#cue two odd hours of the most indignant

[orangedogsquad]

Help, kidnapping in progress!!

[painless-innit-colourful]

‘Where I Go, Will You Still Follow?’ - A Clingyduo Fic from the Hunger Games AU

In the most ironic twist, I missed Tommy’s lore stream on Monday writing Clingyduo comfort/hurt (in that order). I wasn’t sure whether this fandom needed any more angst right now, but whatever, take this anyway. This fic is set in a Hunger Games AU where the characters of the Dream SMP reside in Panem and must compete in the Games. Only Tommy + Tubbo appear in this fic though. Angst reigns supreme on Reaping Day, where the boys face the possibility of being picked for the deadly Hunger Games for the first time. (Also I promise you don’t have to have read HG to get this.)

tw nothing really, they’re only being reaped here.

word count: 3102

On the morning of the reaping, two boys tread carefully through a desolate orchard.

At this time of year, the trees are mostly left to their own devices. In about six months their boughs will bear fruit, and there will be plenty of people scurrying to and fro beneath them collecting their bounty to be stored and sent to the Capitol. Those very boys will join them. However, on that late Spring morning there is no one about. During this season the trees require only the occasional pruning, and everyone’s still in bed this early anyway. No reason to get up on a day where you don’t need to. Public holidays like this are rare.

Tommy and Tubbo hold hands as they move through the trees. Old habit, they suppose, a defense mechanism against getting split up, for better or worse. With the number of people in their district it can make public gatherings hazardous for lonely children, and if there’s anything worse than getting caught alone in a stampede, it’s getting left behind in a chase. If one boy falls, so does the other. If one boy is caught with his hand in the larder, the other will be nearby. The two of them are a package deal: where one goes, the other follows.

They only stop when they’re sure they’re properly alone, deep in the orchard. It would take anyone hours to find them; it would take most people hours to get out from this point. But years spent traversing these paths - both from the ground and the branches above - have given them an instinctual knowledge on which way to go. They settle in beneath a large apple tree; lush and green now that the blossoms have since blown away. They go about unwrapping several grease paper packages that were previously weighing down their pockets as Tommy hums a tune to keep them company. Tubbo shuffles uncomfortably as they lay out a small breakfast of half a loaf of bread - dark and dotted with seeds, District 11’s signature - a petite disc of cheese that Tubbo suspects Tommy sat on at some point, and an apple each. Food they either squirreled away from the pantry at the orphanage or stole outright. The thought pinches Tubbo’s cheeks.

“What’s that sour face for?” Tommy asks him, flicking his eyes up every so often as he arranges the cheese on the bread with a tiny knife stashed in his boot and breaks the half-crescent of bread roughly in half. “You’re not still worried about getting caught.”

Tubbo sighs, and it tells Tommy all he needs to know. “C’mon! We covered our tracks and literally no one saw us.” When Tubbo’s expression doesn’t change, he puts a comforting hand on his friend’s arm. “Well, definitely no one saw you. I’ll take the hit for it, if they find out.”

“No, it’s- fine.”

“Your face says otherwise, my friend.” All the same, Tommy retracts his arm and finishes haphazardly spreading the cheese upon the bread. He nudges one of the apples towards Tubbo with his foot, “Here, start.”

“Excuse me, the apple comes after the main course, how dare you break tradition.”

“My apologies, my liege.”

The easy smile returns briefly to Tubbo’s face as they laugh, then quickly melts away again. Tommy fixes him with a sympathetic look. “What?” Tubbo asks, locking eyes with him as he finishes brutalising the cheese and hands him his half. “You’re worried about the reaping.”

“And you’re not?”

“Should I be?” When Tubbo gives him a sideways glare, Tommy shrugs. “Dude, it’s a tiny chance. Two in thousands and thousands. You’re more likely to get struck by lightning than have either of our names fished out of the bowl.” And though Tommy was likely skewing his numbers a bit, he supposed it was true. It was their first year of reapings and neither of them had taken any tesserae. They were about as safe as you could be between the ages of twelve and eighteen. Still…

“Besides,” Tommy continued. “If your name gets called, I’m sure someone would volunteer for you.” He barely makes it to the end of his sentence before Tubbo’s noise of dismissal drowns him out. “Yeah right. Let’s be realistic here.” Tommy leans back against the tree as he eats. Sunlight peeks through the branches at random intervals, illuminating him in softly glowing patches. He turns his head slightly and beckons Tubbo over with a nod. They shift their bodies and the food around until they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder between two large roots, and Tubbo finds that the sunlight is almost as warm as Tommy beside him.

They remain in that position for some time, eating their way through their swindled picnic. It’s a bit much for an ordinary breakfast, but it’s somewhat of a tradition to have something special on reaping day. Makes the hours standing in the square while the Mayor drones on about how it’s right to send two children to their deaths a bit more bearable. According to those traditions, you’re supposed to celebrate with a meal after the reaping too, though neither boy is quite sure where that convention came from. Not many in District 11 could afford it in any case.

At some point Tubbo drops a hand to the floor between them, and at some later instance Tommy places his where their fingers can interlace. “You’re nervous too.” Tubbo states without looking at his companion, instead remaining as he is, staring past the leaves to the clear blue sky. “No way.” Tubbo giggles at Tommy’s indignant tone. “A big man like me is not scared of being picked in the reaping.”

“Fearless he is, Big Man Tommy.”

“Too right!” They laugh, and the terror their giggles mask bubbles just beneath the surface, a pot mere seconds from boiling over. 

“Look, Tommy,” Tubbo’s voice becomes serious, and Tommy’s laughter peters out. “It’s all well and good laughing and joking about it, but… In the event one of us is chosen…” Their eyes meet and Tubbo squeezes Tommy’s hand, to which Tommy returns the grip. “I need you to tell me you remember our promise.” In response, Tommy sighs, drops Tubbo’s hand, puts that arm around his best friend’s shoulder, pulls him close and runs his free hand through his hair, almost all simultaneously. “Yes of course I remember it.”

“And?” Tubbo replies expectantly.

“And what?”

“Say it, you dummy.” Tommy places his free hand over his heart like a salute. “I, Tommy Innit, promise my dearest friend Tubbo Underscore, that if he is chosen for the Hunger Games in this afternoon’s reaping, I will not volunteer to take his place.” He waits for Tubbo to relax, satisfied, before tacking on: “Thus letting him be led away to a faraway place to be on television then get brutally murdered, also on television. “ He can feel Tubbo’s eye roll without even looking. “You made me promise the same.”

“Yeah I did, didn’t I?” He admits quietly, leaning his head against his best friend’s, brown curls obscuring half his vision.

“It’ll be okay, right?”

“Yeah.” Tubbo’s hair smells faintly of apples, somehow. Tommy squeezes his best friend and hopes he won’t have to betray him.

Unbeknownst to him, Tubbo has the same thought.

---

The duo spend the hours before the reaping as they usually do: sleeping in each others embrace somewhere they technically shouldn’t be, pretending the clothes they have to change into back at the orphanage are any better than what they’re changing out of, and hogging the second floor bathroom for way longer than necessary. The black storm cloud that is the reaping casts a longer shadow than previous years, but they manage to ignore it for most of the morning with enough shenanigans to fill their quota for the year. The clouds threaten to burst however when the time reaches half twelve, and the parentless teenagers of the district begin to make their way towards the square where the ceremony will take place. The once-blue sky darkens as the crumbling facade of the Justice Building comes into view, as if nature were waiting for her cue, and Tommy wonders if he jinxed himself with his earlier comments about being struck by lightning.

He’s holding Tubbo’s hand again - standard crowd procedure - and he’s thankful for about the millionth time that they’re the same age. They head with the other twelve year old orphans to the corresponding pen for their age group, and find themselves sandwiched in the centre. Tubbo exchanges a few words with some of their peers, most likely to be ‘Good luck’, but Tommy’s not really concentrating. The square is already full and still there’s many more people to come, and with every person that joins the crowd there will only be more cramming the possible tributes together like sardines in a tin. There have been crushes at reapings before; they tell them in school about the reaping for the seventh games, where too many spectators packed the floor and there was a panic that killed four people, including one kid in the crowd. In an ironic twist, their name was later pulled from the ball, and their escort had to be informed live on stage in front of the entire nation that they’d died earlier that day.

Decidedly, the odds were not in their favour.

Tommy doesn’t like to admit it, but tight spaces get to him. And here, packed in by bodies with camera crews perched high on the rooftops over the crowd, scanning for the faces that will leave the district tonight, he feels like a fish in a barrel. “Hey-” Tubbo’s voice reaches him through the din of thousands of people talking at once, but he sounds a million miles away. He practically crushes Tubbo’s fingers with his own, and, in retaliation, Tubbo flicks him on the nose. He blinks at him angrily for a second, the distraction welcome despite his show of annoyance. “Breathe, Tommy.” He forces air in and out of his lungs for about thirty seconds just to make sure he still can. Tubbo traces stars on the back of his hand.

By the time the Mayor’s stepped up to the podium and began his yearly recitation of the history of Panem, Tommy thinks he’s calmed himself down somewhat. Tubbo still traces stars in little pentagram patterns on Tommy’s hand with his thumb, and though it’s starting to get a little irritating, something stops him from signalling him to knock it off. He glances briefly sideways to Tubbo, and though his expression is mostly blank, the two have gotten used to watching each other’s tics and tells, signs that are imperceptible to anyone else but them. The small twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way he scrunches his nose slightly when he blinks, even the way he presses a little too hard with his thumb, his patterns becoming less uniform and the edges of his nails leaving little scratches. He’s as scared as Tommy. So he lets him keep doing it, for both their sakes.

The Mayor finishes his history lecture, reads the list of past victors and then finally introduces the District 11 escort, a spritely-looking man in a bottle-green suit called Montaque. He’s been the district’s escort for a few years, and Tommy and Tubbo used to joke his mustache was so spiky-sharp looking you could win a Games by using it as a weapon. He seems to glide across the stage as he gives a speech about District pride or some nonsense, then utters the classic phrase, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour.” 

He crosses the stage to the front where two glass balls sit, holding thousands of tiny slips of paper. A lump forms in Tommy’s throat. Somewhere in one of those balls there’s two slips of paper that could serve as their one way ticket to the Capitol. He knows they’re somewhat lucky: some kids their age have many more slips thanks to tesserae, but Tommy feels a pang in his chest even as he thinks about it. Some kids have parents. Some kids have somewhere to put their tesserae so it won’t immediately get stolen. He and Tubbo may have considered it, but what use would they have for grain and oil when on most days they could barely hold onto their bedsheets? It was one less thing to worry about.

Montaque the Stupid sticks one of his disproportionately-large hands into the first glass ball, and retrieves a slip of paper, and Tommy begs inside his mind, not us not us not him. He reads the name, and the entire world suddenly stops spinning. Somewhere in the back of Tommy’s mind is a lag, like when one person in a chain of people passing produce from a field to a wagon disappears. The chain does its best to keep up, but it’s very quickly overwhelmed, leaving debris in the form of dropped vegetables and a backlog that needs to be attended to.

That’s how it feels inside Tommy’s head as the crowd parts for him, a sea of people craning their necks as they shuffle aside to form a runway for him towards the stage. This can’t be happening. His mind can’t catch up to the fact, doesn’t want to catch up to the fact that this is happening. He glances to his side and immediately regrets the action, for Tubbo stands beside him looking equal parts shell shocked and distressed. Their eyes meet, teary and desperate, and Tommy only has the strength to mouth ‘Promise’, before his feet start to carry him towards the stage alone, and his hand in Tubbo’s becomes an outstretched arm. When they finally let go Tommy can feel the ghost of his friend’s hand in his own, and knows that it will be one of the last kind touches he ever receives. He tries not to think of that as he half-marches towards the veranda. He doesn’t look back for fear it’ll set him off crying, but if he were to, he would see Tubbo standing impossibly alone in such a huge crowd, holding the hand that held Tommy’s to his chest.

He mounts the stage and looks out over the people of the district he calls home, a tiny voice in his head telling him to make the most of this last time. Last time. He searches for Tubbo in the crowd, spotting him easily by the empty pathway he just walked down being slowly absorbed back into the crowd. He can see even from here the tears shining on his cheeks, the way his whole body shakes with the effort of holding more back. There’s a couple orphanage kids looking like they’re trying to console him, and, if Tommy should weigh in, doing a pretty sh’it job. He looks away to watch Montaque snatch the second slip of paper from the glass ball, and he tenses every fibre of his being shouting internally please please please. The name is read, and this time Tommy finds himself still breathing and present as some older kid makes his own shaky way to the podium. He’s about fourteen, with a stocky build that betrays work in the crop fields. As he takes his place opposite Tommy, the young boy is reminded that the Games will be full of people like him. Stronger, older opponents. Tommy, at the monumental age of twelve, doesn’t stand a chance.

The moment lingers, and then it keeps lingering, and then Tommy turns to Montaque to find out why the da’mn moment won’t move on. He’s staring out into the crowd once more, and Tommy’s heart, already too heavy, drops straight into his boots as he follows Montaque’s gaze. The crowd parts once more, and Tubbo strides forward, a shaky confidence marking his every step. The murmurs around the square hush, as he comes to stand mere metres from the tributes. Tommy wants to catch his eye, shake his head, scream at him to stop, but Tubbo doesn’t look at him. Tommy knows exactly what he intends to do as he opens his mouth; Tommy mouths the words along with him.

“I volunteer as tribute.”

Now you’ve gone and done it.

Montaque, biggest pri’ck on the planet, waxes lyrical about courage and bravery while he arranges the exchange of the fourteen year old for Tubbo. As if he’d ever know what it is to be brave. As the Mayor takes over once more, reading the Treaty of Treason as he is bound by duty to do, Tommy tries to catch the attention of his best friend, who’s acting annoyingly aloof. He watches as Tubbo stares into the distance, looking alarmingly calm with the whole ordeal. Tommy wants to scream, and do a bit more than scream and call him all the foul names he can think of and demand he un-volunteer and why? You stupid bi’tch absolute idiot why would you volunteer when we had a promise, why did you betray the promise? Why? Why why why why why?

As the Mayor wraps up the Treaty bore-fest, he motions for the two tributes to shake hands. Tributes. Now bound unrelentingly for an arena where they will kill other people. Other children. Maybe even each other.

Tommy feels some comfort in how helpless their situation is. Odds are they’ll die long before each other are a threat. They’re going to be a team obviously, and Tommy’s going to protect Tubbo as long as he can. That’s what he promised him the day they met, and that’s what he intends to do.

They shake hands, and Tubbo finally looks at him. The tears have dried on his cheeks. They take a little longer than is necessary, conducting a silent conversation between them.

‘Sorry.’

‘I am so fu’cking mad at you.’

‘You thought I would really leave you?’

‘I hoped I was wrong.’

They stand for the anthem. They are carted into the Justice Building to wait for people to come and say goodbye. No one comes. They weren’t expecting anyone anyway. They are all they have; all they’ve ever had. And where one goes, the other follows.

Tommy waits alone in the Justice Building, trying to figure out if the first thing he’ll do when he’s alone with Tubbo is hug him or strangle him. Beyond that though, he has to protect his boy. He has to keep his promise. An uneasy feeling stirs his gut. One promise has already been broken today.

And the odds aren’t playing nice.

[grigori77]

Movies of 2020 - My Pre-Summer Favourites (Part 2)

The Top Ten:

10.  TRUE HISTORY OF THE KELLY GANG – Justin Kurzel has been on my directors-to-watch list for a while now, each of his offerings impressing me more than the last (his home-grown Aussie debut, Snowtown, was a low key wallow in Outback nastiness, while his follow up, Macbeth, quickly became one of my favourite Shakespeare flicks, and I seem to be one of the frustrated few who actually genuinely loved his adaptation of Assassin’s Creed, considering it to be one the very best video game movies out there), and his latest is no exception – returning to his native Australia, he’s brought his trademark punky grit and fever-dream edginess to bear in his quest to bring his country’s most famous outlaw to the big screen in a biopic truly worthy of his name. Two actors bring infamous 19th Century bushranger Ned Kelly to life here, and they’re both exceptional – the earlier half of the film sees newcomer Orlando Schwerdt explode onto the screen as the child Ned, all righteous indignation and fiery stubbornness as he rails against the positions his family’s poverty continues to put him in, then George MacKay (Sunshine On Leith, Captain Fantastic) delivers the best performance of his career in the second half, a barely restrained beast as Ned grown, his mercurial turn bringing the man’s inherent unpredictability to the fore.  The Babadook’s Essie Davis, meanwhile, frequently steals the film from under both of them as Ellen, the fearsome matriarch of the Kelly clan, and Nicholas Hoult is similarly impressive as Constable Fitzpatrick, Ned’s slimily duplicitous friend/nemesis, while there are quality supporting turns from Charlie Hunnam and Russell Crowe as two of the most important men of Ned’s formative years.  In Kurzel’s hands, this account of Australia’s greatest true-life crime saga becomes one of the ultimate marmite movies – its glacial pace, grubby intensity and frequent brutality will turn some viewers off, but fans of more “alternative” cinema will find much to enjoy here.  There’s a blasted beauty to its imagery (this is BY FAR the bleakest the Outback’s ever looked on film), while the screenplay from relative unknown Shaun Grant (adapting Peter Carey’s bestselling novel) is STRONG, delivering rich character development and sublime dialogue, and Kurzel delivers some brilliantly offbeat and inventive action beats in the latter half that are well worth the wait.  Evocative, intense and undeniable, this has just the kind of irreverent punk aesthetic that I’m sure the real life Ned Kelly would have approved of …

9.  JUST MERCY – more true-life cinema, this time presenting an altogether classier account of two idealists’ struggle to overturn horrific racial injustices in Alabama. Writer-director Destin Daniel Cretton (Short Term 12, The Glass Castle) brings heart, passion and honest nobility to the story of fresh-faced young lawyer Bryan Stevenson (Michael B. Jordan) and his personal crusade to free Walter “Johnny D” McMillan (Jamie Foxx), an African-American man wrongfully sentenced to death for the murder of a white woman.  His only ally is altruistic young paralegal Eva Ansley (Cretton’s regular screen muse Brie Larson), while the opposition arrayed against them is MAMMOTH – not only do they face the cruelly racist might of the Alabama legal system circa 1989, but a corrupt local police force determined to circumvent his efforts at every turn and a thoroughly disinterested prosecutor, Tommy Chapman (Rafe Spall), who’s far too concerned with his own personal political ambitions to be any help.  The cast are uniformly excellent, Jordan and Foxx particularly impressing with career best performances that sear themselves deep into the memory, while there’s a truly harrowing supporting turn from Rob Morgan as Johnny D’s fellow Death Row inmate Herbert, whose own execution date is fast approaching.  This is courtroom drama at its most gripping, Cretton keeping the inherent tension cranked up tight while tugging hard on our heartstrings for maximum effect, and the result is a timely, racially-charged throat-lumper of considerable power and emotional heft that guarantees there won’t be a single dry eye in the house by the time the credits roll.  Further proof, then, that Destin Daniel Cretton is one of those rare talents of his generation – next up is his tour of duty in the MCU with Shang-Chi & the Legend of the Ten Rings, and if this seems like a strange leftfield turn given his previous track record, I nevertheless have the utmost confidence in him after seeing this …

