rub together. It shouldn’t be that hard to avoid him.”

“No invisibility cloak,” James quips, and Prince Sirius looks at him with contempt.

“Try to not die, okay? It really shouldn’t be that hard,” Prince Sirius says. He slides down the trunk of the tree, wincing when he lands.

“Do you need a hand back to—uh, wherever you came from?” James asks. “I don’t think you should be walking on that.”

“No,” Prince Sirius says curtly. James watches as he limps out of his sight, disappearing into the trees. He sighs. As far as he can tell, Prince Sirius is an enigma wrapped up in a riddle wrapped up in an impenetrable hedge maze. 

Three more hours later, he’s finally back at the cave, having managed to somehow find two more frozen frogs in the swamp. He gives them to Lily to suck on, and she hums appreciatively in her sleep.

An hour later, she wakes, sputtering. “James, what the fuck is this?”

“Frozen frogs,” he says cheerfully. “Did they help?”

“Why did you think—you know what, I don’t even know if I want to know,” she says, sighing. “I think I’ve been traumatized.”

“But you’re better!”

“Sure.”

part x

[creative-type]

Monster of the Salt Rock Hills IV

First

Previous

AN: There’s some fairly minor speculation on Thistle’s past here that may be jossed in the future. Also, apparently paper bags were invented in the 1850s, which fits in the vaguely Victorian aesthetic in the comic. Lastly, it’s probably going to be a week or more before my next update. I’ll try my best for a quick turnaround 

AO3

Summary:  The day after stopping a drath summoning gone horribly wrong, Orrig and his team are summoned to the Salt Rock Hills to find and eliminate a monster that has been ravaging the countryside. But things quickly go awry and it soon becomes apparent that nothing about this case is as it seems. Thistle must learn to work together with her new coworkers and overcome her own insecurities to find the truth of the monster of the Salt Rock Hills before it’s too late. Set immediately after Chapter 6: The Knowing Ones

Chapter Four: Lost Causes (and the Fighters Who Champion Them)

It was a quiet walk back to town. Both Brent and Lyra tried to explain what had happened, but Orrig silenced them both with a grunt. Thistle thought she understood his reasoning: They had already embarrassed themselves in front of a fellow guild member, a citizen of the Salt Rock Hills, and the one surviving member of Marco Russo’s team. It was an enormous loss of face, and Orrig’s reputation would suffer if their gaff were ever made public.

Thistle couldn’t help but think it was somehow her fault. She should have noticed the magic in Rhys’s bracers sooner, or gotten Lyra to calm down faster, or done something to prevent the situation from getting so out of hand. They had gone out to the scene of the attack representing Orrig and failed – she had failed, and Orrig would have no choice but to punish her for her mistake.

—i don’t know what you expected. good for nothing, insolent brat, i’ve told you that time and time again. maybe orrig should fire you—

The voice, always so close, was relentless in its attack. The scene replayed in Thistle’s mind dozens of times, hammering home each and every one of her inadequacies until they were all she could remember. She’d let Lyra be humiliated and once again failed to protect Brent from harm. A fugitive glance revealed that the bump on his head was now the size of a goose egg. She hadn’t even had time to rule out a concussion.

Dread and shame made Thistle’s belly twist into knots. She wanted to apologize to the others so badly it hurt, but with Orrig’s embargo on conversation she didn’t dare. The burden of her guilt felt heavier with each step, and by the time they reached town Thistle was almost drowning under the weight of it.

“Ve go to bar,” Orrig said.

“I don’t suppose I’ll be allowed to drink?” Lyra said sarcastically.

Orrig grunted. “Ve not on job now.”

The concession caught Thistle by surprise, and when Lyra almost tripped over her own feet she guessed that she wasn’t the only one. Surely Orrig wasn’t going to pretend that their disgraceful behavior hadn’t happened? Or maybe he was trying to soften the blow of their punishment, whatever that may be?

For the first time Thistle wished that her employer’s thoughts weren’t so difficult to discern. There was a certain amount of comfort in the knowledge that Orrig was level-headed and almost supernaturally stoic no matter the situation. He was the anchor to Lyra and Brent’s raging storm of emotions – unmovable, dependable, and unfortunately unreadable beneath unsounded depths that Thistle had not yet learned to navigate.

He led them down the street Carson had pointed out earlier. Orrig had to duck his head to fit through the entranceway of the tavern, and none of the seats had been built with an orc’s girth in mind. It was too early in the day for most business, there was someone manning the bar nonetheless.

The man eyed the mercenaries suspiciously as they took their seats. “Are yeh buyin’? I ain’t got time for loiterers.”

“A pint of whatever you’ve got that’s good,” Lyra said.

“Same for me,” Brent added.

Thistle looked fretfully from the hematoma on Brent’s forehead to his vacant gaze. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Pfft, I take harder hits than that all the time,” Brent said. “I’ve got a thick skull.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Lyra said under her breath.

Brent shot her a glare, but didn’t say anything. Thistle screwed up her courage to speak up again, “I, um, I’d like to take a look anyway. I might be able to get rid of the swelling. That is, if you don’t mind…”

“You can heal?” Brent asked.

Heat flooded Thistle’s cheeks, and she managed to nod. “A little.”

“Huh, I didn’t know that. Well, if it makes you feel better, I don’t care.”

It was embarrassing how relieved Thistle was not to be brushed off or be dismissed as needlessly worried. She could feel Lyra and Orrig watch her as she put Brent through a basic concussion protocol – which despite a little wooziness he passed with flying colors. It was only after she made him follow her finger with his eyes, tell her his birthday, and test his hand grasps that Thistle called on her magic.

The hematoma, though unsightly, was not dangerous. With so many blood vessels in the scalp even a minor trauma could turn into a large bump – and running face first into Rhys’s force field was not minor trauma.

Thistle frowned to herself. Even removing the fact that Brent could have been seriously hurt in the explosion, Rhys should have realized he was risking the integrity of the scene by activating his bracers. Thistle was troubled that the elf would escalate the conflict like that. It wasn’t as if Brent had been charging him. He hadn’t even been holding his sword at the time.

“It’s cold,” Brent said when Thistle touched his forehead.

“If it’s uncomfortable I can stop.”

“No, it feels good. Like when you pop a really big zit and all that pressure’s gone.”

Thistle had to choke back a giggle, almost causing her spell to fail. Their drinks had been brought over sometime during Thistle’s assessment, and Lyra made no effort to hide her disgust as she took a long draught.

The spell was a simple one. Thistle had learned it out of necessity the first time she’d been chased by angry villagers armed with stones, and in seconds the bump was gone. She couldn’t help but be pleased with her handiwork. “Alright, one last check to make sure everything’s okay…”

Thistle placed a hand on Brent’s temple. The ethereal blue of her magic brushed against his skin, and even wearing gloves Thistle was acutely aware of the intimacy the gesture implied. His eyes fluttered closed, and the hair near her hand stood straight up, innerved by an unseen energy that seemed to Thistle both unknowable and unquestionably right.

“What in the world…?” Thistle said as her magic brushed against something that felt alien to her senses.

“What is it?” Brent asked. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Thistle said. “It’s just…I can’t believe it. That mage put a bug on you!”

Once, when Thistle had been very young, she’d heard of a mage being tried in the realm’s highest court for casting a spell on a boy that made him forget the death of his mother. The newspapers caught wind of the case, and it became so infamous throughout the country that it was rumored a Wizard had been called into help with the proceedings. At the time she hadn’t understood what the mage had done wrong – Wouldn’t the boy be happier without such a painful memory weighing on his heart and soul? Hadn’t the mage cast his spell in good faith? Why were they being treated like a criminal when the end result was a blessing and a mercy?

It was on that day that Thistle learned that there were lines that magic should never, ever cross. Years of hard experience only reinforced the dangers even the most well-intentioned magic had on the mind.  

The spell Mum had cast on Brent wasn’t quite to that level, but it was close. It was subtle and insidious, as finely woven as a gossamer thread. Thistle never would have noticed it under normal circumstances, and the part of her that wasn’t indignant was amazed at the intricacy of the spell.

“What?!” Brent exclaimed. “What he’d do to me?”

“It’s an altered communication spell used to spy on people…a metaphorical fly on a wall. They can hear everything we’re saying,” Thistle clarified when his face screwed in confusion. She scooped the delicate matrix of spellwork into hands that glowed blue. It reacted to her magic, shimmering with golden light. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

This last exclamation was addressed to whoever was listening on the other end of the spell. Disgusted at the mage’s lack of ethics, she forced her hands together the same way she would shut a badly-written book. The spell shattered, and an unpleasant jolt of energy shot up her arms.

“Are you sure it wasn’t Rhys?” Lyra said darkly. “It seems like something that’d be right up his alley.”

Thistle shook her head. The bug had the same fingerprints the Teleportation spell, and that had undoubtedly been cast by Mum. And while she couldn’t rule it out entirely, Thistle was almost sure that Rhys had no magical talent. Why else would he have expensive enchanted bracers?

“When’d he *#$@!$ cast?” Brent asked. “He never moved!”

“You have to be close for something this fragile,” Thistle said. “It must have been right before Rhys, er…”

“Knocked you on your @$$,” Lyra finished for her, seething. She slammed her drink down, and seemed on the brink of another tirade when Orrig raised his hand.

“Stop. I vill send complaint to guild. They vill take care of mage. Dis not our job”

This reassurance did nothing to assuage Lyra’s temper. “And that’s another thing! What the $&#@ do you mean, this isn’t our job? We were asked for specifically! You said so!”

Orrig sighed, and reached into his bag to pull out the requisition form. He pointed a thick finger to a number printed at the top, one that Thistle had failed to notice when she read the listing for the first time.

“What’s your license number got to do with this?” Brent demanded.

“Vas copy error. My number similar to elf’s, vas sent to wrong place.”

“So we’re just gonna leave?” Brent said. “We came out all this way for nothing?”

