#but the people saying horror is subjected to the worst of this treatment are right

[alectology-archive]

most annoying breed of author is actually someone who doesn’t respect a genre and sets out to subvert it.

[writingwithcolor]

Space based story with prison camps: problematic parallels?

Trigger warnings:

Holocaust

Unethical Medical Experimentation (in the post and resources)

ivypool2005 asked:

I'm writing a sci-fi novel set on Mars in the 25th century. There are two countries on Mars: Country A, a hereditary dictatorship, and Country B, a democracy occupied by Country A after losing a war. Country A's government is secretly being puppeted by a company that is illegally testing experimental technology on children. On orders from the company, Country A is putting civilian children from Country B in prison camps, where the company can fake their deaths and experiment on them. (1/2)

My novel takes place in one of the prison camps. I am aware that this setting carries associations with various concentration camps in history. Specifically, I'm worried about the experimentation aspect, as I know traumatic medical experimentation occurred during the Holocaust. Is there anything I should avoid? How can I acknowledge the history while still keeping some fantasy/sci-fi distance from real experiences -- or is it a bad idea to try to straddle that fence at all? Thank you! (2/2)

We are far from being the only people to have suffered traumatic medical experiments.. 

--Shira

TW: Unethical Medical Experimentation (in the post, and all of the links)

Medical experimentation in history

Perhaps without intending to, you have posed an enormous question. 

I will start by saying that we, the Jewish people, are not the only group to have unethical, immoral, vicious experiments performed on our bodies.  Horrific experimentation has been conducted on Black people, on Indigenous people, on disabled people, on poor people of various backgrounds, on women, on queer people... the legacy of human cruelty is long. Here are some very surface-level sources for you, and anyone else interested to go through. Many, many more can be found.

General Wiki Article on Unethical Human Experimentation

US Specific Article  on Unethical Human Experimentation 

The early history of modern American Gynecology is largely comprised of absolutely inhumane experimentation, mostly on enslaved women (with some notable exceptions among Irish immigrant women)

An Article on Gynecological Experimentation on Enslaved Women

I  also recommend reading Medical Bondage by Deirdre Cooper Owens

The Tuskegee Experiment 

First Nations Children Denied Nutrition

Guatemala Syphilis Experiment

Unit 731

AZT Testing on Zimbabwean Women

Project MKUltra

Conversion Therapy

Medical Experiments on Prison Inmates 

Medical Interventions on Intersex Infants and Children

Again, these are only a few, of a tragic multitude of examples. 

While I don't feel comfortable saying, as a blanket statement, that stories like this should never be fictionalized, it feels important to emphasize the historicity of medical experimentation, and indeed, medical horrors. These things happened, in the real world, throughout history, and across the globe. 

The story of this kind of human experimentation is one of immense cruelty, and the complete denial of the humanity of others. Experimentation was done on unwilling subjects, with no real regard for their wellbeing, their physical pain, the trauma they would incur, the effect it would have on families, or on communities. These are stories, not of random, mythical "subjects," but of human beings. These were Black women, already suffering enslavement, who were medically tortured. These were Indigenous children, who were utterly powerless, denied nutrition, just to see what would happen. These were Black men, lied to about their own health, and sent home to infect their spouses, and denied treatment once it was available. These were Aboriginal Australians, forced to have unnecessary medical procedures, children given brutal gynecological exams, and medications that were untested.. These were inmates in US prisons, under the complete control of the state. These were prisoners of war. These were pregnant people, desperate to save their fetuses, lied to by doctors. These were also Jewish people, imprisoned, and brutalized as part of a systematic attempt to destroy us. 

The story of medical torture, of experimentation without any meaningful consent, of the removal of human dignity, and human rights, is so vast, and so long, there is no way to do it justice. It is a story about human beings, without agency, without rights, it's the story of doctors, scientists, and the inquisitive, looking right through a person, and seeing nothing but parts. This is not some vague plot point, or a curiosity to note in passing, it is a real, terrible thing that happened, and is still happening to actual human beings. I understand the draw, to want to write about the Worst of the Worst, the things that happen when people set aside kindness, and pick up cruelty, but this is not simply a device. This kind of torture cannot be used as authorial shorthand, to show who the real bad guys are. 

On writing this subject - research

If you want to write a fictional story that includes this kind of deep, abiding horror, you need to immerse yourself in it. You need to read about it, not only in secondhand accounts, and not only from people stating facts dispassionately. You need to seek out firsthand accounts, read whatever you can find, watch whatever videos you can find. You need to find works recounting these atrocities by the descendants, and community members of people who suffered. 

Then, when you have done that, you need to spend time reflecting, and actively working to recognize the humanity of the people this happened to, and continues to happen to. 

You have to recognize that getting a stamp of approval from three Jewish people on a single website would never be enough, and seek out multiple sensitivity readers who have personal, familial, or cultural experience with forced experimentation.

If that seems like a lot of work, or overkill, I beg you not to write this story. It's simply too important. 

-- Dierdra

If you study public health and sociology, it is often a given that the intersection of institutional power and marginalized populations produces extreme human rights abuses. This is not to say that such abuse should be treated as an inevitability, but rather to help us understand, as Dierdra says, how often we need to be aware of the risk of treating our fellow humans poorly. Much of modern medical history is the story of the unwilling sacrifices made by people unable to defend themselves from the powers that be. Whether we are talking about the poor residents of public hospitals in France during the 18th century whose bodies were used to advance anatomy and pathology, to vaccine testing in the 19th century, to mental asylum patients in the 20th century who endured isolation, lobotomies, colectomies and thorazine, one can easily see this pattern beyond the Holocaust. 

Even when we shift our focus away from abuse justified by “experimentation”, we have many such incidents of institutionalized state collusion in abuse that have made the news within the last 20 years with depressing regularity. Beyond the examples mentioned above, I offer border migrant detention centers and black sites for America, Xinjiang re-education sites and prisoner organ donation in China, Soviet gulags still in use in Russia, and North Korean forced labor camps (FLCs) for political prisoners as more current examples. I agree with Dierdra that these themes affect many people still alive today who have endured such abuses, and are enduring such abuses. 

More on proper research and resources

Given that you are going to be exploring a topic when the pain is still so fresh, so raw, I think you had better have something meaningful to say. Dierdra’s recommendation to immerse yourself in nonfiction primary sources is essential, but I think you will also want to brush up on many established works of dystopian fiction featuring themes relating to state institutions and the exploitation of vulnerable populations. While doing so, read about the authors and how the circumstances of their environments and time periods influenced their stories’ messages and themes. I further recommend that you do so both slowly and deliberately so you can both properly take in the information while also checking in with your own comfort. 

- Marika

[nokikissa]

since you listen to so many, any good podcasts? I like fantasy/horror/comedy stuff, if you have any in that genre

Haaa well I'm just gonna list all of them in here (also listing them like generally rather than specifically directed at you as like I know you know a lot of these already but describing them anyways), hope you like McElroy adjacent content or DnD podcasts cos otherwise I don't got much to offer ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Misc podcasts:

My Brother, My Brother And Me

welp almost everybody knows this one, a long running comedic "advice" podcasts where the McElroy brothers answer questions and other silly stuff

Sawbones

Justin McElroy and Dr Sydnee McElroy talk about weird medical stuff like how things used to be treated in the past and some more recent weird fake treatments that pop up, tho now in the covid times has been bit more recent and covid related episodes. Usually pretty silly and fun, tho there's been some more serious and somber episodes about like some extremely fucked up stuff people used to do regarding medicine and like some of the recent covid eps are bit heavier as well.

Wonderful!

Griffin McElroy and his wife Rachel McElroy just talk about thing that they find wonderful and they like and so on. Really nice chill vibes.

Til Death Do Us Blart

The McElroy brothers and hosts of The Worst Idea of All Time podcasts watch and then talk about the movie Paul Blart Mall Cop 2 each year during thanksgiving, supposedly continuing this til they die. Absolute madness.

The Besties

Video game podcast hosted by Griffin and Justin McElroys and Chris Plante and Russ Frushtick from Polygon, they just talk about video games, new releases and occasionally some themed episodes.

The Empty Bowl

A meditative podcasts about cereal hosted by Justin McElroy and cereal blogger Dan Goubert, they talk about like cereal news and review new cereals they've eaten in a low chill voice. I don't eat cereal, and wouldn't even have access to the products they talk about in the show, but I enjoy the chill vibe and also I've always been fascinated learning about junk food from other countries. Also my answer to the listener question got used in one episode (59 if I remember right), so I was kinda in one of the episodes that's... something.

MusicalSplaining

Haha this one is weird for me... A musical hater and musical enjoyer watch musicals and then discuss them. Like I don't care about musicals, have not seen pretty much any of the things they talk about it this, but ended up listening to it as I followed one of it's host's other works so was like sure I'll give it a go, and well I do enjoy it, the hosts have very good banter and dynamic so it was enjoyable to listen to it even if I knew almost nothing about the subject matter. Recently went through a bit of a revamp as one of it's hosts left for now and there's a new co-host now, so far it still seems alright but can't say for sure before getting more episodes with the current set up.

Still Buffering

For a long time this was a podcast about teen life from three siblings who one of them was a teenager herself, but now recently they revamped the show as the youngest sibling isn't teenager anymore and I started listening after that revamp. Now it's a show where each week one of the siblings picks a piece of media that's in some way important to them and then they all watch/read/listen/etc. to it and discuss it. I find their conversations quite enjoyable to listen to, and there's bit of a age difference between the youngest and the oldest so it varies nicely what sort of stuff they bring.

DnD Podcasts:

The Adventure Zone

Once again almost everyone knows this one already, the McElroy brothers play dnd or other tabletop rpgs with their dad, very comedic tone which I like a lot. Based on some posts I think some parts of the internet have decided that it is cringe now but idk I still like it, one of my top faves

Dungeons and Daddies

Very funny DnD podcasts about dads from our world who ended up in fantasy realm. One of my top faves.

Not Another D&D Podcast

Haha my opinions on this one are... complicated. At first I gave it a try and gave up after few episodes cos I wasn't getting into it, didn't care for one of the characters which is kinda big when there's only 3 and so on. But then later on gave it another try and when it got to the proper plot stuff it got good, it got really good! And the character I didn't like at the start got better as well, they didn't do the weird jokes and stuff as much that made me dislike them and they got some very good moments. So in general the podcast is very good... but there's still some things that get on my nerves, like god I hate their ad reads so much! There's usually like 3 per episode and they're very direct ad copy reads with the sort of tone of voice that gets on my nerves for some reason, advertising stuff like sex toy shop like wtf I don't wanna hear podcast hosts tell me how to spice up my bedroom life or whatever. And also they thank their patreon supporters every episode, so the last 20 minutes of every episode is like patreon shout outs which is annoying that I gotta do the effort of going to skip all that.

Rude Tales of Magic

Oh this one is... weird. In a good way mostly. But yeah like weird is the best descriptor for it. The world building is bizarre, the characters are bit weird as well like the cast includes a skeleton and a Sasquatch, and the DMs way of describing things is so unhinged and weird and I love it. Tho at the beginning of the cast they had bit annoyingly much of like lowbrow poop humor etc. but afterwards they stopped doing that as much.

bomBARDed

Podcast where all the player characters are multiclassed into bards, and they make like a song every episode as the players are all musicians in a band together, and sometimes they sorta briefly explaing some music theory stuff as well haha? Anyway yeah it's fun, and now the plot is getting quite interesting as well.

The Oxventure Podcast

Podcast version of the Outside Xbox youtube channel's dnd campaign, this one's alright. Like I don't get the "oh fuck yeah new episode is out!" feeling I get for a lot of the other ones but it's still fun and something to listen to at work haha.

Dames and Dragons

It's named that because when it started as it was supposed to be like all women dnd podcast but that turned out to be not correct lmao. But anyway it is very good, it has good balance of like plot heavy stuff and humor. And it has delightful tumblr hellsite energy and humor which I quite enjoy.

Burnt Cook Book Party

Okay this one is Pathfinder rather than DnD but haha close enough. It's a pretty new one, there's only 6 episodes so far but I've enjoyed it so far and am eager to see how it'll go.

Cast Party

Oh Cast Party my new beloved... This one is the newest one I've listened to and definitely made it my top faves immediately. The podcast is like about 5 people who were on the hollywood set of a fantasy movie being filmed that got transported to fantasy realm and gotta now try to figure out how to get back. The characters are all extremely likeable and have good chemistry, and the worldbuilding is quite good as well. Caught up with the last currently released episode like yesterday and now I'm all aww man I gotta wait for more??? :c

Honorary mentions of no longer active podcasts:

History of Fun

This was Polygon's podcast about like stuff that's fun, each episode one of the hosts picked some thing that's considered fun and researched the history of it and shared it in the podcast. No longer active but still worth listening to the backlog of it.

Second Best

I quite liked this dnd podcast, it had fun cast of characters and the plot was getting very interesting.... but then it went on a break during the pandemic and eventually they announced that sadly they wouldn't be continuing it anymore. Such a shame. 😔

[katsidhe]

7.02 final thoughts? (Idk if this one has been requested yet)

7.02 Final Thoughts

*rubs hands* Ah, yes, the episode that got me into SPN. I could talk forever about season 7. 

Fun drinking game: take a shot every time someone makes a different colorful idiom about Sam being insane. Hint: you’ll die, because I counted 25.

(I WONDER WHY Sam didn’t want to tell Bobby or Dean about his active symptoms of psychosis. Truly, a mystery for the ages.)

Even setting Hallucifer aside, this episode highlights so many of the things I high-key LOVE about season 7: the erosion of Sam and Dean’s support network (as tenuous as that already was)—take away Bobby’s house, take away angelic healing, take away the Impala, make them vulnerable and alone and crumbling under the weight of the trauma they’ve accumulated. The broken leg, Sam’s head injury and seizure in the ambulance? Strapped down, badly injured, the fates of their friends uncertain, headed into the belly of the beast? ICONIC. Over the top. Amazing.

It’s a similar kinda thing to Jody’s predicament—sure, she’s capable enough ordinarily, but if you give her surgery and drug her and leave her alone in a hospital with a liver-eating monster on the prowl, the stakes look a lot different, don’t they? I’ve seen this episode approximately one gazillion times but every time I get tense for her.

Quick thoughts on the Leviathans, which have a reputation as an underwhelming SPN villain. Perhaps because of how unsubtle and half-baked they are as metaphor for corporate greed/capitalistic consumption, perhaps because of how their promise of truly terrifying Old Ones, Cthulu-esque devourers, never quite came true (except for a bit in 7.01 and 7.02, yikes!). But honestly I’ve always liked them—I like how their organization and assimilation of knowledge drives the Winchesters deeper underground than even the Apocalypse did; I like how they made the Winchesters’ entire world into something mundanely unsafe and miserable; I like how they showcase the horror of a enemy composed of lockstep drones, the way that Heaven (and Hell, sometimes) tries to be, but never truly manages; I like Dick Roman’s gleeful ravenousness; I like their spooky mouths; hell, I even like the Dick jokes. 