8.  UNDERWATER – at first glance, this probably seems like a strange choice for the year’s current Top Ten – a much-maligned, commercially underperforming glorified B-movie creature-feature headlined by the former star of the Twilight franchise, there’s no way that could be any good, surely?  Well hold your horses, folks, because not only is this very much worth your time and a comprehensive suspension of your low expectations, but I can’t even consider this a guilty pleasure – as far as I’m concerned this is a GENUINELY GREAT FILM, without reservation.  The man behind the camera is William Eubank, a director whose career I’ve been following with great interest since his feature debut Love (a decidedly oddball but strangely beautiful little space movie) and its more high profile but still unapologetically INDIE follow-up The Signal, and this is the one where he finally delivers wholeheartedly on all that wonderful sci-fi potential.  The plot is deceptively simple – an industrial conglomerate has established an instillation drilling right down to the very bottom of the Marianas Trench, the deepest point in our Earth’s oceans, only for an unknown disaster to leave six survivors from the operation’s permanent crew stranded miles below the surface with very few escape options left – but Eubank and writers Brian Duffield (Jane Got a Gun, Insurgent) and Adam Cozad (The Legend of Tarzan) wring all the possible suspense and fraught, claustrophobic terror out of the premise to deliver a piano wire-tense horror thriller that grips from its sudden start to a wonderfully cathartic climax.  The small but potent cast are all on top form, Vincent Cassel, Jessica Henwick (Netflix’ Iron Fist) and John Gallagher Jr. (Hush, 10 Cloverfield Lane) particularly impressing, and even the decidedly hit-and-miss T.J. Miller delivers a surprisingly likeable turn here, but it’s that Twilight alumnus who REALLY sticks in your memory here – Kristen Stewart’s been doing a pretty good job lately distancing herself from the role that, unfortunately, both made her name and turned her into an object of (rather unfair) derision for many years, but in my opinion THIS is the performance that REALLY separates her from Bella effing-Swan.  Mechanical engineer Norah Price is tough, ingenious and fiercely determined, but with the right amount of vulnerability that we really root for her, and Stewart acts her little heart out in a turn sure to win over her strongest detractors. The creature effects are impressive too, the ultimate threat proving some of the nastiest, most repulsively icky creations I’ve seen committed to film, and the inspired design work and strong visual effects easily belie the film’s B-movie leanings.  Those made uneasy by deep, dark open water or tight, enclosed spaces should take heed that this can be a tough watch, but anyone who likes being scared should find plenty to enjoy here.  Altogether a MUCH better film than its mediocre Rotten Tomatoes rating makes it out to be …

7.  ONWARD – Disney and Pixar’s latest digitally animated family feature clearly has a love of tabletop fantasy roleplay games like Dungeons & Dragons, its quirky modern-day AU take populated by fantastical races and creatures seemingly tailor-made for the geek crowd … needless to say, me and many of my friends absolutely loved it. That doesn’t mean that the classic Disney ideals of love, family and believing in yourself have been sidelined in favour of fan-service – this is as heartfelt, affecting and tearful as their previous standouts, albeit with plenty of literal magic added to the metaphorical kind.  The central premise is a clever one – once upon a time, magic was commonplace, but over the years technology came along to make life easier, so that in the present day the various races (elves, centaurs, fauns, pixies, goblins and trolls among others) get along fine without it.  Then timid elf Ian Lightfoot (Tom Holland) receives a wizard’s staff for his sixteenth birthday, a bequeathed gift from his father, who died before he was born, with instructions for a spell that could bring him back to life for one whole day.  Encouraged by his brash, over-confident wannabe adventurer elder brother Barley (Chris Pratt), Ian tries it out, only for the spell to backfire, leaving them with the animated bottom half of their father and just 24 hours to find a means to restore the rest of him before time runs out.  Cue an “epic quest” … needless to say, this is another top-notch offering from the original masters of the craft, a fun, affecting and thoroughly infectious family-friendly romp with a winning sense of humour and inspired, flawless world-building.  Holland and Pratt are both fantastic, their odd-couple chemistry effortlessly driving the story through its ingenious paces, and the ensuing emotional fireworks are hilarious and heartbreaking in equal measure, while there’s typically excellent support from Julia Louis-Dreyfus (Elaine from Seinfeld) as Ian and Barley’s put-upon but supportive mum, Laurel, Octavia Spencer as once-mighty adventurer-turned-restaurateur “Corey” the Manticore and Mel Rodriguez (Getting On, The Last Man On Earth) as overbearing centaur cop (and Laurel’s new boyfriend) Colt Bronco.  The film marks the sophomore feature gig for Dan Scanlon, who debuted with 2013’s sequel Monsters University, and while that was enjoyable enough I ultimately found it non-essential – no such verdict can be levelled against THIS film, the writer-director delivering magnificently in all categories, while the animation team have outdone themselves in every scene, from the exquisite world-building and character/creature designs to some fantastic (and frequently delightfully bonkers) set-pieces, while there’s a veritable riot of brilliant RPG in-jokes to delight geekier viewers (gelatinous cube! XD).  Massive, unadulterated fun, frequently hilarious and absolutely BURSTING with Disney’s trademark heart, this is currently (and deservedly) my animated feature of the year.  It’s certainly gonna be a tough one to beat …

6.  THE GENTLEMEN – Guy Ritchie’s been having a rough time with his last few movies (The Man From UNCLE didn’t do too bad but it wasn’t exactly a hit and was largely overlooked or simply ignored critically, while intended franchise-starter King Arthur: Legend of the Sword was largely derided and suffered badly on release, dying a quick death financially – it’s a shame on both counts, because I really liked them), so it’s nice to see him having some proper success with his latest, even if he has basically reverted to type to do it.  Still, when his newest London gangster flick is THIS GOOD it seems churlish to quibble – this really is what he does best, bringing together a collection of colourful geezers and shaking up their status quo, then standing back and letting us enjoy the bloody, expletive-riddled results. This particularly motley crew is another winning selection, led by Matthew McConaughey as ruthlessly successful cannabis baron Mickey Pearson, who’s looking to retire from the game by selling off his massive and highly lucrative enterprise for a most tidy sum (some $400,000,000 to be precise) to up-and-coming fellow American ex-pat Matthew Berger (Succession’s Jeremy Strong, oozing sleazy charm), only for local Chinese triad Dry Eye (Crazy Rich Asians’ Henry Golding, chewing the scenery with enthusiasm) to start throwing spanners into the works with the intention of nabbing the deal for himself for a significant discount.  Needless to say Mickey’s not about to let that happen … McConaughey is ON FIRE here, the best he’s been since Dallas Buyers Club in my opinion, clearly having great fun sinking his teeth into this rich character and Ritchie’s typically sparkling, razor-witted dialogue, and he’s ably supported by a uniformly excellent ensemble cast, particularly co-star Charlie Hunnam as Mickey’s ice-cold, steel-nerved right-hand-man Raymond Smith, Downton Abbey’s Michelle Dockery as his classy, strong-willed wife Rosalind, Colin Farrell as a wise-cracking, quietly exasperated MMA trainer and small-time hood simply known as the Coach (who gets many of the film’s best lines), and, most notably, Hugh Grant as the film’s nominal narrator, thoroughly morally bankrupt private investigator Fletcher, who consistently steals the film.  This is Guy Ritchie at his very best – a twisty rug-puller of a plot that constantly leaves you guessing, brilliantly observed and richly drawn characters you can’t help loving in spite of the fact there’s not a single hero among them, a deliciously unapologetic, politically incorrect sense of humour and a killer soundtrack.  It got the cinematic year off to a cracking start, and looks set to stay high in the running for the remainder – it’s EASILY Ritchie’s best film since Sherlock Holmes, and a strong call-back to the heady days of Snatch (STILL my favourite) and Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels.  Here’s hoping he’s on a roll again, eh?

5.  THE INVISIBLE MAN – looks like third time’s a charm for Leigh Whannell, writer-director of my current horror movie of the year – while he’s had immense success as a horror writer over the years (co-creator of both the Saw and Insidious franchises), as a director his first two features haven’t exactly set the world alight, with debut Insidious: Chapter III garnering similar takes to the rest of the series but ultimately turning out to be a bit of a damp squib quality-wise, while his second feature Upgrade was a stone-cold masterpiece that was (rightly) EXTREMELY well received critically, but ultimately snuck in under the radar and has remained a stubbornly hidden gem since.  No such problems with his third feature, though – his latest collaboration with producer Jason Blum and his insanely lucrative Blumhouse Pictures has proven a massive hit both financially AND with reviewers, and deservedly so.  Having given up on trying to create a shared cinematic universe inhabited by their classic monsters, Universal have resolved to concentrate on standalones to showcase their elite properties, and their first try is a rousing success, Whannell bringing HG Wells’ dark and devious human monster smack into the 21st Century as only he can.  The result is a surprisingly subtle piece of work, much more a lethally precise exercise in cinematic sleight of hand and extraordinary acting than flashy visual effects, very much adhering to the Blumhouse credo of maximum returns for minimum bucks as the story is stripped right back to its bare essentials and allowed to play out without any unnecessary weight.  The Handmaid’s Tale’s Elizabeth Moss once again confirms what a masterful actress she is as she brings all her performing weapons to bear in the role of Cecelia “Cee” Kass, the cloistered wife of affluent but monstrously abusive optics pioneer Aidan Griffin (Netflix’ The Haunting of Hill House’s Oliver Jackson-Cohen), who escapes his clutches in the furiously tense opening sequence and goes to ground with the help of her closest childhood friend, San Francisco cop James Lanier (Leverage’s Aldis Hodge) and his teenage daughter Sydney (A Wrinkle in Time’s Storm Reid).  Two weeks later, Aidan commits suicide, leaving Cee with a fortune to start her life over (with the proviso that she’s never ruled mentally incompetent), but as she tries to find her way in the world again little things start going wrong for her, and she begins to question if there might be something insidious going on.  As her nerves start to unravel, she begins to suspect that Aidan is still alive, still very much in her life, fiendishly toying with her and her friends, but no-one can see him.  Whannell plays her paranoia up for all it’s worth, skilfully teasing out the scares so that, just like her friends, we begin to wonder if it might all in her head after all, before a spectacular mid-movie reveal throws the switch into high gear and the true threat becomes clear.  The lion’s share of the film’s immense success must of course go to Moss – her performance is BEYOND a revelation, a truly blistering career best turn that totally powers the whole enterprise, and it almost goes without saying that she’s the best thing in this.  Even so, she has sterling support from Hodge and Reid, as well as Love Child’s Harriet Dyer as Cee’s estranged big sister Emily and Wonderland’s Michael Dorman as Adrian’s slimy, spineless lawyer brother Tom, and, while he doesn’t have much actual (ahem) “screen time”, Jackson-Cohen delivers a fantastically icy, subtly malevolent turn which casts a large “shadow” over the film.  This is one of my very favourite Blumhouse films, a pitch-perfect psychological chiller that keeps the tension cranked up unbearably tight and never lets go, Whannell once again displaying uncanny skill with expert jump-scares, knuckle-whitening chills and a truly astounding standout set-piece that looks set to go down as one of the year’s top action sequences.  Undoubtedly the best version of Wells’ story to date, this goes a long way in repairing the damage of Universal’s abortive “Dark Universe” efforts, as well as showcasing a filmmaking master at the very height of his talents.

4.  EXTRACTION – the Coronavirus certainly has thrown a massive spanner in the works of this year’s cinematic calendar – the new A Quiet Place sequel should have been setting the big screen alight for almost two months now, while the latest (and most long-awaited) MCU movie, Black Widow, should have just opened to further record-breaking box office success, but instead the theatres are all closed and virtually all the big blockbusters have been pushed back or shelved indefinitely. Thank God, then, for the streaming services, particularly Hulu, Amazon and Netflix, the latter of which provided a perfect movie for us to see through the key transition from spring to the summer blockbuster season, an explosively flashy big budget action thriller ushered in by MCU alumni the Russo Brothers (who produced and co-wrote this adaptation of Ciudad, a graphic novel that Joe Russo co-created with Ande Parks and Fernando Leon Gonzalez) and barely able to contain the sheer star-power wattage of its lead, Thor himself.  Chris Hemsworth plays Tyler Rake, a former Australian SAS operative who hires out his services to an extraction operation, under the command of mercenary Nik Khan (The Patience Stone’s Golshifteh Farahani), brought in to liberate Ovi Mahajan (Rudhraksh Jaiswal in his first major role), the pre-teen son of incarcerated Indian crime lord Ovi Sr. (Pankaj Tripathi), who has been abducted by Bangladeshi rival Amir Asif (Priyanshu Painyuli).  The rescue itself goes perfectly, but when the time comes for the hand-off the team is double-crossed and Tyler is left stranded in the middle of Dhaka with no choice but to keep Ovi alive as every corrupt cop and street gang in the city closes in around them.  This is the feature debut of Sam Hargrave, the latest stuntman to try his hand at directing, so he certainly knows his way around an action sequence, and the result is a thoroughly breathless adrenaline rush of a film, bursting at the seams with spectacular fights, gun battles and car chases, dominated by a stunning sustained action sequence that plays out in one long shot, guaranteed to leave jaws lying on the floor.  Not that there should be any surprise – Hargrave cut his teeth as a stunt coordinator for the Russos on Captain America: Civil War and their Avengers films.  That said, he displays strong talent for the quieter disciplines of filmmaking too, delivering quality character development and drawing out consistently noteworthy performances from his cast.  Of course, Hemsworth can do the action stuff in his sleep, but there’s a lot more to Tyler than just his muscle, the MCU veteran investing him with real wounded vulnerability and a tragic fatalism which colours his every scene, while Jaiswal is exceptional throughout, showing plenty of promise for the future, and there’s strong support from Farahani and Painyuli, as well as Stranger Things’s David Harbour as world-weary retired merc Gaspard, and a particularly impressive, muscular turn from Randeep Hooda (Once Upon a Time in Mumbai) as Saju, a former Para and Ovi’s bodyguard, who’s determined to take possession of the boy himself, even if he has to go through Tyler to get him.  This is action cinema that really deserves to be seen on the big screen – I watched it twice in a week and would happily have paid for two trips to the cinema for it if I could have.  As we look down the barrel of a summer season largely devoid of big blockbuster fare, I can’t recommend this film enough.  Thank the gods for Netflix …

3.  PARASITE – I’ve been a fan of master Korean filmmaker Bong Joon-ho ever since I stumbled across his deeply weird but also thoroughly brilliant breakthrough feature The Host, and it’s a love that’s deepened since thanks to the truly magnificent sci-fi actioner Snowpiercer, so I was looking forward to his latest feature as much as any movie geek, but even I wasn’t prepared for just what a runaway juggernaut of a hit this one turned out to be, from the insane box office to all that award-season glory (especially that undeniable clean-sweep at the Oscars). I’ll just come out and say it, this film deserves it all.  It’s EASILY Bong’s best film to date (which is really saying something), a masterful social satire and jet black comedy that raises some genuinely intriguing questions before delivering some deeply troubling answers.  Straddling the ever-widening gulf between a disaffected idle rich upper class and impoverished, struggling lower class in modern-day Seoul, it tells the story of the Kim family – father Ki-taek (Bong’s veritable good luck charm Song Kang-ho), mother Chung-sook (Jang Hye-jin), son Ki-woo (Train to Busan’s Choi Woo-shik) and daughter Ki-jung (The Silenced’s Park So-dam) – a poor family living in a run-down basement apartment who live hand-to-mouth in minimum wage jobs and can barely rub two cents together, until they’re presented with an intriguing opportunity.  Through happy chance, Ki-woon is hired as an English tutor for Park Da-hye (Jung Ji-so), the daughter of a wealthy family, which offers him the chance to recommend Ki-jung as an art tutor to the Parks’ troubled young son, Da-song (Jung Hyeon-jun).  Soon the rest of the Kims are getting in on the act, the young Kims contriving opportunities for their father to replace Mr Park’s chauffeur and their mother to oust the family’s long-serving housekeeper, Gook Moon-gwang (Lee Jung-eun), and before long their situation has improved dramatically.  But as they two families become more deeply entwined, cracks begin to show in their supposed blissful harmony as the natural prejudices of their respective classes start to take hold, and as events spiral out of control a terrible confrontation looms on the horizon.  This is social commentary at its most scathing, Bong drawing on personal experiences from his youth to inform the razor-sharp script (co-written by his production assistant Han Jin-won), while he weaves a palpable atmosphere of knife-edged tension throughout to add spice to the perfectly observed dark humour of the situation, all the while throwing intriguing twists and turns at us before suddenly dropping such a massive jaw-dropper of a gear-change that the film completely turns on its head, to stunning effect.  The cast are all thoroughly astounding, Song once again dominating the film with a turn which is at once sloppy and dishevelled but also poignant and heartfelt, while there are particularly noteworthy turns from Lee Sun-kyun as the Parks’ self-absorbed patriarch Dong-ik and Choi Yeo-jeong (The Concubine) as his flighty, easily-led wife Choi Yeon-gyo, as well as a fantastically weird appearance in the latter half from Park Myung-hoon.  This is heady stuff, dangerously seductive even as it becomes increasingly uncomfortable viewing, so that even as the screws tighten and everything goes to hell it’s simply impossible to look away.  Bong Joon-ho really has surpassed himself this time, delivering an existential mind-scrambler that lingers long after the credits have rolled and might even have you questioning your place in society once you’ve thought about it some. It deserves every single award and every ounce of praise it’s been lavished with so far, and looks set to go down as one of the true cinematic greats of this new decade.  Trust me, if this was a purely critical best-of list it’d be RIGHT AT THE TOP …

2.  1917 – it’s a rare thing for a film to leave me truly shell-shocked by its sheer awesomeness, for me to walk out of a cinema in a genuine daze, unable to talk or even really think about much of anything for a few hours because I’m simply marvelling at what I’ve just witnessed.  Needless to say, when I do find a film like that (Fight Club, Inception, Mad Max: Fury Road) it usually earns a place very close to my heart indeed.  The latest tour-de-force from Sam Mendes is one of those films – an epic World War I thriller that plays out ENTIRELY in one shot, which doesn’t simply feel like a glorified gimmick or stunt but instead is a genuine MASTERPIECE of a film, a mesmerising journey of emotion and imagination in a shockingly real environment that it’s impossible to tear your eyes away from.  Sure, Mendes has impressed us before – his first film, American Beauty, is a GREAT movie, one of the most impressive feature debuts of the 2000s, while Skyfall is, in my opinion, quite simply THE BEST BOND FILM EVER MADE – but this is in a whole other league.  It’s an astounding achievement, made all the more impressive when you realise that there’s very little trickery at play here, no clever digital magic (just some augmentation here and there), it’s all real locations and sets, filmed in long, elaborately choreographed takes blended together with clever edits to make it as seamless as possible – it’s not the first film to try to do this (remember Birdman? Bushwick?), but I’ve never seen it done better, or with greater skill. But it’s not just a clever cinematic exercise, there’s a genuine story here, told with guts and urgency, and populated by real flesh and blood characters – the heart of the film is George MacKay and Dean Chapman (probably best known as Tommen Baratheon in Game of Thrones) as Lance Corporals Will Schofield and Tom Blake, the two young tommies sent out across enemy territory on a desperate mission to stop a British regiment from rushing headlong into a German trap (Tom himself has a personal stake in this because his brother is an officer in the attack).  They’re a likeable pair, very human and relatable throughout, brave and true but never so overly heroic that they stretch credibility, so when tragedy strikes along the way it’s particularly devastating; both deliver exceptional performances that effortlessly carry us through the film, and they’re given sterling support from a selection of top-drawer British talent, from Sherlock stars Andrew Scott and Benedict Cumberbatch to Mark Strong and Colin Firth, each delivering magnificently in small but potent cameos.  That said, the cinematography and art department are the BIGGEST stars here, masterful veteran DoP Roger Deakins (The Shawshank Redemption, Blade Runner 2049 and pretty much the Coen Brothers’ entire back catalogue among MANY others) making every frame sing with beauty, horror, tension or tragedy as the need arises, and the environments are SO REAL it feels less like production design than that someone simply sent the cast and crew back in time to film in the real Northern France circa 1917 – from a nightmarish trek across No Man’s Land to a desperate chase through a ruined French village lit only by dancing flare-light in the darkness before dawn, every scene is totally immersive and simply STUNNING.  I don’t think it’s possible for Mendes to make a film better than this, but I sure hope he gives it a go all the same.  Either way, this is the most incredible, exhausting, truly AWESOME experience I’ve had at the cinema this year (so far) – it’s a film that DESERVES to be seen on the big screen, and I feel truly sorry for those who missed the chance …