Orrig nodded. “Vas mistake, ve technically not hired. Against guild rules to interfere.”

“Goddamn it. I’m going to need another drink,” Lyra said. “And if I see that pretty-boy’s face again I’m going to break his nose.”

There was a hearty hear-hear from Brent, and the group settled into an unhappy silence that was only broken when Lyra called for another pint. The bartender – who Thistle belated realized must be Carson’s father – sauntered over to them. He was a portly man with a receding hairline and a scruffy brown beard. While he had not been blessed with his son’s height, Thistle could see the familial similarity in the shape of his nose and the line of his jaw.

“Coin first,” the bartender said. “A silver, if it pleases the lady, ‘n I’ll get yer beer.”

“A silver? For a pint? That’s highway robbery!” Lyra exclaimed.

“An’ I’ve got a business t’ maintain,” the bartender said flatly. “Not that an outsider’d understand, runnin’ around chasin’ phantoms. Between you lot an’ the cripple, you’ve done nuthin’ but fill my son’s head with crazy-talk and waste my hard-earned money huntin’ a monster that don’t even exist. I got every right to throw you out on th’ street. A silver or nothing.”

A muscle in Lyra’s jaw twitched. She shoved a hand into her money pouch and pulled out the coin. Carson’s father snatched it greedily out of her grasp before handing over a fresh drink.

It was only then that Lyra snapped. She rose to her feet, and in one fluid motion she flung the contents of her mug onto the bartender’s face before slamming it back on the table. Before anyone could react she shoved away from the group and stomped out the door.

“I’m going for a walk.”

Thistle was frozen in place, torn between horror at what Lyra had done and pity for the events that had driven her to that point. Carson’s father sputtered with outrage, beer dripping down his face and staining his shirt.

At this rate they were going to get chased out of town. Thistle brushed her hand across the bartender’s shirt, a small surge of magic drying the fabric instantly. She left the stain untouched – he had basically goaded Lyra into retaliating by massively upping the price after she’d already drunk one pint, and was lucky she hadn’t thrown him through a table.

Orrig, Brent, and Thistle made a hasty exit after that. Further down the road Lyra was turning a corner and disappearing out of sight.

“Should we go after her?” Thistle asked anxiously.

“Good luck with that,” Brent said.

“I think it best if ve leave,” Orrig said. Thistle thought that he looked troubled. “Lyra need space. I vill try to find vay to Crossroads today.”

“We can’t just do nothing,” Thistle said.

“Hmm. You and Brent go find vhile I get vay home. Vill leave as soon as possible. Is better that way.”

“She could be anywhere by now,” Brent said. “We should split up to cover more ground.”

Bad things seemed to happen when they split up, but Thistle nodded anyway. She and Brent started in the general direction Lyra had disappeared to, and with a final grunt Orrig ducked back into the bar. At first Thistle wondered if he might have gone to issue an apology, but for some reason she was reminded of their interaction with Grand Master Wu. Orrig had only intervened when Lyra stooped to crude insults and had never once asked Lyra to apologize for shouting curses at a Wizard capable of turning into a dragon. It seemed like he let his employees speak their mind, up until a certain point.

Thistle wasn’t sure if Orrig’s leniency was always a good thing, but right now she was grateful for it. She could imagine all too well what Lyra was feeling right now, after being insulted and humiliated by Rhys and then being discriminated against by a bartender they didn’t even know.

“So, do you want to go left or right?” Brent asked, drawing Thistle from her thoughts.

“Do you have any idea where she might have gone?” Thistle said.

He sighed. “Not really. I mean, usually I’d say check out the taverns or the bars. I know a couple of her haunts back in the city, but out here? Who knows.”

Thistle thought for a moment, hesitating. “Brent, do you know what that ouvrière means?”

“It’s Elvish,” Brent said. “I think it’s a rude thing to say to a girl who wears pants and works? You hear it from the more stuck-up city elves every once in a while. Usually Lyra brushes stuff like that off, no problem. I think the @$$&^* just caught her by surprise.” He rubbed his neck. “Anyway, we should get looking. I’ll go left you go right?”

“Sure.”

Thistle walked slowly, trying to process everything that had happened. Off of the high streets the buildings grew even more decapitated, many with sagging roofs or stucco walls covered with mold and dirt. She had traveled enough to know the difference between a small town that was thriving and one that was not, and the Salt Rock Hills had the feel of a town taking its final, tortured gasps. There seemed to be little diversity among what was left of the population, and each person who stopped to stare at Thistle was human.

Struck with inspiration, Thistle gathered every scrap of her fraying courage. Scanning the street she found an old man sitting in front of a butcher shop who looked neither suspicious nor afraid of her. Thistle clung to the strap of her bag to keep from fidgeting and approached him carefully.

“Excuse me, have you seen an elf come this way?”

“Sure did.” He smiled at her, exposing a set of false teeth that appeared to be made out of wood. “Tooted up the street not too long ago spoutin’ all sorts of wickedness that ought not be repeated in mixed company. She a friend of yours, stranger?”

“Um, yes.” I think. “My name is Thistle, and we came up to figure out what was attacking the winged horses, only there was a mistake and the job went to someone else.”

The man nodded sagely. “I see. Well, it ain’t ev’ry day we get so much excitement ‘round these parts. I think I’ll treasure the look of Minnie Baker’s face when she heard yer elf friend for the rest of my days.” He stuck out a hand. “Name’s Frank. I used to be the butcher, but I can’t do much cuttin’ these days.”

Thistle clasped fingers gnarled with arthritis. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Frank chuckled. “Trust me, stranger, the pleasure’s all mine. Can’t say enough how much I ‘preciate you all comin’ out here to catch the monster in th’ Hills, even if it ain’t yer job. Are you gonna stay for a bit? Maybe the other mercs will let you join th’ hunt.”

“My boss is actually trying to find a way to Crossroads today.”

Disappointment flickered in his eyes. “Ah, well, don’t know what I was expectin’. Not enough money for two teams, I suppose. Tell yer boss to talk to Jacob. He’s th’ owner of the tavern down yonder an’ oversees the stables here in town. It might cost a pretty penny, but it’s the best way if yer lookin’ t’ leave on short notice.”

“Oh.” Thistle’s stomach sank. “I think we might have met.”

Frank’s wizened face twisted into a grimace. “Shoot. I don’t suppose he made a right fool outta himself? Was he the one who sent your elf friend in a tizzy, spoutin’ his usual garbage?”

Thistle didn’t answer, but her lack of response was enough. Frank spat in disgust and rose unsteadily to his feet. “Go find your friend, stranger. I’ll see if I can talk Jacob into seeing sense. Th’ monster is real, and something’s gotta be done afore someone else gets hurt.”

“I don’t want to cause any trouble,” Thistle said.

“Ha! You’ve done nothin’ but entertain these old bones through another day of drudgery. ‘Sides, Jake’s got the only rooms in town to let. If you can’t get him t’ help you leave, then yer gonna have t’ spend the night.”

Frank tipped an imaginary hat and set off from the shop in a slow, shuffling gait, his shoulders stooped with the weight of age. It didn’t seem right for him to get involved with the dispute, but Thistle got the impression there was nothing she could say to stop him.

He didn’t make it more than a few steps when someone called his name. Both Frank and Thistle turned to see where the voice had come from. A woman waved at him from across the street before jogging over. She wore a long white coat over a simple plaid shirt and held a heavy back bag in one hand.

“Hullo, Doctor,” Frank said respectfully. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I was just gonna go give Jacob a piece of my mind.”

The woman brushed away a strand of curly brown hair that had fallen out of her plait and smiled enormously. “Whatever keeps you young,” she said blithely. “I was just wondering if you’ve seen Isla come this way. I was expecting her in the surgery over an hour ago.”

Was it Thistle’s imagination, or did his expression darken? “Can’t say I have, Doctor.”

The doctor’s face fell. Thistle took a half-step forward. “Excuse me, but do you mean Isla Clark? I saw her earlier today with the mercenaries investigating the winged horses.”

“By the spring?” the doctor asked, almost disbelieving. When Thistle nodded, she threw her arm up in the air in exasperation. “Did she walk all that way? No, don’t answer that. Of course she did, despite my explicit warning against pushing herself too far.”

The doctor took a deep breath and let it out slowly through her nose. “Well, that settles that. Frank, why don’t you tell me who your new friend is?”

“Her name’s Thistle, and she’s just passin’ through. ‘Parantly there was some mix up with the mercs an’ her group is lookin’ to get outta town afore dark,” Frank said. “Thistle, this here is Doctor Maureen Malady. You won’t find a better sawbones anywhere in the world.”

“I don’t know about that,” Doctor Malady said, the lines framing her eyes and mouth crinkling with suppressed mirth. Hers was a face made for smiling, and there was something about her demeanor that put Thistle instantly at ease. She adjusted wire-framed spectacles before extending a hand. “I’m sorry your stay at the Hills will be cut short.”

“Actually,” Frank said while Thistle shook the doctor’s hand, “she were just lookin’ for an elf that was travelin’ with her. I expect she wants to get back to searchin’.”

“I see,” Doctor Malady said. “I’d check the general store just over yonder.”

Thistle perked up at this. “Really?”

She nodded. “Ooohh yes. There aren’t many elves that come this way. Is yours rude and too pretty for their own good?”

“Uh…”

“The general store,” Doctor Malady said with a sympathetic smile. “It’s just up the way, you can’t miss it.”

Thistle reluctantly turned in the direction she indicated. It seemed wrong to let the slight on Lyra’s character to go unchallenged, but she’d wasted too much time here already. She waved goodbye and jogged up the street, and before long came to her destination. Everything from spools of ribbon, penny candy, canned goods, and cigars decorated the storefront window, while a pair of tethered horses (of the mundane variety) pawed impatiently at the ground.