Bobby’s solicitousness towards Dean, and how awkwardly he talks to Sam a little later in the episode, is very emblematic of how bone-deep uncomfortable he is around an honest-to-God mental illness, and, well, around Sam’s issues in general. Which doesn’t make him a bad person, or unsupportive, necessarily. But it’s very evident that he’s got no clue what to say to Sam or how to handle him, that he’s leagues more comfortable dealing with Dean’s problems (as has often been the case regardless of Sam’s mental health).

A related, but separate point: the lengths the show goes to to emphasize “look, Dean’s not okay,” while Sam’s in the middle of a psychotic break… It baffles me a little every time I see this episode, when Bobby walks away from Sam all “yyyyeah I gotta go do some work” and then is immediately all “ok but Dean, how are YOU feeling?” It’d be one thing if Dean weren’t emotionally demonstrative, and if Sam were—if Sam, at this point in the episode, was so obviously struggling to such a painful degree that Bobby wants to make sure Dean’s not overlooking his own reactions. But that’s not really the case. Apart from some flinching, Sam’s been very matter-of-fact about the whole thing so far.

This is our first deep-dive into Sam post-Cage, a full season about he returned. And I love it to pieces, you guys. I love how these inescapable, soul-deep consequences are the inevitable answer to the moral of Sam’s story, where he interred himself with his worst nightmare, forever.

Dean after Hell is clawing for moral high ground. Dean focuses on this bleak kind of virtue, this idea of martyrdom and righteous struggle that eventually unspools and reveals itself to be fundamentally unmoored. He needs some kind of redemption for himself after what he was forced to do in Hell; he needs to own his destiny, and he needs that destiny to be meaningful and good, and he channels his violence outward in that cause.  

Sam does not take any kind of high ground. He hurts... himself. He gnaws inward. No illusions about how “messed up” he is—he sidelines himself before Dean or Bobby can say a single word; he figures he needs to be on top of it, needs to get out ahead of the danger he could represent and reassure his family that he knows he’s a hazard. Sam has learned to repress and downplay and hide his traumas and his freakishness both to avoid feeling stigmatized and to avoid being a burden on the people he loves, especially on his brother. So when Dean reacts with fear (understandable) and anger (less so), Sam takes it in stride.

Hallucifer is probably my favorite thing this show has ever done. I could probably write another thousand words on Hallucifer alone—on how Sam’s using this face for coping, for compartmentalizing; both to hurt himself and to keep himself company, to sort through his pain and arrive at a place where it’s at all tenable for him to exist. 

Sam’s skepticism about professional mental health treatment—his idea that this is a problem he can handle himself, that a doctor would "just stuff [him] full of pills”—is clearly one born of the family mold. This is his dismissive response to Hallucifer!Dean’s accusation that Sam won’t be able to cut it on his own. This denial, this idea that Sam knows he needs to get a handle on this, and therefore that he MUST do it himself, make a science of it, is fascinating. 

On the subject of denial: Hallucifer poses a simple question to Sam: are you sure you got out? And Sam’s NOT sure. Faith that he’s free is yet another maybe-lie that Sam must tell himself with maniacal intensity this season, for the sake of his own sanity, to avoid the voice in his head telling him to shoot himself. 

That Scene in the warehouse. Dean’s advice to Sam is to trust in Dean as the cornerstone of his reality. Asks him to build his whole world on his trust in Dean. What choice does Sam have? Who else can Sam rely on? What else can he do? There is no one else, nothing else. There’s only Dean, or Lucifer. It’s a dichotomy. It’s so CHILLING.

Especially in the context of what we know comes next—7.03, where Dean lies to Sam’s face, murders Amy, and uses Sam’s ~insanity~ to defuse Sam’s (justified) anger. And then, season 8, and 9, and 10, and, y’know what, the entire show. 

Sam drives his thumb into his bleeding hand, and it’s SPN in a nutshell—forever choosing the claustrophobia of the path of slightly less resistance, forever clinging to the misery of a life that’s only just this side of bearable, burying yourself in the toxic fallout because the alternative is unimaginably nightmarish—using the trappings of free will, of defiance, to choose to claw holes in yourself so that someone else won’t. There is no escape.

Dean’s threat of murder-suicide on the phone is so clearly meant to be sympathetic. And yes, on a certain level it absolutely is; and then on another level, it’s, y’know, MURDER-suicide, where Dean’s taking explicit responsibility for and ownership of Sam’s life, even though Sam’s pretty clearly lucid. Dean’s assuming as a matter of course his ability and right to make that decision for Sam. How Dean views and deals with Sam’s instability in season 7 lays major groundwork for Dean’s willingness to let in Gadreel in 9.01.

[tiaragqueen]

Antipode

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Alastor x Reader

✂ Word Count: 1,6k+

✂ Trigger Warnings: Manipulation, possessiveness, death, murder, slight violence

[Edited]

***

As always, I can’t get enough of this guy.

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“I'll lure your carelessness. If you stop thinking, that would be the end. With a face that says I don't know a thing, I'll bring you down.” - Deal With The Devil [Tia]

You’d always been a give and take person.

You refused to give anything to anyone without a ‘payment’ of some sort because you didn’t want them to start taking advantage of your kindness. Looking back at it, you realized that you’d been quite paranoid. Unfortunately, or fortunately, your paranoia wasn’t unfounded. Not all people were grateful for just one favor and ended up asking for more without so much of a thank you, often using your so-called friendship as a bribe. Other than that, you tended to reject gratitude because you considered it as insincere and ingratiating at best. You’d only trust words if they came in ‘tangible’ or ‘palpable’ things such as earnest support or a gift. Though, there were times when you had to compromise with your few closed ones and begrudgingly accepted gratitude. Even so, you couldn’t deny the gnawing feeling of wanting to challenge its veracity.

It wasn’t a bad thing, was it? You just wished to see if people truly loved and appreciated you like they said they did.

On the other hand, you felt uncomfortable with taking without giving something in return. You deemed it unfair to the concerned subjects, even if they didn’t seem to mind or were ‘brainwashed’ to think that way. Although you weren’t the most moral person, you just couldn’t understand why some people were willing to manipulate others, especially for the sake of personal amusement. Didn’t they have anything better to do than playing with people like that?

Unfortunately, manipulation was rampant even in the most ordinary household. And in Hell, it was a hundred times worse. From high ranking officers to petty thieves, from employers to employees, from adults to kids, everyone always tried to use each other for various purposes. Anyone had an upper hand, be it embarrassing shenanigans, hidden trauma, dirty secrets, basically everything they could get their hands on or learned from someone else. You abhorred this place and if possible, moved to a better one. But you supposed this was your retribution for being too easygoing and ended up involved in the underworld, despite knowing the consequences.

Still, was it bad to wish for a break from constantly annihilating people who had tricked you? Preferably, forever? You knew you weren’t the kindest woman, but even you were far from the worst one here. You just wanted people to be accountable, goddammit!

“Die, you bastard!” you snarled, plunging the cleaver into the chef’s chest. This was, by far, the second man you’d killed in a week. You’d only agreed to work for him because of the high salary, but after countless rough treatments and failure to pay you in time, your temper eventually exploded. Other chefs and waitresses immediately escaped the moment you tackled that greasy man and racked his insides, though some lingered to take a picture of your recent murder.

As long as they didn’t disturb your rage – or God forbids, alleviate it – you paid no heed to what they were doing. They could eat his carcass for all you cared about.

Sighing, you flung the knife across the building and fished out a wad from his pockets. You squinted when you counted the less than satisfactory amount, and your mind instantly played a scenario of him spouting another lie to cover it up.

“Asshole,” you grumbled. Well, at least he already paid half of your salary with his life. It was enough for you to be able to sleep peacefully at night if you didn’t infuriate yourself with his imaginary lie that is.

“Well, well, well. Look who I found here.”

You slowly raised your head when you heard a static-like voice. Or, should you say, radio-like? Peering over your shoulder, you spotted a tall man with red apparel grinning behind you. Just from his demeanor alone, you could deduce that he was bad news, and now you regretted throwing the knife earlier. It’d be handy if he decided to attack you somehow unless he was stronger than you. There were many things you still didn’t know from this place, after all, one of them included the most powerful figures.

He cocked his head, piercing eyes narrowed slightly. “Having fun robbing him, sweetheart?” he asked in a tone that you couldn’t decide whether it was mocking or curious or both.

“Who the hell are you?” you squinted charily. As tempting as the option to retreat sounded, you had a feeling he wouldn’t let you go that easily. And now that you thought about it, the onlookers had vanished since his appearance.

Was he… truly that scary until they couldn’t even bear to breathe the same air as him? Or did they simply disappear because they were bored?

You gasped when he abruptly grabbed your wrist and pushed his face close to yours. “I’m so glad you asked, my dear! My name is Alastor and I’ve witnessed your wonderful ability in handling that man earlier.”

“W–what?”

“Although he’s twice your height and weight, you effortlessly toppled him and pierced his stomach as though it was a huge meatball!” he chuckled at his reminiscence. “How amusing. To think that it came from such a harmless woman…”

“I…” you stammered, oscillating between thanking or insulting him for underestimating your abilities. “Thank you…?”

Alastor's impish features softened somewhat. “No need to thank me, sweetheart. I was merely stating the truth.” There was a gleam of candor that promptly vanished when his default creepy grin emerged. “Now, the reason why I’m approaching you is that I’d like to offer you shelter.”

Now, this was suspicious, and a little concerning. “And why’s that?”

“Why not?” He simpered as he wrapped his arm around your lower back and opened a portal to a huge living room; presumably his residence since it was your current topic. “A random act of kindness never hurt anyone, no? Besides, you won’t just live in my house without doing anything. You must help me too, as a return.”

“Help with what?” you inquired, examining the place in case there was something even more suspicious than its owner. Or any kind of trace to inform you about who you were dealing with, honestly. He had to be anything but a mere denizen, right?

“Well, anything,” Alastor replied, calmly observing you touching and inspecting whatever interested you. It was quite amusing how curious you were with his belongings, and how blatant you were at seeking information about him. He couldn’t have picked a better entertainment than you. “So, how is it?”

You stared at his open palm. A deal, he was asking you to make a deal with him. And you, being a loyal supporter of taking and giving belief, immediately accepted.

“Deal.”

Alastor’s wicked grin widened as a green aura zapped from your clasped hands and sealed the exit. You swiftly retreated and stared at him wide-eyed, trying to comprehend the sudden event that occurred just now.

��… What happened?” you whispered fearfully. “A-Alastor, what just happened? What was that light? What did you do?”

He looked away, humming apathetically. “Just a little magic to ensure that you don’t try to break our deal, even though I know you won’t.” He peered through his lashes and simpered. “Taking and giving, no?”

Your heartbeat accelerated as you darted towards the doors and tried to pull them. To your horror, they didn’t even budge. “You bastard, let me out of here!”

“No, can’t do. We’ve made a deal, after all.” Alastor smiled, watching your futile attempts at busting the doors and windows. “Surely you won’t back down from your belief, right? This is the time where your loyalty is tested, you know?”

Sliding down the windowsills, you gazed at his shadow. You’d seen that shape before, at least half of it, from your peripheral vision. The shadow seemed to enlarge whenever you murdered someone but always receded before you could fully identify it.

For the longest time, you’d chalked it up to mere illusions. Why would anyone want to stalk you anyway? Because you were new in Hell? Well, you were certain you weren’t the only one. And they’d surely be more interesting than you ever could.

When the shadow wavered and took a shape of a guffawing man, you began to realize that this guy, this flamboyant guy had been in your life for a very long time. And you’d ignored that flagrant sign just to save your thinning sanity.

“You stalked me,” you murmured, shoulders sagging. “That wasn’t just my…”

Alastor vigorously nodded, dilated eyes piercing your tepid ones. “Indeed, and now you’ve entered my snare. And willingly, too!” He chuckled before sneering. “You sure are a gullible one, hun, more so than that charming demon belle. But I suppose that’s where your appeal lies!”

Clenching both fists, you snapped your head in his direction and growled. “You son of a bitch, you’re gonna pay!”

The shadow materialized from his coat and thrust you against the wall before you could leap towards him, the impact left a couple of cracks behind your head. Alastor tutted and stood in front of your slumping figure, one hand on his hip.

“Has anyone ever told you how futile it is to fight one of the Overlords? Oh, wait. Of course, you don’t, because you’re still new in here.” He leaned forward, twirling a strand of your hair. “But it’s okay. You’re bound to me now, so there’s no need for you to learn so much about this world. In fact, I prefer it if you don’t. A little innocence goes a long way, you know?”

Alastor whirled his finger and nodded approvingly at your current attire; a red knee-length dress, dark stockings, and a pair of flats. A stark contrast to your earlier choice; a plain shirt and torn pants.

“I’ll make some jambalaya once you wake up, my dear~”

[agent-cupcake]

12 for yandere list for Felix would be so good. If you don't mind I mean...

12. “Just tell me their name and I’ll make this all better.”

Usually, your words flowed without filter when you returned home. Living with Felix was to take on the responsibility of filling a decent amount of dead air, and you hardly ever lacked material to regale him with over dinner. Not to mention your carefully cultivated talent of drawing him into a conversation, something you prided yourself on. 

But tonight, there were too many things that needed to be said for you to speak. You knew that your silence was damning. You knew that it said more than you ever could, given a harsh voice by the uncomfortable contrast. You knew these things and loathed and loved it in equal measure because, while it was too much to hope that Felix would never find out, you desperately wanted a few more of these awkward, blessedly silent minutes before he did.

But he wasn’t nearly that stupid and you were a terrible liar.

“What's the matter with you tonight?” Felix asked, his voice holding an edge of impatient exasperation, as if he’d been waiting a while to speak up. There was a sweet kind of concern, too, even if he did well to hide it. “Usually I can’t get you to stop talking. Not that I mind that. It’s better than sitting here watching you frown at your food.”

“Nothing’s the matter,” you said, taking another stab at your dinner without much enthusiasm. “I guess I’m just... Worn out.”

“Really,” Felix said, deadpan with his displeasure. It made you wince, peeking up at his expression from beneath your lashes. As you’d expect, his mouth was drawn in a frown, one eyebrow arched to compliment the implied question. You couldn’t help but feel that there was something else in that expression. One of the reasons for your anxiety, for your dread of him asking such a simple question. What had happened earlier that day weighed heavily on your mind. Not because of what had been said or how you felt about it, but because of the result you anticipated. 