1.  BIRDS OF PREY & THE FANTABULOUS EMANCIPATION OF ONE HARLEY QUINN – the only reason 1917 isn’t at number one right now is because Warner Bros.’ cinematic DC Extended Universe project FINALLY got round to bringing my favourite DC Comics title to the big screen.  It’s been the biggest pleasure of my cinematic year so far getting to see my top DC superheroines brought to life on the big screen, and it’s been done in high style, in my opinion THE BEST of the DCEU films to date (yup, I loved it EVEN MORE than Wonder Woman).  It was also great seeing Harley Quinn return after her show-stealing turn in David Ayer’s clunky but ultimately still hugely enjoyable Suicide Squad, better still that this time round they got her SPOT ON this time – this is the Harley I’ve always loved in the comics, unpredictable, irreverent and entirely without regard for what anyone else thinks of her, as well as one hell of a talented psychiatrist.  Margot Robbie once more excels in the role she was basically BORN to play, clearly relishing the chance to finally do Harley justice, and she’s a total riot from start to finish, infectiously lovable no matter what crazy, sometimes downright REPRIHENSIBLE antics she gets up to.  Needless to say she’s the nominal star here, her latest ill-advised adventure driving the story – finally done with the Joker and itching to make her emancipation official, Harley publicly announces their breakup by blowing up Ace Chemicals (their love spot, basically), inadvertently painting a target on her back in the process since she’s no longer under the supposed protection of Gotham’s feared Clown Prince of Crime – but that doesn’t mean she eclipses the other main players the movie’s REALLY supposed to be about. Each member of the Birds of Prey is beautifully written and brought to vivid, arse-kicking life by what has to be the year’s most exciting cast – Helena Bertinelli, aka the Huntress, is the perfect character for Mary Elizabeth Winstead to finally pay off on that action heroine potential she showed in Scott Pilgrim Vs. the World, but this is a MUCH more enjoyable role outside of the fight choreography because while Helena may be a world-class dark avenger, socially she’s a total dork, which just makes her thoroughly adorable; Rosie Perez is similarly perfect casting as Renee Montoya, the uncompromising pint-sized Gotham PD detective who kicks against the corrupt system no matter what kind of trouble it gets her into, and just gets angrier all the time, paradoxically making us like her even more; and then there’s the film’s major controversy, at least as far as the fans are concerned, namely one Cassandra Cain.  Sure, this take is VERY different from the comics’ version (a nearly mute master assassin who went on to become the second woman to wear the mask of Batgirl before assuming her own crime-fighting  mantle as Black Bat and now Orphan), but personally I like to think this is simply Cass at THE VERY START of her origin story, leaving plenty of time for her to discovery her warrior origins when the DCEU gets around to introducing Lady Shiva (personally I want Michelle Yeoh to play her, but that’s just me) – anyways, here she’s a skilled child pickpocket whose latest theft inadvertently sets off the larger central plot, and newcomer Ella Jay Basco brings a fantastic pre-teen irreverence and spiky charm to the role, beautifully playing against Robbie’s mercurial energy.  My favourite here BY FAR, however, is Dinah Lance, aka the Black Canary (not only my favourite Bird of Prey but my very favourite DC superheroine PERIOD), the choice of up-and-comer Jurnee Smollet-Bell (Friday Night Lights, Underground) proving to be the film’s most truly inspired casting – a club singer with the metahuman ability to emit piercing supersonic screams, she’s also a truly ferocious martial artist (in the comics she’s one of the very best fighters IN THE WORLD), as well as a wonderfully pure soul you just can’t help loving, and it made me SO UNBELIEVABLY HAPPY that they got my Canary EXACTLY RIGHT.  Altogether they’re a fantastic bunch, basically my perfect superhero team, and the way they’re all brought together (along with Harley, of course) is beautifully thought out and perfectly executed … they’ve also got one hell of a threat to overcome, namely Gotham crime boss Roman Sionis, aka the Black Mask, one of the Joker’s chief rivals – Ewan McGregor brings his A-game in a frustratingly rare villainous turn (currently my number one bad guy for the movie year), a monstrously narcissistic, woman-hating control freak with a penchant for peeling off the faces of those who displease him, sharing some exquisitely creepy chemistry with Chris Messina (The Mindy Project) as Sionis’ nihilistic lieutenant Victor Zsasz. This is about as good as superhero cinema gets, a perfect example of the sheer brilliance you get when you switch up the formula to create something new, an ultra-violent, unapologetically R-rated middle finger to the classic tropes, a fantastic black comedy thrill ride that’s got to be the most full-on feminist blockbuster yet – it’s helmed by a woman (Dead Pigs director Cathy Yan), written by a woman (Bumblebee’s Christina Hodson), produced by more women and ABOUT a bunch of badass women magnificently triumphing over toxic masculinity in all its forms.  It’s also simply BRILLIANT – the cast are all clearly having a blast, the action sequences are first rate (the spectacular GCPD evidence room fight in which Harley gets to REALLY cut loose is the undisputable highlight), it has a gleefully anarchic sense of humour and is simply BURSTING with phenomenal homages, references and in-jokes for the fans (Bruce the hyena! Stuffed beaver! Roller derby!).  It’s also got a killer soundtrack, populated almost exclusively by numbers from female artists.  Altogether, then, this is the VERY BEST the DCEU has to offer to date (Wonder Woman 1984 has got a MAJOR job ahead of it beating this one), and my absolute FAVOURITE film of 2020 (so far).  Give it all the love you can, it sure as hell deserves it.

[batskulldrag]

Phoenix by Fallout Boy

chapter nine. no oc’s background dudes are either youtubers or characters from 2017′s dream daddy a dad dating simulator. abuse mention trigger warnings, there will be one warning in every chapter

Chapter Nine: Who We Are by Imagine Dragons. I know it’s not about fire, but it always made me think about the heroes around a bonfire singing. So, there.

Patton sat in the back seat with Virgil’s head on his lap. He had settled down for the most part.

“I’m sorry I had a meltdown in there.” Virgil said for what was now the sixth time.

“It’s ok.” Patton rubbed his back. “You had all that bottled up for a while.”

“But I still made a scene like a dumb crying baby.”

“Well, was the thrift store an ideal place for that? No. But, like I said you had that bottled up for a while.”

“I made an idiot out of myself. And I embarrassed you three.”

“I’m not embarrassed. Sometimes you just get hit in the right nerve and it all comes out. That’s why you shouldn’t repress things. If you do you can’t control when it breaks free.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“I understand. After Mom died, I fought off my feelings for a long time. Then I went to get groceries and ended up sobbing over a box of cornflakes. I just kinda fell to my knees in the middle of the aisle and cried my eyes out, holding a box of corn flakes.”

“That makes me shiver just to hear it.”

“Well, it’s hard to control when or how we feel things. Or when we feel things loudly.”

“Or when we break down like a dumb crying baby. Again, might I add.”

“Well, we can’t exactly press undo. So, we just have to move on.”

“I guess you want details.” Virgil pulled his hoodie over his face.

“Not if you don’t want to talk about it.” Patton kept rubbing his back. “But how do know what your dad was up to?”

“I snooped around his stuff while he wasn’t home. And I’m not as stupid as he thinks I am, so I knew what everything meant.”

“That might have been dangerous to do kiddo.”

“He didn’t catch me. Thank God. But yeah, that probably could have been how my entire being would die.”

“Do you think that’s why he started that fire?”

“That certainly seems like something you’d wanna burn.”

“Well, we’ll make an appointment so you can tell the police what you know.”

“They won’t believe me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I guess not. I can’t prove anything though.”

“Let’s not worry about that right now.”

“Is it true? That I can stay?” Virgil looked up at him.

“Yes. We want you to stay with us and we’re going to do anything we can to make sure of that.”

“Why? I mean, that sounds awesome. But why? What do you care?”

“Well, first of all, you’re family. And to me at least that means something. Secondly, even if you weren’t, I’d still wanna help you. Because no one deserves to be treated the way my brother treated you.”

Virgil sat up and wiped his face with his sleeve.

“Do you wanna keep going or have you had enough fun for today?” Patton reached over and pet his head.

“We can keep going.” Virgil pushed his head into Patton’s hand like a kitten. “I’ve been trapped indoors for like two weeks now, and you guys have been isolated since I showed up.”

“Ok, we’ll tell the others when they come back out here” Patton scratched the kiddo’s head lightly.

“I am sorry about that scene I caused back there.”

“I don’t think anyone noticed.” Patton smiled.  

“Don’t lie to me.” Virgil sighed.

Logan and Roman came in with only the sound of the car doors closing. They both paused for a minute.

“Are you alright Virgil?” Logan was the first to break the silence.

“Yeah,” He looked at the floor. “I’m sorry about causing a scene.”

“I just told everyone that your leg started swelling up,” Roman said with a shrug. “Very painful experience.”

“Did they buy it?” Virgil winced.

Roman shrugged.

“I am sorry about making a scene.” Virgil wrapped his arms around himself.

“Well, hopefully this is the start of you being able to process everything.” Logan adjusted his glasses. “So, would you like to continue our excursion, or are you ready to go home?”

“I’m ok to keep going.” Virgil sighed. “I usually try to limit my public humiliation to once per day.”

“Sometimes you just need to have your dramatic breakdown and cause a scene.” Roman said calmly.

Virgil squinted skeptically at the back of Roman’s seat and sneered. Patton had to repress a laugh at this display of disgust.

“Virgil.” Logan broke the silence as they started driving. “Roman tells me that you’re quite the avid reader. Do you have any books that you prefer?”

“Uhh…” Virgil looked at Patton in confusion. “I like Henry James. His take on ghosts was always pretty cool.”

“He also had novel, at the time, ideals about woman’s place in society.”

“Yeah, that too.”

“Which ghost story is your favorite?” Patton perked up. Maybe if they kept him talking, he wouldn’t have another attack.

“Well, he has this one about a couple of older ladies who are kind of haunted by one of their dead relatives. But they really see him as a buddy more than a threat.”

“Aww. That’s sweet.”

#             #             #

               Logan and Roman caught on to Patton’s idea and both made an effort to keep Virgil talking. Talking about anything really, anything but Payton. Logan had the rules of chess reiterated to him and now knew every strategy that Virgil was aware of. Roman asked about every book he could think of and requested a synopsis of most titles. He had attended a year’s worth of book clubs in one hour. And Patton had brought up music, he learned about a lot of emo bands. He didn’t know that many emo bands existed.

               “And their guitarist is actually married to Gerard Way.” Virgil happily finished a monologue as he looked at socks. “They’re still together and everything.” He looked off to the side. “Glad to see that not everything of his breaks up.”

               “That’s nice.” Patton smiled. He had no clue what this kid was talking about, but he was so excited.        

  “I know you probably don’t care.” Virgil looked at the ground. “But I’m glad you were listening.”

Is this a naturally occurring hug moment?

Patton risked it and stepped in for a hug. Virgil saw him, shrugged and stepped into his arms.

“So, you’re just like this then?” Virgil was muffled by Patton’s shoulder.

“Yes, prepare to get so many hugs.”

“I can be ok with that.” He fell into his arms and almost went limp.

Oh, you poor anxious little touch starved baby.

“I really can’t wrap my head around the idea that you’re my dad’s brother.” Virgil laughed half-heartedly as he slid out of the hug.

“We don’t have to talk about him.” Patton said softly.

Virgil smiled at him in response. It was his usual tiny smile with his lips only parted about a centimeter. His stunning eyes, which normally looked aged beyond his years lit up slightly. All in all, Virgil looked pleasantly surprised. And it was adorable.

Patton beamed back at him.

“So, who’s your favorite band?” Patton went on, afraid of another opportunity for his baby to have an attack.

“You can’t just ask me to choose like that.” Virgil placed a hand on his heart and feigned hurt. “That’s like asking someone what their favorite dog is.”

“Oh.” Patton played along. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

“It’s ok.” Virgil tossed a package of black socks into their basket. “You didn’t know.”

“You know, you never did tell me what foods you like the best.”

“No, I guess not.” He looked at the floor. “I haven’t really had much of an appetite these last couple of months.”

“Well, we can work on that.” Patton grabbed his shoulder. “Did you like any of the casseroles that we’re drowning in?”

“That eggplant thing was pretty good. And I like a couple of the tuna ones.”

“Do you like pasta?” Patton pointed at him.

“Of course.”

“How about desserts? Everyone likes desserts.”

“You’re gonna get mad at this…” Virgil looked at the floor. “But I wasn’t really allowed to have desserts. You know because of calories and sugar and cavities. And bullshit.”

While Patton processed that body blow, Logan showed up and added a container of multi vitamins to their haul. He looked between Patton and Virgil.

“Patton are you alright?” He sounded like he was talking to a bomb.

“I’m ok.”

Logan and Virgil exchanged terrified looks. Logan’s because he had seen Patton mad before and it was haunting, Virgil’s because he had no idea what was going on, but in his line of logic when an adult got mad, he got hit.

“Virgil, sweetie.” Patton rubbed his temples. “I promise I won’t ask you anything else after this. And I won’t get upset with you no matter what you say. But I have to know, are you just not eating out of stress or are there other reasons for this?”

“I just started getting sick whenever I ate.” Virgil wrapped his arms around himself to hold himself together. “I guess it was anxiety. I don’t think there were other reasons.”

“Ok. I’m sorry I had to ask you that.” He sighed. “And like I promised, we won’t talk about it anymore.”

“Did you miss me?” Roman announced dramatically.

“Who are you?” Virgil squinted at him.

Roman made a series of offended squeaks and held one hand against his heart while flailing his casted arm in front of him. Logan looked on, his eyes glimmering and a smiled forming across his face. A soft laugh escaped his mouth.

“Well,” Roman laid the indignation on thick. “I was going to buy you a dress for prom but forget it.”

“I can’t get a date anyway.” Virgil shrugged.

“The boys are probably intimidated by your looks.” Roman continued. “I think you should try asking one of them out.”

“Oh no.” Logan suddenly broke in, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What? Prom isn’t until high school, if you think I’m too young to date you can say so.”

“It’s not you Virgil.” Logan sighed. “One of our neighbors is here as well.”

“Oh no, who?” Roman looked around frantically.

“Howdy neighbors.” As if on cue the voice of Brian rattled them.

Brian approached and Virgil immediately stepped closer to Patton. Seems he feared the sheer amount of man that approached. Which was odd, Brian’s bear like appearance normally didn’t intimidate people. But of course, Virgil was, well Virgil.  

“Salutations.” Roman said blankly.

“Hi Brian.” Patton forced a smile.

“Hi.” Logan didn’t even look at him.

“You three out shopping for more lawn flamingos?” Brian teased.

“No.” Logan said without any cadence.

“We are actually helping our nephew rebuild his wardrobe after a fire.” Roman with his usual tendency to act like he was reciting lines on stage. “You’ve probably heard about our taking him in.”

“I did hear that. Most of us are wondering when we get to meet the new member.” Brian led them into a false sense of security. “You two almost ended up being the last couple to take the plunge and start a family.” He gestured to the slim figure clinging to Patton’s arm. “This must be Virgil.”

“Well,” Patton ruffled the kiddo’s hair. “It’d be kind of weird if he were a stranger.”

“Hi.” Virgil said quietly, as he pulled away from Patton’s side. “Nice to meet you.”

“Virgil was in chess club and on the debate team back in his old school.” Roman announced contently. “And he does advanced reading.”

“Really.” Brian looked impressed. “Maybe he’d like to play Daisy sometime, she’s running out of people who can match her.”

“I am not going to be a part of this, and neither are you.” Logan picked up their basket and put his arm around Virgil. “Let’s finish off the list, they can catch up.”

#             #             #  

               “I’m sorry for dragging you away like that.” He explained, now out of earshot. “But I do not want to engage in a one-upping competition. Especially about our children.”

               “That’s what that was turning into, huh?” Virgil looked back in that direction.

               “Brian is a notorious one-upper. And I can’t stand him.” He sighed. “And if I’m honest I think he’s putting too much pressure on his daughter. I know he means well and he proud of her, but the constant bragging is going to set her standards to impossible levels of up-keep. Overachievers like her are difficult to deal with. Too much input, positive or negative can be catastrophic. Positive reinforcement is great, but the way he does it makes me feel like Daisy is going to associate achievement with affection and burn herself out.”

               Virgil looked at him impressed.

               “And I’m definitely not putting you through that.” Logan looked away. “I’m not completely dense. I know you weren’t in any of those things because you wanted to be.”

               “Were your parents like that too?” Virgil’s voice was soft and hesitant.

               “People with Asperger’s are occasionally incredibly intelligent, so yes I was an overachiever when I was in school. My parents enjoyed the vicarious limelight, so yes, they put a good deal of pressure on me.” He clenched his fists. “I was diagnosed when I was eight. Sometimes I still dream about that moment, their reactions. You would have thought somebody died, or that I had murdered someone. I didn’t understand why they were mad at me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. I’m far better off without their influence in my life.”

“I almost won a spelling bee.” Virgil added. “I got all the way to state.”

“That’s very impressive, you should be proud.” Logan smiled.

“I lost.”

“You still made it to state championships, that’s quite an achievement.”

“Dad grabbed my arm and he jerked me, and he dislocated my elbow. It hurt.”

Logan knelt and hugged him.

“My parents broke and dislocated more bones than I care to recall. And I say this, not because I’m trying to compete. But so that you know I mean it when I say I understand.”

“I know we’re not competing.” Virgil hugged him back. “You win because your parents aren’t in jail.”

“Now, how did you puzzle that out?” Logan pulled back to look at him.

“You said you were done with them, but you didn’t sound very satisfied.”

“You could tell all that from my tone of voice?”

“No, I was eavesdropping on you and Uncle Patton when you told him to stop sending them stuff.” Virgil smiled.

“Patton doesn’t let things go easily.” Logan scoffed. “And he doesn’t forgive them.”

“Do you?”

“Never think you should forgive someone who isn’t sorry.” He said flatly.

“Even family?”

“Familial bonds shouldn’t be a bargaining chip to force someone to tolerate abuse. Nothing justifies that. I thought that my parents had a right to do what they did because of how I am, I’m sure Payton gave you excuses. But those are just hollow manipulative tactics. You don’t owe anything to someone who mistreats you. All they deserve is a swift kick out of your life.”  