It seemed like an odd destination for Lyra, but Thistle braced herself nonetheless. It was entirely possible that Orrig had already found a way back to the city and was waiting for them to rejoin him so they could leave this place behind. Cheered by this thought, Thistle strode boldly – or as boldly as she could manage – into the store.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t got any crates. Need to go to the lumberyard for that,” the man at the register said irritably. The bell over the door alerted him to Thistle’s presence. “Can I help…you?”

He stared dumbfounded at Thistle, but for once she didn’t notice. She stopped dead in her tracks as Rhys Taliesen leaned back from the counter, an eyebrow raised.

“I didn’t expect to meet you here,” he said mildly.

“I, er, neither did I,” Thistle said.

Shouldn’t he be at the springs investigating the dead horse? How had he made it back to town so quickly, and where were Mum and Rizaek? Her thoughts shifted to Isla Clark, who by Dr. Malady’s reaction shouldn’t be making the long walk from the springs to town at all. Had he left her behind? Thistle drew her hands to her chest and took a tentative step backwards.

“Please don’t go,” Rhys said. “I would like to speak with you.”

“You would?”

“Yes,” he said with almost boyish earnestness. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name before. Mum said you found his spell. No one has ever done that before.”

“You knew he put the bug on Brent?” Thistle asked. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

His eyes flickered to the storekeeper. “Why don’t we take this conversation elsewhere? There are matters that I would like to discuss with you privately.”

For a moment Thistle was frozen. Rhys’s presence alone was enough to disarm her, and now he was sounding polite and reasonable? Was this the same person who had attacked Brent without provocation and insulted Lyra because she wasn’t wearing a skirt? Thistle’s clothes were baggy, but there was no mistaking that she was also a girl who, as Brent said, wore pants and worked.

A spark of anger thawed her indecision. Thistle barely knew Orrig, Brent, and Lyra, but they had been nothing but kind to her during that short period of time. Lyra especially had apologized for her part in their disastrous first meeting, and then put up with all Thistle’s weird awkwardness while traveling to the Salt Rock Hills.

Thistle crossed her arms. “I’m sorry, but no. That spell Mum put on Brent was unethical – if not illegal.”

Irritation flashed across his brilliant green eyes. They were the color of bottled glass…or poison. “Look, I didn’t realize that Mum had cast the spell any more than you did, and I certainly didn’t tell him to do it. You were there. Did you see me do anything untoward?”

Yes, Thistle thought stubbornly. “When did you find out?”

“When you broke it.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve never seen Mum jump so high. He’s a talented mage, you know.”

Thistle’s heart beat faster as Rhys took a small step forward, but somehow she managed to stand her ground. Her pleading look to the storekeeper was useless. He was too busy pretending she and Rhys didn’t exist to interfere.

“I’m surprised you associate with that lot,” Rhys continued, a note of reproach in his tone. “I made inquiries when I learned of the clerical error for this job. Orrig seems like a decent enough fellow – he’s had a solid career and maintains an excellent reputation – but there’s no denying he’s a little long in the tooth, if you pardon my phrasing. The mercenary guild is no place for old men.”

“Excuse me?” Thistle said.

“It’s obvious that he’s already lost control of his subcontractors, yourself excluded.” Another step forward, this time blocking the view of the shopkeeper entirely. Sometime during the exchange Thistle had backed herself into a corner, and Rhys had her completely boxed in as he continued, “And even if he hadn’t, the orc will be retiring within the next season or two. When he does you’ll be out of luck.”

“Excuse me?”

“A mage of your skill shouldn’t be wasting their time in a position that soon won’t even exist. And even if the orc doesn’t hang up his axe this time next year, do you honestly believe you’ll get anywhere with his crew of miscreants?

“What are you getting at?” Thistle asked quietly. She thought she knew where this was going, but a part of her couldn’t believe what she was hearing and wanted Rhys to say it for himself.

“I appreciate talent,” Rhys said. His voice was low, intense, persuasive. “I saw it in Mum when no one would hire a mute and he was on the street peddling for coin. I saw it in Rizaek when he was mucking stalls for a pittance. And I see it in you.”

“I couldn’t possibly…I mean, I work for Orrig. He’s the one who hired me,” Thistle said.

Rhys nodded. “Loyalty is an admirable trait, but it will only get you so far in this line of work. I don’t need an answer now,” he said as Thistle stiffened, mistaking her indignation for something else, “just promise you’ll think it over. I’ll be staying at the tavern owned by Jacob Swinehart if you change your mind.”

There were a great many things Thistle wanted to say, first and foremost being that Rhys had to be out of his mind to think she would want to work for him, but it was as if the surreal nature of the conversation had jammed the gears of her mind to a grinding halt. He left the store a moment later, leaving Thistle gaping after him like a fish out of water.

Is yours rude and too pretty for their own good?

The fact that she had mistaken Lyra for Rhys would have been funny if she weren’t so mortified. What would Orrig say when he found out rival mercenaries were giving out job offers? What would Brent say if he found out she had let Mum’s disgusting invasion of his personal privacy go unchallenged?

“Er, ma’am, are you alright?”

“What?” Thistle said, jumping at the unexpected voice of the shopkeeper. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine. I…I was just leaving.”

The shopkeeper gave a wary appraisal of Thistle’s unusual appearance. “Alrighty then. Have a good day.”

“You too.” Her voice sounded distant, as if someone other than herself were saying the words. Thistle left the general store, forcing a façade of normalcy over her growing anxiety. Too much, this was all too much. First the dead horse, then the debacle with Rhys and Jacob, and now this? Thistle wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

always were weak-willed. never had the stomach to speak up…you ought to be ashamed of yourself

She didn’t need the voice to tell her that. Shame came as easily to Thistle as breathing. Once again she hadn’t been able to speak up against Rhys’s vicious slander. Thistle couldn’t believe he had gone so far as to attack Orrig, who seemed to her the epitome of professional competence.

but what if it’s true? what will you do if orrig retires? you have no references, and no one would speak for someone so ungrateful. where will you go when they finally see you for what you really are?

mercenaries hunt monsters. your hood is the only thing separating you from whatever is killing the winged horses. once they see that for themselves, they’ll hunt you too.

Thistle felt ill as she wandered through town. The faces seemed less friendly, the air colder. She could see town people’s suspicion, imagined she could hear their thoughts as they moved out of their way to avoid her. The anxiety was giving way to panic. Even if Thistle knew where Lyra was, she didn’t think she could manage a conversation. Instinctually her feet led away from town – away from the wary strangers and their unforgiving eyes.

The only good thing about the Salt Rock Hills was that it was tiny. It didn’t take Thistle long to reach the outskirts of town following the road that she guessed led to the abandoned mines. She remembered Mayor Stone saying Carson was the only one who went to the Hills voluntarily, and he was probably back in his father’s tavern by now preparing for the evening rush.  

Thistle was alone.

Taking a cleansing breath, she found a bit of broken down fence that had once marked the boundary of a large pasture. The pasture was long-since abandoned, overgrown with knee-high grass, half a dozen different wildflowers, and countless weeds. There was bishop’s lace, ragweed, yarrow…and thistles.

Her heart was heavy as she cupped her most recent namesake with her hand. There were no blooms, but a small spark of magic changed that. The thistle’s flower unfurled, purple and perfect and beautiful.

“What am I doing here?” Thistle asked herself. She pulled away from the plant and sat on the fence, staring out at everything and nothing. As before, there was no answer.

She sat until the knot that had been growing somewhere under her breastbone loosened, and long enough for her to wonder if Brent had had any more luck with their mission. Dwelling on her most recent failure made a melancholy feeling sit heavily in her chest, but melancholy she could manage.

It was no use continuing to look for Lyra when she’d most likely already been found. Resolving herself to face Orrig knowing her disgraceful interaction with Rhys was the most difficult thing she’d done since arriving at the Salt Rock Hills, and despite her eagerness to leave she was in no hurry to see her employer again.

Swallowing her reluctance, Thistle hopped off the fence and made one last, sweeping glance of the pasture. It really was quite peaceful out here, and she could understand why Carson wandered out this way. Farther up the road there was even someone resting up against a lone fencepost…

Thistle did a double take, but there was no mistaking that red armor. “Lyra?”

The figure startled. “Thistle? What are you doing out here?”

“Looking for you,” Thistle said. “Orrig wants to go back to the city.”

“Oh thank the gods. How long have you been standing there?”

As Lyra approached, Thistle noticed she’d applied a fresh layer of makeup. “Not too long. I thought Brent would find you first.”

“Ha! Brent couldn’t track himself out of a wet paper bag. Is Orrig seriously leaving today?”

“If he can get transport,” Thistle said, taking some joy at the way Lyra’s face brightened. “Apparently Jacob owns the only stables in town.”

“Who’s Jacob again?” Lyra asked.

“The, well…the owner of the tavern.”

There was a beat of awful, terrible silence. “%*@#.”

“He also owns the only rooms to rent, so if we can’t use his horses we’ll have to pay him to stay the night.”

“Double %*@#,” Lyra said, scrubbing her face with her hands. “If he expects me to apologize he’s got another thing coming. Charging a silver for a pint of beer is a %*@#!+& joke, especially out here in this country backwater. Most the people here probably haven’t seen a silver in their life. You don’t suppose that orc will let us use his flying horse, do you? I bet we could fit all of us on that thing and make it to Crossroads before dark.”

“Rizaek?” Thistle asked. “I don’t speak Orcish, but I got the impression he didn’t want anything to do with us.”

“Hmph. I wouldn’t trust anyone who works with that pretty boy @$$&*^# anyway. I was serious when I said I’d break his nose if I ever saw him again.”

Thistle didn’t have a response for this. The fury in Lyra’s voice was almost a palpable thing. In Thistle’s limited time with her, Lyra’s anger had burned hot, fierce…and quickly. Rhys’s words must have struck a nerve.