It wasn’t like you were afraid of Felix, but the feeling was close enough to make your stomach twist in unhappiness, like it was a betrayal to him. You wanted so badly to write it off. Felix was just overprotective. That was understandable, after all he’d been through. 

But sometimes it was frightening. He was frightening. It was as if your pain had an odd effect on the world, an unspoken law of retribution.

Sometimes your skin bristled with goosebumps as you averted your eyes to avoid meeting Felix’s directly because the intensity of his gaze was enough to flay skin from bone, to make your limbs feel cold.

Sometimes he held you just a little too tightly, hiding in the dark to tell you things just a touch off beat, stumbling around the subject of love that still occasionally gave him pause with words establishing his unquestionable claim on you anew.

You weren’t afraid of Felix, but there was something dark simmering below the surface of the man you loved. An open wound that had never seen treatment. That was why, even though you knew he’d learn about it regardless, you shook your head. “It’s silly. I’m fine, really.”

“Oh, clearly,” Felix quipped. He sighed a moment later, shaking his head. “Tell me or don’t but I’d rather you didn’t lie about it.”

You felt your shoulders wilt a bit. There was no malice in his voice. Even if you worried about what laid beneath, Felix was just being kind. You knew full well that he worried. It made you feel guilty. 

“You know how it is. How nobles are, I mean,” you said, thinking of a way to phrase it all in a way that would make it seem petty. Insignificant. “They can be pretty awful sometimes. But it’s fine, I can handle it. I don’t even know why I’m so upset, I already knew how they felt.”

“Did someone say something to you?” Felix asked. His tone had shifted, going from frustrated to sharp. You met his eyes. They were intense, now, lurching that worried pit of anxiety upwards with a deeply unsettling tug. 

“Yes, but it’s not a huge deal,” you said, once again averting your eyes, trying to downplay it.

“Obviously it is,” Felix responded sharply. Then, as if in apology for his harsh reaction, he added, “I won’t be able to help you unless you tell me.”

Help. That was one way to put it. As the head of House Fraldarius, Felix had a great deal of sway. But it wasn’t just that. People forget who Felix was. The war was over, Felix wasn’t the harsh blade of the kingdom who took out enemies as a demon on the field. On the days where he let you hold his calloused hand as you walked the streets of the newly flourishing Fhirdiad and when he sat through endless tedious councils with the newly forged government, he was the kindest version of himself. So people forgot. 

Fools. 

The man who had approached you was from Alliance territory and had a greasy smile and hot breath. He laughed at your disgusted reaction to his proposition, even laughing when you twisted his arm for trying to touch you. A scrappy, irreverent sort of man. The worst that the nobility had to offer. And right then, you had felt sorry for him.  

“Since we married, I, of course, am a lot higher rank than before,” you began to explain, knowing it was a losing battle to keep silent. Felix would find out anyway, he always did. “So the nobles defer to me, but they all know I was born a commoner. Some of them don’t like that, I guess. They see me as a social climber, that I married you for the title. So some of them think I would do anything to get ahead. So they... Make offers, I guess. Thinking that I’ll... You know...” You shrugged, trying to skirt around the words themselves to make it sound less threatening. When you looked up, whatever attempt you’d been about to make to further downplay the interaction caught in your throat.

Once, you had fallen into the river at the precipice of spring, when the beds were filled to the brim and the water gushed fast with melting mountain snow. You were lucky to get out, as rivers like were more like than not to freeze your body blue as they dragged you into the dark. As it was, you’d come away shaken to your core and shivering for days, panicked whenever you remembered the water in your lungs or the terror of the fall. Something of that childhood horror was pulled to the surface by the expression Felix wore.

“I see,” he said. “So you were approached with an offer to help you “get ahead” in exchange for a sexual favor. That’s what you were afraid to tell me.” His tone was like tempered steel, the questions made into statements by his even voice. Felix’s eyes weren’t pointedly mad at you, although the irritation was clear. He never leveled the truly frightening emotions at you. 

“I wasn’t afraid,” you said. A lie. You had been afraid. Afraid of this. Your realization, the reason why you had felt sorry for that foolish nobleman, the reason anxiety sunk like an anchor of pure dread into the pit of your stomach. “Felix, like I said, it’s fine. I twisted his arm when he tried to touch me-”

“He tried to touch you?”

"But he didn’t,” you quickly amended, your voice very nearly pleading now. “I’m sure he got the message, so it’s fine. Right?”

“Sure,” Felix said, his face a mask of stoicism and voice unyielding. Anger burned in his eyes, a fiery complement to the stony expression he’d adopted. “Just tell me his name and I’ll make this all better.”

[neverendingparable]

Returning Home

mentions of self harm, suicide, mental illness, drugs, medication, scars

Someone was knocking at the door, loud and urgent, interrupting his reading.

Ezra picked up the bookmark and slid it in between the pages, then checked his phone in case he had overlooked a message before he got up to answer.

Probably someone from the downstairs apartments was asking for help again. He wasn't quite sure when he became  the man to go to whenever the trash collectors oversaw their cans or when scammy ads were on their way to frightening people into buying insurance with shady companies, but it seemed like every time something odd happened around here, at least one person would turn to him for help.

He unlocked the door and opened it, ready to assure a worried elder about doubting the legitimacy of the latest marketing scam. Instead of his downstairs neighbors, he found Stanley, sweater and hair disheveled and eyes bloodshot.

Ah.

Ezra didn't expect him to come knocking so soon and an unexpected flutter of panic unfolded in his chest. It was only two days ago when they had the fight, or rather it was Ezra chastising him, telling him that he had to choose between living and dying once and for all.

'I'm not going to be with someone who is constantly on the edge, Spencer,' he had said, trying his hardest not to yell. 'You need to figure out what you want. I can't stop you from hurting but I can be there with you every step of the way if you want to recover. I want to be there for you. But I can't watch you sabotage yourself, much less stand by idly while you dig your own grave.'

He had poured in years of frustration with his ex boyfriend, all those times he was Stanley's rock, the reason why he was still alive, the one to treat his injuries. But it had never gotten better and Ezra decided that perhaps if he gave him an ultimatum, Stanley would finally realize he was being serious. He wasn't going to stand around and watch the most important person of his life kill himself slowly.

That was the last time he had talked with him. He wanted to give him space to think about his words, to let Stanley feel the absence so he knew the gravity of his choices. Ezra had felt a tiny bit guilty about it all, but he knew it was important. Nothing else had worked before.

He had expected a week or so of silence until Spencer eventually crawled back and reluctantly agreed to try out something. He hadn't prepared to be confronted so quickly.

Despite the nervousness creeping up his throat, Ezra relaxed into a friendlier stance and attempted to smile.

"You look awful," He said lightly. "Did you stay up all night?"

Stanley stared at him. There was something wild in his eyes. Fear? Desperation?

"....did you have a nightmare, Stanley?" Something felt off. Even if he did simply pull an all nighter or - possibly - hadn't slept since their argument two nights ago, it didn't make sense for him to look this worn down. Stanley was the type of guy that could take three all nighters in a row without flinching even at age twenty five, while Ezra who was only slightly older felt groggy if he didn't go to bed before midnight.

Perhaps Ezra had managed to get through to him after all and Stanley felt so guilty he spent the last two days beating himself up over it before working up the nerve to come here. Somehow, that didn't make him feel any better.

"Wha...what date is it?" Stanley finally croaked out in a hoarse whisper.

Ezra blinked. "Sorry?"

"The date."

"It's Tuesday." Ezra stepped forward to coax him in, but stopped when Stanley made a noise of frustration.

"Year??" He demanded.

Maybe he was drunk. Or high. Or both. Ezra was certain you weren't supposed to mix drugs and alcohol but if something was forbidden and potentially dangerous it would make sense for Spencer of all people to try it.

"Why don't you come in and I'll get you a glass of water," He attempted again, keeping his voice gentle. "You're confused—"

"For fuck's sake! Just tell me the damn date-" Stanley's voice cracked and became strangled. He looked like he was about to cry.

Ezra had no clue what was going on. It scared him though, even after all these years of witnessing breakdowns and fits of rage, he had never seen his friend like this. It was like he changed into a different person overnight. The Spencer two days ago barely seemed remorseful after their relationship abruptly ended.

"It's October the 15th, 2013," Ezra said carefully.

Spencer's face fell instantly. It was the oddest expression he had ever seen on someone, full of sadness and understanding, hope and rage and a tinge of happiness. Like all of his worst fears were just confirmed and amidst it all, so was his greatest wish. He swayed for a second, lost in a million mile stare and then steadied himself enough to step into Ezra's apartment.

He stood there, looking around while Ezra closed the door behind him. His eyes rested on every piece of furniture as if making sure they were all still there where he remembered them to be.

Then he turned towards the couch and for a split moment, Ezra could've sworn he saw a pale thin scar stretch across the back of Spencer's neck, like someone had attempted a decapitation. He shuddered and looked again and found it gone.

"So-....uh..." Spencer took a seat on the couch awkwardly. He searched his thoughts for a second then attempted to appear a bit more relaxed, like he was stepping back into his role as the nonchalant jokester.

"How are you, um, Ezra?"

Ezra stared at him in disbelief.

"I'm sorry, you come stumbling in here like a zombie on drugs and now you want to make small talk? What happened to you?"

Spencer shrugged. Normally it would make his blood boil but Ezra just felt helpless. This didn't seem an attempt to dismiss his concerns. Spencer was guarded, sitting like a caged animal ready to jump and run at the first sign of danger.

"I'm not on any drugs."

"Alcohol?"

"No."

"Did you take any meds?" He had to ask just in case Spencer was cleverly avoiding confessing to be drugged up with medication instead of drugs he bought off a friend.

"No." Spencer paused. "I'm...I'm just a bit confused, that's all. Had a rough-...rough time."

Ezra sat across from him, hesitated, and took his hands into his own. He could feel them shaking slightly and when he looked up, he could tell Stanley was trying hard not to cry.

"Stanley...please. Just be honest. What happened to you?"

"It's- nothing." You wouldn't believe me hung heavy in the air between them.

"Was it the argument? Was I too harsh?" Ezra didn't want to hear the confirmation that he might've been the cause for this. He hadn't thought he pushed him too hard with his words. Perhaps it had been a mistake. Stanley had abandonment issues and maybe the break up left him more shaken up than Ezra had realized-

"No." The tremble in Stanley's voice disappeared. "No, it wasn't you, Ezra, don't think that. If anything, it was my fault. I was a shit boyfriend and an even shittier friend."

"Stanley-"

"No, let me talk." Stanley pulled his hands away. "You were right, you've always been. I was unfair to you, I was selfish and immature and only thought about my wants. I took advantage of your second chances again and again and you were right to tell me to stop my bullshit."

"Well..."

"I'm sorry, too." His voice grew softer. "I never thought I'd get this chance to say this but I'm sorry. Ezra, I love you. As a friend, as a soulmate, as whatever you want to call it. I know we're not boyfriends right now but please believe me I'm so sorry and I don't want to leave you."

"What...do you mean you never thought you'd get the chance to say it?" All he got as an answer was two armfuls of Stanley, holding onto him for dear life.

He returned the hug carefully, lost in the absurdity of the situation. It felt like a dream he wasn't aware he stumbled into. It felt like he had just narrowly avoided a horrible fate and the weight of the 'almost' was looming over them like storm clouds.

Stanley was still talking about how sorry he was and how he was going to get better, therapy, life coaches, mental hospitals, whatever you want I'll do it just don't kick me out tonight and he sounded so desperate Ezra almost believed that whatever happened to him was a type of horror he’ll never understand.

Logic told him it was just a very extreme case of depression. Perhaps he had been drinking. Perhaps he beaten himself up so much over these past two days that he had somehow driven himself to hysterics and if he really did mean it then he would have to prove himself.

But that night Stanley clung to him until he passed out in exhaustion and even in his sleep his grip was tight enough to suffocate.

He did stay true to his words. He threw out everything remotely harmful, even donated his rather impressive knife collection to a local thrift shop. He went to every doctor Ezra recommended to him and soon he was on meds again, getting weekly counsel sessions.

The doctors told him that Stanley was suffering from a type of extreme PTSD, one that couldn't be easily explained from his childhood. His parents had been neglectful, not violent and once they both graduated, their lives have been fairly normal.

Spencer was eventually put on anxiety medications. He was unbearably clingy, to the point where Ezra found him staring at the door when he came back from getting groceries or the mail.

He had nightmares too, ones he only vaguely described as feeling 'trapped' in. Nightmares that involve him losing Ezra in endless hallways, meeting monsters who wanted to tear him apart, watching himself die in various ways.

The source of these newfound problems remained unknown as Stanley stayed tight lipped, changing the subject whenever Ezra pried too hard. But despite the new wave of horror now haunting him, he didn't refuse treatment even once. And it was through their combined efforts he eventually got better. He stopped being scared of entering new buildings, stopped waking up in the middle of the night screaming, stopped going into a nervous fit whenever Ezra was out of his sight.

He found new hobbies, building little machines in his spare time and on the weekends they would spend hours hiking nearby trails.

They started dating again. Stanley's previous shyness about intimacy had all but disappeared and been replaced by neediness. He bared himself shamelessly, asking to be loved for every flaw and Ezra obliged.

Whatever happened was beyond his comprehension. He didn't know how someone could change so drastically and for the longest time he blamed himself for not seeing the signs earlier. That perhaps Stanley had always been like that and he had never noticed.

But there were little things that confused him. Every so often, when they were untangling in bed or just in the shower, he caught glimpses of unexplainable scars on Spencer's body. Scars that were deep and ugly, scars that told of violent deaths. Decapitation, disemboweling, torture, burn marks. A second look and they were gone.

Sometimes he felt an odd sort of calling when he was walking down the hallways of the hospital or his work office. A longing to open a door and step inside, see what could be on the other side. The one time he did, he found a broom closet where he was sure that hadn't been before and the energy radiating from it was so hungry he had closed it quickly and left.

Several times he caught glimpses of someone watching them while they were out in public. An impossibly tall figure in a suit, a smiling woman in an exceptionally colorful dress who looked a little too much like Stanley used to look when he still had long hair, a man in an overcoat and a top hat. None of them ever approached and Ezra was strangely relieved.

As the treatments carried on, Stanley found his lively spark again. He insisted on being called Bradley, ('Brat-ley' he explained proudly) and tried his hardest to live up to the name. 

It didn't bother Ezra, however.  They were happy. Alive, well and happy. 

And that's all that mattered.