“Ok.” Virgil seemed relieved to have heard that. “So, is there some sort of contest on who is gonna go the longest without having kids in your neighborhood. Because I think we just proved that not everyone should be a parent.”  

“That mostly consists of people asking Patton and me when we’re going to adopt. Or asking Jenna and Julian when they’re going to have kids. Or bothering Lily about when she’s going to settle down and start a family. And I suppose now that Dan and Phil are both out, they’re going to be harassed too.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand their investment in all of our lives.”

“Sounds like a fun place. I can’t wait to meet everyone.” Virgil was completely deadpan.

“It’s not as bad as it seems.” He reassured.

Patton and Roman caught up to them, Roman looked ecstatic.

“I told Brian about how I rescued Virgil!” Roman clapped happily. “He’ll never one-up that one.”

“It was pretty cool.” Virgil tossed a package of boxer briefs into the basket. “He broke through the window with his fist, like a superhero or something.”

Patton was silent, he had an annoyed look on his face.

“You ok Uncle Patton?”

“I wouldn’t mind the fact that I once knocked over our charcoal grill and set our yard on fire so much if Brian would stop bringing it up.” Patton said sternly. “Just for that, he’s getting a book of grilling tips for Christmas.”

“Not again.” Logan sighed. “How many would that make? Five?”

“He’s right.” Roman put a hand on Logan’s shoulder. “Get him a book on gardening instead.”

“Just get him a yard gnome and say, ‘I saw this and thought of you’ that’ll bother him.” Virgil suggested from the floor, not looking up from the vitamin bottle he was reading.

“Aww,” Patton said giddily. “He takes after me.”

“By the way Roman,” Logan turned to his roommate. “I noticed that you introduced Virgil as our nephew. As in all three of ours.”

“Well, calculator watch,” Roman began. “My brother is a maniac. Patton’s brother is the worst. So, why not pretend that Padre and I are brothers, that way we can get good siblings. And I babysat Virgil a lot towards the end, and I wrote at least seven essays in character as Patton and no one noticed. So, I think I know him pretty well.”

“You wrote those?” Patton was shocked and confused. “I thought I just sleep wrote them. Like how I kept doing the dishes in my sleep.”

“Well, you did kinda sleep write them.” Roman shrugged timidly. “I just made them legible.”

“Are there any other parts of my college life that are a lie?”

“I bought groceries with my own money and put the money your mother gave me back into her account.” Logan offered. “Which was more than fair because I was living with you rent free.”

“And I bought a bottle of laundry detergent and kept topping off yours so you wouldn’t run out. I went through about twenty bottles doing this.” Roman submitted sheepishly.

“That’s why the soap was always half full? I thought I was losing my mind!”

“And whenever I cooked, I put ground up moths in Payton’s food.” Logan didn’t even look at him.

“Why?!”

“I just really don’t like your brother.”

This entire discussion took place over the sound of Virgil laughing. Once they got to the moth part, he completely lost it and was on the floor in a ball, laughing so hard he was crying.

“That’s…” Virgil wheezed, wiping tears with his sleeve. “That’s just evil. Where did you get the moths?”

“Ok, Logan,” Patton pointed at him. “Your parents are getting a Christmas card this year.”

“You said you’d stop.”

“That was before I found out you fed Payton moths for months. Is that why you always offered to cook?”

“If we’re ok with poisoning Payton,” Roman held up his hand. “Then I used to spit in his water bottle whenever he left it unattended.”

Patton sat down on the floor with his head in his hands. Virgil continued laughing. And Logan and Roman just stood there guiltily. Virgil’s laughter died down and turned to coughing and hiccupping as he tried to get his breath back. At least one of them was having fun. Patton pulled him into his lap like he was a stuffed animal.

“How did we get here?” Patton whimpered.

“I don’t know, but I am thrilled that I was a part of it.” Virgil beamed at him.

“Might I add that he left his baby unattended more than he left his water bottle.” Roman tried to defend himself. “And was next to useless when it came to literally everything that was going on. Some nights he didn’t even come home.”

“In his defense,” Patton buried his face in Virgil’s shoulder. “If I could have just walked away and not have had to see what happened, I would have. Maybe he just couldn’t take it.”

“What about Virgil?” Roman raised an eyebrow. “He left you to raise his baby and tend to your dying mother.”

Patton kissed Virgil on the top on his head and sunk back down.

“I can’t defend that. I just, I understand why he didn’t want to be around then. Mom would have liked to see him though.”

“I’ll be an advocate really quick,” Virgil added, looking at the floor. “At least Payton kept me. He didn’t leave the country and dump me off with an abusive father.”

“That doesn’t matter anymore either.” Patton wrapped his arms around him tightly. “Because we actually want you. And we want you to stay with us.”

“So, I can stay?” Virgil blinked in disbelief.

“We’re suing your father for custody.” Logan said quickly. “And not to get your hopes up, but we have a pretty solid case. I think our chances are good.”

Virgil quietly leaned back against Patton.

“So, are we just gonna have all our big moments in the middle of a store?” He asked blankly.                              

[gascon-en-exil]

Joining the Game Late: S8E6 “The Iron Throne”

Synopsis

Tyrion surveys the damage and finds his siblings, while Jon almost fights Grey Worm over executions. Arya and Jon are in the crowd as Daenerys gives her victory speech and Tyrion gets arrested for throwing away his pin. Tyrion goads Jon into growing a spine; he sort of does. Daenerys lives out her Season 2 vision and expounds upon her philosophy of conquest before Jon stabs her (not like that) and Drogon burns the symbolism...but not Jon for some reason. A tense trial at the Dragonpit, with Edmure still being a dumbass and a bid for democracy from Sam that goes over poorly. The man on trial nominates Bran as the new king which everyone accepts because he monologued a good thesis statement for the show, except Sansa who makes the North independent. For their crimes Tyrion is still Hand, and Jon is sent back to the Night’s Watch. Grey Worm, his antagonism ignored, sails to Naath, while Arya sails west off the map and Brienne finishes Jaime’s entry. The new small council features Sam dropping the book series title, Bronn arguing over the necessity of rebuilding brothels, and Davos completing a very old brick joke. Jon comes home to Tormund, and the two of them and Ghost lead the Free Folk north of the Wall as Sansa and Arya join them via cuts for a Stark ending.

Commentary

There are parts of this ending that I like. I like that the episode concludes with the Starks; uninterested as I generally have been in the family as primary PoV characters, it’s thematically appropriately to close out on the ongoing adventures of Jon, Sansa, and Arya. I like that Jon/Tormund is less of a joke than I was expecting, that Tormund features prominently in Jon’s final scenes and that the show sends them off as a sort of family unit along with Ghost and the remaining Free Folk. I like Brienne’s addition to Jaime’s entry in the book of the Kingsguard, highlighting his heroism while also remaining honest about his final decision...and delicately leaving out the incest, or her own fling with the man for that matter. It’s sterilized, and yet not wholly so, a fitting way to end the story of such a morally complicated figure whose very existence in the narrative seems to hinge on a deconstruction of the knight in shining armor archetype. I like the realization of Dany’s vision at the end of Season 2, a tacit understanding by the showrunners that they (and GRRM advising them) knew they were eventually going to get to that image of the Iron Throne in a ruined Red Keep covered in snow. I like that the show doesn’t belabor the “where are they now” aspect of the epilogue, that not everything is perfect and tidily wrapped up even if most of what isn’t is left unmentioned offscreen. It reminds me very much of most Fire Emblem endings, in the sense that a true happy ending remains elusive and there are always challenges left to face and tales remaining to be told. This isn’t Lord of the Rings, concluding when a fat and allegedly relatable guy named Samwell plops down a book (for the most part not written by him) bearing the title of the work in-universe as if to say that that’s the end of that and everything will sort itself out, nor is it Harry Potter with its treacly epilogue pairing everyone off into neat heterosexual marriages with 2.5 children and middle-class comfort. The story will continue, and you can place bets on how many decades of peace Westeros will have before there’s another continental war and a bunch of these characters get violently offed like the generation before them.

There are parts of this ending that I can abide. I’ve reconciled myself to the indignity of Bronn taking Highgarden by seeing in him a type of character like Thénardier from Les Misérables. Both of them are amoral, avaricious assholes despite occasional entertaining moments, and despite that their stories reward them not only with survival but with wealth and notoriety far beyond what they deserve purely as a demonstration that life is often unfair like that. Perhaps Bronn’s lordship of the setting equivalent of Paris was an explicit nod to that? I don’t mind the council at the Dragonpit laughing outright at Sam’s suggestion - transparent as it was coming from the author’s self-insert - of elective democracy, because much like FE the pseudo-medieval stasis this setting is locked into is not realistically equipped to handle such a revolutionary political shift, much less competently depict it in around half an hour of remaining screentime. I can bear the overt allusions to fascist regimes in Daenerys’s victory speech scene, because if you’re going to pivot her from liberator with worrying violent tendencies to tyrannical conqueror hard enough to make it reasonably justifiable that the show’s two most prominent remaining “good” guys would conspire to assassinate her with only that one scene to do it in you may as well go all out with the shorthand. Drogon not roasting Jon is stupid, but melting the Iron Throne is a great symbolic image: destroying all the ruin and strife it represents, coming full circle with the Targaryen reign over Westeros, and so forth.

And then there’s one part of this ending that’s really hard for me to swallow, particularly as Fire Emblem: Three Houses presents a variation of the same scene with much better execution. As this episode aired only about three months before the release of FE16 the similarities between Daenerys’s death and the final cutscene of Azure Moon can be nothing more than an interesting coincidence, but as you’d be hard-pressed to argue that Edelgard did not take some design cues from Daenerys - and to a lesser extent Dimitri from Jon - during the game’s development it’s a useful coincidence for contrast purposes. I mentioned a few posts ago that most of the uncomfortable elements present in Dany’s death are absent in Edelgard’s; she and Dimitri are not sexually involved at any point, and the game focuses instead on their familial bond even though (ironically) they are not biologically related. Dimitri also kills Edelgard in self-defense, after he reaches out his hand to her and she responds by throwing a dagger at him - which is considerably less awful than Jon leading Daenerys into a kiss just so he can stab her. Three Houses also benefits in that Dimitri is a far better realized character overall than Jon Snow, with a clearly defined arc in Azure Moon, meaningful convictions that place him at odds with Edelgard on both a personal and philosophical level, and even a stronger queer angle - also with a bear belonging to a historically marginalized culture/ethnicity, humorously enough. Jon by contrast feels at this stage mostly formless, with nothing strongly defining him (barring perhaps his affection for the Free Folk, which is what he returns to when everything is said and done) and in fact a repeatedly reference lack of desire to do things. Little wonder then that his decision to kill Daenerys comes more or less entirely because Tyrion told him she was the final boss and had to be taken care of.

Regarding Dany herself...if you’ve been following this liveblog the whole way through you know that I’ve been watching her character since the show began for signs that she’d wind up where she does. Yes, they are there, quite in abundance actually, and where the show stumbles comes of course from how terrible paced the story is by the time it reaches her breaking point. The audience has to make do with some of the most obvious fascist signposting imaginable and a single nonsensical speech to Jon (something else she has in common with Edelgard incidentally, who has many of these) revealing Daenerys to be the egomaniacal conqueror she always was with no subtlety whatsoever because the show has run out of time for subtlety. To this episode’s credit I do appreciate that Grey Worm continues to stick around as a foil and reflection of Daenerys. His rage over Missandei’s death sees him executing captured Lannister soldiers en masse, and he continues to demand justice for Tyrion’s betrayal even though after this point the writers stopped caring about him and shipped him off to Naath for an ending (where I am told there are plague-bearing butterflies? That doesn’t bode well.). In Grey Worm one can see a version of Daenerys’s own anger at all that she has suffered and lost, and how destructive that anger can be - only Grey Worm doesn’t have a dragon that can charbroil a city in minutes. Still, these are mere scraps of characterization to set up such a drastic shift in presentation for one of the show’s two biggest leads, and I can definitely understand why fans were angry about it and probably still are. Even as someone who was expecting this all along and was never personally invested in Daenerys the way I was with some other characters, her death - the centerpiece of this episode, and the lead-in to GoT’s epilogue - was easily the biggest sour note of its finale, less that it happened at all and more how, and probably the single event in the last two-ish seasons that more than any other really needs the book series to flesh it out and develop it into something worthwhile.

I think that’s a wrap. I’ve spent nearly four months on this liveblog and have written far more than I possibly imagined that I would. Maybe sometime in a year or so I’ll return to this series again and just watch it through without taking notes. Perhaps I’m in a minority for believing that GoT would even be worth a rewatch. Eh...if you’ve read all this at least you know why.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Oh man I've gotta ask about what would happen if Reynolt's squad was saved by the Dawn Squad. And if you up for it, could I request it as a prompt?

Let me just say this is an awesome prompt! Now let me apologise because I got carried away and now we have 5k+ words of whatever this is. 

Content warning for violence. The Venatori are not nice.

                                        _____________

It was unusual for Hanin to be called in for a briefing so soon after returning from the field. The Western Approach, unforgivable at the best of times, wasn’t a place where you wanted to send soldiers out without sufficient rest. To say he was perplexed would be an understatement, and as Hanin walked into the old inn that had been re-purposed as a command station, what he saw only added to his confusion.

“You sent for me?” Hanin glanced at Captain Hurst, who was in the process of weathering an agitated line in the floorboards. He paced back and forth, his heavy boots thudding loudly in the mostly empty room. No words needed to be spoken to clarify the gravity of the situation, and Hanin frowned, closing the door behind him. “What happened?”

“Ask him,” Hurst snapped, gesturing sharply to the other figure who had escaped Hanin’s notice until that point. Sitting by the desk at the back of the room, the man was hunched forward, his hands knotted in his thick brown hair. His uniform was torn and caked with dust and sand, and from what Hanin could see of his hands, they were crusted with what could only be dried blood. Despite being unable to see his face, Hanin recognised him almost immediately.

“Reynolt?” After exchanging a glance with Hurst, who just grunted and threw up his hands in frustration, Hanin decided to take control. He moved over to Reynolt, who had started shaking his bowed head, the movement so subtle Hanin almost missed it. “Tell me what happened.” 

Some part of him knew he should be softer; take pity on the man. But another part of him resented Reynolt so deeply for what he and his recruits put the Dawn Squad through that he just couldn’t bring himself to show any such mercy. He just didn’t deserve it.

“Those damn Venatori…” Reynolt’s voice was low and gravelly, like there was a hand squeezed around his throat. “They ambushed us. We were tired - unprepared. Got separated from each other. They…”

All while Reynolt spoke, a quiet, heavy sensation began to stir deep in the hollow of Hanin’s stomach. It rose and rose with each word until what Reynolt was saying - all of his curses and excuses - lost their shape, replaced by a deep, pounding thrum. The man was mid-sentence when Hanin finally spoke. The words fell like stone from his lips, cold and numb with the weight of realisation.

“You left them.”

Reynolt stammered to a halt, dark eyes darting up, almost seeming shocked by the statement of truth as though it was something else - a lie, an exaggeration. 

But it wasn’t. 

It couldn’t be anything else. 

“I… I had no choice.” Reynolt looked imploringly back and forth between Hanin and Captain Hurst, shame and indignation at war upon his face. “I-It was flee or be captured! And then what? There was nothing to be gained by—”

—“You left them!” Before Hanin even knew what he was doing, he had Reynolt by the shirtfront, the chair thrown aside as he grabbed the man and flung into the center of the room. Reynolt hit the floor hard, the sound of his armour striking the ground resonating with a sharp crack as one of the boards broke beneath him. 

“Lavellan!” Hurst’s alarmed voice barely registered. Hanin was already rounding on Reynolt, stalking forward as the man scrabbled towards the wall, eyes wide, boots sliding impotently, his left arm cradled to his chest. 

“Coward,” Hanin hissed. “Bastard. How could you leave them!?”

“Y-You think I wanted this? Fine! Call me what you want - I’m a coward and a bastard!” Reynolt’s voice had risen to a shout, something wild and hysterical shaking at its edges. “But if I wasn’t here, who the fuck would get them help? Answer me that, Lavellan!” When Hanin said nothing, Reynolt took a shallow, shaking breath. “No one. You know it and so do I. So save your fucking preaching and help me, damn it!”

“Help you?” Hanin snorted derisively and shook his head. “No. There is no helping you, Reynolt. You have proven that time and time again.” He turned sharply, attention snapping to Hurst. “My squad and I will mount the rescue. Have word sent to the stables. We will need gear and enough supplies for any potential wounded.”

“I’m coming with you.” Reynolt, who had managed to drag himself to his feet, now stood leaning heavily against the wall. ‘They are my—”

—“They are not yours,” Hanin interrupted, not even bothering to look at the man. “Not anymore. You have lost that privilege. I will see to it myself.” Moving towards the door, Hanin shoved it open roughly, the anger in the motion unmistakable. “You were their captain, Reynolt. If anything has happened to them… know that it should have been you.”  

                                                            ~

Venatori Camp - The Old Well

“I already told you I don’t know!” Laurent’s voice was high with fear, his blond hair matted with dust and blood from where he had been struck on the side of the head. “We’re just recruits - w-we don’t know the Inquisitor’s plans!”

One of the Venatori, called Terinius, stood over the kneeling man. Brenner could only watch as Laurent trembled in his shackles, his hands twisting behind his back, fingers knotting in nervous panic. His Orlesian accent, usually quite subtle, became much more pronounced when he was afraid. On a better day, Brenner might have held onto that as something to taunt him for later. But, as it stood, an accent was far from the most important thing to take away from this whole encounter. 

If they took anything away at all. 

“I am growing tired of your lies.” Terinius nodded to one of his steel-clad brutes, who stepped forward menacingly. “You are soldiers, are you not? What is your purpose in the Western Approach?”

“W-We’re just scouting.” Laurent twisted sharply, eyes wild at the edges. His gaze swept past Brenner to rest on Caldin and Varcette. “It’s the same as what they told you! It’s the truth, I swear it. Please…”

Sighing, Terinius exchanged a glance with the brute. “Very well. Unbind him.”

Brenner’s mouth dropped open at the same time as Laurent’s. What? That was it? Just like that? But as soon as the optimistic thoughts crossed his mind he knew they were foolish. Even as Laurent sobbed thank you’s to the man unlocking his shackles, Brenner felt his stomach sink to his knees. Panic quickly replacing dread, he turned to his other squadmates, praying to the Maker for a miracle and that even one of them would be conscious. But Caldin and Varcette had been the first interrogated. They had been dragged further into the camp for it. Apparently, after failing to break the two of them alone, they decided to change tactics. Put pressure on the interrogated and the witness.

Well the joke was on them. Brenner couldn’t care less about his squadmates. What mattered was that he got out alive. Whatever it took. 

A second robed Venatori arrived carrying a candle. Odd, given the sun was still up. Setting, yes, but it wouldn’t grow dark for another hour or two. Terinius nodded to the newcomer and smiled a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he turned back to Laurent. “Laurent, was it? I would like you to meet my associate, Darvaron.” The candle-holding man bowed his head to Laurent, who was about as confused as Brenner by this point. “Darvaron is one of our best, you know,” Terinius continued. “It is a shame that we have not been able to put him to use yet. No - a crime, really.”