“It’s not worth fighting about,” Thistle said, trying to convince herself what she was saying was true. “Not if we’re leaving today.”

Lyra leaned over the fencepost and stared out at the hills. In the distance a winged horse had taken flight and was soaring higher and higher into the air. “You’re wrong,” she said. “@$$#*&% like Rhys live their whole lives thinking they’re better than everyone else just because they have more money or connections or something extra dangling between their legs, and if no one ever proves them wrong they’ll keep on thinking it for the rest of their lives. I’m tired of it. He can call me whatever stupid name he wants, but I’m not afraid of him and I’m not going to back down. No one’s going to fight for me, so you’d &@#% well believe I’m going to fight for myself.”

She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and offered Thistle a crooked smile. “Sorry for the speech, but I’ve met too many Rhyses in my life to given two $&%!$ about this one. If I give up an inch he’s going to take a mile and come back looking for more. So yeah, I’d say it’s worth fighting over.”

“Even if you don’t win?” Thistle said.

Lyra laughed. “Oh, I know I’m not going to change his mind, but if I can make him think twice before spouting slurs to strangers who might take offence, then, well, that’s a win in my book.”

Thistle thought about this for a moment. She could see where Lyra was coming from, but there had to be a better way. Or maybe there wasn’t, and she was just too much of a coward to admit it. Thistle spent the majority of her time trying to help people, and to date she’d still never been accepted by anyone who knew what she truly was.

“What does ouvrière mean?” Thistle asked before she could stop herself. Her throat tightened when Lyra gave her a curious sideways glance that she could not decipher. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“I’m more surprised that you don’t know,” Lyra said. “It’s Elvish for ‘worker’.”

“That’s it?” Thistle said.

“That’s it,” Lyra said wryly. She propped her chin up with a hand. “That’s what I hate about Elvish. It’s got no real curse words, and everyone is so %*@#!+& obsessed with high society and being polite that they have to come up with creative ways to insult those they think are lower than they are.”

“But how can calling someone a worker be an insult?” Thistle asked.

“Oh, it’s not the word we use for someone who’s respectable,” Lyra said. “It means someone who does dirty work, common work, or a girl who doesn’t have a husband or father or brothers to take care of them so they go out in trousers and a shirt that they can actually breathe in, walking the streets without a chaperone and likely getting themselves into all sorts of undesirable situations with all sorts of undesirable folk for a little coin.”

“That’s…that’s terrible,” Thistle said.

Lyra shrugged. “It’s just a word,” she said flatly. “And like I said, it’s not even a real curse. Now dwarvish has some fantastic swear words. I picked up a bunch from a chatty drunk back in the city. Maybe I should throw some of those in Rhys’s face before I break his nose.”

It was a poor attempt at a joke, and they both knew it, but Thistle forced a chuckle anyway. “Do you suppose we should head back? Maybe Orrig’s found a way to Crossroads.”

“Gods I hope so,” Lyra said. She slid off of the fence and glanced at Thistle again, this time a sly grin spreading across her face. “So if you didn’t know what ouvrière meant then that means you’re not an elf.”

It was as if someone had snatched the air out of Thistle’s lungs. If Lyra had already figured out she wasn’t a city elf, how long would it take for Brent to realize she wasn’t human, or Orrig to see her for the monster she truly was? Thistle had known them for all of three days, and they were already starting to guess at her identity. They were mercenaries, professional monster hunters, how long would it take for them to see through the mask and shadows…

Lyra doubled over and laughed a laugh that sounded more like the maniacal cackle Thistle had once heard from a villain in a play. “I can’t believe it! That’s fantastic!”

“What?”

“I bet Rhys is the type to think elves are the best mages in the world. I would pay good money to see the look on his face when he realizes his pet spell slinger was schooled by a human girl!”

Lyra’s laughter drowned out Thistle’s weak protests, and she was still laughing when they found Brent and Orrig sitting outside city hall. It was just as well that she was in a good mood, because no amount of coin that would convince Jacob arrange transport to Crossroads, and there was no one else who could assist them on such short notice. They were stuck in the Salt Rock Hills for the night, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

[its-just-like-the-movies]

Darkest Hour (17, C)

In the time period between Christmas and New Year’s, my family spent two days with my dad’s parents. In those two days, we all went to see Star Wars: The Last Jedi and Darkest Hour together, movies I wasn’t particularly excited about, and that made one person fall asleep at each screening. I’m hoping to ring in the new year with more reviews, and certainly more articulate reviews about things I liked, rather than the rambly piece about The Work. Given that I should be posting a personal ballot in the coming months, that will definitely happen. But in the meantime, here is an unimpressed assessment of a new release, with another possible to come soon.

The one that has its talons deepest in the Oscar conversation, or at least in the most prominent categories, is Darkest Hour, the story of Winston Churchill’s (Gary Oldman) ascendancy to the seat of Prime Minister and subsequent organization of the Dunkirk evacuation. It’s a fraught story, one I didn’t realize was such an uphill battle for Churchill, newly anointed as a compromise choice with a somewhat shoddy record up till that point. Churchill himself seems nervous and unsure about the prospect, as his wife Clementine (Kristin Scott Thomas) primps him for his meeting with the King and banters with him as encouragement. It’s a generous step for the film to depict his home life before fleshing his new political station, especially since the couple sparkle with so much warmth and humor in their conversations. In her first scene after Churchill accepts the position of Prime Minister, the couple has a celebratory drink at home with their adult children, who are never seen again. Clementine’s speech is a diplomatic love letter, recognizing that Churchill’s real love is to his country. It’s a credit to Scott Thomas that this speech and her performance throughout rings with as much good cheer and devotion as it does, and then the film recognizes her acknowledgement as number two in his life by more or less leaving her behind. She’s left to fret about financial woes that are only brought up once and bolster his confidence, romantically but without building him up from nothing. It’s a good sport rendering of a woman who relegated herself to being sidelined, and not every film with this Supportive Wife character needs to look at these characters through the angles that Nixon and The Lost City of Z do. Not all are able to either, but Clementine Churchill as written, directed and performed cannot help but pale next to what those films do with the same biopic archetype.

Still, if Churchill is unsure about the prospect of becoming Prime Minister, he and Clementine stand as the only characters who are remotely for him ascending to the position for a long while into the film. In Parliament, Neville Chamberlain (Ronald Pickup), the previous PM, and Lord Halifax (Stephen Dillane), scheme to remove Churchill from his position to put Halifax in power in reaction to Churchill’s vehement refusal to even consider peace talks, going all out on the side of fighting the Nazis until Britain is no more. The arc itself is compelling, and would be even more so if the film hadn’t basically opened with Halifax stuttering his way through a refusal of the position of PM. He doesn’t give a real explanation then or in subsequent scenes, despite his turn-around carnivorousness for the position. Churchill himself even brushes aside the idea that Halifax would turn the position down, considering it unthinkable. So must we in the audience, if only because we never learn why he decided to fight tooth and nail for the job only after he had brushed it off his lap. But Chamberlain’s fear that Churchill will undo everything he stood for in office, as he stands on the brink of a cancerous death, makes plenty of sense, as does King George IV’s (Ben Mendelsohn) reticence to this blustery opponent. George dislikes Churchill as a person, a politician, and the Parliamentary grandstanding from the opposition that forced Chamberlain to lose his position. The ceremony of Churchill accepting the position of PM from George is pointedly awkward, the men standing yards away from each other and stiltedly conversing about when to have their weekly meetings. Churchill kisses the back of George’s hand, and George almost immediately wipes his hand on his back. Animosity is prowling around Churchill, and he does nothing to stop it save stomping it underfoot by trying to prove the assumptions of his opponents wrong.

I’ve seen several reviews that position Darkest Hour’s interpretation of Churchill as a refreshing antidote to the leadership in America, even heard this from my grandfather after the film ended, but it’s odd to see this position after so many of the insults hurled at Churchill are ones that have been at Trump. From the outset Churchill is demonstrably angry and uncooperative, plagued with criticism for his war-mongering tendencies, awful diet, brutishness, lying to the public, and terrible people skills. Aside from Churchill’s vivid eloquence, it makes some kind of sense for the shriveled orange sack of cheese running America in January 2017 would be enamored with this film and the man at his center.

The film also shares in Churchill’s pro-war tendencies, one that can’t simply be excused as being subsumed into his own point of view. Small scenes without Churchill, with Chamberlain, with Halifax, with new secretary Elizabeth Layton (Lily James) keep the film from claiming a full POV with Churchill. Though departing from the protagonist doesn’t necessarily mean we’re outside their subjectivity - look at Birdman or, again, Nixon - neither Joe Wright’s directorial stylization or his interpretation of the narrative suggest that we’re seeing it through Churchill’s perspective. Of course, fighting Nazis to the death is always a superior option, and though Darkest Hour doesn’t mock Chamberlain and Halifax’s quest for peace, it frames them - Halifax especially - as outright antagonists. The decision makes sense, since the two were trying to force him out of office, but the film primarily portrays their efforts for peace talks as provoking a scenario to force Churchill out of office. There’s little sense of what either man genuinely sees in the option of surrendering to Hitler, and because of this their beliefs register only as flat opposition rather than an actual political stance. Wright is obviously filming for an audience that’s lived through this and knows exactly how World War II will turn out, but that doesn’t explain or excuse his refusal to illustrate why surrendering in the hope of keeping British culture alive is such a tantalizing option, nor why anyone would believe Hitler in the first place.