[augustheart]

hey sorry this is probably absolutely not the place to be asking, but I can't seem to find anyone talking about oyewah in doom patrol and how fucking racist that episode was ?!! wondering if I'm missing something or if something redeeming happens in a later episode, bc rn I'm not sure I really want to keep watching... the reason I'm asking you is bc when I googled 'doom patrol Slava racist' an old post of yours came up along with not much else lmao ... I'm so confused ?!!

ugh, yeah. hair patrol is by far the worst episode of season one, though unfortunately when i see people talking about it and why it’s so bad online they mostly focus on the disgusting visuals over the racism. i know there are people who have talked about it but i don’t know exactly who because i very rarely go in the main tags for shows--if anyone has any other posts about that episode in particular and the racism toward oweyah (and the continued narrative targeting of vic, which is a broader problem with the first season that they did thankfully somewhat course correct in the second) please let me know! i’m sure people who are much more qualified than me have talked about it.

to answer the question about the rest of the season/season two, i can’t say that it gets better with regards to oweyah and then dorothy by extension (though i assume the post you saw from me was the one i made in reaction to dorothy and her casting so i won’t get into that here), it just gets...way more confusing, at least in season two, because oweyah doesn’t appear again in season one. there is definitely racism in the way other characters like niles and kipling refer to dorothy’s heritage, but it is personally very difficult for me to tell if this is meant to be wrong in-text. obviously, it’s still racism, and your willingness to tolerate that may vary and you shouldn’t have to subject yourself to it while trying to watch what’s meant to be a superhero-ish show, but considering the cliffhanger the show leaves on it’s...really hard for me to tell if this racism is meant to be somehow “justified.” the story could be doing what niles and kipling think is going on--where a “tribal curse” (kipling’s exact fucking racist disgusting words) is what caused the candlemaker to manifest and it’s niles’ job to save the world by killing/otherwise depowering dorothy and removing her connection to her mother and her mother’s powers--or it could be doing a twist on it, where dorothy’s destiny from her mother is to stop the candlemaker and embrace her heritage.

like...obviously, i’d prefer the second one, and it also just flat-out makes more sense from the perspective of adapting from the comics, where the candlemaker should by rights be connected to niles as the fear of a nuclear war born from the horrors of the british industrial revolution, so it has that going for it if the “hey that other thing is horrifically racist” doesn’t convince someone. but no matter which way they end up going, a) the treatment of oweyah in season one is still racist from an external standpoint just as niles is literally racist to her in the fucking text, b) characters in-universe are still racist to dorothy and oweyah alike, and c) there is still external racism in the case of both of their characters inherent to the way they decided to write things with oweyah starting from episode ten.

whether or not you decide to finish the season/watch season two is up to you. i’d recommend watching the next episode, frances patrol is really good, then evaluating again after that, especially considering episode twelve has more narrative targeting of vic and subjects him to more pain. he grows from it, at least, i guess, but in season one none of the rest of the cast had to go through physical trials like that to have their own growth moments, so...that wasn’t necessary was it...but that’s a topic for another post and i luckily have seen more people talk about season one’s treatment of vic and how his pain was showcased.

i’m sorry i couldn’t answer this right away, i was out birding because i’m home and the air is finally clear enough to go outside and then when i got home i was moving the animals back outside. i hope this answer helped clear some things up, even if it may not have been the reassurance you were hoping for.

[angelalnazar]

plague beetle

a tale of doctor devorak and count lucio over the years.

hi here’s some jucio shit that i wrote back in july which never saw the light of day until rn // this was what july!spring made of their timeline so excuse any discrepancies :-)

>>

Julian Devorak was not afraid of the Count. Or, as he knew him, Lucio. Yes, Lucio was many things in his eyes—hot-headed, narcissistic, inappropriate at times (ah, who was he kidding, all of the time), and perhaps even formidable—but he had never found him frightening.

Ferocity on the battlefield and a short temper in his daily life, most people were undoubtedly intimidated by the Count, no matter how much they might laugh at him in private. He rose to the occasion in Vesuvia through the history of his work as a mercenary, successful and brutal, commanding respect. No, actually, commanding fear. The Count had always equated fear to power, had always seen fear as synonymous to respect.

But all that was really left behind of his mercenary days were their implications. Only stories of the Count’s vicious victories and quick reflexes remained on the tongues of his subjects. Only rumours of his conquests passed through Vesuvia. Julian knew there was more to it—to him, to Lucio—than that.

As a battlefield medic, he was too often occupied with the lives thrown into his hands to take too much notice of the actual fighting. And anyway, it made him uncomfortable. Too much... suffering. Unnecessary. Too much hostility. He preferred to focus on his patients, swiftly but carefully attending to their wounds. Often life threatening. Quite a bit of pressure, but nothing he hadn’t prepared himself for. During battles, it was much more important for medics’ work to first and foremost be fast. Tenderness came afterwards, merely an afterthought, if time constraints allowed it.

He had only heard of Lucio from others until then. Obviously, crossing paths with the respected mercenary in this line of work was inevitable, but there’d never been any particularly notable moments. Lucio’s condition at the time of his and Julian’s first interaction required a very delicate mix of caution and urgency. So, while most people saw Lucio at his most fierce and focused, Julian saw him at his most vulnerable. In pain. Allowing someone else to...well. Not take care of him, per se, but rather, truly tend to him.

It wasn’t Julian’s first amputation, but it was a novel enough procedure to him that the thought of carrying it out still caused a splatter of nausea to tickle his stomach. And as it turns out, amputations were intimate. Lucio didn’t want to live without his arm, he insisted he’d run all the risks if it meant keeping it—but, no, Julian was right; the chance of an infection was too high and too dangerous. It had to go. He was sorry. But it had to go. For Lucio’s well-being.

Trust was hard to come by. Julian had spent far too long travelling to trust easily. He knew that people were cruel, they would betray you the second they got the chance, the second they got the opportunity of personal gain. So, trust was hard to come by.

However, there was something about the fact that Lucio insisted from then on that Julian be his main medic that was comforting to him. And the false pretences Lucio used to poorly disguise his trust for Julian (he was just better than the other medics) didn’t stop him from the odd honey-mouthed comment on how nimble Julian’s fingers were, or the odd joke, a rare and genuine smile cracked in the privacy of their unconventional bond.

Parting ways wasn’t hard (or at least neither of them would admit it), but it was short-lived as, eventually, Julian’s work in Vesuvia as one of the palace doctors drew him right back to the Lucio, the newly proclaimed Count. Both of them found familiarity in their exchanges, consisting of matching smirks, the expected wisecracks from Julian, and Lucio’s usual teasing banter (albeit, arguably much more blatant). The ease of their communication helped both of them adjust. Julian was not afraid of Lucio.

_______________

Julian was not afraid of Lucio. However, the comfort did not last long, the Plague spreading soon after. Too soon after. Most of Julian’s time was spent in the dungeons, dank and depressing, working on finding a cure. It wasn’t fun. Neither was the Head Doctor, a morbid, unsettling character with eyes that would pierce through Julian completely.

The worst part of it was, undoubtedly, the patients. Or rather, their deceased corpses. Julian’s self blaming tendencies peaked, unnerving guilt of letting patients slip through his fingers keeping him up most nights. The only nights he really got any sleep were the ones where he was given the luxury of spending the night in his mostly unused house outside of the palace. It was a vacated safe place, far from and untouched by the eldritch horrors of the Red Plague.

Vesuvia lost its people dozens a day at first, and soon there were hundreds taking their last breaths daily. And Julian was no closer to finding any sort of inkling to what, why, or how. And then Lucio contracted the Plague. The symptoms were clear—the red sclera of his eyes, the bloody cough, the fatigue taking over him. It was painful just to watch. So, Asra the wandering magician’s help was enlisted.

He wasn’t pleased. His attitude towards Lucio wasn’t particularly affectionate, and his efforts to find a cure were, if Julian was honest with himself, half-assed. Though Julian tried to keep a semblance of professionalism with the magician, he couldn’t help himself—he was inexplicably drawn to him. It didn’t last long. Things got rocky.

Julian knew Asra wanted to leave. Asra’s apprentice, seemingly fond of Julian, expressed a desire to help the people of Vesuvia, but these words were always met with a certain cynicism from Asra, who deemed the apprentice’s actions as self destructive. Gradually, their disagreements got more heated. And finally, Asra, fed up, left. Julian couldn’t help but wonder whether he was part of the reason too.

Either way, Asra’s apprentice interned under Julian’s medical practices, learning from his first hand experience. Soon, however, the Plague took hold of the apprentice too. Although Lucio was still alive (rather pitifully), Asra’s apprentice was gone far too soon. As much as Julian wanted to scream, he didn’t have time. People were dying constantly. Who was he to stop trying to find a cure because of just one of the Plague’s victims? So he worked.

The guilt ate him alive. Lucio wasn’t getting any better either. No, he was definitely deteriorating. The weight loss came suddenly and hit hard. He spent most of his time in his wing, in bed. Julian’s sleepless nights got worse. He wouldn’t sleep at his own house, even when allowed the luxury. All waking hours would be spent in the medical facility, an hour or two of sleep caught in between research. He missed his sister, he missed Asra, he missed the apprentice... the only comfort he allowed himself was the occasional laughs he still shared with Lucio from time to time while treating him, though they were clearly more muted.

Things got worse, so much so that Julian was incapable of expressing it in words (though, by nature, he’d certainly love to try). For that exact reason, it came as such a shock to whatever was left of Vesuvia when Count Lucio announced that another Masquerade would be held. It didn’t seem like the time. Julian heard Countess Nadia arguing with her husband. But he was adamant. So, preparations began a few weeks in advance.

It was quite possibly the most hectic the Vesuvian palace had ever been—every available resource spent on research of the Red Plague, and the little staff that remained were put to work on the grand party’s planning. No one dared challenge the Count anymore. As he got sicker, his words slurred more often, his anger got harder to control, and he was even more easily upset. And that was saying something. Julian found himself dreading their interactions. The Count’s delirium made him prone to temper tantrums—although that was too childish a term for the intense fits of rage he now flew into.

Julian reminded himself of the solidarity they had shared on the battlefield. He tried to hold back tears, although he often failed in the solitude of his office. He reminded himself that he was not afraid of Lucio—that he was not afraid of the Count.

_______________

Julian was not afraid of the Count. He was taken aback by the resentment and mood swings that one human could harbour, yes, but he was not afraid. He never had been.

What the Count said, went. One would think that there would be a law against rulers in such a ruined state enforcing what they thought were suitable measures, but, unfortunately for Julian, there was not such a law.

The Count’s treatment times were very specific—he had to be taken care of and checked in on first at sunrise, then when the sun was highest in the sky, and then at sunset. If he ever called upon a doctor (which would almost always be Julian), he had to be tended to. As his illness worsened, these calls became more frequent, at unorthodox times.

Which is why, when Julian was told he had to see the Count right now in the middle of the night, he was not surprised. He was much more surprised, however, at the fact that the guard had said that the Count had insisted he come down to the dungeons to see Julian himself. Was... was he in the condition to be able to? Nonetheless, the Count arrived.

From the start, Julian knew that... something wasn’t right. The Count—Lucio—often had a glazed look in his eyes, or when he was enraged, a slightly mad look but... no, this definitely wasn’t normal. This was less mad, less loopy and more... more unhinged. Words tried to leave Julian’s throat, getting caught behind his teeth, not moving past his lips.

“Jules—” It was the first time the Count had ever called him anything but Julian. Julian could see he was holding onto something in a tightly closed fist, pressed close to his chest like it was something precious.

“Uh, ah, Count Lucio—” Julian’s mouth finally let him say something, cutting him off just as he saw the red scurry in Lucio’s palm, feeling like his blood supply had been cut off as he realised what Lucio—no, the Count had with him.

The Count was saying something now, chapped lips upturned as if whatever he was saying was amusing to him. His movement were sloppy as he made his way to Julian, whose body had gone on autopilot and was moving away from the man in front of him slowly. He tried clearing his mind but the fog was too thick. He was too tired, he was too afraid, he was too tired, too tired, too guilty, and useless and—

Lucio was close enough to thrust his fist in Julian’s face. It was still closed, but his jerky movements let his fingers loosen unpredictably. Julian’s fears were confirmed.

The ominous lighting of the dungeons unfortunately came to illuminate the Count’s hand. The red beetle he grasped grotesquely came to be bathed in red light. It was a plague beetle.

The Count was still speaking, but Julian couldn’t hear any of it as he kept backing up, the obviously delirious man still following. Julian’s back hit a rough brick wall behind him. Fuck. Was he literally cornered?

Julian’s naturally quick instincts were sluggish from the sleep deprivation, the anxiety, and most of all... the fear.

If Julian were to describe what happened after that, well—he wouldn’t. There were no solid memories from that moment. Just feelings. He felt fear. He felt a rough hand on his cheek as his eyes closed. He felt something soft yet brittle being pushing against his mouth. He felt the force of whatever words the Count spoke (he still isn’t sure what they were). Predominantly, he felt the crunch of the beetle in his mouth. He felt its legs squirming against his tongue. He felt himself gagging, he felt a hand being clamped over his mouth until he had no choice but to swallow. He felt the scratchiness of the beetle as it slid down his throat. He felt his hands on his face, wet with tears. He even... he felt anger.

But the next thing he knew, the Count was collapsing and he was pulling Julian down with him. And for a moment, Julian felt worry—he felt guilt—for he thought he had killed the Count.

Julian Devorak was afraid of the Count. No longer did he know who Lucio was. All he knew was that the Count of Vesuvia was many things. He was hot-headed, he was narcissistic, he was inappropriate and he was formidable. But most of all, he was frightening.

[littlethingwithfeathers]

I want to talk about HBO’s “Chernobyl.”

I feel like this might ever so quietly be one of the most important and well-made things ever put on screen.

And if there was any word to describe the show in total it’s that.

It’s quiet. Unassuming and understated by comparison to its stablemates on HBO. It’s a profoundly quiet show.

There’s no pitched, panicked screaming in the wake of the explosion. No one was running around Reactor 4 clawing at their skin. There’s no orchestral soundtrack with a thousand violins shrilly announcing the coming of a localized apocalypse. No booming speeches or flashy action sequences.

None of it.

It’s quiet rooms filled with quiet voiced men, who quietly and calmly have bright red faces, that are almost comedic to look at. It’s quiet discussions by scientists about the toll of the accident in numbers too large to comprehend as quickly as they are disseminated. It’s quietly and calmly abandoned streets. It’s the quiet claustrophobia of a hazmat suit. Even the explosion itself is quiet, watched through a window in nearby Pripyat. Just a flash of light and then a shock wave that merely rattles the windows. Startling, but hardly a herald of the terrific tragedy to come. And all to a quiet soundtrack consisting of little more than manipulated field recordings of a working nuclear plant. 

Because that’s what radiation is in the end. It’s what it was to these people. It was invisible and quiet. Slow death or quick death, it’s unceremonious in its awfulness.

And it’s quiet. 