Laurent’s hands were free from the shackles, but not for long. The brute, standing a good foot and a half taller, grabbed Laurent by the wrists. He twisted one arm behind the blond’s back, ignoring his strained cry as he forced the other out towards Darvaron. Laurent fought hard, but Terinius just chuckled as the brute stood like a stone golem, immovable. “Now now, don’t waste your strength. He is far stronger than a regular man; even one of his own size. Let’s just say I know his blood… quite intimately.”

“Gross,” Brenner muttered, then clamped his mouth shut quickly as Darvaron’s grey eyes flicked over to him. For a heart-pounding moment, he found himself locked in a silent, chilling stare with the Venatori, and it was like something was being… pulled from him. Right from the center of his being. Brenner felt his chest begin to tighten as breathing became difficult - near impossible. Spots formed at the edges of his vision, dark yet somehow bright all at once. But those eyes. Those grey eyes, like an empty mirror…

Suddenly, Darvaron broke the contact, his gaze returning to Laurent. The pressure in Brenner’s chest released like the snapping of a bowstring. Gasping, he sagged forward, focusing all of his attention on pulling in long, deep breaths, simply because he could. What the fuck have we got ourselves into? he thought as voices warbled nonsensically ahead of him. Maker, what he would give to go back a day. To be complaining in camp about sand in his shoes and the smell of Caldin’s sweat. Fuck, he’d eat the sand and drink the sweat at this point. Anything to get out of this place.

“Let’s try this one more time, yes?” Terinius’ voice drifted through the haze in Brenner’s mind, dragging his attention back to the spectacle before him. Laurent was still held by the helmeted brute, his outstretched hand trembling as Terinius gently - oh so gently - pulled off his glove. With another mirthless smile, the Venatori stepped back and gave a sweeping gesture to his companion, as though inviting Darvaron to step forward at a soiree. Taking his cue, the grey-eyed man moved to stand before Laurent. Brenner couldn’t see his squadmate’s face, but from hearing the hitching of his breath, he knew he was crying. 

Oh, for Andraste’s sake…

“Tell me,” Darvaron said slowly. His words dripped like sap, slow and sickly as he moved the candle beneath Laurent’s outstretched hand. He held it close enough that Laurent hissed, his fingers flinching upward. “What is the Inquisition’s business in the Western Approach?”

“I-I already told you. We all told you. We don’t know, I swear, we don’t know anything!” As Laurent spoke, his voice began to rise in panic. At first, Brenner figured he was just at his wit’s end - Laurent never really had much backbone. But then he realised that the candle’s flame was shifting colour. Ever so slowly, the golden glow began to change, blue tendrils mingling with gold, licking up towards Laurent’s straining hand. Darvaron kept the flame positioned where Laurent’s fingers met his palm, the brute’s grip unyielding as Laurent began to whimper. Then gasp. Then scream. 

The screaming...

Shuddering, Brenner had to look away. Had to. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to block out the sound as it rose higher and higher until the smell - Maker, the smell - hit his nostrils and it was burning skin and flesh. Retching, Brenner was forced to open his eyes again - to see Laurent’s hand dripping over the flame, flexing, curling, trying to escape the heat, burning both the top and bottom of his fingers as he panicked, wrist held in that immovable grasp. His voice broke - he screamed that he didn’t know. That he’d do anything! Begged for it to stop but it wouldn’t and there was something clear and thick dripping from his hand now—

—“STOP! I’ll talk - I’ll tell you everything you want! Just stop it!”

The flame snapped out of existence as though drawn back into the candle’s wick. Laurent’s screams continued for a few more seconds before the man went mercifully limp, his hand shaking, unable to bend or flex, blackened fingers twitching. The brute, seeing no further purpose in his task, dragged Laurent back towards the others and dumped him beside Varcette like a sack of spoiled flour. Brenner winced as that hand, the skin curled and cooked, landed in the hot sand. For a moment, all he could do was stare. All three of his squadmates were just lying there. So… still. 

Were they even alive? Surely they were alive.

They had to be. 

Didn’t they? 

Without realising, Brenner stared until that sickly voice, slow as treacle, drifted through the heavy air.

“Your friend did well, but I do not expect he could have lasted much longer.” Brenner swallowed and glanced back at Darvaron, whose fingers absently twisted the wick of the candle. The absence of any expression on the man’s face sending a chill down Brenner’s spine. “You said you would talk.” Those grey eyes flicked up - found him once more. “So… talk.”

                                                     ~

The Western Approach - Nearing The Old Well

“This has to be a fucking joke.” Cyrus glowered at Hanin’s back, their captain insisting on riding ahead of the group. As always. “Why did we have to be the ones to go bail those assholes out of trouble?”

“Probably aren’t many folks lining up for the job.” Lyrene shrugged, one hand on the reins, the other playing absently with her mare’s mane. “Besides, might be cathartic, seeing those snobby brats all trussed up waiting for a rescue.”

“These are the Venatori we’re talking about,” Ralon interjected pointedly. “For all we know, they’re already dead.” His nose wrinkled. “Maybe harvested for bodyparts or… skull staffs… or whatever it is that gets Venatori off, I dunno.”

Darren, who was riding a bit further back with the wagon, let out a shrill whimper. “Stop! That’s… I don’t wanna think about that.” He shook his head, as if to clear it of the image. Cyrus knew what the kid was about to say before he even said it. “I hope they’re okay. The briefing made the Venatori sound really bad…”

Cyrus grunted. “They can drop dead for all I care.” As usual, Darren had a way of killing the fun. He sighed tightly, nudging his horse into a canter, kicking up sand as he caught up with Hanin. They were supposed to be nearing the Old Well soon. It would be nice to know the plan. If he even had one.

“Got an idea of how we’re going to take down a bunch of Venatori?”

Hanin’s jaw was set in a tense, hard line. Cyrus could practically hear the creaking of the man’s teeth as they rode. “I go in first. You follow with Ralon. Lyrene stays back and covers us. If we are not outnumbered, Connors works with Darren to find the recruits and get them to the wagon. If we are, they join the fight and we keep each other from being flanked.” 

“Fine.” Cyrus paused for a moment, then huffed a sigh, “Look… I’m just going to say it. Why the hell did you volunteer us for this?”

They were quiet for a time, Cyrus’ attention lingering on Hanin’s profile. He had expected a reaction from Hanin. A reprimand. A sigh. But there was just… nothing. Just that same, quiet anger that seemed to be directed and nothing and everything all at once. 

“We have a duty to each other. It is as simple as that.”

“Bullshit. They wouldn’t come for us.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, I do.”

Slowly, Hanin turned his head to regard Cyrus. There was something in the older man’s eyes. Something… tired. “I’m not asking you to enjoy it, Cyrus. I’m telling you to do it because it needs to be done. I know there is… friction between you all.” He ignored Cyrus’ derisive snort at the understatement. “And I know this is a lot to ask. But we march under the same banner. All of us. If we forget our duty to each other, everything will fall apart.” Shifting slightly in his saddle, Hanin returned his gaze forwards, gazing quietly at the horizon. “We do what is right, even when it is hard. Now go. Tell the others the plan. We’re almost there.”

Falling back with a frustrated sigh, Cyrus did as he was told and relayed the plan to the others. As predicted, there were no arguments. They all knew what they were good at, and now wasn’t the time to go changing things up. As much as Cyrus wished it wasn’t them rescuing Reynolt’s chuckle-fuck squad, he knew Hanin had a point. If they knew there was trouble and did nothing, what did that make them? Not a whole lot better than the people they hate.

As they climbed another sandy slope, the sun dipped low along the horizon. Given their proximity to the location Reynolt had given, they dismounted, tethering the horses to one of the sparse trees on the leeward side of the slope. Grabbing their gear from the wagon, they did a quick check of their armour and weaponry. Ever since Connors’ shield strap had broken mid-fight, Hanin had made it part of their routine. As Lyrene was testing her bowstring a shout, distant and desperate, broke through the air. 

Hanin did not need to give the order. All at once, the Dawn Squad was on their feet, and they were running.

                                                         ~

Venatori Camp - The Old Well

Brenner coughed painfully, wheezing, the sand and grit stinging his eyes, filling his nose and mouth as he tried to haul himself off the ground. He’d managed to last time. And the time before. But this time, when the brute’s boot connected, the bastard had misjudged. Aimed a little high. He’d felt something in his chest crack and now all Brenner could do was lie there, arms shackled behind his back, unable to do a damn thing to defend himself as a boot ground his face into the sand.

This was it. He was going to die.

The family name could go fuck itself. None of this had been worth it. 

“I would advise against lying.” Terinius’ voice was quiet, laced with a kind of scholarly indifference. Brenner sputtered and coughed, gasping shallow, painful breaths as the boot left the back of his neck. He turned his head and rolled onto his side, gritting his teeth, spitting blood on the sand before the Venatori’s feet. “Typical of a southern dog,” Terinius continued, shifting his boot casually away from the mess, “your kind have always been arrogant to a fault.”

Slowly, almost hauntingly, Brenner heard himself… laugh. It seemed distant at first - detached and breathless, catching on the back of his throat. Perhaps he was finally losing his mind. But so what if he was? Begging hadn’t worked; Laurent’s mutilated hand was testament to that. Silence wouldn’t save him, and lying just got him here, with a shattered rib and a mouthful of blood.

He might as well do what he does best.

“Y… You kiss your mother with that mouth?” He bared his teeth in a bloody smirk. “C-Careful. Your sister might get jealous.”

Terinius arched a brow. “Unwise, boy.”

Brenner chose not to heed the warning. “Must get you off, all this torturing and beati–” He broke off with a cough, cringing at the sharp pain as he pulled in a breath. But he pushed on. “B-Beating. Thought you were Venatori? Big, scary Vint mages. G-Gotta be an easier way to get what you want.”

Terinius seemed genuinely surprised by his change in tone. His brows almost disappeared beneath his crimson hood, although as he spoke Brenner seethed at the condescending amusement in his voice. “Well… it seems you have quite a bit more spirit than the others. I will grant you that, but it changes little.” He glanced to Darvaron. “Do as you please with this one. I recommend taking his tongue first, given his inability to use it wisely.”

It was, apparently, a good recommendation. As Terinius’ robed back swept towards the tents, Darvaron sighed and drew a small knife from his sleeve, the sheath concealed beneath the heavy fabric. It was narrow as a blade of grass, curved slightly along its length. Even from a distance, Brenner could tell it was the kind of knife that held a wicked edge. 

Shit shit shit shit.

“Y-You know… this would be more effective if one of the others was awake to see it.” Brenner knew the odds were slim, but Maker, he had to try something. “Scare them. They’ll talk, I swear it. Maybe they know something I don’t. It’s not like we tell each other anything. Don’t—”

Kneeling, ignoring his words, Darvaron grabbed Brenner by the arm, forcing him onto his back with a grunt. Cursing, Brenner glared up at those hollow grey eyes. They hovered inches above him, looking right through him, cold and empty. There was no anger. No frustration. Not even pleasure, which Brenner assumed might be what kept the bastards going. There was just… nothing. 

Somehow, that was even worse.

Sensing that any attempt at bargaining wasn’t going to work, Brenner forced a grin and spat a mouthful of blood in Darvaron’s sallow face.

“T-Take me to dinner first, prick,” he hissed, and did his best not to look at the knife as Darvaron swept a gloved hand over his face, smearing red across his pale skin. “Or at least clean your teeth before you go getting in my—”

Darvaron’s hand shot down to clamp around Brenner’s jaw, fingertips digging into the soft skin on either side of his mouth. He squeezed hard, forcing Brenner to open his mouth despite his struggles and cursing. The time for mockery was over - Brenner twisted, kicking out, ignoring the blinding pain in his chest as he felt his knee connect with the Venatori’s hip. The robed man grunted but somehow maintained his hold, the pointed edge of the knife now cold against Brenner’s lower lip. Refusing to hold still, Brenner felt a sharp sting and winced as the point cut into the side of his mouth. The next thing he knew, those gloved fingers were digging in, searching, prising open— he coughed and gagged, eyes watering, the scream at the back of his throat choked by panic as the knife started to slide under—

Something slammed into Darvaron, throwing the man sideways, ripping the blade away, leaving Brenner alone and shaking on the ground. Coughing, blinking through tears, he blindly pushed himself away, boots slipping hopelessly in the sand, chest screaming, arms held painfully behind his back. Someone… someone was on top of Darvaron; had him grappled in the sand a few yards away. The pair struggled and grunted, rolling, swinging at each other; Darvaron’s knife glinted as it slashed wide, just missing his attacker. A sharp blow to his wrist sent it spinning away, stabbing into the sand to Brenner’s right. 

The hulking brute, slow to react to the sudden change, drew his battleaxe and started to charge towards the pair. Brenner cried a wordless warning as the brute swung down like a headsman. A scream cut the motion short as an arrow pierced his wrist, followed quickly by a second that speared his hand before he even had a chance to react to the first. The brute reeled and roared in pain, axe thudding to the sand, missing his target by only a foot or two. For a second, Brenner thought the newcomers, whoever they were, might actually have the upper hand. However, thought immediately vanished as, in wordless horror, he watched the brute snap the first arrow, then the second, ripping the shafts from his flesh like large, inconvenient splinters. He reached again for his axe, but a second figure suddenly joined the fray, shoulder-charging the bleeding man, knocking them both off-balance. Planting himself between the brute and his weapon, this second soldier twirled his sword once, then fell into a defensive stance. The insignia on his helmet gleamed in the fading light. It was the insignia of the Inquisition.

How…?

A shout pulled Brenner’s attention back to the more immediate fray. The man on top of Darvaron had managed to free one hand and was grasping for one of the blades at his side. He found the hilt but the Venatori kicked and twisted, throwing him off-balance, his grip slipping down the sheath. Seizing the opportunity, the Venatori growled something in a language Brenner didn’t understand, then struck his opponent in the chest with the flat of his palm. There was a crack like thunder and the man, as though kicked by a horse, was hurled backwards by an unseen force. He slammed into the ground beside Brenner, grunting, the sand mercifully dulling the impact but knocking off his helmet. With a pang of horror, Brenner finally realised who it was.

“C… Cyrus?”

That bastard Orlesian? What was he doing here? 

Did that mean the others…?

“Shut up and stay back.” Without even looking at him, Cyrus struggled to one knee, drew his blades, and charged right back towards Darvaron. Brenner stared after him, numb. Speechless.

They… came. How was he ever going to live this down?

                      … live. 

Maker, he might actually live.

Cyrus’ blades flashed - glanced off a blue barrier that shimmered around the Venatori. He ignored the setback and swung around, striking again and again, forcing Darvaron back one step at a time. 

Why would they even come for them?

“Hey, company - head’s up!” 

Brenner knew that voice, sounding from somewhere up the slope behind him. It was that elf - Lyrene. The other two Venatori had emerged from the tents - Terinius and the gladiator. Brenner had fought the gladiator earlier, before everything went to shit. His head still throbbed from where he’d been struck by the back of his mace. Ralon, who Brenner now assumed was the one fighting the brute, yelped something in Antivan - a curse, perhaps - and circled quickly to get the newcomers in his line of sight. There was no way he could handle all three of them. Brenner grit his teeth and pulled at his shackles, hair falling into his eyes, the metal biting into his wrists. 

Shit! Come on… come on…!

Suddenly a figure, clad in full plate, crashed down the slope and into the camp, his heavy footsteps leaving deep gouges in the sand. A golden blade arced through the air, slamming into the gladiator’s side, knocking him off his feet, the momentum of the return sweep carrying him around to face the shocked Terinius. 

That blade. 

He knew that blade.

Captain Lavellan faced off against the Venatori mage, and for the first time there was something akin to fear on Terinius’ face. A dose of his own poison. In that moment, Brenner didn’t even care that it was the knife-ear Captain delivering it. 

At Hanin’s back, the gladiator staggered and began to rise, mace clutched tightly in hand. Before he even took a step towards the Captain three arrows, seeming to appear all at once, made short work of his exposed chest. The gladiator stumbled - looked down at himself - weapon slipping from his grasp. He heaved once and seemed surprised as he coughed a mouthful of red down his chest. Then, with no sound and no warning, he crumpled to the ground.

Something about the way the man fell, silently with those three arrows jutting from him, hit Brenner harder than any boot to the face. It was sharp and visceral, like coming out of a trance. He suddenly gasped in an agonising lungful of air - breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding - eyes darting between the fights, the bloodied sand, his fallen squad, the dying body of the gladiator, blood bubbling from his lips. Brenner felt his own breath stutter in his chest and, mindlessly, he struggled to move, to free his hands.

Do something, damn it! 

Cyrus cried out, reeling away as Darvaron threw a handful of red-hot sand in his face. 

What was he supposed to do?

Ralon dove under the brute’s battleaxe, only to be grabbed and hauled off his feet, boots frantically kicking up sand as they left the ground. An arrow immediately ripped past, missing only by a hair as the Antivan tried to twist free of his opponent’s grip.

No way - not like this. He wasn’t going to sit here and wait for them to fail!

Captain Lavellan advanced on Terinius like some kind of creature from the rifts, unstoppable and seething with an anger fiercer than Brenner could even begin to understand. The Venatori chanted, unseen magic ripping stone from the nearby cliff and sending them hurling towards Hanin. He ducked the first - slapped the second aside with his blade. But they kept on coming, and his advance slowed as he was forced on the defensive.

Maker, this wasn’t… h-how was he supposed to…?

“Hold on - I’ve got you!”

Brenner suddenly felt a pair of strong hands slip under his arms, hauling his upper body out of the sand. He screamed hoarsely at the movement, his chest exploding with pain so intense that he retched and almost threw up what little he still had left inside his stomach. The person holding him froze - Brenner vaguely made out, through the high ringing in his ears, something that sounded like a flurry of frantic apologies. But there were more important things.

“S-Stop,” he managed to rasp. “The others… Laurent… he’s bad. He’s…”

Whoever was holding him nodded, turning slightly. “Can you get them, Connors?”

The woman, who Brenner had not even realised was there, peeled away towards his fallen squadmates, but the arms holding Brenner upright didn’t leave with her. Maker, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t relieved. It was pathetic, but he didn’t want to be alone. Not again. Not even with people fighting just a few meters away. Just being held, it was… he needed it. After everything he’d seen… everything they’d been through…

Laurent is going to lose that hand. 

There’s no way he won’t.

I can’t breathe. 

Caldin and Varcette haven’t moved. 

Not once. 

What if they’re…?

Brenner felt a giddy, panicked laugh break past his defenses. It shook him from somewhere deep inside - rang though his bones.

“Are you okay?” Whoever was holding him stopped, sinking lower in the sand. They had made it to the base of the slope.

Brenner could barely bring himself to dignify that with an answer.

“Am I –? Do I look okay to you?” Shifting, gritting his teeth through the pain, he tried to wrap his arms around his chest but, of course, remembered too late that he was still shackled. “Damn it - get these things off me!”

“I can’t yet.” The apology was clear in the young man’s voice, but that didn’t make it any better. “I’m sure there’s a key here somewhere, but it’s not safe yet. We’ll find it soon - don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen.”

About to snap like an over-pulled thread, Brenner was ready to launch into a scathing tirade at being told not to worry. But that voice…

Oh for Andraste’s sake, it was that blond kid.

The fucking farmboy.