Where does this leave Churchill? In a way, who cares? Wright and Oldman do a fine interpretation, not getting gummed up on showing off how “transformative” it is. In fact, the cast handles their vocal and cosmetic changes with little fanfare across the board. Similarly, Wright does some of his best work in Darkest Hour filming Churchill’s speeches, capturing the fluctuations of the mood in the room as well as Churchill’s own state of mind in each speech, which moments are earnest or performative or compensating or meant to rile up his audience. Oldman also slips in more vulnerability than is necessarily scripted, willing to show how much this man is out of his depth and fully aware of the past mistakes he believes should have kept him from this position in the first place. But there’s something ultimately hollow about the men and women that Wright throws onto the screen, and it’s noticeable that the film’s central character is as bloodlessly realized as the figures floating around him. We hear him orate his will to keep Britain under its own sovereignty and to fight Hitler to the death, just as we hear Clementine’s fondness for her husband, as we hear George resents that Chamberlain was forced out of office, as we hear Chamberlain and Halifax want to negotiate with Hitler. None of the characters have a genuine interiority, just goals they want to support and accomplish, and Wright’s visual flourishes end up backfiring as the characters remain so opaque. Zooming towards the sky as Churchill looks up in contemplation (where I realized my sister had briefly fallen asleep), filming his lunches with King George in a wide shot to focus on the enormity of the room, over and over these vital meetings are depicted with outsized embellishments, ones that would work better if the operators involved were given a sense of depth or personhood that motives their political ambitions.

All in all, Darkest Hour winds up a politically muddled and narratively stodgy object. The effect of framing Halifax and Chamberlain as Churchill’s most physically present enemies is disorienting, especially since the Nazis are such a comparatively abstracted threat, the war kept largely off-screen despite being all everyone talks about. Dunkirk is allowed to keep the Germans offscreen in nearly the same way because their presence is omniscient and forceful, the stakes fatally present throughout. Nixon is even more stylistically and narratively baroque, but it commits viciously to the interiority of its central characters and the men and women in his orbit and how Nixon’s actions have so much political and personal history motivating his decisions. Neither Joe Wright’s direction nor Anthony McCarten’s screenplay digs as deeply into the situation as it might, refusing to complicate or personalize it for the participants and gives no room for the cast to do so either. It’s politically thin and stylistically excessive beyond it scope, a dire combination that leaves this vital history feeling under-explored, overblown, and utterly ill-served.

[117--087]

Two Hundred And Four Reasons

Spartan-117 & Spartan-087

[Preface] // [Part 1] // [Part 2] // [Part 3] // [Part 4] // [Part 5] // [Part 6] // [Part 7]

With this past month marking the 4-year anniversary of this blog, I was somewhat at a loss as to what to do to commemorate the occasion...until I remembered there was one more thing I could post as an addendum to my essay series chronicling the development of John-117 and Kelly-087′s relationship throughout Halo canon. There were a few additional pieces of media featuring SPARTAN-II Blue Team that were released in the wake of 2015′s ‘Halo 5: Guardians’ that I think are worth taking a quick look at in regards to how they carry on the tradition of highlighting the bond between a certain Blue-One and Blue-Two.

Through All These Years

The first of the two is an animated miniseries (though more akin to a motion-comic) that loosely adapts the content of both the novel ‘The Fall of Reach’ and its comic book counterpart (which I’ve previously discussed). Like the comic before it though, this miniseries includes a few minor details that differ from the original source text in interesting ways.

The second is a short story from the comic anthology ‘Tales From Slipspace’, called “On The Brink”, and features some panels and dialogue that I feel are very relevant to the content I’ve analyzed so far in regards to Kelly-087′s character and her dynamic with John-117.

We’ll start with the ‘Fall of Reach’ miniseries. Most notably, the animation is bookended by a rather touching scene involving Blue Team returning to the glassed surface of the planet Reach (some time in between late-2557 and mid-2558) in order to hold a private memorial for Samuel-034. But I’ll get back to this after looking at the body of the animation’s content.

To preface: it is worth noting that the animation includes Fred-104 and Linda-058 in events at which they are not canonically present - mainly the “ring the bell” exercise as part of John-117′s team, and as participants in the assault on the Unrelenting in 2525. This was done in order to better familiarize a general audience with them as characters and the roles on Blue Team they would eventually come to fill in the years after the Spartan-IIs’ training in actual Halo canon.

Unlike the comic book version of ‘The Fall of Reach’s events, this miniseries does make sure to include the crucial lesson that John-117 learns from Chief Mendez after putting himself first during the trainees’ initial obstacle course exercise.

“You don’t win unless your team wins.”

Much like in the novelization though, Kelly in particular takes a stand against John’s selfish behavior before he proves he is willing to make amends for his mistake and commit to being a team player.

After the young members of Blue Team reconcile, we are then shown the Spartan-IIs’ wilderness training exercise that takes place two years later. And, in a new addition to this part of the story, we see Sam make a pit-stop to carve the symbol of an eagle and a lightning bolt (which would later become Blue Team’s insignia) into a tree in commemoration of the group’s friendship as John and Kelly look on and consider their next move. As described in ‘The Fall of Reach’, Kelly is noticeably taller than John as a child, which is a small detail I appreciate being included in the animation.

From here things follow the comic adaption pretty closely through the augmentation procedures and the Spartans’ first official mission to Eridanus Secundus to capture insurrectionist Colonel Robert Watts. A few nice asides are made throughout the entire animation where the members of Blue Team casually converse like normal teenagers (making jokes, encouraging one another, offering advice, invitations to do activities, etc.) when not directly engaged in mission-relevant dialogue. So it is good to see this kind of additional humanization of the S-IIs based off of what has long been established about them in Eric Nylund’s books.

Finally the last section of the miniseries is narrated by Kelly-087 herself in flashback (with Michelle Lukes reprising her role from ‘Halo 5: Guardians’), which covers the Spartan-IIs receiving their first sets of MJOLNIR Armor and Sam’s death at the hands of the revealed alien Covenant.

Without quoting every line she says, I will simply say this portion of the animation is well worth watching just for Kelly’s commentary. After Blue Team is outfitted with their suits of Mk. IV armor on Chi Ceti, we come to the Spartans’ infiltration of the Covenant ship Unrelenting. In a small departure from the novel and the comic book, Kelly is actually pulled aboard the vessel by John just as she is about to fly off into space - and though I doubt it was intentional, I find it is an interesting reverse-parallel to what we see in the ‘Halo Legends’ animated short “The Package” all the same.

From here events proceed in general accordance with canon, with Sam’s armor eventually breached by a plasma bolt after being shot while pushing John out of the line of fire. Once Blue Team makes it to the ship’s reactor, they hold off a few waves of Covenant while reading the bomb they brought with them to destroy it. John and Kelly work in tandem as Blue-One and Blue-Two; and in an amusing exchange of roles at one point, we see Kelly take charge of the situation and sprint across the bridge to shut the doors leading to the reactor room while ordering John to complete the work on the nuke.

“I’ll seal the door. John, finish arming that warhead!”

“I remember thinking that no matter how dark the future, we could face it as a team.”

However, as we all know, things reach a breaking point when Sam admits that he has to stay behind on the ship due to the irreparable damage to his armor. This part of Nylund’s book always struck me right in the heart, and the scene here is no exception. This moment is then bolstered by Kelly’s reflection on how this first loss in battle deeply affected not only her and John, but all of Blue Team.

“I know Spartans don't cry...but for once, I was glad for the helmet.”

“We thought training, augmentation, armor made us untouchable, invulnerable, immortal. Blue Team. But we were wrong - we were children. This was the only thing John was ever afraid of: losing one of us. And we knew we weren’t finishing this fight, we were just getting started.”

The animation then ends with the Spartan-IIs visiting the same place Sam originally “carved their mark into the world”. They take a moment to remember their fallen friend and reflect on the meaning of his heroic sacrifice, as the Chief sincerely asks his remaining comrades if they will continue to have faith in him to lead them through whatever lies ahead.

“Last time we were here, I asked Sam to trust me to take us home, to follow me. Will you trust me now? Will you follow me?”

...which plays perfectly into the next section of this write-up.

"On the Brink” is a short comic featuring Blue Team that was relased as part of the ‘Tales From Slipspace’ anthology book in the fall of last year. It takes place in 2558 and is a fairly self-contained story about one of the Spartans’ many exploits after their reunion in 2557. Specifically, they are looking to stop a Mammoth that has been hijacked by some splinter-Covenant from running into a UNSC nuclear reactor. Once again the events are overlayed with a narration by Kelly-087.

The 12-page comic can be viewed in its entirety here. And while it is brief and rather straightforward in terms of the story’s content, there are a few panels that I would like to take a closer look at. Most prominently, this section where Kelly muses on the steadfastness of the Chief’s leadership.

I love How Kelly notes that even though she’s dog-tired and in the middle of a violent firefight, hearing the voice of her best friend is all it takes to renew her focus, confidence, and determination to complete the mission - in a way nothing else can. For his part, John continues to rely Kelly to back him up and talks to her throughout the operation even as her discovery of some civilian scientists aboard the Mammoth forces him to make a risky evasive maneuver in order to save them. And honestly I don’t know what could speak more for the strength of the bond that these two characters have and the kind of trust they have in each other.

After the massive vehicle finally comes to a complete stop, the reactor remains intact and some extensive property damage to the surrounding area is the only fallout of the Covenant attack on the UNSC base. This does not appease the site’s foreman however, and he confronts Blue Team. John keeps his cool while Fred reacts angrily in turn to the man’s disrespect and thankless attitude. Kelly looks on, and can’t help but wonder when John will finally grow weary of the tumultuous and unsure environment the Spartan-IIs have found themselves mired in in the wake of the Human-Covenant War.

The end of this story presents us with quite the conundrum from Kelly’s point of view. Because while she will always support John and believe wholeheartedly in his ability to triumph over adversity, her final thoughts reveal that she does indeed recognize that for all the ways he’s remained stalwart he still has limits too. Just like the rest of them. Which once again works to emphasize how human these characters still are.

These pieces of media continue to paint the same picture of these characters that we have gotten for the last 15+ years: two people who have grown together over a lifetime of experiencing all manner of hardships and yet they maintain a healthy mutual relationship based in respect and honest care. How this may come into play later in the series after the events of ‘Halo 5: Guardians’ remains to be seen, but for now it is good to at least have a few more moments to add to John-117 and Kelly-087′s catalog of positive representation.