“Chernobyl” masters the art of this quiet and brings it to bear with expert artistry. Because its writers and directors understood that if you know even the cursory account of what happened in Chernobyl, while watching it, your head will be anything but quiet. It’s like Titanic if it were a five and a half hour horror movie. Because that’s what it is. It’s what Chernobyl was and is. It’s a horror. A real one, that acts like all our worst campfire tales. An irresistible force that we can’t help but name as malevolent, because anything that remorselessly deadly must be.

But that’s where “Chernobyl” as a cultural work stands the tallest. I’ve heard a great deal of criticism levied against the show for being “scaremongering” on the admittedly tenuous subject of nuclear power and its safety. Is it scary? Yes. Nuclear power is something to be respected if we are to use it. It can go wrong and when it does, as evidenced here and in other events, it is incalculably catastrophic.

But in my watching of “Chernobyl” one thing was clear. Nuclear power is not the villain here. The show, I feel, has a far bleaker message than that.

Humanity is the villain we cannot account for. It’s even clearly stated in the series finale.

“When the truth offends, we lie and lie until we cannot even remember it's there. But it is still there. Every lie we tell incurs a debt to the truth. Sooner or later, the debt is paid. That is how an RBMK reactor core explodes. Lies.”

Three Mile Island had already been built, operated, and melted well before the Chernobyl disaster. We knew how to have a worst case nuclear disaster occur in a way that was containable. But sadly, the issue with Chernobyl was not the fault of the power plant itself. A nuclear reactor isn’t some uncontrollable, unpredictable demon waiting to break free. No... the uncontrollable and unpredictable element in Chernobyl, as it is with all things, is human agenda.

Why was there no containment dome over Chernobyl like there were for the reactors in the West? Money. And speed of construction. The Soviet nuclear power system was a point of national pride. It was a race against the West for technical superiority and nationalistic bragging rights. 

Why were the tips of the control rods made of something that accelerates nuclear reactivity rather than stabilizes it (which is what control rods do)? Money again. It was just flatly cheaper. And since they were building these things in bulk, cheaper also meant faster.

Why was the test that caused the reactor to explode conducted by the untrained night-shift? Because the plant management had priorities in mind other than safety. Self advancement, covering for shoddy paperwork, and again... national pride. 

And then there was the attempted cover-up. If it weren’t for the sheer magnitude and the speed at which the radiation spread, the damage would have been far worse.

And another thing I appreciate about “Chernobyl” is that the show makes these points without beating its Western chest and saying, “See how evil the Soviets are?” No... if you don’t think American capitalists would make these same mistakes, you are provably wrong. So say the entire river of dead fish caused by a hazardous waste spill from a factory that’s less than an hour’s drive from my house. No. We are no better. Do not delude yourself in thinking this.

Human agenda is something one cannot calculate for when designing nuclear reactors. Or anything, for that matter. I help build two and three ton light trusses that hang over stages as part of my job. And they all have ways that you can fuck it up if you’re stupid enough. Or just not paying attention because something you believe is more important that safety has your attention. And if one posits from this that, “Well, then if we aren’t responsible enough, we shouldn’t have nuclear power.” I would say in return that there are a great deal of things we shouldn’t have. Labs with hazardous material. Standing armies. Light trusses. Hell... this is literally the same argument we have about gun control, but I’m not about to open that can of worms. This one is plenty.

I watched “Chernobyl” with my best friend, and he is one of the most level-headed and articulate people I know. And even he looked askance at “Chernobyl’s” understated treatment of the safety of nuclear power. He stated that more could have been said and done and more pointedly so in order to keep the show from feeling like it was anti-nuclear power. And I asked him what he thought they should’ve done? He didn’t really have an answer.

And here comes the larger question. At what point does a narrative have a responsibility beyond what it sets out to do? “Chernobyl” is not about nuclear power. It’s about what happened in Chernobyl, which happened to be a nuclear disaster. It’s not about nuclear safety any more than Titanic is about nautical safety. And no one would say that Titanic scare-mongers about ocean travel. And yet the causes of both disasters are the same. The only difference of course, is scope.

Furthermore, “Chernobyl” is not a documentary. It’s a docu-drama. There are inferences and composite characters and generalizations of events. But to this, I quote the author Victor LaValle, "My idea of fiction is that it’s different from, say, journalism because journalism’s job is to tell you what happened, and fiction to some degree is to make you understand how it felt to go through a certain experience." And “Chernobyl” as a series is about the experience of the event... not just the veracity of it. There are plenty of documentaries about Chernobyl. I’ve never watched one, but I watched this because of the human element. And that’s probably going to have me diving down the Netflix documentary rabbit hole very soon.

“Chernobyl’s” message is bleak, but not without hope. It’s a slim and suitably Soviet sort of black hope. But it is hope nonetheless. A conversation near the end of the finale between Valery Legasov, the scientist leading the investigation, and Boris Shcherbina, a career Communist party member risen to a position as vice-chairman on the council dealing with Chernobyl, highlights the hero to the villain of the situation. Where there are men with twisted agendas, like the plant managers, there are men who set their own aside for the greater good. Men like Shcherbina.

Legasov says, “There are other scientists like me. Any one of them could have done what I did. But you-- Everything we asked for, everything we needed. Men. Material. Lunar rovers? Who else could have done these things? They heard me, but they listened to you. Of all the ministers and all the deputies-- the entire congregation of obedient fools-- they mistakenly sent us the one good man. For god's sake, Boris-- you were the one who mattered the most.”

We have to be the answer to our own villains in the end. Sometimes we can head them off at the pass. Sometimes we must deal with the aftermath of their victories. Either way, it’s the good people who matter. Because it’s just us. Our imperfections are not cause for us to keep ourselves from dreaming big. But in the end, our focus must be on each other. Not merely upwards.

...

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that everyone should go watch  “Chernobyl.” It’s great.

@catcmack @cactusowl @lawlessdragon

[anastasiaskarsgard]

Roman knows best

*Part of the tragic tale of Roman and Hailey”

Hailey watched the clock tick down closer to the end of the day. She only had another 2 minutes and had already packed everything to make a quick escape. As soon as the bell sounds, nothing was going to stop her from getting out of there. It wasn’t that she hated school, she actually liked it, but she needed to avoid her ex.

She could no longer tolerate his jealousy and violent temper. Although his rages mainly consisted of getting screamed at and him breaking things, he’d recently gotten physical and she knew once that line was crossed, it only would get worse.

RRIIIIIINNNNNNGGGG!

Hailey jumped up and raced for the door, ducking out behind a tall portly fella, she hoped he’d be a good enough shield to go by unnoticed. Roman had been trying to speak to her all day but she had only gone to her classes. She had scheduled all her classes back to back since she was trying to get her degree in half the time, so she could hurry up and get into law school, and escape him for good.

Currently it was looking like her plan might work and she felt a rush of excitement when she didn’t see him waiting in the front. Glancing through the windows, over to where Roman always parked, she was elated to find his car missing.

Then she saw him out of the corner of her eye, and tried to act like she hadn’t noticed him, making her way to the exit doors.

“Wtf is your problem? I lose my temper on people all the time! You need to be less sensitive... everyone has bad days.” He justified indignantly. “Would you fucking LOOK AT ME?”

Her blood froze in her veins. Thankfully there were lots of people around so he wouldn’t hurt her... she hoped.

“No.” She stated, not turning to look at him and continuing on to walk to her car.

“No?” He scoffed incredulously. “No? And here I thought you loved me. What happened to that girl, because whatever cunt you turned into, is getting old real quick.” He reached out and pulled her to him.

“You don’t love anyone Roman. Not even yourself.” She seethed, still refusing to turn around, and trying to shake him off without drawing too much attention.

“Oh like you know what the fuck I feel? Now I don’t love you?” He raged, whipping her around like a rag doll and getting right in her face. “FUCK YOU!” He screamed, breathing like he’d just run a marathon.

People around them froze mid step but Roman didn’t seem to care. He was well known by everyone, so anytime he was around, people stared, but this was starting to look like an audience. Well if he wanted to make a scene, she’d do it. She knew he wasn’t very comfortable with the subject of love, so maybe that would shut him up.

Haley’s beautiful blue eyes narrowed into an icy glare. “Love doesn’t lash out in anger. If you don’t love me enough to guard what you say, then you’re not mature or responsible enough to love. “

“Well you know what? Love also doesn’t ignore or shut down. If you really loved me, you’d fight for me and never pull this pouting silent treatment bullshit!”

“Don’t confuse strong emotion for love, love isn’t just a feeling. It’s action and sacrifice!” She spit back.

“You think I don’t know that? You think you’re the first person claiming they love me? I’m upset now but I’ll be over it by tomorrow. Do you know how many women would love to be you?”

She glanced around and to her horror, saw several girls nodding their heads and giggling to each other. “Then by all means go bother them but they won’t ever really love you! They don’t know you! They might all say they love you, but I’m the first one that means it. You can’t mean it because you haven’t got the room. Your heart is too full of hate, pride, and fear to fit any love in it. That’s why it’s so easy for you to move on and walk away. You havent-“

“Stop it! Stop saying these things. I can’t-“ he pleaded. All arrogance melting away to that scared boy she found almost impossible to turn her back on. Almost being the key word here.

“Well I won’t settle for what you have to give.” She hissed, turning away from him, refusing to meet his eyes.

“No?” He growled, caging her in his arms. “Why is your heart rate rising and your breathing different? Why is it that you shudder when I touch you? Why are your eyes closed?” He growled lowly into her ear “I love you so much baby,” he said pressing their bodies together closely, making it obvious how much he wanted her “let me prove it. Actions speak louder than words.”

She hated him. He was so manipulative! She turned her head to look at him and opened her eyes only to have her lose her train of thought. She hated he was so damn beautiful. Roman Godfrey was not the best boyfriend, but god he was attractive. Could that be enough? She tore her eyes away and tried to push him away half heartedly but he only growled in the back of his throat, and aggressively crashed his lips into hers. She hated herself for responding to his kiss. No she refused to give in again. She’d fight! Gathering all her strength she heaved against him.... he didn’t even budge, just pulled his face back and snapped his eyes down to her, but she looked down at the last minute. Something kept telling her not to look at him, and she didn’t want to look anywhere else, since this was still very public. She reminded herself that the audience would guarantee this fight wouldn’t escalate to physical violence, but they still were frustrating.

“Don’t push me away baby.” He whimpered “I cant take it.”

“Roman, you never listen to me!” She wailed hopelessly, “just let me go! This isn’t fun anymore.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up.”

**********

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” He screamed in her face, panting out of breath again. He felt a full on panic attack enveloping him and he couldn’t understand what her problem was. He focused on his breathing and tightened his grip on her so she wouldn’t escape.

He’d give her anything she wanted except freedom. Any other girl would be beside herself with joy that he’d even acknowledge them, but not Hailey. She had to be difficult. Was that why he loved her so much? No. He wasn’t that petty.

God knows it would be a lot easier if he could just let her go, but even the thought hurt his heart.

He pulled himself out of his thoughts and back to the present. Looking down at his lovely girlfriend, rekindled the fire from earlier. She still was refusing to meet his eyes, and he found her stubbornness adorable. She would be his little whore, no matter how he had to make it happen. She was his. End of story.

He pressed himself closer to her, and although she tried to hide it, his upir senses could smell, hear and feel her body responding to him. Physically, she was still his, he just needed to work on mentally. Oh fuck it, he had no moral high ground to fucking worry about, and her strong will was one of her worst features. It was becoming more painful each time he compelled her, but love hurts right?

Placing his hand on her face, he gently pushed some hair behind her ear, like they were in some awful romantic novel. “You’re so beautiful baby, I’m sorry. Just look me in the eye, and tell me you want me to leave you alone and I will.” He said as sincerely as he could without laughing.

She looked thoughtful, eyebrows knitting together before looking up at him hopefully.

Got you bitch.

“You got all your things and you can’t wait to come to the mansion with me because you love me so much. You are so happy I forgave you for being so mean, and you’re going to make it up to me by letting me do whatever I want to you. As soon as we walk in my bedroom, you’re going to strip naked and get on your knees like the bitch in heat you are.” He said as he stared in her eyes intensely. He dropped his hand down to hers, and pulled on her hand, before walking towards the exit.

Hailey stared blankly at Roman and followed him quietly. He turned back to look at her and a A big smile flashed across her gorgeous features and she pulled him back into a passionate kiss, but pulled back suddenly when she tasted blood.

“Oh no Roman! Your nose is bleeding! Let’s go straight to the mansion and I’ll make you feel all better.” Now she was pulling him along to his car almost jogging she was walking so fast.

They passed a group of girls and Roman could hear them whispering how lucky Hailey was, and the things they would do to him if they only got a chance. Hailey really should feel grateful he went to all this effort for her. He really was an amazing boyfriend. Anyone else would give up on her and let her go. Luckily he knew what was best for her.

*********

Hailey felt like she had been mad about something, but she couldn’t remember what for. She was just happy to be with Roman. Thank goodness he forgave her for being mean! Mean about.... hmmm. She’d think about that later, right now she was just happy she had such a wonderful boyfriend.

.

[chiseler]

Mitchell Leisen: How’s About It?

Mitchell Leisen was a major American film director. He belongs in the first rank, not the second tier, where he has often been placed by those who value the scripts he was given by Preston Sturges and Billy Wilder and Charles Brackett more than what he actually did with those scripts. Leisen’s name was usually written in sloping cursive in his opening credits, and that set the mood for what he had to offer. His was a gentle style, a deliberately unobtrusive style, smooth and gliding, attentive to nuances, visual and emotional.

Leisen made a point of nearly always moving the camera only when it is following a character who is moving right along with it, and the edits in his movies are as invisible as possible. He made three films that are undisputed classics: Easy Living (1937), written by Sturges, Midnight (1939), written by Wilder and Brackett, and Remember the Night (1939), written by Sturges. All three of these classic Leisen movies are partly about pretending to be something you’re not in order to move up or over into another social atmosphere or class and take on a new identity, and this theme is something that always interested Leisen particularly.

He got his start making costumes and dressing sets for Cecil B. DeMille, and he also made costumes for Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks. That training shows through in his later work, that sense of fantasy and beauty for its own sake. Leisen had a fetish for absolute authenticity when he did period pictures, and he took this fetish to nearly Erich Von Stroheim lengths if he had the money to spend. Remember the peacock headdress that he designed for Gloria Swanson in DeMille’s Male and Female (1919), or the sexy harem pants he put on Fairbanks for The Thief of Bagdad (1924), or the barely-there garments he designed for Claudette Colbert in The Sign of the Cross (1932) and you can get a first sense of Leisen’s aesthetic: hopeful, fantastical, erotic. And he was a pretender himself on some of these early movies because he was very skillful at making sets and crowd scenes look more opulent than they actually were given some of the budgets he had to work with.