“S-So what? You’re going to protect me?” Brenner wanted to laugh again. Maybe cry. Maker, a part of him was desperate to insult the boy - revert to anything that felt even somewhat normal. But for whatever reason, be it blood-loss, pain, or plain exhaustion, he just… couldn’t. Instead, his voice failed as a shiver wracked his body. Somehow, as it passed, it seemed to take the last of his strength with it. With a kind of muted humiliation, he felt himself slump back against Darren’s chest, unable to support himself. To the boy’s credit, he caught him without even hesitating - seemed ready for it, even - and mercifully said nothing about it. Just for that moment, Brenner let himself feel how surprisingly solid Darren was against his back; how the arms that held him up were strong but somehow careful. Gentle, even. 

… Why? 

He’d never gone easy on any of them. He’d never even wanted to.

For a second - just a fleeting second - Brenner almost understood what the others saw in Darren. Maybe even what they all saw in each other. 

But that feeling, however strange, was quickly overtaken. The pain, returning sharp and vengeful, seemed to bleed out from his chest to the rest of his body, filling him with fire. The fighting, the fear, the humiliation, the anger, all rapidly slipped though his clenched fingers. The last thing he remembered was Darren’s voice, thick with concern, and the sensation of being held as the world gave way to darkness.

[a-bit-too-much-of-a-zelda-fan]

LinkedUniverse Fanfic Ch. 13: Inn or Out... Maybe Just Inn

Stop! You’ve Violated the Law!

So, you’ve stumbled upon this original post for my Linked Universe fanfiction. That’s okay, it happens to everyone. As of March 2021, I’ve uploaded the entirety of this fanfic to my Archive of Our Own page. Along with finally giving the story a name–Oops! All Links: A Linked Universe Story–I made substantial edits to some of the chapters. These range from minor stylistic revisions to fixing a gaping plot hole that kinda completely broke the character conflict in the earlier chapters. I also renamed and renumbered (but not reordered) the chapters. Specifically, this is now Chapter 15: Inn or Out... Maybe Just Inn

The AO3 iterations of these chapters are the definitive versions. So, if you would like to read this fanfiction, please do so on AO3, right here. With this embedded link. Hehe. Geddit? Link?

Note: My screen name on AO3 is FrancisDuFresne. Yes, that is me. I am not plagiarizing myself.

Anyway, for posterity’s sake, the rest of the original post is below the cut.

This chapter in my @linkeduniverse fan narrative: the Links have made it Selggog. They’re pretty tired. It’s time for them to get some well-deserved rest. They’ll need to find an inn, first. Word count: 2581:

“The Town of Selggog,” Warrior let the words roll off his tongue. Well, he tried. “Selggog” doesn’t really roll off the tongue. “You think we can restock here?”

Wind looked around the town in awe. Its weathered but dignified buildings stood close to one another in tightly packed streets. The orange light of the setting sun reflected off the high windows. People bustled about on their last-minute errands. Compared to Windfall Island, it was practically a metropolis. “Yeah,” he replied. “Definitely. Look at this place!”

Time was reminded vaguely of Hyrule Castle Town. Being back in civilization was a nice change of pace. He drank in the sights and sounds and smells of the town. Some people eyed the Links warily, perhaps put on edge by nine heavily-armed young men. He supposed these people weren’t used to travelers, let alone warriors like him and his friends.

“Don’t get caught up in all of this,” Time warned the others. “We still need to be on guard.”

Four remembered the gang of thieves he encountered on one of his journeys. “Yeah,” he said. “We don’t need any pickpockets.”

“Anyone see an inn?” Sky asked with a yawn, looking for any sign of lodging.

“Not yet, sleepyhead,” Legend jested.

“We do need to restock, though,” Warrior repeated. “We need an apothecary for potions, a market for food, a fletcher for arrows… Twilight, do you need new pants?”

As he walked, Twilight glanced at his torn and bloodied pant leg. “No, I’m fine. I’ll fix them tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, what else?”

Wild spoke up hesitantly: “An armorer. I need a new shield… and probably a new sword, too.”

“A new sword? Seriously?” Legend asked, whipping around to face his companion. “What’d you do to your old one?”

“The fight with the stalfos really did a number on it.”

Warrior smacked his own forehead. ‘Maybe, if you took care of your weapons for once, they wouldn’t break so easily!”

“Yeah, come on,” Four chimed in. A blacksmith himself, it always bugged him when he saw how Wild treated his weapons.

Time sighed. Yet again, he needed to stop their bickering. “Lay off him,” he snapped. “Four, take a look at his sword in the morning and decide if he needs a new one.”

The one-eyed hero took a deep breath. “What we need to do right now is find an inn. No stores will be open at this hour.”

They turned a corner. As if on cue, they spotted a sign swinging from above a building’s door. A crescent moon was painted on the worn, wooden surface. Behind it, they could see the last sliver of sun creep behind the rooftops. Stars began popping into sight above them in the twilit sky. “Talk about good timing,” Wind said, stretching his arms upward. “I’m just about ready to collapse.”

The nine companions reached the inn’s door and opened it. A bell chimed as it swung open. The heroes filed in. The place had a cozy feel to it. To one side, several cushioned chairs were arranged around the crackling fireplace. On the other, high tables and stools stood near a bar. A stairwell was set in the far wall. The reception desk was ahead of them.

A portly, balding, middle-aged man sat behind the desk. He had clearly been nodding off, by the way he jolted when the bell rang. That, and the line of drool rolling down his chin; he quickly ran his sleeve across his face. Like the townsfolk outside, he gave the heroes a wary look. From the bloody slash in Twilight’s pant leg to the halberd on Wild’s back, they weren’t exactly dressed to the nines.

The man stood up from his stool and took a few seconds to look the Links up and down. “Welcome to the Black Pot & Kettle Inn. Can I help you?” he asked apprehensively.

Time stepped forward. The man stepped back. Spending so much time around Malon and his other selves made him forget how intimidating he could appear. Most folks weren’t accustomed to seeing people with one eye, never mind one with strange markings on his face, wearing armor, and carrying a massive sword on his back. He had to work to dispel that impression.

“We would like lodgings for the night, please,” Time said.

The man, who they reckoned must be the innkeeper, shot Time an incredulous look. “You fellas got the cash for this many of you?”

“Yes,” Time asserted. Firm yet gentle. “We’ll only need three rooms.”

He looked back to his companions, who nodded their assent. He turned to face the innkeeper, who was reaching under his desk. Time just barely caught the man muttering under his breath, “psh, only three rooms.” After a jingling of metal, the innkeeper stood up and held out three room keys. “Can I have a name for these?”

“Link.”

“Huh. Odd name for a… warrior… such as yourself.”

The man’s skepticism escaped none of them. If only he knew who they really were, they all mused. He likely noticed the indignance on all their faces, because he lowered the sarcastic tone as he said “Okay, Mister Link. That’ll be three hundred rupees.”

A few of them had to suppress gasps. That was a hefty price for just one night. Thinking quickly, Hyrule stepped up next to Time. He placed a forearm on the desk and stared down the innkeeper. “You know, sir, we don’t have to stay here,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the door. “I’m sure Selggog has plenty other fine inns that would love our business.”

The innkeeper’s demeanor changed immediately. “Yes,” he agreed, “yes, I’m sure they would. How does… two hundred fifty rupees sound?”

Hyrule wasn’t about to settle. “One hundred.”

Sky leaned over to Hyrule and whispered: “Don’t push it.” Hyrule shook his head.

“One hundred?!” The man exclaimed. “Do I look like a fool to you?”

Hyrule had to suppress the urge to answer truthfully.

The innkeeper caved a bit. “Fine, fine, you’re a tough customer. Two hundred.”

“One-fifty,” Hyrule pressed, maintaining his stony glare. “Final.”

The innkeeper considered this. Hyrule could practically see the gears cranking in his balding head. After a moment, the innkeeper sighed. “Alright, kid. One-fifty, but only cause I’m in a good mood.”

The Links hadn’t expected to get a cheaper price that easily. Hyrule grinned as he reached into his pouch and pulled out his wallet. He withdrew three purple rupees and placed them on the desk. The innkeeper’s eyes lit up. Losing half of his sale didn’t seem to bother him anymore. He swept the rupees into one hand and held out the keys in the other. Hyrule took them.

“Upstairs, last three on the left,” the innkeeper instructed, crossing his arms. “Bath is at the end of the hall.” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t make a mess.”

Time stepped by Hyrule and held out his hand. The innkeeper eyed it suspiciously, then shook it. “Thank you for your hospitality,” Time said, “and your generosity.”

The innkeeper gave an indiscriminate grunt. The Links turned and headed up the stairs. The stairwell turned direction at a landing midway up, then led to the second floor. Oil lamps set above the doors lit a long hall with a threadbare rug running the length of it. The heroes walked to the end and looked about themselves.

“How should we split?” Four asked.

“Come on,” Legend said, “you of all people should know how to split.”

This got a few stifled snickers. “Very funny,” he shot back. “But seriously.”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” Twilight pointed out. “We’ll go by height.”

After a moment trying to figure out the order, Legend passed the keys around. They uttered goodnights to each other. Twilight unlocked one door and walked in. Time and Warrior followed. Wind, Four, and Legend did the same, as did Wild, Sky, and Hyrule. The rooms were like the rest of the Black Pot & Kettle Inn: cozy and inviting, if not a bit worse for the wear. Three beds with clean linens ran flush against one long wall. A desk, chair, and dresser were by the other. A mirror hung above the dresser, and a small, open window was set in the far wall.

In one room, the heroes began undressing from their battle garments. As Sky unhooked his sailcloth from around his neck, he looked over to Hyrule. He hadn’t expected a show like that from a humble traveler like him. “Hey,” Sky said, “that was pretty gutsy back there.”

“Ah, well…” Hyrule replied. “Three hundred seemed high, so I wanted to get it down.”

Sky cocked an eyebrow. “Wait, so if you don’t like the price of something, you just ask for it for cheaper?”

“Basically,” Hyrule said with a shrug. “People in my Hyrule charge whatever they want for everything, so I had to learn to haggle to get cheap prices.”

Wild propped his halberd against one corner. He paused, looking back on his own adventure. “That’s odd. Where I’m from, it’s as if there’s a price-guide everyone agreed to. Everything’s always the same.” He remembered how much Yiga assassins charged for bananas. “Well, most of it anyway.”

Something clicked in Sky’s head. He suddenly stopped undoing his baldric. “Wait…” he said slowly, “so when Beedle kept jacking up his prices, I didn’t have to pay them?”

“Beedle?” Wild asked. “You can’t mean the merchant, can you? The one who likes bugs?”

“I… yeah, I guess,” Sky said, scratching his head. “How can we know the same person?”

Wild thought about it for a moment. He let down his hair. “Aren’t you supposed to live thousands of years before me?”

“I think so.”

Taking off his boots, Wild looked up to his friends. Sky looked as confused as he felt. “That’s really weird.”

Hyrule slid his power bracelet off his wrist. “Wait, did you say this Beedle guy jacked his prices?”

Sky laughed. “Did he ever! I swear, he nearly drove me bankrupt. Something could be a hundred rupees one day, then be a thousand the next.”

“Seriously?” Hyrule asked. “You never tried to haggle?”

With a shrug, Sky undid his belt, then pulled his tunic and chainmail off over his head. “I didn’t really think that was an option,” he admitted.

“Well,” Wild said, unwrapping the patterned cloth from his forearms, “we can use that extra hundred rupees to buy more provisions. After this knucklehead here”—he jerked his head towards Hyrule—“got himself hurt, we’re out of potions.”

“I’m net even, then,” Hyrule said. “I used the last of the potions, and I saved us the money we need to buy more.”

Sky chuckled. “He’s got you there. You’re one to talk, too. It’ll be more than a hundred to replace that shield.”

Wild looked over the dented Stalfos shield lying next to his other weapons and sighed. “Yeah. That thing is awful.”

“Ha, I thought you were able to use any weapon you come across,” Hyrule joked, his voice muffled as he took off his tunic.

The young knight shot him a look. “It was designed for a skeleton. There’s practically no room for my arm. It’s also weighted all wrong.”

“Riiight.” Hyrule’s voice was tinged with sarcasm.

Just then, they heard a loud rumbling. Sky and Hyrule stood and were reaching for their swords when Wild waved at them dismissively. “Calm down,” he said. “I’m just hungry.”

Sky and Hyrule looked at each other and started laughing. Now that they were thinking about it, they realized they were starving, too. Wild reached into his pouch and pulled out a few strips venison jerky he made the previous week. He put one between his teeth and held the rest to his friends. Hyrule grabbed a couple and thanked him.

Sky shook his head. “I’m good, thanks.”

Wild raised an eyebrow, shrugged, then ripped some jerky off with his teeth and started eating. The people of Skyloft didn’t keep livestock, so their newest knight wasn’t comfortable hunting and eating meat. Survivalists like Wild and Hyrule were puzzled by this but stopped pressing him after a few days.

Even so, Hylia’s chosen hero was still hungry. “Do we still have any more of that soup?” he asked.

Swallowing his mouthful, Wild reached back into his bag. “Let me see… uh… hm… oh!”

He pulled out a corked bottle filled with soup. Twilight had shared this recipe with Wild a while back. He said it was the best soup he had ever had in his life. When Wild finally got around to making it, Sky requested that they leave the fish out. It was tempting to eat all of it then, but they had the sense to put a few bottles away. Wild handed him the bottle.

Sky uncorked it and took a swig of the cold soup. It was better hot, but still tasty and hearty nonetheless. He wiped his mouth and looked from Hyrule to Wild. It was only just after sundown, but they looked as exhausted as he felt. “Hey,” he said.

“Hm?” Hyrule grunted, mouth full of jerky.

“Let’s get some rest. Something tells me Time is going to wake us up early.” He sighed. “Again.”

Wild and Hyrule each nodded. The three of them finished undressing, crawled under their sheets, and—after Hyrule extinguished the oil lamp on the wall—shut their eyes to welcome sleep. A few minutes passed before a whisper pierced the darkness. “You guys good after today?” Sky asked.

“Yep,” Wild whispered back.

“…Yeah,” Hyrule replied. A moment’s pause, then “But what about the others?”

After a few seconds of silence, Sky spoke up. “I dunno. Twi looked pretty shaken.”

“Dark Link seriously messed with him,” Wild pointed out. “Those corpses he made Twi see…”

“And Time…” Hyrule breathed. “You guys weren’t there when he put on that mask. It was awful.”

Something clicked in Sky’s mind. “Was that him screaming?”

“Mhm. He was in so much pain. I can’t help but feel it was my fault. He did it to save me.”

Wild rolled onto his side and looked at Hyrule. The dim moonlight showed the guilt on his face. “Don’t. I was in that position once, so I know that he would do anything he needed to to save his friends. It’s on him, not you.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t let this haunt you. It’s not worth it.”

Hyrule let these words sink in. It was a weight off his chest, but he still had an inkling of that guilty feeling. Sky reflected on his own adventure, how Hylia used him and his love for Zelda so he would willingly run headfirst into unfathomable danger. This courage and love ran through every Link’s blood, he reckoned. “We’ve all been there,” he whispered, “and if I’m on the mark, we wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The Link who felt the least like a hero out of the nine looked up at the dark ceiling. “Yeah.” He closed his eyes. “Yeah… I guess you’re right.”

No more words were spoken that night. The three of them fell asleep in a few minutes, as did the six of them in the other rooms. After everything they had been through the past two days, just feeling a soft bed under them was enough to knock them out. The thought running through all of their minds was the same: It’s about damn time.

[lavenderprose]

Here’s the beginning of a fic I’ve been sitting on for a few months?? Hopefully getting a little feedback will jumpstart my stupid lizard brain into doing something

--

On a blustery morning in mid-September, a dog shows up on Yuuri’s front porch.

Yuuri, who’s in a bit of a hurry to get to town because he promised Phichit that he would help at the shop today, is struck momentarily motionless at the sight of a large silver-beige poodle sitting on his front porch, grinning up a storm and panting large plooms of condensation into the chilly morning air.

When his limbs recall their functions after several long beats, Yuuri steps down off the doorway ledge and onto the porch, cautious even though the dog looks like nothing would please them more than Yuuri coming closer. He glances up and down the road, looking for an owner. Yuuri’s house is set back about a hundred yards from the road, but he can still see it through the branches of the trees. There is nothing and nobody on the road. It’s just Yuuri and a poodle, alone in the cold air and odd stillness of a northern Michigan autumn morning.

Until Vicchan nudges up against the back of Yuuri’s legs and sets to whining, either at the sight of the other dog or at the fact that Yuuri is blocking his access to the yard.

“Shush,” he says to Vicchan, who subsides. He turns back to the other dog, still panting and still regarding Yuuri with large, friendly black eyes. Yuuri steps a little closer.

“Hi, puppy,” he says, kneeling slowly down to eye-level with the poodle. “Who’re you?” The dog lunges forward to try and lick Yuuri’s face; Yuuri laughs and fends him off, gets hold of his collar and reads the tags. Vicchan steps onto the porch and busily sets about sniffing the other dog’s butt.

“Makkachin, huh?” he says, turning the simple bone-shaped nametag in his hands. The reverse side of the tag gives an address, which is only one number off from Yuuri’s on the same road. Yuuri, who had sort of anticipated the dog belonging to a neighbor, isn’t surprised. He pats Makkachin’s head and then, because the name doesn’t really indicate a gender, at least not one that Yuuri can discern, he takes a glance underneath the dog. Makkachin stays still for the indignity, and Vicchan prances back and forth through the open door, unsure what to do with himself.

Makkachin, it turns out, is a girl.

“Alright, let’s get you back home.” Yuuri stands up and clicks his tongue, mostly to attract the attention of Vicchan. He comes barreling back out onto the porch, and Yuuri closes and locks the door. Vicchan rampages towards the car, barking his joy. Makkachin stays put and gazes up at Yuuri, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. Yuuri, who’s noticing now the amount of gray that Makkachin has on her muzzle, takes a step towards the porch steps and pats his leg. With that visual cue, Makkachin hops to it, following along behind Yuuri and Vicchan down the driveway.

Yuuri’s car is a pickup, which is one of only a few types of cars that one can drive with any sense of security through northern Michigan winters. Yuuri spent one awful, terrifying winter after college driving his ’05 Toyota Corolla through foot-high snowdrifts, white knuckling the steering wheel the whole way. In March of that year, he got on the internet and googled best cars for snow, clicked the first result, and went and bought himself a black standard cab pickup. It’s not the kind of car he ever really saw himself driving, and he thinks it might lean a little too far into the whole rural archetype, but he supposes that archetypes become archetypes for a reason—the image of a pickup truck driving down a country road has been in the cultural zeitgeist for practically as long as there have been cars.

Although Yuuri anticipates that Makkachin might need help getting up into the cab, she only really has trouble clamoring into the back to sit on the jumpseat with Vicchan, and she manages it even with Yuuri telling her that she doesn’t need to sit in the back. Once both dogs are settled, Yuuri hops in and turns on the car, backing out along the driveway.

Yuuri’s property doesn’t extend very far, but his neighbor’s property is big enough that the drive up to their front door takes about five minutes. Makkachin is looking out the window and, although she must recognize all of the landmarks they’re passing, doesn’t kick up a fuss.

The house of Makkachin’s owner is relatively large, but only in that it has a slightly bigger footprint than Yuuri’s, coupled with what appears to be a half second floor. It’s nowhere near as extravagant as the McMansions that dot this same road closer to town, where they can be hooked up to the city water and it isn’t a half-hour drive to anywhere worth being. It’s a nice house, though, and might have some history behind it—it has a look of a house that probably wasn’t built this century. The land surrounding the house is well-kept. Further back, the property fades into woods, but you’d be hard pressed to find someone who didn’t have at least some woodland on their property out this way, unless that person was a farmer.