[thegodshavehorns]

Necessary Distance

“To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.” Mary Oliver, In Blackwater Woods.

I.

Names. You have names beyond number. You are known across a galaxy of galaxies, from the Subspace Disk and the Relona Filament to Harrishuttel-2 and the Economic Principality of Fircant.

You were born heir to a throne, and then you ascended beyond a need for thrones. For ten billion years and more your countless names have passed through lips, fluttered on phosphorescent skins, and been signed by tentacles and limbs stranger yet, all in prayers and homage to you.

They have called you Leviathan Mother. She Who Has Ten Thousand Claws. The One in Relex. The Venomous Snake. But of all your uncountable names there is one which only fools and stalwarts fail to shudder at.

Once upon a time you took on the title of the Witch of Life. But before that, before everything else, your name was Feferi Peixes.

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

II.

You stretch your jaws, not bothering to conceal a yawn as you follow Sollux Captor down the halls of the SkaiaNet complex. He said that the business was urgent, and your presence was needed “right fucking now.” You wouldn’t have guessed it from how slowly he leads you down, how he refuses to tell you anything at all.

What is he to you? Matesprit, auspistice, moirail, kismesis— he has been all these things to you, and other things which the old Alternian tongue cannot describe. Fifteen billion years is too long to stay in just one quadrant. But for right now, the two of you are nothing. It's too bad. Perhaps in another century you will be something once again.

In the bowels of the installation, Sollux pauses. He adjusts his dirty old lab coat, and then opens the door. “Old gods, meet the new,” he says as your eyes adjust to the dimness of the room. There are a pair of children inside. Infants. Human.

A hundred thoughts rise up inside you. Why are they here? Where are their parents? Did Sollux steal them away for some reason you can only guess at? Or, if they’re orphans, why have they not been left at the roadside, or whatever it is that humans do with abandoned young? What is it that Sollux is planning with them? What does he mean, the new gods?

It is the last question which you decide to voice.

“It worked,” he says.

He leaves you to mull that over for a few seconds. “You rebuilt the Game? But how— you’ve only been at work for a few years...”

Sollux nods. “We won’t succeed for years, but the board is getting set up.”

“And it sent them?”

He nods again.

“And what do you need me for?”

“They need a guardian. A mentor. Someone who can hide them, keep them away from attention.”

“So you asked me?”

“Aradia said that you were the best choice. Everyone knows that you like to keep your... projects under wraps. Even Vriska wouldn't bother you if you set aside space to raise a few mortals.”

You look at the children, still so young, and run the back of your claw against the male’s cheek. It would be foolish to try and fight the future, you think. And anyway, there is something stirring in you, an instinct for companionship, a yearning for company. You've created countless living creatures over the eons, but you've never been a mother before. Not really.

“What are their names?” you ask.

Sollux smiles. “They don’t have names yet.”

You’ll take them. Your wigglers. Your little grubs.

They are going to be gods.

You will never have to watch them die.

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

III.

For the first few years, they continue to go unnamed. They need none, and they have earned none. It's better to not be named, for now. How could you know what will fit them when they are so young?

It is not until they are four years old that you give them their names. You take them from Hebrew, but in a modernized, abbreviated form that will not attract notice.

Jake. To supplant, to assail, to hold the heel. It was the first place where he bit you, but not the last. Perhaps the boy had thought himself a shark. It means to follow, as well. To be behind, and in this the name also serves him well; just as well you might have named him “Shadow,” he follows you around so much.

Jane. The creators are merciful, are gracious. For she has already demonstrated how she will extend an open hand to all the worlds in her demesne. It will break her. It will be the seed of greater strength, after she heals. The world of nature is not all red in tooth and claw, and her nurturing touch will be a boon once she has tempered it with the edge of necessity.

Harley. Jake and Jane Harley. “From the hare’s meadow,” it means— or “from the eagle’s meadow.” No one will look twice at them, should they need to move about among mortals. Not until they have attained the godhood which is their birthright— and then they will have names beyond numbering.

Your only regret is that you will not be able to see it for yourself. But as you look at the stars of this universe and long for their presence, their voices, once again, you shall comfort yourself in the knowledge that they are only gone from here, and in some other place they are still alive.

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

IV.

You brush your knuckles against the back of Jane’s head, just as your lusus did with her tendrils when you were young. She nestles her head into the crook of your neck. You whisper soft lullabies, the ones which Gl’bgolyb sang for you so long ago.

“Mirmi etin tuklet, shita wirg fluket jar ma...”

It was years before you realized that you were copying your lusus in your whispers. You continued anyway. All three of you found it comforting, you and the children.

You keep her wrapped in your arms as you reassure her that you are not disappointed. And you're not. Jane's weakness was not her fault, but yours.

She is eleven, and perhaps a little old to be coddled like this, but you don’t particularly care for what humans do. You are not human.

“Mother....” she says, her voice shaking, and you run your fingers through her hair. It’s not like having a moirail. Not quite. But on the surface, it looks somewhat similar.

“I’m proud of you,” you say. “I am so very proud of you. You’ve come a long way, and you will go further still, my puntillita.”

When you found her, during her first attempt at surviving on her own, she was laying in the shade, parched to near-death, breathing so shallowly you almost feared you were too late. But Jane couldn't die, she couldn't, it was fated. But if she'd died, and you'd brought life back to her, rose her up, you know her mind would be empty, and a goddess with no soul would be-

“Please, mother, I can’t, I won’t be able to—”

“You will, you will. I believe in you so utterly.”

She is strong. She just needs to believe it, needs to try again, to look for water sooner.

“Mother, don’t...”

“Hush. You are a wonderful girl, and you are growing stronger every day. But this is important for you in so many ways.”

“Mother, please don’t make me do it. I’m just going to fail.”

You healed her, snatched her from the brink of death, and brought her home. But now that she's rested, it's time to try again.

You move your hand from the back of Jane’s head to cup her face, and turn her to look at you with her big blue eyes. “Jane. You won’t fail. I know you won’t. Call it a... mother’s intuition. But you need to tell yourself that you won’t fail, or your prophecy will fulfill itself. Now say, ‘I can do it.’ Aloud.”

“I... I can do it.” Jane’s voice wavers, and her eyes look to the side.

“Say, ‘I will survive.’”

“I will s-survive.”

“Again.”

“I will survive.”

“Again! Make me believe it!”

“I will survive!” Her voice is hoarse, but louder, and almost sounds like it holds conviction.

“There.” You move your hand to the back of her head again, stroking her hair, and your voice once more becomes gentle. “You can do it, Jane. I know you can.”

You hold her until she sleeps, and the next day, you bring her to the island, and let her go. A test run, to show her strength against adversity.

She survives, as you knew she would, and you heal her wounds with a mother’s pride. They will sing praises to her in eons to come, hymns and psalms to the glory of her name. Jane Harley, god of the new world. Jane Harley, the daughter of her mother.

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

V.

“Say it again.”

“We were wrong.”

“You lied to me.”

“What did you expect us to think? We didn’t know that the Game would give us these— these extras.” At least Sollux has the decency to look appropriately ashamed.

Your children are not going to become gods.

Their names. How hollow their names now seem to you. A mockery, a taunt. They are going to die. You have gotten too close to them. You thought you were safe. That they weren’t mortals. But they are.

And you aren’t. They can have no place with you. That much is clear. You will not be able to keep the necessary distance. You would pervert them.

They are life. They are mortal. They will never ascend. Already you can feel yourself beginning to entertain thoughts of prolonging their lives, keeping them at your side until the stars burn out. They were not made for that, to handle the weight of ages without end. They were born to die.

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

VI.

You don’t bother with trying to prepare them for the news. There is nothing that you can say that could ease their pain, and little point to it. Better to keep the blow swift and sharp and clean, than to drag this out slowly.

When you speak you keep your voice smooth and level, betraying not a hint of uncertainty. Over the eons, you’ve grown quite good at masking your feelings in the trappings of divinity.

Besides, if they hate you, then they will gather strength from that. But they will reap only weakness if weakness is what they see in you.

“As it turns out, we were wrong about you. You are not going to become gods. Our mistake. Anyway, you’re both old enough now, to grow up. So, you’re going to leave.”

They beg. They plead. They call you Mother.

Such a name, Mother. Mother. A billion civilizations and more have called you their mother, but none of them like your children have done. And you will never hear it again. There is a spike of grief, and you banish it. Love is a chemical, is biology. You can shut it off by merely thinking about it, prevent yourself from feeling this maternal pain. There will be ample time for that indulgence later.

“It's not about love. It’s not about you at all.” It’s never been about them, not really. It’s about the game, the end of the world. You were a fool to think it was about anything else. “I just can’t invest any more energy in you two. I’m going to take the bubble down now, so you should leave before you drown.”

They are life. They are mortal. They will never ascend. They can have no place with you, that much is clear. You will not be able to keep the necessary distance. You would destroy them. Already you can feel yourself beginning to entertain thoughts of prolonging their lives, keeping them at your side until the stars burn out. They were not made for that, to handle the weight of ages without end. They were born to die.

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

VII.

You fly. In the space of a heartbeat you have flown further than you have ever flown before, reached expanses never seen by any of the gods. You descend, gently, upon the first life-bearing world you find, a world which has never before seen the gods or known their power.

And with a thought, you begin to unleash devastation. You unleash plagues that spread and kill in moments. You create monsters. You kill them in ones and twos and you kill them by the millions as you twist their bones and warp their hearts. You return life to their dying bodies and twist them into a hideous architecture, conscious all the while of the horror that is being done to them.

This is part of life. This is okay. You are not stepping beyond your role at all. Sometimes something unexpected happens. Sometimes disaster strikes. Sometimes there are... there are meteors, and the world you love is destroyed forever.