He took the reins from nominal director Stuart Walker for two films that proved his range: Tonight Is Ours (1933), a high comedy that begins with a sexy masked ball, and The Eagle and the Hawk (1933), as grim and concentrated an anti-war film as you will find from this era. Leisen next graduated to prestige pictures like Cradle Song (1933) and Death Takes a Holiday (1934), with its high-flown Maxwell Anderson script. Leisen was fond of Death Takes a Holiday all his life, and he even wanted to re-make it in the late 1940s, but it has not held up as well as some of his lesser-known pictures from the 1930s.

After Murder at the Vanities (1934), a backstage movie with some odd musical numbers, Leisen took flight with three pictures that demonstrated the full scope of his talent. What makes a really great director, a major director? The ability to take a poor script, like the one Leisen was given for Behold My Wife! (1934), and make it into something that moves like a dream and seems inevitable. While you watch Behold My Wife!, there is a double consciousness of how outlandish and slapdash the plot and dialogue are and how Leisen transcends this through pacing, framing, and staging, so that there is always something to delight the eye. Leisen movies generally have a difficult-to-describe kind of creamy look, as if every person and table and chair were covered in the same sort of protective satin sheen.

He used a similarly fast, super-controlled pace for Four Hours to Kill! (1935), another backstage movie where Leisen himself plays the orchestra leader but you never see the numbers on stage. A kind of musical proto-noir, this movie depends on Richard Barthelmess, who is playing a criminal waiting to be taken to jail, and Leisen is alert to Barthelmess’s needs and sensitive to his big scene, where his character talks about his unhappy past. And then Leisen was given a script (by Norman Krasna) and two stars, Carole Lombard and Fred MacMurray, that were particularly congenial to his style, and the result was his first classic, Hands Across the Table (1935), a rather anguished comedy about love and the urge for security. Leisen had mastered form, and now he mastered the content that interested him, good-bad people navigating their own wants and desires and what they will do for them. For Leisen, mixed emotions are really the only emotions possible.

In all of his most characteristic films, Leisen’s characters are at a crisis point and need to decide to take a chance and see what they can get away with to become another version of themselves. There is lots of comedy in a situation like this, of course, but Leisen always hints at the dark underside of pretending. There is an American urge in these pictures that says, “What I say I am is what I am,” and that urge is usually naïve (think of early Joan Crawford heroines). Leisen looks at this urge from a height of sophistication, almost always warmly and tenderly, but sometimes he lets a really grim insight slip through. Think of Carole Lombard’s anti-social asides in Hands Across the Table, or that harrowing scene where Barbara Stanwyck goes home to her grudge-holding and cruelly puritanical mother in Remember the Night and you will feel the hurt that animates Leisen’s search for a created world of his own.

In many ways, the 1930s were Leisen’s best creative period, where he turned out beautifully balanced and finished entertainments like 13 Hours by Air (1936). He was a romantic who had a special way of visually enfolding the lovers in his movies that is almost Frank Borzage-like, and he glorifies very different women in what must be the best close-ups of their careers: look at some of the close-ups of the melancholy Sylvia Sidney in Behold My Wife! and then look at the close-ups of the wised-up Joan Bennett in 13 Hours by Air and see how Leisen gives them the same glamorizing treatment without ever losing what makes them so individual. Even pure assignments like Artists and Models Abroad (1938) glow with a kind of dreamlike assurance, as if to say, “Why shouldn’t a comedy look beautiful?”

And when Leisen had a meatier script, like Swing High, Swing Low (1937), which also starred Lombard and MacMurray, he was capable of virtuoso work that blended comedy and drama so seamlessly that it’s difficult to tell where one leaves off and the other begins. He did some Sturges-like slapstick for Easy Living, including the famous automat scene where the windows fly open and everybody grabs at the food, which was his idea. But for Remember the Night, Leisen pared down the Sturges script, cutting unnecessary scenes and verbose dialogue until he had what he wanted, a portrait of a hard-boiled woman who starts to long for the warmth of a “why not?” idealized mid-West home. Remember the Night is probably Leisen’s finest film, and a peak in his career, a comedy-drama or a dramatic comedy all whipped together until the consistency is exquisite and just right.

After the very sensitive Hold Back the Dawn (1941), a Wilder-Brackett script about a hard-boiled male gigolo (Charles Boyer) pretending to love a sheltered, repressed girl (Olivia de Havilland) until his feelings actually become genuine, Leisen’s career settled in for a few years to minor comedies, as if wartime austerity had affected his budgets, his scripts, and his imagination. In 1944, he did two movies in color, Lady in the Dark and Frenchman’s Creek, one anti-feminist and one feminist, and both rather nightmarishly disconnected and self-indulgent.

Leisen was going through a crisis in his personal life by the mid-1940s, and it showed in his work. He was mainly gay, but he didn’t want to be, and so he had married a fledgling opera singer (“a horror” according to the sharp-tongued Ray Milland) and he was carrying on a tortured affair with costumer Natalie Visart while also pursuing men. Leisen’s loyal secretary Eleanor Broder told David Chierichetti, the author of the definitive Leisen book, Mitchell Leisen: Hollywood Director, that her boss tried taking hormone shots at one point because he thought they might eradicate his homosexuality, but of course that didn’t work. Leisen lived with the pilot Eddie Anderson in the late 1930s, and Anderson left him for Shirley Ross, the actress who talk-sings “Thanks for the Memory” with Bob Hope in The Big Broadcast of 1938, an unusually sentimental scene within his work that Leisen insisted on. When that picture finished, he had a heart attack, and his health was never quite the same afterwards.

In the 1940s, after Visart had gotten pregnant with his child and lost it, Leisen took up with the dancer Billy Daniels, and his unhappiness grew. Daniels dances in what has to be Leisen’s worst feature, Masquerade in Mexico (1945), a semi-remake of Midnight that is so distracted and poorly timed that it would seem to give credence to Billy Wilder’s many complaints about Leisen over the years in interviews; if you were to watch Masquerade in Mexico right after Midnight, it would seem like a mark against Leisen as an artist in his own right rather than a servant of superior scripts where he could get them. Daniels is actually the only thing this movie has going for it: he’s an exciting dancer, and an intriguing screen presence, sexy, petulant, a little dangerous. Many in Leisen’s inner circle disliked Daniels, but maybe Masquerade in Mexico might work if it could just be Daniels dancing as Leisen watches.

The blandness of the décor in something like Suddenly It’s Spring (1947) is a real comedown from his Art Deco 1930s pictures, but Leisen rallied in this period with some of his best and most personal films, starting with Kitty (1945), a sumptuous Gainsborough period piece with all the trimmings and a Pygmalion subject that activates all of Leisen’s interest in pretending and “passing” as something you are not. Best of all from this time is Song of Surrender (1949), an uncommonly severe movie about a New England girl named Abigail (Wanda Hendrix) who finds a way out of her repressive environment by listening to music. What Abigail feels in Song of Surrender is surely what Leisen himself must have often felt as a young man growing up in the mid-West at the turn of the last century, and so this picture, which he said he didn’t much like, is his secret movie, his confession movie. It’s a great film, daringly stark and stripped-down, and it is as unerringly paced and controlled as all of his best 1930s work; there are moments when it feels like a precursor to Jane Campion’s The Piano (1993) in its insistence on the will power needed for a woman to find aesthetic and sexual fulfillment.

Leisen did an intriguing noir with Stanwyck called No Man of Her Own (1950) and an overlooked, charming adaptation of J. M. Barrie called Darling, How Could You! (1951), which is filled with longing for family life that Leisen certainly knows is a fantasy like any of his others. (How poignant it is when Joan Fontaine says in that movie that if her children are going to love her they mustn’t “think me over first.”) He spent twenty years working at Paramount Studios, and he was a creature of the studio system; when the studio system went, so did he, but not before one more diverting small musical, The Girl Most Likely (1958), which was the last feature made at RKO. “When the studio decided we no longer needed a certain department, it was shut down and if we needed something after that, we had to make do ourselves,” Leisen said. “It was really eerie.”

Ill-health and an unwarranted reputation for spending too much money kept Leisen mainly working for TV in his last years, so that he was back to low budgets and bringing in his own furniture to dress his sets. He had been fired from Bedevilled (1955) for hitting on one of the straight actors he was working with (the actor complained to MGM), and this put another shadow over his reputation. He had made Fred MacMurray’s career, but when he tried to get work as a director on MacMurray’s hit TV show My Three Sons, it was no go. “He sent me a telegram asking for the job,” MacMurray said. “He was, well, you know, a homosexual and he had gotten into some trouble on a picture he was making in Europe. With the three young boys we had working on the show, I just didn’t think it was right. So I never answered the telegram.”

It was his women who stayed loyal to Leisen in his final years, both his secretary Broder (who was a lesbian), and his old lover Natalie Visart, who had never really gotten over her love for him and came to stay with him toward the end (Visart’s son Peter was killed in a gay-bashing in the 1970s). Leisen’s responses to David Chierichetti’s questions in their interview book are unfailingly candid, insightful, and juicy, but his standing has never ascended to the level of that of Preston Sturges or Billy Wilder, even though his visual style was far more developed than theirs, and his point of view arguably more sophisticated and certainly more kind-hearted. He was a romantic with an edge of disquiet, and this made for matchlessly rich pictures, pulsing with hope and with pain.

Leisen knew about all aspects of picture making, and he has the requisite number of classics for entrance to the pantheon, plus a whole slew of other pictures of interest. He made Remember the Night and Song of Surrender. He made Midnight and Kitty. And he made Easy Living and Darling, How Could You! Those are all heights, and from different periods, and they prove the consistency of his inventiveness and the distinctiveness of his talent. His creativity came out of personal unhappiness on the one hand and unprecedented creative license and support under the old Hollywood studio system on the other. We will not see that particular combination again.

by Dan Callahan

[ironforgedrp]

♛   ANNAYA MALLISTER

↳ details; female, 27 (b 479AC) ↳ status;  pansexual, unmarried, childless. ↳ faceclaim; sarah Bolger. ↳ hails from; seagard, the riverlands. ↳ loyalty; house mallister, house tully

↳ title; Lady of House Mallister ↳ religion; The faith of the seven ↳ spoken languages; common tongue, conversational high valyrian ↳ reason for being in sunspear; sent by her mother to find a husband and ensure her sister does  the same

♛   PERSONALITY

↳ type; INFJ-T, The Advocate ↳ alignment; Lawful Good ↳ star sign; Virgo ↳ positives; Scrupulous, loyal, focused, benevolent, insightful, and principled ↳ negatives; Guarded,  cynical, secretive, inhibited, possessive, and withdrawn

♛  BIOGRAPHY

↳ family lineage.

In 479 AC Annaya was born, the second child of the then happy and well settled House Mallister. As a newborn and young child, Annaya was doted on showered with affection like her older sibling before her. At age three, her younger sister Neirida was born and thus began the first changes the young girl would begin to notice over the next several years surrounding her family. From the moment she was born, Annaya was the apple of her father’s eye. Her every word, movement, and expression had Lord Dake enraptured. The two of them became thick as thieves as Annya grew. He was the sun that lit up her world and the girl would do anything to see him happy. When she began to understand her father’s disappointment and longing for a son, she took it upon herself to do everything possible to fill the void in his life. Annaya knew she could never be the heir because of her sex but still sought to make her father as happy as she could within the bounds of her physical nature. Annaya insisted Lord Dake share with her everything he knew about politics, governance, history, all the subjects he would teach a son. Annaya learned everything a noble born lord would as a child in hopes of filling the void in Lord Dake’s heart. Her mother was not always agreeable to these teachings but understood how it pleased her husband. Anything she considered a bridge too far the lord would pass along to Annaya whenever the watchful eye of Lady Karys was trained on another child or duty. Unlike the youngest surviving Mallister, Annaya thrived at the helm of a ship, taking to the art of sailing as if she were born aboard a boat. She was also educated as a lady of noble birth, taking lessons alongside her sister Neirida. However, though she’d never admit it, Annaya’s  passions laid in the spheres of knowledge she undertook alongside her father. Regardless she worked her fingers to the bone to perfect every lesson of being a lady because it would bring her parents satisfaction. She spent her childhood seeking to please her parents in every way possible, always striving to be the best so that they would never be disappointed. Annaya lived trying to distract Lord Dake and Lady Karys from their familial troubles and lack of an heir.

When Lady Karys’ fourth pregnancy was announced, Annaya joined her parents in hoping with every fiber of her being for a son. Although afraid of being eclipsed by another child in the eyes of Lord Dake, the girl was sincerely joyful at the prospect her parents might finally receive the gift they had dreamed of. Annaya spent most of her free time during her mother’s pregnancy praying. She lit candles to honor the gods, and pleaded they give House Mallister a son, sang hymns to the life growing inside Lady Karys, even memorizing a few passages from the Seven-Pointed Star. When the delivery finally came, Annaya’s delight quickly transformed into despair as Rayelle was lost mere moments into her life. Still, Annaya remained faithful and hopeful, for House Mallister had been blessed with a son, Lord Dake II. Early on her young brother appeared to thrive and there was joy throughout the family and surrounding lands. Annaya anointed herself Dake’s protector, constantly watching over the babe and always begging to take part in his care. This brief period of Annaya’s life was filled with unbridled excitement. She pictured a future where she could teach Dake everything their father had first passed onto her while they awaited his arrival. They would be the best of friends and he would always have his older sister to rely on. With Dake, it was as if their family was finally complete. Her parents were happy, all Annaya had ever wanted, and now there was only light ahead in her life. Perhaps she could continue to study with her father, learn everything Dake would and more so she could serve as his ever loyal confidant later in life. But then, the brightness up ahead suddenly faded without warning.

Shortly after they celebrated Dake’s first year of life while also honoring Rayelle, the little lord was dead. The cries uttered by Lady Karys upon discovering her son would be forever etched in Annaya’s mind. It was a sound that would wake her up in the middle of the night, shaking and afraid, for years to come. At first when the maester declared her brother dead, Annaya refused to believe it, even sneaking into the room to see the body for herself before it was moved. There was no color in his small face, his entire being seemingly frozen in time, it was a horror like nothing she had ever imagined. She prayed in vain to the Seven. While in her heart of hearts Annaya knew not even gods would bring her brother back, she felt compelled to try. That had always been her duty in the family. To try, to do everything possible to make things whole and right for House Mallister. It was her purpose…and for the first time Annaya knew failure. Her sheer will had finally been overcome by the greatest force of all: Death.