There are two other cars parked in the driveway—a pickup and a jeep that Yuuri (with his only tangential knowledge of cars which are not the car he currently owns) thinks is a Wrangler. The jeep is a common choice in this area, mostly because it’s essentially a street-legal tank, so Yuuri isn’t surprised to see it. The pickup truck is old though—like, seventies or eighties old, and it’s a strange creamy salmon color that Yuuri has never seen before.

It might be, Yuuri thinks, one of those cars that people buy their sixteen-year-olds to learn to drive in, unafraid to see it damaged since they only spent 700 dollars buying it. It could, on the other hand, be someone’s prized antique. It’s hard to tell in this area.

Yuuri dismounts from the car and pats the seat for Makkachin. She comes clamoring out, and Yuuri does help her this time—mostly because he doesn’t want her trying to jump down herself, old as she might be. Vicchan tries to sneak out after her, but Yuuri presses him back into the car.

“You’ll get to run around all day at the shop,” Yuuri tells him, when his ears droop. “Be good.”

Vicchan settles back onto the seat so that Yuuri can close the door, but Yuuri sees his little head pop up over the steering wheel a moment later. Yuuri laughs, seeing it.

The front door opens almost immediately after Yuuri knocks, disorientating him slightly. The man standing in front of Yuuri looks like he’s just about to head out the door as well—he’s wearing a gray parka and black scarf, knit hat pulled down over what looks to be platinum hair, and thick leather gloves on his hands. He and Yuuri, surprised to see each other, blink and say nothing for a moment.

“Is that my dog?” says Makkachin’s owner at last, having seen Makkachin lurking behind Yuuri’s knees.

“Um, yes.” Yuuri glances back at Makkachin, who snorts happily at her owner and trots into the house, blissfully dismissive of the two men still on the porch, who now have to slog through social niceties. Yuuri doesn’t necessarily think that Makkachin’s owner will be difficult to deal with—but he is, Yuuri can’t help but notice, deeply attractive, so it’ll probably be fun for Yuuri’s seven AM brain to deal with that.

“How did she get out?” Makkachin’s owner follows hers fluffy retreating butt with a bewildered gaze. “I just—she’s only been out of the house for twenty minutes. How far did she get?”

“She was on my front porch,” Yuuri says, pointing in the direction he lives. “I live down the road about a mile. Our properties adjoin.”

“She’s not supposed to—” Makkachin’s owner sighs, shakes his head and switches his gaze from Makkachin’s retreat into the house to Yuuri, who he smiles at. “I’m sorry. She’s trained not to leave the property line, so I just let her wander most mornings. She’s getting old, though, so maybe she just…got lost.”

“It’s no problem,” Yuuri says, shaking his head. “She’s a sweetheart.”

Makkachin’s owner smiles as though Yuuri has just complimented him, and not his dog. “She really is! I’m Viktor, by the way. Probably rude of me that I’ve never introduced myself, seeing as we’re neighbors.”

Viktor has a very slight accent that becomes more prominent the longer Yuuri hears him talk. He at first thinks it might be Scottish, but eventually his ear adjusts and he realizes it’s something Slavic. It’s a melodic baritone voice and the inflection that he uses is Pure Michigan. First generation in America, maybe, or naturalized as a child as Yuuri himself was. Yuuri realizes he’s been musing on all of this, instead of responding to what Viktor’s actually said, when that welcoming smile slips into confusion.

“It’s fine!” Yuuri rushes to assure, shaking his hands. “It’s just—I don’t really know any? Of my neighbors? I just—there’s so much distance between—I think people are happier just—y’know, not?”

“Right, of course.” Viktor nods, smile still benevolent, but a little more shut off. “Yeah, I guess…people move out here to be…away.”

“Right.” Yuuri clears his throat, hands slipping into pockets. “Yeah, that’s—” It’s definitely why Yuuri moved here, although he’s trying desperately not to anxiously overshare with this man whose only relationship to him is a lost dog. He chooses not to mention it, for obvious reasons. “That’s right.”

There is a staircase visible behind Viktor’s back, down which a blond-haired youth now stomps. He isn’t initially looking at the door, only at Viktor’s back, and when he reaches the floor says, “Viktor, what are you doing—” then sees Yuuri.

“Yuri!” Viktor says, and Yuuri wonders how Viktor knows his name without him ever saying it, before he realizes that the blond is also Yuri. “This man found Makkachin!”

“Makkachin was missing?” Yuri asks, dripping teenaged ambivalence. He looks at Yuuri, his face contracts into something unpleasant, and he barks, “Thanks I guess!” before sweeping away, to parts of the house unseen.

“He’s shy,” Viktor says, watching him go, then turns back to Yuuri.

“His name is Yuri?”

“Yes, although he usually goes by Yura.” Viktor’s eyes widen at the end of that statement, and he’s quick to assure, “He’s my brother, not my son. I’m not old enough to have a sixteen-year-old.”

“Oh, no, yeah, I can tell. I was just asking because that’s—Yuuri, that’s my name.” He clears his throat, feeling awkward. “The Japanese one, not the—uh—Ukrain..ian…?”

“Russian.”

“Right, Russian. It’s not the Russian spelling. Um…” He clears his throat, glances back towards his car. “I’m gonna—go.”

Viktor smiles again. “Sure. Have a nice day! Thanks for bringing Makkachin back.”

Yuuri, inexplicably, gives Viktor a thumbs up, and stumbles backwards off the porch into a rose bush.

By the time he climbs back into the car, his face is red and his jeans are torn.

“We can never come back here,” he tells Vicchan, as he rapidly reverses out of Viktor-Makkachin’s-Owner’s driveway.

Vicchan wuffs at him balefully from under his own ears.

(“What happened to you?” Phichit demands from behind the ice cream counter, when Yuuri rolls into the shop toting Vicchan, half an hour late and still showing evidence of his mauling by rose bush.

“A very attractive man’s very cute dog was on my porch this morning,” says Yuuri, depositing Vicchan in his dog bed (<3 VICCHAN <3 on the side because Phichit spoils him) and grabbing an apron off the peg behind the counter.

“Oh Yuuri,” says Phichit in a pitying tone. “Oh honey. Oh no.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” says Yuuri, miserably, and conks his head onto a cooling table, where it stays until a customer comes in and, tentatively, asks Phichit if the guy over by the fudge is, uh, ok?)

[unreadable0]

Prompt

Thank you so much @islandsofbooks for the prompt ask!! I think I'll go for the road trip with the Main Squad (but the PT might make a cameo)! Sorry that this one is a bit short!

Added Note: Kurapika and Leorio are college-age (I think)

“Are we lost? I think we’re lost,” Gon piped up from the back seat. 

“No, of course we’re not lost!” Leorio snapped, one hand knuckle-white on the steering wheel. “I’m holding the map right here!”

The blond in the passenger’s seat sighed in exasperation. “Leorio, you’re holding the map upside down.”

The medical student spluttered, turning his ridiculous paper map the right way. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I shouldn’t have had to,” Kurapika replied calmly, “and what kind of moron doesn’t use a GPS?”

Cue indignant gasp. “Well, at least I’m not the idiot who forgot to load the car with enough gas!”

Kurapika’s eyebrow ticked with annoyance. “You never told me that we were using my car!”

“Well, I’m not the one who has a frickin’ minivan! What are you, a suburban mom?” Leorio shot back. 

“Oh, shit’s getting real,” Killua whispered to his friend beside him. Gon nodded, looking a tad fearful, as he should. 

“You know what? Pull over!” Kurapika demanded, completely losing his cool facade. Leorio glanced over at the shady gas station on the side of the road. 

“What, here? Are you crazy?” 

“You heard me. Pull the damn car over. Or so help me god—” Kurapika hissed, his ‘disappointed-and-dangerous’ mom-voice on full blast. The poor recipient of his ire swallowed nervously and did as he was told. 

As soon as the car had stopped in front of a gas pump, Kurapika sprung out of the driver’s seat, gesturing for Leorio to do the same. 

“I’m driving this time,” he explained, pinning the taller man with a challenging stare.

“But—“

“No buts. Now go with the boys to get some snacks from the convenience store.”

Once again, Leorio hesitated, which did nothing for Kurapika’s nerves. “Are you sure? I swear I saw the cashier holding a knife earlier!”

“Stop being a baby,” Kurapika demanded advised. “Now shoo!”

Not wanting to dig himself any deeper into his own grave, Leorio obeyed, dragging the two hyper-active thirteen-year-olds along with him. 

As it turned out, the cashier was actually a very nice man that did not indeed have a knife on him (the supposed ‘knife’ had actually just been a click-open comb). While Gon and Killua ran around the store picking out what had to be an inhuman amount of sugar, Leorio took the time to actually download a GPS app onto his phone. Believe it or not, he actually did listen to half the crap that Kurapika yelled at him for. Not because he cared what the blond thought. No, absolutely not.

Slapping himself mentally for such thoughts, Leorio looked around for the boys. “Gon! Killua! Hurry up, or Kurapika will whoop our asses!”

“Language!” Gon admonished, expression every bit as chiding as a certain blond’s. Leorio’s eye twitched momentarily. His influence is spreading!

“Sure. Now, do you have everything that you want?” The two kids nodded. “Are you absolutely sure? I don’t want to have to come all the way back because someone forgot water or anything.” Pinning Killua with an meaningful look, Leorio continued, “I’m talking about you, Killua.”

“We have everything, Pops,” Killua said, his weariness bordering dramatic. “Stop being such a mother-hen; that’s Kurapika’s job, anyway.”

Gon nodded wisely. “Yeah. Speaking of Kurapika, who’s that weird man he’s talking to?”

Immediately, Leorio’s brain went into emergency mode. Oh shit, oh shit. Kurapika’s going to be pick-pocketed and he’s going to blame me! 

“Hey!” Killua exclaimed. “It’s that motorcycle dude from a couple weeks ago!”

“Oh, yeah!”

Leorio carried out what he thought was a casual sweep of what was behind him, but judging by the fact that he’d almost whacked his head on a nearby magazine rack, he hadn’t been successful.  

Sure enough, the pretty blond was conversing with a dark-haired man dressed rather impeccably in a shiny leather jacket and dark jeans. Leorio suddenly felt  very embarrassed at his stuffy button-up and slacks. Why, oh why did he have to pick this very day to dress like an eighty-year-old?

Right. It was because Kurapika had told him that he looked nice. Leorio felt a marginally better. 

But the mystery guy’s fashion sense wasn’t the most worrying part of the situation. Leorio scowled when he caught sight of the growing discomfort in Kurapika’s stance. It was only because he knew him so well, Leorio supposed, that he was able to pick up on the other’s subtle emotions. And the strange guy was giving Kurapika what had to be the most obvious once-over in history. Seriously. Of course, this had to be the day that Kurapika was wearing one of his more revealing outfits. Leorio sighed. 

A thought struck the medical student. 

“Wait, what do you mean, ‘the motorcycle dude from a couple weeks ago?”

Killua smirked. “Well, that dude just popped out of nowhere while we were with Kurapika grocery shopping. He started sprouting out some sort lovey-dovey stuff to Kurapika in the middle of the cereal isle.”

Leorio’s face flickered between various shades of red. 

“Better go save your man,” Killua urged, obviously enjoying every moment of the situation. 

“Okay. Okay,” Leorio agreed, and he had almost walked out the door when he froze. “But not before we pay!”

Gon and Killua groaned at the anticlimactic exclamation.

A full two minutes later, the three of them exited the convenience store laden with plastic bags. Leorio wasted no time waltzing straight up to the blond, dad-mode on high. 

At once, the mystery man’s face furrowed, and Kurapika visibly relaxed at his presence. Taking in the fact that he was a good few inches taller than the dark-haired stranger, Leorio stepped closer to Kurapika, something that the blond surprisingly allowed. 

“Who’s this?” 

Kurapika smiled, eyes alight with something a bit wicked. “This is Leorio,” he replied simply, turning to grin up at the medical student. Leorio’s heart skipped a beat. “Leorio, this is my ex, Kuroro Lucilfer.”

The man named Kuroro straightened a bit, sizing up Leorio. “You misunderstand my question, Kurapika,” he said, a slight accent curling seductively over his words. “Who exactly is this Leorio to you?”

Kurapika opened his mouth to reply, but Leorio felt that it was his turn to step in. “His boyfriend. But I don’t see why it should concern you,” he said, his voice coming out smoother than usual. 

A smirk flitted across Kuroro’s roguish features. “Really? Kurapika, you break up with me, and within a year you’ve turned into some sort of domestic mother-hen?” Kuroro baited, nodding at Leorio’s clothes and the red minivan behind them.

“Where I come from, we call that ‘maturity’,” Leorio quipped, dropping a quick kiss onto the blond’s forehead. “Come on, love, let’s go. Don’t want to be late to Mom’s birthday, now do we?”

Kurapika nodded, cheeks slightly pink. Tilting his head slightly to the side, the blond spoke coldly. “It was decidedly not a pleasure meeting you again, Kuroro. May we never see each other again.”

To his credit, Kuroro did the most ‘I’m-a-shocked-ex’ face ever, something that Kurapika would still be laughing about hours later.

As soon as they pulled out of the parking lot (with Killua and Gon snickering in the backseat), Leorio and Kurapika both breathed out a huge sigh of relief. Making eye contact, the two of them busted out laughing.

“Oh, the look on his face was priceless!” Kurapika cried. 

“Serves him right! Wearing that much hair product should be illegal!” Leorio exclaimed. Kurapika snorted, quite uncharacteristically. 

Once the two of them had calmed down enough, Kurapika smiled fondly at the other. 

“Thanks for pretending like that.”

Leorio’s ears turned pink. “Pretend? Y-yeah. That was all me acting. Haha,” he replied nervously. 

“Then you’re a good actor,” Kurapika praised, eyes not leaving the road. “You were great.” There was an odd, strained note to his words. 

“Thanks,” Leorio replied, watching the blond’s face hopefully. Maybe... just maybe...

And it’s done! This was supposed to just be a platonic comedy, but yeah, this mess happened. It also turned out more as a gas pit-stop story than an actual roadtrip... sorry about that. I hope that you liked it, though! Sorry for the lack of editing and the short message!

[aiimaginesbts]

House of Cards: Chapter 4 (M)

Taehyung, Reader, Jungkook

Genre: Smut, angst and a little fluff

Warning: Infidelity. Please avoid if this is not for you.

Word count: 4,002 words

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 (Final)

Disclaimer/Copyright

A few hours after Taehyung left, you were still in the living room, sitting on the sofa mindlessly flipping through the channels. Your mind was on your relationship – if you could even call it that – with Taehyung, and the fast friendship you were developing with Jungkook, whom you liked immensely. The poor buttons of the remote were continuously being worn out until you heard Jungkook's voice from behind.

"Where should we go for lunch?"

You looked up, resting the back of your head on the sofa so you could see him peering down at you. Through your bleary eyes you could see his crooked grin flashing your way. You were surprised; after the events that transpired that morning you didn't think the two of you would talk again for a while. Perhaps you were the only one who felt the awkwardness of the whole situation. Jungkook acted like he always did, and the discomfort that you felt slowly dissipated over the course of lunch and the walk back to your apartment afterwards.

However, when he asked about your plans for the rest of the day, you frowned.

"Didn't you say you have a party to go to this weekend?"

He cocked his head, as if trying to remember. After a moment, he shook his head confidently. "Nope, I'm free this weekend."

You narrowed your eyes, but ultimately only said that if he was free, then he should watch a drama that you had been surprised to learn that he hadn't watched; One Litre of Tears. He playfully groaned at the suggestion before he agreed, but while you were searching for the DVD you accidentally overheard his conversation on the phone.

"I won't be able to make it tonight," you heard him say, and you turned around to see that his bedroom door wasn't quite closed.

The voice of the person he was talking to wasn't audible but you could hear his reply to that person, "It's just one party. I'm sure you'll do fine on your own."

So you were right; he did have plans, and apparently he blew someone off. But for what? Was it for your sake? Why? You didn't need company, and he didn't seem to have any problem with leaving you to your devices every other weekend. However, he was clearly reluctant to tell you why he wanted to spend time with you instead of having fun with his friends and you couldn't confront him without revealing that you'd eavesdropped on his conversation. Since you couldn't tell him that you had overheard his phone call, when he rejoined you on the couch, you only smiled, slid the disc in and pressed play.

A few episodes in when Jungkook had pulled you closer so you could snuggle against him underneath a blanket, you asked, with your eyes still glued to the screen, "So, what do you think of the story so far?"

Jungkook fidgeted with the tissue in his hand and answered, "I kind of hate you for introducing this drama to me." You cackled at his response; it was morbidly satisfying to see him cry at the drama you'd recommended, even if it meant that you had to shed a few tears yourself, despite the fact that it was your third time watching it.

"Have you ever cried this much in your life?"

His sudden unexpected question gave you pause. The only time you could think of when you'd cried this hard was when Taehyung had broken the news of his impending engagement. Intentional or not, he had broken your heart and you didn't think you would ever recover. Hell, it was obvious that you were still unable to completely let him go. As if on cue, your phone rang, saving you from having to answer Jungkook's question. You jumped in surprise, scattering used tissues all over the floor. Jungkook gently pushed you up so he could lean forwards to grab the phone, which sat next to a half-empty box of tissues. He stared at the illuminated screen just a fraction longer than was necessary to read the name on display, then handed the device to you. "It's your boyfriend."

Sure enough, when you looked at the phone, Taehyung's name flashed across the screen. You got off the couch and walked into your room before swiping right to answer the call. The sound coming from the TV stopped before the door closed behind you, telling you that Jungkook had paused the drama, but you missed the odd look that he shot at you. Most of your attention was on that dreaded call.

"Hey Tae."

"Hey. Where are you?"

"I'm at home," you said, and when he asked where Jungkook was, you answered, "He's in the other room."

"How come you never told me that you got a roommate? Why did you even get one?" Taehyung tried to sound neutral, but you knew him well enough to notice a strain in his voice. You had suspected that he would be hurt. After all, there had been no secrets between you and him when you were a couple. He had told you everything, and so had you. That was then. Now, you weren't together. Although Taehyung was still one of the most important people in your life, there was no denying that you had grown apart. Most of his concerns no longer involved you, and so were yours. Even if either of you wanted to share the myriad details of your life with each other, between work and his wife, it just wasn't possible anymore.

However, Taehyung had always been upfront with you, so you decided to tell him the truth as well. "I had to get a roommate because I need the money."

"Why didn't you tell me?" At your silence, he continued, "Don't you think it's... dangerous? It sounds like a bad idea." You knew that this was the real reason to his problem with your having a roommate. He was reacting exactly the way you thought he would. Although you were all for being honest with him, you were not in the mood for an argument. Not when Jungkook was waiting for you, and especially not over the phone. You cut off his indignant questions and comments by saying, "It's not like Jungkook knows about... us." Somehow using the word 'affair' was repugnant, although that was exactly what it was. "Let's talk about it some other time, okay? I'm not in the mood to discuss this right now. I have to go, Jungkook will wonder what's taking so long."