That’s all that this is about. Meteors.

It has been— days, or months— when the world freezes around you.

“I must be swamping you wit)( work,” you say, the Tinge coloring your voice.

“there have been w0rse days,” Aradia replies.

“You )(ave a lot of nerve s)(owing yourself to me,” you snarl. “You knew.You knew, t)(ey wouldnt be gods.”

“i did,” she acknowledges.

You bare your fangs, then incline your head in the direction of your latest masterpiece. “)(ow do you like it?”

“y0ure wasting y0ur time. besides,” she adds, “there was a learning curve inv0lved”

You want to fly away. Find another world where you won’t be bothered. It doesn’t matter that she’ll know where it is before you do. But her last statement hangs in the air and forces a response. “W)(at do you mean?”

“there will be an0ther”

“No.”

“y0u had to have this s0 that y0u w0uld raise her well”

“)(-Her?” you stammer, as the Tinge fades out of your voice.

Aradia puts her hands on your shoulders. “she will be named jade. f0r the c0l0r of her eyes”

You open your mouth to say more. What are her favorite foods? Does she like being read to at night? How does she wear her hair?

Aradia disappears before you can say anything at all, and the words die on the edge of your lips. It is only after you have left your waste of twisted bodies that you realize that you have already begun to think of her in the present tense. She hasn’t been born, and yet she is already here.

Jade. Her name will be Jade.

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

VIII.

You see her eyes when you sleep. You wonder what shade of green they will be, but Aradia won't talk with you again, no matter how much you want to pump her for more information. You kill another world just to entice her to speak with you, and still she never shows herself.

You don’t need to sleep, but you find yourself doing it more and more often anyway. Sleeping lets the days go by faster.

How long will it be? As the years turn into decades and Jake and Jane grow older you begin to despair. You wonder if Aradia has lied to you, but you banish the possibility. She always tells the truth, you tell yourself. She doesn’t have to lie. She prefers to let you fill in the gaps with misconceptions and choke on them.

(Really, you just can’t bear the thought that she lied to you)

So you wile away the days deep in thought about diversity and designer biologies (The sound of her laugh, the color of her hair). You experiment and craft as you always do, building new forms of life as if you were a potter at the wheel (You wonder if she will like this one).

And you sleep, because in your dreams you can forget yourself and pretend that she’s already here.

(There is nothing worse than the sensation of waking up; it feels like falling)

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

IX.

The Barkbeast was here before any of your kind were. None of you understood it. For a time you all thought that it had something to do with Kanaya. Even she did, for a little bit, but it certainly never listened to her. It was Aradia, of course, who settled the matter, but all she saw fit to say was that it had nothing to do with any of you.

It remembers you, though. You don’t know how many centuries it’s been since you last saw each other but it remembers you. The Barkbeast follows close behind you as you enter the house, and it whines quietly when you stop at the foot of the stairs.

This is Jake’s house. He’s here. Just up the steps, three doors down on the right. He’s here.

You start moving again and you don’t stop until you’ve reached the top. You haven’t come here to see him. You don’t know if you could see him without waking him and you don’t want to see the look on his face when he sees you.

But the girl sleeps like the dead. She doesn’t even twitch when you open the door and stride into her room. You sit on the floor next to her bed and just look at her. You still don’t know what shade of green her eyes are. But she is here. She is here and one day you will be able to look at her when her eyes are open, and that is enough.

You glance back to the Barkbeast. Jake named him Becquerel. A good name, for a good barkbeast, you think.

You tuck a strand of hair behind Jade's ears, and then you leave.

Soon.

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

X.

“this isnt f0r him at all. y0u kn0w he w0uldnt want this”

“W)(at do you know about w)(at he wants? )(ave you ever even talked wit)( Jake?”

“i have watched him fr0m afar. i have sp0ken with his l0vers. i have seen him in c0untless fr0zen m0ments as i have tended t0 0thers. but m0re than this... i have sp0ken with y0u fr0m a time when y0u have regretted it”

You calm. “Then you—”

“i will d0 it” She shakes her head. Just once, but she does not need to do it any more than that. “but he will n0t f0rgive you”

“He deserves it at least.”

“what he deserves,” Aradia replies. “is a life that n0ne of us were g0ing t0 all0w him fr0m the start”

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

XI.

You had to kill him.

This is what you tell yourself when the memory of it grows too painful. His kind are meant to die. And he was trying to keep you away from her. Still... you know that he saw the future. You know that he saw Jade, in a time years distant from now.

You will see him one last time. You have made and will make sure of that.

“Mirmi etin tuklet,” you whisper. “Shita wirg fluket jar ma...”

Aradia has spoken with her just once. Sollux comes about once a month. Eridan, slightly less than that and Terezi slightly more. You would be jealous of how much Jade likes her, but Terezi prefers to speak with Jade for only brief periods of time, in the early mornings just after your daughter has woken up. Jade is yours, and yours alone.

You brush your knuckles against her once again and she nestles ever deeper in your long locks of hair. She is seven, but she is short for her age and you are tall for any human, and so she almost manages to disappear into the folds of your robes and the quilt that has been draped around you both. You continue to rub her head, and tighten your hold on her with your other arm. Through that part of you which is most intimately tied up with the Aspect of Life, you are made aware of the increased release of oxytocin that occurs in response to your actions.

Other chemicals flow through your own body at the same time, some of them in response to the knowledge that your daughter is content. A few of them do not have names, because you made them yourself and never revealed them to the world. You remodeled your physiology, your hormones and brain structure, to take on aspects that would promote bonding and attachment—to Jake and Jane, once upon a time, and now to Jade. Despite the pain, you have never been able to swallow the idea of ridding yourself of these qualities that make you just as much a lusus as you are a troll or a god.

It is raining outside, and you can hear the drizzle and the pitter-pat through the large window that the two of you are sitting under. It makes for a lovely background to your nursery songs. You love the rain. Jade loves the rain. More than anything else, you love that she loves it.

(More than anything else, you love her—but that was evident from the start)

There is a peal of thunder, but it is far away and not so loud that you cannot hear what she says amid the quiet roar. You tighten your grip around her and stiffen in reflex when you register her words.

“Can you...” She yawns a little bit. “Can you tell me the story of the Fox Sister again, Mom?”

You have never called her your daughter. You have never told her that you were her mother. You were afraid. You were afraid and yet you needed to hear this so desperately and it was not until this moment that you knew how much you were starving for the name.

And yet. And yet... she never calls you that again. You wonder why, of course. But you are too afraid to ask, too afraid of what the answer might be. So instead it haunts your dreams, the fantasies that you have only because you needed so much to hear it again that you were willing to brave the nightmares and suffer the wasted hours, until you hate that you ever have to wake up at all. The only thing that pulls you back from the brink is the worried expression that you see on Jade’s face when you wake up one time to find her beside you, holding vigil.

“You were asleep for two days,” she tells you, and you are thankful that you fell asleep where you did, because you realize that she only ate at all because the kitchen was so close to you.

You don't sleep again. Nor do you ever again hear Jade call you by that most precious of names. And you will always wonder why, what it was that you did wrong, or that you failed to do.

[guidetoenjoy-blog]

Elephants unchained: 'The day has gone by when this was entertainment'

New Post has been published on https://entertainmentguideto.com/must-see/elephants-unchained-the-day-has-gone-by-when-this-was-entertainment/

Elephants unchained: 'The day has gone by when this was entertainment'

As our understanding of the minds of our fellow species improves, will we increasingly look back at the way we have treated them in horror and repulsion?

Water streams off the edges of her giant ears, runs in rivulets down the wrinkles of her slate-grey skin. She presses her whole head into the hoses force, the spray welling into her mouth. As she drinks, she rubs her skin against the steel fence, her eyelids drooping luxuriously, her trunk relaxing. If ever Ive seen a captive elephant happy, its Flora this morning.

There are no people laughing or pointing here at the Elephant Sanctuary in Tennessee. There are no infants crying, no children arguing. The public are not allowed into the sanctuary, whose unofficial motto is, Allow elephants to be elephants: give them the freedom of choice, the freedom of large areas to explore, the freedom from human gawkers (apart from via the online elecams) while still providing the kind of care that comes with a zoo.

In fact, few things are required of the 10 pachyderms here. They can sleep in the barn or they can spend the night among the pine-covered hills. They can stay in the shade or lounge in the sun. They can wander together for company like elephants in the wild or take off on a solo sojourn. They can chase turkeys or trumpet at deer. They can take a dust bath, roll in a mud wallow, or be sprayed by a keeper, as Flora chose on this day when the temperature hits 34C (93.2F).

I dont think we will ever get away from elephants in captivity, Stephanie DeYoung, the director of elephant husbandry, tells me. But is it time to change how we keep them in captivity?

The Elephant Sanctuary spreads over 2,700 rolling acres.

Beaten, starved, shackled

Watching her now, its hard to imagine Flora a female African elephant, the largest and arguably most regal terrestrial animal on the planet dressed up in a silly costume performing in a one-elephant act for 18 years. But that was her life before.

We are, as a species, generally fascinated by elephants. We see the qualities and characteristics in elephants that we aspire to have ourselves, says Patricia Sims, the co-founder of World Elephant Day. Empathy, enduring family bonds, cooperation, intelligence, long memories, taking care of their environment to name just a few.

Some extraordinary scientific studies in the last few years have revealed just how intelligent they are. They can recognise themselves in a mirror, found scientists in 2006, one of only a few species that do this. They can have an aha moment to solve a puzzle, showed researchers in 2011, by witnessing a young elephant in the National zoo in Washington DC who would move a block wherever she needed it to reach food. We even know now that what makes captive elephants happy is not the size of their pen, but whether they live with other elephants, thanks to a landmark collection of papers in the scientific journal PLOS ONE last year

But our desire to be close to these incredible creatures has led us down some ugly paths. We have ridden them, dressed them up in ridiculous attire, beaten them, starved them, and slaughtered them en masse. Today tens of thousands live shackled in prisons of our making.