Everything was quiet and still in the wake of Dake’s passing. It was as if an invisible weight had crushed House Mallister and they all could barely summon the strength to go on. Annaya was certain they would though, for there was nothing stronger than family. But then her father betrayed them. Lord Dake left his quarters one day and never returned. From the hushed whispers of servants Annaya caught in the following days she learned the details of his demise. Lord Dake had drowned himself, finding the solace of death in the whirling waters of the trident. It was the worst thing Annaya had ever felt. It was as if someone had cut out her own heart with a dull blade then laid the siege of torture upon every part of her entire being. Not just a body, but mind and soul desecrated alongside it. It was in the heat of that seemingly infinite pain that a rage without limits overtook her. She hated her father. Hated him for giving up, for giving in, for walking away. For leaving her. It was an all-consuming anger, so certain was Annaya that it would simply engulf everything and pull her out of existence. It was her every thought, her every breath, her every sensation. The hate was all she could fathom. Annaya was certain there could be nothing beyond the hate, nothing could survive the fire that had scorched her entire being…but then it burned out and left something even more terrifying in its wake: emptiness.

Annaya found herself hollow. There was no light left to see, even if one stared directly into the sun. For how many moons she couldn’t say but the girl left the world. Her existence was bound by the walls of her chambers and the feeling of solid ground beneath her feet. She couldn’t eat, she couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t live. The memory of the anger that had burned her alive was all that kept Annaya from following her father out into the waters. She could not die but she could not live. A walking corpse was all that was left of the second born Mallister child. There was nothing and no one and all Annaya could do was wait to fade away. But the grace of passing never came. Instead, one day she was visited by her eldest sibling. They pleaded with her to return to life, they cried, they screamed, they did everything a human could to try and bring Annaya back. Nothing worked until they gave up. In that defeat, Annaya saw the pain of her kin and understood she was the cause. Their father had betrayed them, had turned his back on the belief that there was nothing stronger than family, but she could not do the same. She could not betray House Mallister too.

It was this realization that brought Annaya back to life, albeit as a changed woman. From then on there was no spark within her soul. The only life she carried on with was that of her family. She denied every feeling, every impulse, every want, until they were successfully buried deep within her, as dormant as the old gods themselves. Everything became about House Mallister. Annaya refused to have any life of her own, finding her new purpose in protecting and serving her family without any regard for herself. She would be the perfect wife, the perfect daughter, the perfect mother. This was the only life she deserved to live. If she could ensure the health and happiness of House Mallister, of her family, maybe just maybe she could heal the harm done by Lord Dake’s betrayal.

↳ personality.

At this point in her life, duty is Annaya’s first and only priority. After being raised on so much loss, Annaya has shied away from love or any strong feelings. Her mother and siblings are the only people she allows herself to care for and her devotion to them is boundless. She would kill and die for her family. Annaya has respect for the law and the gods, but her family comes before everything else. She is loyal to a fault and will do absolutely anything for those she loves. Annaya denies herself pleasure or regard to instead martyr herself for House Mallister. Outside of her all-encompassing focus on family, Annaya is compassionate from a distance. She believes in equal treatment of all people and acts as kindly as possible to everyone she comes across, but never allows herself to become attached. Believing she successfully locked away any kind of personal feeling years ago, Annaya goes through life driven to protect and serve the lives of her family.

Deep beneath the surface, in a place she’s nearly forgotten, is an entirely other side to Annaya, one she thought died with her father. This Annaya is clever and imaginative. There is a wildness and unbridled spirit in this part of her, a person dying to explore the world and soak up every adventure life has to offer. She has big dreams of finding joy and satisfaction and maybe even true love. Laying dormant is a spark just waiting to catch fire and relight the soul it belongs to. In this light lives humor, passion, personal desire, all the things Annaya has denied herself or tried to ignore as part of the human experience. In secret the little girl who wanted to fix everything broken in the world and bring new joy to it still lives, the question is what could bring her back to Annaya?

↳ the splitting of the kingdoms.

Annaya is incredibly wary of the realms recent political developments. The splitting of the kingdoms frightens her for it opens a door to repeating Westerosian history that her father warned against. While she may disagree with Lady Karys’ positions, as a member of House Mallister Annaya sees her greatest responsibility as towing the line. Her own feelings or thoughts based on the teachings of childhood are irrelevant. The best way to protect her family is to support her mother and keep her siblings close, ready to defend them from anyone who dares to even consider moving against House Mallister. She has come to Sunspear with the primary priority of watching over Neridia. Although Annaya may have more political training and knowledge than her younger sister, she is blinded by duty to family above any free thought of her own.

    ♛   STATUS:  TAKEN

[timeagainreviews]

Doctor Who and Video Games

We live in the era of the franchise. Everything it seems is getting the franchise treatment. After the success of the MCU, everyone wants that sweet sweet money. We’ve got the failed Universal Monsters reboot, the Harry Potter extended universe, and endless Star Wars movies. However, some franchises, it would seem, struggle to grow further than their core narrative. Star Wars never strays very far from the battle with the Empire. Which is one thing you can’t really say about Doctor Who. Doctor Who has done fantasy, sci-fi, period drama, schlocky horror, whimsy, and utter rubbish. I’ve always admired Doctor Who’s flexibility as a property. It lends itself beautifully to a wide range of mediums, such as audios and comic books. But what about video games? Are there any good Doctor Who video games? Could there be?

Over the past week, in preparation for this article, I've completely immersed myself in the world of Doctor Who video games. I feel uniquely qualified to have an opinion on the subject. But before we continue, I give a word of caution. I'm talking directly to you, now. Never in your life, should you ever play "Doctor Who: Return to Earth," for the Nintendo Wii. It's not worth the £1.80 that I spent on eBay. You don't ever deserve to do that to yourself. I don't care what you've done, nobody deserves that. If like myself, you have played this game, you have my deepest sympathies, especially if you paid for it new.

It doesn't interest me to make a list of the worst Doctor Who video games, as many people have done this already. It's nothing new to say that Doctor Who has a video game problem. When I wrote that Doctor Who should be run by Disney, I don't actually mean it should happen. I was merely illustrating that Disney knows how to take care of its properties. I would venture that Doctor Who has always had a bit of a management problem. Merchandise from Doctor Who has always reminded me of Krusty the Clown merchandise. So much of it is some bullshit they slapped a Dalek on said: "10 quid please!" Barring the occasional home run or third-party licensing, a lot of the merchandise is pretty uninspired. Which is bananas, because the world of Doctor Who has so much colour and potential.

Video games based off of movies and television are almost always as bad as movies and television based off of video games. They're rarely breaking the mould in their new medium. Most of the time, tie-ins such as these are quick soulless cash grabs. You can see this a lot in the Matt Smith era. There are at least seven games featuring his Doctor, and then a sudden decline. Matt Smith was the Doctor during one of the show's biggest points in popularity. Never before had the show been embraced on such an international level. Of course, the Beeb wanted to push as many video games out as possible.

The problem is, they didn't throw a lot of money at it, and not one project seemed to get the focus it deserved. I won't pretend to know the motivation behind the BBC's forays into video games, but it seems to be a trend with them to overdo something, and then be scared of it in the future. They changed the 5.5" figurine set to a 3.75" scale and nobody wanted them. Because of this, we haven't seen nearly as many 5.5" figures since. They once put out a figure of Lady Casandra's frame after she exploded into gore. We used to get figures like Pig Lazlo and the Gran from "The Idiot's Lantern." Now we'll be lucky if we get everyone's favourite- Graham O'Brien. They also did it with the Doctor Who Experience. They make this brilliant Doctor Who museum with the OK'est walkthrough story, and then put it right in the middle of Cardiff. They wondered why it never made any money. I've been twice, and I gotta say- they should have put it in London. It would still be open.

This isn't to say all of Matt Smith's video games are bad. In fact, the Eleventh Doctor adventure games referred to simply as "The Doctor Who Adventure Games," are some of my favourite in the entire lot. And as much as I would like to blame the BBC for their lack of caring, the fact is Doctor Who is not easy to translate into video games. Even if they do care, they still need the right team on the job. Oddly, it's one of the Doctor's greatest charms that makes Doctor Who hard to translate into a video game, and that's the Doctor's stance on violence. If the Doctor could pick up a laser pistol and just frag some Daleks, we'd probably have an entire series on our hands. Unfortunately, most developers go one of two ways. They either ignore the pacifism or we get countless mind-numbing puzzles.

Puzzles are by far the worst element of any Doctor Who game. In the browser-based "Worlds in Time," there were a plethora of Bejewelled type mini-games and pipe matching puzzles. The puzzles got increasingly harder even if the player wasn't also getting increasingly better. Even the platformer "The Eternity Clock," was mired in constantly stopping to do puzzles. They pop up in the Adventure Games, but other than the infuriating "don't touch the sides," puzzles, they don't detract much from the gameplay. There were moments where I felt a bit like a companion because I was decoding a Dalek computer for the Doctor, which is really the money spot for a Doctor Who video game. Any time a Doctor Who game can make you feel like you're in Doctor Who is time well spent.

When asking my friends what kind of Doctor Who video game they would like to see, many of them mentioned they would like a survival horror type game. We sort of get this in many of the Smith era games. In "Return to Earth," the mechanic is sloppy and infuriating at best. In "The Eternity Clock," and the Adventure Games, it's a little more manageable. It's a nice way to add a challenge to a non-violent gameplay style. It would be interesting to see what a game team from something like "Thief," or "Resident Evil," might do with the sneaking aspect.

Another way the games have completely side-stepped the non-violence and puzzles is by having the Doctor act as a secondary character. The player is put in the position of the companion or perhaps a UNIT soldier as in the case of "Destiny of the Doctors." If you've not played DotD, I wouldn't blame you. I was hitting my head against the wall just trying to figure out what to do. The only real reason to play that game is for one last chance to see the fabulous Anthony Ainley reprise the role of the Master. He's in totally smarmy ham mode, even if it's a bunch of gibberish they shot in a day. You can find the entirety of the footage on YouTube and it's surreal.

The problem with having the Doctor be violent is that it doesn't feel true to the character. Sure, Three did some Venusian aikido, Four broke that dude's neck in "Seeds of Doom," and even Twelve socked a racist in the face, but these are isolated incidents. The spirit of the Doctor is lost in 1992's "Dalek Attack," when the Doctor is forced to go full on bullet hell on a Dalek hover cart. It's funny then that one of my favourite Doctor Who games incorporates a violent Doctor. In the Doctor Who level of "Lego Dimensions," the Doctor uses his sonic screwdriver to make villains fall apart in a very safe Lego style violence. I can excuse this mostly because the game is not primarily a Doctor Who game at heart.

Funnily enough, the Lego game does something I've always wanted in a Doctor Who video game. I've always wanted to have a Doctor Who game where you could regenerate into different Doctors, and also go into their respective TARDISes. Sure, some of the games on the Commodore 64 allowed you to regenerate, but it was pretty naff in its execution. I tell no lies when I say I spent a lot of time regenerating and reentering the TARDIS to explore the Lego versions of their respective console rooms. Really, the biggest problem with the Lego Doctor Who game is that it wasn't it's own game. Lego Dimensions was its own failure. If TT Games would come out with an entire Doctor Who game, I would buy it yesterday.

The overarching problem with every Doctor Who game is the same problem Torchwood had- if it wasn't attached to Doctor Who, we wouldn't be interested. While I did have a lot of fun with the Adventure Games and Lego Dimensions, not one Doctor Who game has every element right. One has a good story, but poor mechanics, another has great mechanics but doesn't feel right. It's a bit of a tight rope to find the perfect balance, but I don't feel it's impossible

One of the reasons I would love to see a proper Lego Doctor Who game is that they have a history of good adaptations. They're not exactly beloved games, but I myself play a lot of them. One of the most impressive things I've seen them do was in Lego Batman 3, where they made each of the planets in the Green Lantern mythos a visitable world. Could you imagine the same treatment for Doctor Who? Visiting Telos and Skaro, and then popping off to medieval earth or Gallifrey? You could get different missions depending on which Doctor you were, or what time you arrive in. And the collectable characters! So many companions, and Doctors, and baddies, and costume variations to unlock! Doesn't that sound nice? You can buddy Jamie and Amy with Seven and Twelve and have an all Scottish TARDIS! A Zygon could ride K9!

The fact is, we probably won't see a very expansive Doctor Who game. I would be very enthusiastic for an open world Doctor Who game, but even as I type it, it sounds difficult to pull off. I may be able to say what doesn't work about the games, but saying what would work is admittedly, not as simple, but this doesn't mean I can't think of at least one good game. Piecing together some of the things I mentioned earlier, I think the best genre for Doctor Who is point-and-click adventures. I know I keep singing the praises of the Doctor Who Adventure Games, but it's because I think they were actually onto something. It's sad then that they scrapped any further developments to work on the inferior "Eternity Clock."

Could you imagine a point and click Doctor Who in the same vein as "Day of the Tentacle," or "Thimbleweed Park"? You walk around as the Doctor, pick up bits, talk to funny characters and solve complex problems. If you throw in a bit of horror survival, you've basically got the Adventure Games, which is my point- Do more with what they've already done. Grow the concepts. Improve the mechanics. A Doctor Who game should be jammed packed with Easter eggs, unlockables, and mystery. The point is, do more. Even their phone apps are abysmal. You know how much I would play a “Pokémon Go,” style Doctor Who game? You go around trapping baddies in cages you set off with your sonic screwdriver or something. I. Would. Catch. Them. All.

We still have “The Edge of Time,” coming to PC and consoles in October, and I'm pensively excited. While the graphics seem really top notch, in no way does it feel like anything more than a fun little VR experience. The game is going to remain exclusive to that small subsection of gamers that own a VR headset. Before it has even been released, it's closed itself off to yet another section of its very wide audience. Let's just hope that it doesn't scare the BBC away from making a proper Doctor Who game in the near future. And in the meantime, I'm going to have to borrow my friends' VR set, because of course, I'm going to play it. It's Doctor Who.

Well friends, thanks for reading! I had a lot of fun “researching,” this article. Playing Doctor Who games all week? Oh no, twist my arm! Sadly, a lot of these games are no longer available from their original sources. I was able to find a lot of them on the Internet Archive. If you want to give them a go, I would definitely suggest it. A couple of them are even capable of being emulated on your browser from the Internet Archive. The game I had the hardest time locating was “The Gunpowder Plot,” but I was eventually able to find it after some digging. I didn’t play any of the text-based games because I’m not very good with spatial awareness, and so text-based games are usually a nightmare for me. Sadly, Worlds in Time is lost forever, but I remember my character fondly. I also discovered I’m pretty good at Top Trumps: Doctor Who. Go figure.

[fortunatelylori]

I’m not sure if you are a book reader? Well I’m not (yet) and wanted to know is the tv series portrayal of jon close to book jon? And if sansa and jon are the first starks to see each other again do you think it will be the same or slightly different with a different jon? If that makes sense

Hey, nonnie!