Taehyung wasn't happy, but he allowed you to hang up on him and resume your spot beside Jungkook. "Is everything okay?" He asked offhandedly. When you answered the affirmative, he pressed the remote to continue the story, his actions reassuring you that he didn't find anything suspicious, and that it was all in your head.

Thankfully when the new week rolled in, work distracted you from your financial troubles, living situation and the Taehyung of it all. His silence after that phone call indicated that he was just as busy as you were, probably even more so. It seemed like things were slowly going back to normal - as normal as it could be for you - but it was extremely short-lived. For as soon as Saturday evening came around, you received another call from Taehyung.

"Tae," you couldn't keep the surprise out of your voice as you answered, gently setting down the glass of water on the kitchen counter. Having an attentive roommate reminded you of the times when Taehyung was your boyfriend. You would be the first one to admit that sometimes you don't take care of yourself very well, and Jungkook had been getting on your case for not drinking nearly enough water as you should. It was nice to have someone looking out for you.

"Hey. Are you at home?"

"Yeah." You pulled the phone away from your ear to look at the time. You couldn't remember the last time he'd called you this early. It wasn't even dinnertime yet. "Are you coming over? Now?"

"Yeah, is that okay?" He sounded hopeful, and it was hard for you to contain your smile.

"Sure, but... Jungkook's here. Why don't you come a little later?" The suggestion came from you although you were the one who'd assured him that he had nothing to worry about and you weren't sure how late it would be before Jungkook retired to his room.

"Weren't you the one who said that he doesn't know about us? So what's there to worry about?" It was hard to argue with him when he was throwing your words right back at you, but you knew that it wasn't a good idea and Taehyung should know better. Being the weak person that you always cursed yourself to be, you agreed, his obvious happiness at your permission making it hard for you to listen to the nagging voice in your head too much.

"Jungkook," you poked your head out of the kitchen to see him furiously punching on the buttons of his game controller, "Taehyung is coming over in a bit. Is that okay with you?"

At your words, he immediately paused the game to look at you with large, surprised eyes. Smothering a laugh at his expression was difficult; he looked almost as shocked as you felt. He had only learnt of Taehyung's existence after a few months of living with you, and now he was about to see Taehyung for the second time in just a little over a week. Recovering himself quickly, he shrugged and said, "Why not? It's your house. You don't have to ask my permission," and with that, he returned his attention to his game.

Less than an hour later, the three of you were sitting awkwardly in the living room, until you suggested a pizza delivery for dinner. The two men agreed, and the discomfort dissipated over an intense debate over pizza toppings. While waiting for the food to arrive, Jungkook suggested finishing the rest of the drama that he and you watched the previous weekend. Taehyung's response was eerily familiar; he groaned upon finding out that you were watching it yet again, but gamely joined in to watch without complaints.

Hanging out with Taehyung and Jungkook while watching and eating didn't leave much room for conversation, so time passed pretty comfortably. However, when an episode ended after the pizzas had been demolished, Jungkook quickly excused himself. Sure, he was perfectly amicable as he did so, thanking Taehyung for the food and giving your 'boyfriend' a pat on the shoulder that Taehyung returned with a friendly grin, but you felt awful, wondering if he'd gone in early for your and Taehyung's sakes.

"Maybe we should turn in too," you proposed. This way, if Jungkook wanted to he could go out into the shared space without feeling uncomfortable. Taehyung murmured his assent, helping you clear up before following you into your room.

Once again he was dressed casually in a pair of bermuda shorts and loose shirt. It reminded you of the old days, of simpler times when the two of you were students, together without a care in the world past your grades. That was all you wanted to think about tonight, so before he could say anything, you tugged on his arm. It caught his attention at once, and when he turned to look at you, you slid your hand sensually over his chest covered by his thin shirt and pulled him into a kiss.

If Taehyung was surprised by your sudden gesture, he did a great job of hiding it. His response to your kiss was seamless, his large hand threading through the strands of your hair, pulling them out of the loose bun and the other pressing against the small of your back to push you closer to him. You hummed contently, letting yourself melt into the kiss that you'd always found impossible to resist. The clothes covering your bodies weren't enough to protect you from the delicious friction between his toned pecs and your nipples, which were growing harder by the second.

As he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, you reached for the hem of his shirt, bunching it up to reveal his toned stomach. When you had hiked it up to his armpits, he slid his tongue into your mouth, twirling it with yours while your fingers traced the lines defining his upper body. He finally got frustrated enough to break the kiss so he could tug his shirt over his head, then looked down to see you staring at him with dark, lustful eyes as your thumb flicked his nipple. Your other hand slid down to palm his erection straining against his pants, causing him to moan your name.

You kept your eyes on his even as you slowly got on your knees, pulling his shorts and boxers to the floor with you. He wasn't fully hard yet, but you'd soon fix that. You had seen Taehyung many times before, and although you could never get enough of him, this time you were determined not to break eye contact. It was a testament to how well you knew him that your hand could brush up his thigh and grip the base of his cock without looking away from his face.

Gentle strokes along his length soon coaxed him to his full size, and you smirked at him as your tongue flicked out to taste the precum you knew was leaking from the tip. He tasted just as he always did; slightly salty but not unpleasant, or perhaps you had gotten so used to his taste that you were addicted to it. You swirled your tongue around his head, teasing him, enjoying the way his brows furrowed in frustration. His hands touched the top of your head, but he didn't move them. You knew he never would. So when you leaned down to take him in your mouth, it was of your own will.

Maintaining eye contact was next to impossible while you bobbed your head up and down his cock, thus you decided to focus on pleasuring him for a while. His low groans spurred you on, and when the pressure of his hands on your head increased just a fraction, you pulled back until only the head remained in your mouth. Your own hand pumped his shaft, making twisting motions as you sucked hard, locking eyes with him once again.

As you'd expected, Taehyung couldn't last long this way. A breathy whisper of your name coupled with a "Damn it, you drive me crazy," was followed by him pulling you to your feet. He made quick work of ridding you of your oversized tee and shorts before urging you to get on the bed. You obliged readily, and he trailed behind you, his body hovering over yours as you settled in the middle of the bed.

With his knee he spread your legs apart, exposing your core to him. As if taking revenge on you, he kept his blown-out eyes on yours when his fingers made contact with your wet pussy. The long, elegant digits explored your folds, sliding up and down your slit but never entering you, never touching you where you needed him most, taunting you. It was his turn to tuck his smile up cockily when you let out a groan of frustration.

When you started lifting your hips to chase his fingers, he decided that you'd had enough torture. He held you down by the hips but finally pushed a finger inside you. After a few thrusts another finger joined the first as he increased his speed. His thumb found your clit and he wasted no time assaulting the bundle of nerves, drawing figure eights over the nub until you warned him of your oncoming orgasm in between short, desperate breaths.

"Go ahead, I want to see you come all over my fingers," he urged, and with an extra push on your clit you became undone, biting your lower lip as your toes curled into the mattress, allowing the sweet release to take over your body.

You were so wrapped around your high that you didn't realise that Taehyung had withdrawn his hand and repositioned himself between your legs. You only snapped back to reality when you felt the tip of his heavy erection pressing insistently against your center. Lifting your shaky legs up, you locked them by your ankles behind his back, pushing him into you. Your moan at his entry almost masked the sigh of relief he released when he finally sunk into your wet heat.

Taehyung moved further inside you, filling you to the brim, then pulled back, building a steady rhythm that accelerated with every thrust. The fire burning inside you burned higher and higher, but at the back of your mind you just couldn't forget the fact that Jungkook was just on the other side of the wall. For all your talk of him understanding that you had every right to have sex, the thought of him hearing you actually doing it was not a comforting one. The worry plaguing your mind kept your orgasm at bay, irritating you to no end.

Sensing that you needed more stimulation to reach your high, Taehyung slipped his hand between your bodies, circling your clit once again. His movements were becoming more erratic, a sure sign that he was close. Thankfully, the extra push was enough to make you explode. Your back arched off the mattress as your whole body was wracked with tremors from your orgasm, but you bit on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood and succeeded in keeping your sounds of pleasure to a minimum.

While your vocal response might not be what he was used to, the tightening of your walls around his member was more than enough to bring him to his own release. He leaned down against you, grunting into the crook of your neck as he pumped with the remnants of his energy, allowing your clenching walls to milk him of every drop that he had.

Not wanting to crush you under his weight, Taehyung pushed himself off and out of you. He dropped next to you and took your hand in his as both of you struggle to catch your breaths.

"Are you staying the night?" You asked once you'd replenished your lungs with enough air to speak.

"Yeah, I brought a change of clothes with me," he confirmed. With that, he pulled you into the shower with him. Giggles and snickers filled the shower as you washed each other, then wiped yourselves dry before getting ready for bed.

"Tae?" You asked tentatively, unsure whether he was still awake or not.

"Mmm?" He answered groggily, shifting a little beside you on the bed, quickly falling asleep after the shower.

"So... what do you think of Jungkook?" Despite knowing that bringing Jungkook up was a bad idea, you'd been dying to know what Taehyung thought of your roommate. Perhaps you wanted his approval, strange as that sounded.

You immediately knew it was the wrong move when he sat up and frowned at you. "He seems okay, but do you mind telling me what made you look for a roommate in the first place? I would much rather not let anyone know about us."

"I told you, I need the money," you repeated, but even when you explained the situation with your brother, it didn't make Taehyung any happier.

"You still should have told me, y/n," he argued. "I would have given you the money you need. I can still give it to you now so you don't have to put up with him."

You shook your head, partly because you disagreed but mostly because his words addressed some of your many fears. The main reason you didn't tell Taehyung of your financial problems in the first place was because you knew that he'd offer to pay for it. However, if you'd accepted his money, what did that make you? Being his mistress – because that was what you were, no matter how much you tried not to think about it – was horrible enough, but at least you could still tell yourself you did it because you loved him, he loved you in return, and you were doing this on your own free will. If money changed hands, added to the fact that had been plaguing you for a while now; that all you and Taehyung did now was have sex, were you anything more than a prostitute?

So you said determinedly, "I don't need your money. I can take care of myself."

"I know you can, but I should be taking care of you," he tried to placate you, reaching out to touch your arm, but his words had the opposite effect on you and you jerked yourself away from him, moving to sit further away from him on the bed.

"Why should you take care of me?" You asked in a low, dangerous voice. "I'm nothing to you. I'm not your wife. I'm not even your girlfriend anymore."

Taehyung's eyes dimmed with hurt at your words, but you were too upset to care. "That's not fair. This is not the way I want things to be, but I have no choice. You mean the world to me, you know that."

"Do I?" Your snort was derisive. "Because lately the only thing you want from me is sex."

He reeled back, as if struck by a physical blow. "It's not like that. No one cares about you more than I do."

"Jungkook does," you whispered. It was a thought that just blurted out of your mouth, born from pent-up frustration and self-loathing. You didn't even know if you meant for Taehyung to hear it, but he did.

"I should go," he said, and you didn't stop him. He quickly gathered his things while you watched him in silence, your arms wrapped protectively around yourself as you tried to hold back tears. It was only after he saw himself out that you let the pain and sadness consume you.

The next morning, as you'd expected, Jungkook asked where Taehyung was. You truthfully told him that Taehyung had left in the middle of the night and thankfully after seeing your red-rimmed eyes, his questions ceased. A few days later Taehyung messaged you, apologising for his behaviour and promising to be there for you more often. You said sorry for your outburst as well and told him not to worry about it. Ultimately you had no right to ask anything of him anyway. Two whole months passed by without another visit from him, but he did make an effort to call or send messages to you more often. You hated that a jolt of happiness sparked every time the phone screen lit with his name, but you couldn't help yourself. At least you could tell Jungkook that the two of you had made up. Jungkook was happy for your sake, but you didn't tell him more than you needed to. The less he knew about your relationship with Taehyung, the better.

That was the plan anyway. You should have known that you couldn't keep your secret forever. It was a Wednesday and you were so busy with work that you almost missed the phone buzzing with a call from Jungkook. A moment of confusion followed; this was the first time that he had called you in the middle of the day when you were at work. Sliding your thumb across the screen, you answered the call.

"Y/n!" Jungkook sounded panicky and louder than he usually was when you pressed the phone to your ear. "You have to come to Sunshine Mall right now!"

"I can't, Jungkook, I'm at work," you were stating the obvious, but it needed to be said. "What's the matter?"

"I just saw Taehyung – with another woman!"

[casualarsonist]

American Psycho: A review for people who are scared to read it.

I have a theory that American Psycho was something of a literary template for The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time <cue howls of indignation>. Let me finish – I know that psychopathy is not autism, although the conditions can share some personality similarities, and I know that there is nothing more stigmatising and incorrect than to conflate the two, but from a textual point of view, let’s consider this for a second: both are written from a first-person perspective, narrated by characters who categorise the world around them in meticulous analytical detail. Both characters spend a lot of time explicitly explaining their actions to the viewer in a clinical, methodical way. Both novels devote entire chapters to musings on pop culture. Both novels depict their characters’ struggle to interact with the world around them as a result of their conditions. Obviously I don’t think that Mark Haddon sat down to read American Psycho and thought that he could write Patrick Batman-lite, but there is an interesting familiarity in reading American Psycho in terms of how it’s structured, and in how Bateman details his world. So perhaps my ‘theory’ is more of an interesting coincidence, but it stands that American Psycho is, at its core, a fantastic character study of a man who feels little connection to the world around him, and a vicious skewering of conspicuous consumerism. It has also been hugely misunderstood and misinterpreted by critics and the public alike for the entirety of its existence.

American Psycho is a 1991 novel by Bret Easton Ellis, centred around the obscenely wealthy New York yuppie, Patrick Bateman; a self-confessed ‘fucking evil psychopath’. It follows his life over a period of a couple of years (although the amount of time that passes between the various scenes is vague at best) as Bateman guides us through whichever experiences he chooses to show us. Now I know what you’ve heard, and don’t get the wrong idea - the majority of the novel simply depicts the superficial banality of Patrick’s life - vacuous conversations with his friends over dinner at expensive restaurants (or over drinks and cocaine at exclusive clubs), detailed dissections of certain musical icons, meticulous descriptions of the clothes and things owned by the people around him, and his liasons with various women in his social circle as they sleep, eat, drink, and do drugs with each other without any respect for established ‘relationships’. And that’s ‘relationships’ in inverted commas, because these people are self-centred-ness made manifest. Consumed by their obsessions with money and possessions, all of the characters seem incapable, undesiring, even, of forming genuine emotional connections to anyone around them. Their loyalties to their friends are tenuous, to their lovers even more so, and their conversations revolve almost entirely around fashion etiquette, which restaurant is the most chic (certainly not the same one that they’ve eaten at that one time in the last two weeks), and which piece of meat (apologies, ‘woman’) they’d like to have sex with.

But the novel is controversial for a reason, and there are certain parts of American Psycho that contain some of the most repellent and detestable things I have ever read. There was more than one occasion where I simply had to put the book down, cursing internally and aloud the lack of artistic merit and the pure sadism of these sections and the actions contained within. But it also stands true that the more reactionary among us will read these parts, or hear of them, and damn the book as misogynistic torture-porn, and will miss the point entirely. I can’t excuse the scenes of violence, and I still struggle to understand why they must exist in such a way. Perhaps they’re there to make the reader feel ashamed – to lure them into a trap with promises of titillation and taboo bloodlust, and then horrify us into self-reflection? But to boil the purpose of the novel down to these moments is far too simplistic. The characters and their actions are misogynistic, yes, because American Psycho is an apocalyptic look at America’s lust for wealth and reverence of the god Economy, forsaking all other virtues along the way. It is money as a substitute for masculinity. These men are disgusting, and their actions are disgusting, but at the centre of every single one of them lies nothing of value. They are pathetic - empty shells existing only for an induced high, for the hollow prestige of things that serve no purpose other than to be gaudy and far-too-expensive. They repeatedly order high-priced drinks and meals that they don’t touch and entertain themselves by abusing and belittling homeless people in the street. They’re pitiful, and prey on the equally vacuous women that surround them, bouncing from mate to mate, from drug to drug. American Psycho forces the reader to take a look at an unvarnished and extrapolated depiction of what corporate America desires most, and absolutely savages it in the process. The novel won’t let you relax - the rate of murders and the horror of the descriptions escalate in its latter half and it certainly makes it a difficult slog to the end, and just as you think you’re becoming complacent towards the nastiness, it ups the ante and leaves you feeling angry and repulsed all over again, but the truth is that other 90% of its 380-odd pages are really just filled with meticulous descriptions of things. To this end, and spoiler-free, it all feels a little pointless upon its conclusion. But perhaps that’s the point? It revisits a scenario that it has portrayed a dozen times before, and the text could be word-for-word copied from any one of a number of other points earlier and it really feels a little boring, a little underwhelming. And it should, because no matter the lengths Patrick goes to in order to stimulate himself, to make himself feel something – anything – other than boredom and disgust, neither he nor his friends can escape the empty repetitiveness of their lives.

If there were a narrative, it would be that we follow Patrick’s unravelling sanity as time progresses. He admits within the first few pages that he is a psychopath, but for a long time we only get hints here and there of his deviant actions. Then, one by one, and almost too casually, we are introduced to his disconnections from reality, and then his murders. They come without warning and unpredictably. He begins to hallucinate more vividly and frequently, and the novel reaches a point where one can doubt almost everything he says. At one point he describes in a rambling stream-of-consciousness his deranged ravings in the streets as he goes shopping one afternoon, assaulting people in public and screaming and banging his briefcase along a wall, eating his melting hair-gel and standing for an hour in a trance in a shop. At another point much later on he leads police on a chase through the city as he murders at will and blows up police cars. Whether or not he actually performs any of these actions is left almost entirely uncertain, and all confessions of his crimes are misheard or taken by others as jokes. He kills an associate and claims to drag the corpse through the street in a sleeping bag; he is even investigated for the man’s disappearance by a private detective, but then months later someone claims to have lunched with the man only a short time prior. Did Bateman really kill the man, or was it a hallucination? One can’t ever know, as all his friends look the same and they all frequently mistake one-another for other people; in this very conversation, the person who claims to have lunched with the dead man has mistaken Bateman for someone else. This is the level of unreliability that the novel operates on. The most stark degradation of his lifestyle is exhibited in the way his home life changes from a militaristic adherence to his beauty regimen to literally eating viscera on the floor of a blood-soaked apartment, and this is all interesting enough to read until we are jerked back abruptly to another table at another restaurant with another fancy meal and another asinine conversation.

Patrick Bateman’s life is hell. His environment is affluent, but it is hell. He knows this, and yet he wouldn’t tolerate the idea of another way of life as he’s so enslaved by his own mental state that he barely even realises that he hates everything about it. Easton Ellis takes us through this hell, bludgeoning us with mundanity and violence alike, until we understand that what Patrick Bateman has is not something worth dreaming of, that America is sick and Wall Street’s unfettered lust for money is a blight, a cancer. It’s at times sickening, at times humourous, and at times rather tedious, and that’s the point. You aren’t meant to read this novel and think ‘damn, I’d like some of that’. You’re meant to feel disgusted and kind of bored. You’re meant to see this extreme depiction of an affluent life it for all that it is, and all that it isn’t. The memories of the abhorrent actions fade surprisingly quickly, given the horror they invoke, which is the only reason they are bearable, and I’m not sure that it’s good for the sanity to read this novel repeatedly, but it is certainly one of a kind, and one of the most savage indictments of greed-soaked materialism ever put to paper.