A video still from a report that was shown during the trial of circus trainer Mary Chipperfield, who was convicted in 1999 on 12 counts of animal cruelty.

Elephants are still gussied up to decorate weddings in India; in Sri Lanka they are locked in religious sites as living (but suffering) embodiments of a god; in Africa tourists ride trained elephants to see wild ones; in south-east Asia elephants are used to log the very forests they once called home; and worldwide elephants are still forced to perform silly tricks in circuses and zoos, tricks they are trained to do by brutalising methods, often using a bullhook, a large, sharp, medieval-looking instrument used to create pain in an elephants sensitive spots.

When I ask ecologist and author of Beyond Words: What Animals Think and Feel, Carl Safina, if he believes elephants are intelligent and conscious, he says that there is zero evidence that such animals are not conscious, while there is multiple lines of evidence both physically and behaviourally that they are.

So what are the implications of this? Besides their own particular form of consciousness, elephants have spectacularly good memories. Can they remember abuse and pain? Could some elephants even be described as traumatised? There have certainly been episodes that would seem to indicate this. In 1994, for example, a female African elephant named Tyke crushed her trainer to death in front of a circus audience in Honolulu. She escaped the tent and ran through the city streets for a half hour before police officers brought her down in a hail of 86 bullets. Like all circus elephants, shed spent her life chained up, transported in trucks and beaten to perform. The only freedom shed known was when shed escape and shed done so twice before. (The 2013 documentary Blackfish, about a killer whale, Tilikum, appears to tell a very similar story about another of the earths largest mammals.)

Sukari in her enclosure

Over and over again, staff at the Tennessee sanctuary tell me that elephants never kill anyone accidentally. Like humans, they can snap. Constant beatings, solitary confinement, being chained to the floor: all this can understandably push any elephant to the brink and some will retaliate.

In her book Elephants on the Edge, Gay A Bradshaw argues that elephants both wild and captive can suffer psychological traumas, leading them to become more unpredictable and violent. When elephants lose their homes and families, are subjected to mass killing, and are captured and incarcerated in zoos, they breakdown mentally and culturally and exhibit symptoms found in human prisoners and victims of genocide, Bradshaw said in an interview with Scientific American.

In her book, Bradshaw describes an experiment where the symptoms of an elephant were sent to five mental health officials who had no knowledge that they were diagnosing an elephant and not a human but all of whom diagnosed the individual with PTSD.

As our understanding of the minds of our fellow species improves, will we increasingly look back at the way we have treated them in horror and repulsion?

Shirleys right ear was scarred when she was on a ship that caught fire and sank.

Unloosening the chains

The impact of our changing understanding of elephant psychology has already been profound. Perhaps the most astounding change is at circuses. Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey, arguably the worlds most famous circuses, stopped using elephants last year and then closed for good this May after 146 years. Britains last circus elephant, Anne, was rescued in 2011 after the Daily Mail revealed she was being viciously abused. Twenty countries have banned the use of elephants in circuses. Even India has banned elephants in both circuses and zoos though the process of retiring the elephants is gradual.

The days gone by of putting an animal in a cage and calling it entertainment. I think more and more people realise that is ridiculous, says DeYoung.

Life in zoos is generally not as abusive for elephants as in circuses. Zoo elephants are not travelling overland on a weekly basis, are not usually chained up for days to weeks to years on end, and are not usually forced to perform tricks day in and day out.

But there have been enormous changes here too. Recognising the social needs of elephants, the USs Association for Zoos and Aquariums (AZA) now requires that any accredited zoo must have at least three female elephants, two males or three mixed genders in order to make sure elephants have peers although facilities can apply for an expectation. (There has been less progress on space: a creature known to roam hundreds to thousands of square kilometres in the wild gets as little as 500 square metres of outside space in a zoo.)

The best zoos are changing concrete cages to natural environments, adding more enrichment and taking their elephants for daily walks to increase exercise. Today, 43 zoos are members of the Elephant Welfare Initiative, which tracks real-time data on their pachyderms, all in an effort to improve conditions. And many elephant keepers now have behavioural backgrounds, an acknowledgement of the species deep psychological needs, explains Otto Fad, an animal behaviour and welfare specialist. All of us elephant geeks are paying attention, he says.

Adult elephants and a calf chained in an indoor enclosure at the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, US in 1989. Photograph: Scott McKiernan/Zuma/Alamy

But progress is slow, and patchy. China is buying up wild elephants from Africa, and Chinese zoos are hardly known for humane conditions. Eyewitnesses say zoos there are forcing elephants to do unnatural tricks to entertain visitors, much like circuses. Even in Europe controversy remains: In April, Peta released footage of keepers at the Hanover zoo in Germany using a bullhook and whip to train juvenile elephants to perform tricks. The European Association of Zoos and Aquariums and the AZA both still allow the use of bullhooks.

And then there are the 15,000 to 20,000 elephants around the world that still spend their lives in chains. Harsh, is how Carol Buckley, the head of Elephant Aid International,describes conditions in Asia. With little exception, they live in chains when not being dominated by their mahout to perform. The mahouts suffer equally … [Both] live in squalor, deprived of the most basic needs. In Indonesia, activists have photographed an elephant in a zoo that lives alone with its feet tied together by a chain. It cant move a single step.

So, what to do? We cant just open the pen doors and unloosen all the chains.

If only they could all go and live in the sanctuary.

Ronnie (on the left) and Sissy in their enclosures. Out of shot are their companions. All are free to roam in 100s of acres.

They are allowed to express themselves

No institution is perfect. Founded in 1995, the 2,700-acre sanctuary North Americas only one dedicated solely to elephants has seen its own set of tragedies and challenges, none worse than when a keeper was killed in 2006 by an Asian elephant.

But it is a genuine sanctuary for once abused elephants, tended to by the most devoted of staff, who practise a form of elephant care known as protected contact or PC, a type of training invented in the 1990s by San Diego zoo. This is in opposition to whats called free contact, which generally depends on bullhooks and punishment. Keeper Kristy Sands Eaker says PC is about mutual respect, and about positive reinforcement rewards for good behaviour rather than punishment. They know we are not going to enter their space … They are allowed to express themselves if they do not want to participate in something they can react and theres no punishment for that.

At the same time, the animals are not romanticised: elephants and keepers are always separated by a steel barrier; there are always at least two keepers working with an elephant, and all are aware they are dealing with four-tonne animals capable of killing with a single strike of its trunk.

The sanctuary houses 10 female elephants it doesnt take males at this time. It has room for six more, but its surprisingly difficult to obtain new elephants. After all, elephants are money makers for circuses and zoos, which are often loathe to give them up. This is why the sanctuary is never sent young elephants: the younger the elephant, the bigger the jackpot. In an attempt to create bridges between the circus or zoo world and the sanctuary, the staff say their elephants are retired not rescued.

The sanctuary has no interest in breeding on the site. Were not breeding for animals to live in captivity, says CEO Janice Zeitlin. And this is captivity.

Some of these elephants have harrowing stories. Sissy, stolen from the wild in 1969, survived a flood in Texas in 1981, spending 36 hours submerged under water with just her trunk above the surface. For years she was terrified of water, but after coming to the sanctuary she started wading in pools again.

This is what the sanctuary is about, says Zeitlin. These celebrations. These milestones.

Some elephants arrived with self-mutilation behaviours, such as biting their ears or tusking their own legs. Its a coping mechanism, and a lot of that is based on stress, explains DeYoung.

I spend the day at the sanctuary with remarkable women. DeYoung moved across the country to work here. Zeitlin came 20 years ago and today runs the place. Sands Eaker worked up to the day she gave birth to twins. She told me she sometimes feels she knows the elephants better than her own children. This is not a job for them, its a calling, a devotion, a love.

I wonder if they are aware of the similarities between them and the elephants they care for. On the one hand, we have a highly intelligent, empathetic, deeply conscious species that has survived millions of years through a powerful matriarchal society. And, on the other, are the women of another species determined to give these pachyderm ladies the best years of their life, determined to do their utmost to heal the wounds caused by our sins.

Given that they are often taking in geriatric elephants the youngest on site is 33 workers at the facility have become accustomed to loss. In its 22 years, they have seen 17 elephants die. In 2013, they started a new policy of euthanising elephants when they felt they were suffering from irreversible health problems causing unrelenting suffering.

An elephant grave at the Elephant Sanctuary.

There was a philosophical change, DeYoung says, noting that founders preferred allowing nature to take its course. The final decision comes down to the vets, but includes input from all the staff. Since 2013 they have humanely euthanised five elephants.

We feel we are the stewards of this animal and it is our responsibility to take care of them in life and in death, adds DeYoung.

When death comes whether due to euthanasia or other causes the other elephants are allowed to spend as long as they need with the body. Elephants are buried on site and marker stones erected. Staff have observed elephants visiting the graves of their lost companions, especially those they were particularly bonded to. More then 10 years after Jennys death, Shirley still marches into the wood to mourn beside her grave.

Into the wild

But even if every zoo in the world was like the sanctuary, captivity can never replicate the wild.

Conservationists rarely consider the idea of releasing captive elephants back into the wild, but it has been done. Elephant Reintroduction, a NGO in Thailand, has reintroduced more than a hundred once-captive elephants into three protected areas since 2002. The work is challenging. Premjith Hemmawath, with the organisation, says mahouts had to teach one elephant how to drink water from the river instead of the tap. Still, many reintroduced elephants have thrived in this programme, with some even reproducing in the wild.

Fewer captive elephants have been released in Africa, but there are successes there too. Eight adult captive elephants housed in African countries (five males and three females) have been rereleased in Botswana. The most incredible example of reintroductions are Durga and Owalla, American circus elephants that were reintroduced into a park in South Africa in 1982. Both went on to have their own calves.

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