I’m, by no means, a book expert so I don’t know if I’m the best person to answer this but since we’re here … :))))

Is show Jon close to book Jon? This a more controversial question than you realize because people tend to debate this quite a lot. It’s very well known that the tv show does whitewash all of the male characters, while simultaneously making the female characters darker. In some cases, this completely alters their personality and goals from the books. The prime example of this, in my mind, is Tyrion who in the books is walking a very dark path at moment, is filled with rage, violence and destructive instincts. He will probably collide with D*ny at some point in TWOW (just like he did in the TV show) but rather than be the voice of reason that show Tyrion is, complete with shock and horror at the Field of Fire 2.0, he’s probably far more likely to exacerbate and encourage D*ny’s lust for fire and blood, as they match his own. 

So if Tyrion is our base comparison, I would say that book Jon and show Jon are not all that different. Their differences lay in nuances rather than complete changes in personality. 

Book Jon is grayer than show Jon, much more pragmatic and political as well as a bit more ruthless when it comes to his actions and decisions. I’ll give you two examples of show vs. book so you get what I’m trying to say: 

1. Jon letting the Wildlings go past the wall and settle in the lands of the North - in the books, while Jon’s motivation is humanitarian to some degree it’s also pragmatic and political as he ends up convincing the Wildlings to supplement the Wall’s workforce and also offers them food and shelter in exchange for their labor. In the show, the pragmatism and political motivation isn’t quite front and center (show Jon does want the Wildlings to fight with the NW against the WW). He’s just painted as the hero trying to do the right thing. 

2. Gilly - by far the worst thing book Jon does is force Gilly to give up her baby and abandon him, while saddling her with Mance’s child instead. Jon does the baby swap because he fears Melisandre would end up burning Mance’s baby (the whole blood of the king thing). No matter his good intentions, Jon essentially traumatizes Gilly (on top of being raped by her own father, bearing a child out of that horrendous experience, she now has to leave her own baby, while taking care of another person’s child) and then goes on to lie to Sam about it (his best friend). This places book Jon in much grayer territory than show Jon but by the standards of ASOIAF it’s not a capital offence. 

Show Jon does display callousness at time, one instance having to do with Gilly as well (poor girl!). When Sam tries to get Jon to assist him in helping Gilly escape with her baby, Jon dismisses him and doesn’t want to hear about it. This is after the hard talk he got for Mormont about having to put up with monsters in order to survive, but he does want to turn a blind eye to Gilly’s situation. 

There’s also the matter of Ollie’s execution. To be clear, Jon as Lord Commander is within his right to execute Ollie and he’s tormented by it (per his convo with Sansa) but it’s still requires a degree of cold blood to execute a traumatized kid. 

So while there is a bit of grey in show Jon as well, he’s not as grey as book Jon but at the end of the day, both versions are as close as any of us will get to an actual hero out of this story. I personally don’t hate that they’ve made Jon a whiter version in the show. I do like that I don’t have to struggle with Jon’s treatment of Gilly while I watch the show.  

In regards to how Jon/Sansa might play out in the books when compared to the show … This is harder to accurately predict because of the the giant question mark that is Jon post-resurrection. We don’t really know at this time who Jon will be post resurrection, what will change, what will stay the same. Considering GRRM’s comments that being brought back from death should make you less, instead of more, we can assume trauma is very much to be expected. There’s this interesting meta by @rose-of-red-lake on the subject if you want to read more speculation about that. 

So taking that idea as the basis (Jon being traumatized, perhaps forgetful, more suspicious of outsiders, more linked to his wolf and pack etc.) I could see perhaps a reversal of the dynamic we got in the show. 

In the show, Jon is really the one out of the two that is most vulnerable and open. Sansa, partly because that’s how the writers chose to show LF’s influence on her (with the darkSansa storyline) and partly because of her marriage to Ramsay (which I’m fairly certain won’t happen in the books but if you believe the Grey Girl Theory  Sansa might run into Ramsay at some point), is much more closed off and has a harder time opening up to him (although she opens up to him more than to anyone else which speaks volumes).

In the books, I think it might be the other way around. Jon might end up being much more hardened than before, closed off and distant while book Sansa would be softer and more vulnerable (which is closer to how book Sansa is to begin with). 

Will that change their dynamic from the show a bit? I guess but it’s still nuances and not a completely different thing. I do think Jon and Sansa will be the first to reunite so that alone will create a very strong bond between the two where they rely on each other and become each other’s world, to some extent. Which is very much in line with what the show has given us. 

Thank you for the ask!

[monsterloveday]

Your grief is depressing me.

I have no idea how people will feel reading this, but ultimately I want to because  death is such a taboo subject - its avoided so much that I don't think we do ourselves any favours by avoiding it. After all, if you haven't already been through it, you will at some point. (You know what they say, you can never avoid death or taxes).

Although nothing will ever prepare you for it, I do believe we should give lee way for the people who do want to speak out on it, as it was from going through grief myself, I noticed how so many people tried to silence me due to their own fear / awkwardness / attitude towards it - this is not fair nor is it healthy. Its also a really shitty treatment towards grieving people. I feel that it is such a painful subject that we seem to fear the thought of it (and rightly so), but, I feel we do need to speak on it more - whether you have been through it or not.  This isn't to say that death should be spoken of all the time as that of course would be draining, but I do fear there are many ‘unwritten rules’ on this, one example being that you are ‘bringing people down’ or that people wont want to hear it or know what to say and you can understand that and appreciate that to a point.

But really, pretending death doesn't happen or locking those thoughts away probably don't help individuals when a loved one does actually pass away. I feel it is something us humans have to try and learn to be more open about, to not be afraid to bring it up, accept and perhaps educate ourselves on. When dad was having his last days (as horrendous as they were), I almost feel like I can say that the aftermath of death is actually worse (or maybe just as bad), that it is probably worse for the people who witness the death, over the person who is actually dying. People think that even with death ‘Time is a healer’, I even remember thinking to myself that at the year mark point, I would probably be so much better.

How naive I was. Grief has no expiry date. There is no ‘getting over it’. I feel just as bad now as I did then, and I wonder just how long this will be with me, I then fret that I will always carry this, as like I mention before, there is no ‘Light at the end of the tunnel’ with death. That person has gone, that theyre absence is so loud, it is a constant reminder, its massive, dark and noticable, and that the fact they have died will always, always, always be shit and nothing will change that. Im just telling it like it is.  Since then I look at the rest of my family, friends, and even my dog and worry about how bad it will be WHEN (not if) WHEN other loved ones die. That I have to do this again, and again, many more times. It makes me want to vomit. It makes me want to die first to avoid it. It makes me not like life at all. The world has become a very scary place now, how it snatches anyone it wants, and you are left to deal with that, and live a life knowing that that hangs over you all the time, yet you are expected to just ‘carry on’. At the time I remember seeing a gif of a monster hovering over a man walking up the stairs  - he knew it was there, lurking, waiting for the right moment, an extended version of waiting for the axe to fall. This is exactly how I felt. It. is. Awful. I remember being at dads side all day, at every minute looking at him and my heart pounding, checking if he was still breathing, wondering “is he dead?!”. Seeing my once strong dad now with all sorts of shit in his arms, his face, and everywhere else, not even able to open his eyes, the sounds of the machines trying to help him breathe - gah. Fuck that memory. And then going home to an empty house. My sister was with her other half, my brother his, my mum staying with dad (and rightly so). I had to walk past dads room, his belongings became SO noticeable, that even the sight of them scared me. How different this house was now. I was alone in a house that used to be my family home, now it was a house filled with horrors that reminded you of what was about to be taken away, how just a few weeks before he was in this house - not about to die. I remember wondering what I had done to deserve this, to watch my dad slowly die all day and night and have to come home alone. I wanted to be held. I wanted to be held so tight that it knocked me out. I kept all the lights on and I rang my friend who has also lost her dad and stayed on the phone to her until I fell asleep. I never forget friends like that. It was the worst. It was hell - but it wasn't a case of I was owed bad karma, its that life can be cruel, and it can be cruel to ANYONE. Not just me. And that ultimately - death is a part of life. When he died, after 10 long days of waiting for it to happen, I couldn't deal how people looked at me awkwardly, that I was the elephant in the room, that it is said that talking about things will help but yet when you try and open up peoples body language scream “I DONT KNOW WHAT TO SAY TO YOU”, the looks on their faces, the silence. Not only that most of the people around me hadn't lost anyone, so they didn't get it, but that my grief was actually making THEM feel awkward or that they didnt really want to speak to me. Some friends didn't even bother to contact me and said “ I didn't think you would want to come out”. It all added to my isolation. To this day I still don't talk to close friends or even my family about it, how death has taken such a massive characteristic from me - expression. Its taken so much of me. And people don't know what to say. That is not an attack or criticism, because its not a popular topic, and people avoid it like the plague. And rightly so, because its depressing. But this is why I wanted to write about it, I feel that if talking of death wasn't so taboo, It would help people for when they are actually going through it, or even in the smallest way, help them accept or prepare for an inevitable death, theres no ‘How To’ on death and for me personally, not having addressed death before - it really kicked my ass (and still is to this day) when it did arrive - after all, everyone goes through it at some point in their lives. Soon people see it as old news’ (especially after the funeral - how ghastly funerals are) and assume you must be ‘better’ now. It really doesn't work like that. Its ongoing. The heart specialist that saw dad through his last days told us himself that life is much harder after the funeral - this made me dread and dread and dread the funeral so much. But he was so right. Every day was so scary, dreadful and just black. It really does feel like you are in a out of body experience, that your mind just cant handle what is going on, so it shuts itself down and blocks things out whichever way it can, for some its denial, shock, its like your in a never ending nightmare and you just want to wake up. Soon after, my sister announced her pregnancy and I freaked.the.hell.out. I couldn't deal with all this massive change in my family in a tiny amount of time, what If I never see her now?, she will have her own family and we will be forgotten?!, that dad just missed it! what if what if what if?!!?. I ate and ate my way through these situations, I couldn't control or be disciplined at such a bad time in my life, the weight piled on and so did the depression - but this decision to eat has made things so much worse - but I still wouldn't have been able to do it any other way. I had a breakdown and that very morning took myself to the doctor. I couldn't deal and I wanted pills to take me out of this, at any cost. I wanted to be drugged at the highest level. Just take it away. Pills. They were not my friend. This in itself will be another blog as I want to stay focused on this topic. But in short, my health went to shit. My confidence was dropping and dropping and dropping. I stopped sculpting, I stopped art, I stopped ukulele, I stopped cooking. I stopped dating. I stopped singing, I stopped trying. My labido completely vanished. I didn't feel like a human anymore, I couldn't give love and I couldn't receive it. I was just a thing with skin. I didn't like boys, boys wouldn't like me - not at this weight and my belly. I hated how I looked, I hated my hair, I hated my whole appearance, I hated my now unfitting clothes, I hated how depressing clothes shopping had become, so I stopped. Everything I once took pleasure in, didn't please me anymore. Not even if I tried. I think I could have done the most amazing things and it still wouldn't budge this thing inside of me, taking over. I was turning into the worst version of me, a version of me I never knew existed. Mornings became a demon.  Im sure theres loads of you that relate to this and know what I mean by this. Id be in bed and suddenly my heart raced and it felt like that feeling you get when your about to do something that scares the shit our of you or makes you so nervous you need to puke, that the tiniest tasks became mountains - “Oh my actual god I have to get out of bed today and face people and do things”?!?!  I was so nervous and scared all the time and didn't know why.

I become so so tired having to work throughout the week, yet hated the weekends because of feeling unproductive or lonely. I felt so tired doing too much but felt like I had to be doing something as soon as I stopped, its like you are in a constant battle with yourself. My life went from grief, to anxiety and depression all in one hit. And I had to try and live with it every single day. Its so hard. And I still have to keep fighting through all this crap that life throws at me, Im still not at the ‘other side’ of all this and when I think I've had my dose of it, it gives me some more. But life does this to everyone and thats why I think its important to not be afraid of being open about feeling shit, because we can be there for each other. Yet we all seem to stay quiet and get annoyed when people express themselves if they are feeling sad, they are given the “you are so negative / moaning label - this isn't the case. I hate that people turn a blind eye because people express their negative emotions, really, what is wrong with that? I think ultimately I want to say to anyone that has lost someone, or is about to, or maybe people that just battle with their inner demons... Its annoying as hell but you have to fight back. And I know its so frustrating to have to fight for things that other people get so freely. Like - just being ok. Know that I am with you. I. Am. With. You. Know that this terror, too shall pass and you will get stronger. You will.

And you'll be surprised by how many people feel the way you do, but we just don't speak of it, so we think its unique to us - its not, we are a massive bunch of humans who suffer but not together!. I learned that life isn't always on my side and admitting that life is hard, we just have to get harder, and we do. I think sometimes we don't realise it though. You don't have to be fearless to be brave, being scared all the time is brave, because you have to force yourself through the fear all the time! I wont ever be the same person I was before my dad died, but maybe I need to stop trying to be, maybe its ok that I will always be a little bit broken. Death is so life changing for the people still remaining, so don't expect to stay the same person. And that is also OK. I would like to hope that at some time, life will be brighter for us once more, I think good and bad times pass by like waves, we cant have one without the other. What a beautiful cunt life is, ay? =p. One difference I have noticed in myself is how much more appreciative I am of small things. Just being with people, taking photos, hearing the birds sing, Knowing that life isn't forever, but its now, and now is all we have. So go get that tattoo, go on that trip you have always wanted too, tell that person how deeply in love with them you are, go and get your life and chase those goals, its scary, but its worth it. We wont be here forever! There is no “Im over it” now, as mentioned before, after losing someone, a gap is there that will never be filled.  But. Although it seems so very unlikely, you will feel love again You will laugh so hard again You will be able to think of that person and a smile come onto your face, instead of a tear and sometimes it will just be tears Sometimes you will miss them so much it hurts Sometimes you will feel lucky you had them in your life Sometimes you will feel cheated that they were taken away. There will be days where you can face things and days where you cant. You will never feel just one way, but you really do learn to live with it, and I promise you, although you will miss them so much - you're going to be OK. You become better at always being sad about it, and it will always be there, but it wont destroy you like it does in the early days / months / years. I was watching a film last night, about a man who died and was saying to his still alive wife beyond the grave, “I still exist”. This filled my heart will sheer comfort - the thought that death doesn't mean they are gone, that they really are still alive - just somewhere else. Dad please be up there, I really want to see your face again! and the hope that I could gives me me such a lift!. And maybe if we try to think, that maybe death isn't the worst thing, because hopefully our loved ones have gone somewhere BETTER! where they are the happiest they could ever be, no suffering, no pain and that they are having a ball up there! its like I've said, I think its worse for the people left behind and maybe if we start accepting that death happens, maybe we wont fight against it so much by knowing that death isn't the end! Im trying to hard to feel this way! Involve only good people in your life, be true to yourself, express yourself no matter how you feel and most importantly... They still exist. Jay