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purkinje-effect · 2 years

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The Anatomy of Melancholy, 91: Formica

Table of Contents Third Instar, Chapter 22. Go to previous. Go to next. KITCHEN SINK DDW CHAPTER AHOY. CWs for insects, heavy chem use, faked romantic embroilment, NSFW, graphic eroticized self-harm, forfeit bodily autonomy, memory and reality fuckery, mental break, and ego death. If you want to skip this chapter, the takeaways are included as the very last footnote.

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Data integrity recovery... 75%... Please do not power off your system.

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November 1, 2287

‘Choly toils over his plentiful notes salvaged upon vacating Lease 37. The ancient paper crinkles and warps from fresh water damage, and the ink is not entirely indelible. He appreciates that it follows to expect he would pen formulas and sketches to paper, but just like their memories of it, even these notes have gaps. Surely, the bungled holotape which he has yet to eject from his Pip-Boy sequesters even deeper detail. Missing pages might account for some diagrams and annotations lacking their antecedents, but only the existence of text files on the holotape can explain such extensive, consistent, glaring omissions. In essence, without the work he expects hides within holotape, he possesses only the appendix.

A smile quivers at the corner of his lips.

Did we glimpse what was never meant to be seen again, or did we awaken it? If we were meant to see it again, then why have us so soon and so completely forget? Everything about the mall was put there for a reason. …I just haven't any clue what reason that could be.

If the omissions aren't on the holotape, they're lost for good. For his sanity, its contents must complete the picture. How he gets on Berries can nettle even him, but the sheer earnesty of whatever he was on about in these footnotes nauseates him. The chain reaction of the storm and whatever chems he took during it convoked notions and imagery which churn his heart in an abyss. The handwriting is unmistakably his, down to an idiosyncratic reliance on Cyrillic in places. It’s unsettling enough allegedly to have witnessed such things, but he's desolate to know them only secondhand through what amounts to letters to himself. Reading what survived the lease flood jogs uncomfortable fragments of thoughts he struggles to piece together, like driftwood lapping against an uneasy brume-choked shore.

He wishes that there weren’t any parsible sense within these individual scraps of understanding, that they couldn’t possibly interrelate to anything more grandiose. The juxtaposition of thermodynamics substantiating the supernatural… Awe and dread wrestle for his grief. No matter how much of his notes he may ever restore, not even a polymath like General Francis would believe what these annotations threaten to insinuate. Even without Berries, he can tell the math itself details something very real, but sound math without evidence will always be on paper mere theory. Perhaps it’s best if most take it for an overwrought fabrication.

It tickles him a bit that he's somehow penned something that psychologically strangles even him. It's almost a shame that it reads like nonfiction. Almost.

Yet, when he wrote these pages, he understood the conditions that came to damage Angel and the Pip-Boys. They are his key to undoing that damage. There are several units in the onboarding manual about gaussian repair. If he can deconstruct the nor'easter's magnetic properties, he can study the patterns it cut in their collective data media. Without this insight, he won't stand a chance otherwise.

Fuck it all, magnetic fields. It’s no wonder no one can remember fully. How anyone in the Hinter can inure themselves to such insidious inclement weather is unfathomable in any measure. The drugged MREs aren’t what makes Lockreed feel so secure. Something far more sophisticated has to be at play here, for the prewar building's interior to remain even more pristine than Deenwood despite apparent abandonment.

Something grazes loose hairs of his wadded up chignon. He smooths the hair down, and doesn't pay it much mind until it happens again, too absorbed in the notes. He feels behind himself. The RadRoach chirps a warning at him.

"I know this is your house," he tells it in Russian, not turning or moving, "but for now this one room is my home. I wish you and your cousins understood it."

He eases forward to set down his papers on the desk. His ears are trained on his unappreciative host behind him. He whips around in the chair to grab the insect. He grabs its antennae. It flails and chirps angrily, and it flicks its wings in an attempt to dislodge his blinding grip. For how flexible even an enormous roach is, and for how barely he has a grip on it, he cannot get a grip on any other portion of its anatomy without the risk of getting bitten. As he rises and walks to the office door, he thinks to beg for it to stop squirming. He flings it as hard as he can down the hall and shuts the door. He eases himself back into the chair, and rolls his eyes.

To tell an insect not to squirm… They breathe through abdominal contractions–isn't squirming then their way to hyperventilate? At least this one didn't get a bite.

He leans to pick up his notes again. His faint, shaking fingers trace the crude sketches he hopes are–and he wishes aren't–life drawings. A smirk twitches.

"Pèlerins. She called them… Pèlerins, didn't she?"

Do my sketches do their likeness any justice?

Why am I never certain my nightmares are nightmares?

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January 9, 2288

Sticks adjusts the scarf around the lower half of his face and snaps the flaps of his ushanka back over it, then continues whittling with his multitool. In the lingering four feet of snow, he shields himself from the occasional bite of wind by crouching behind a stand of rocks. His Pip-Boy's Geiger counter clicks lazily, and he half wishes he could simply turn it off rather than tune it out. A variety of wood lay in his lap and around him along with a handful of various wires he’s scavved from inside Lockreed. He might not know much of any intended use for them, but he's found that braided wire makes a damn fine snare, so he supposes that means it’s good for something. He shakes his head and eyeballs the piece of pine branch he’s notching.

You’ve lost your marbles for good this time, River Sticks. You finally got out of this damn place, and you’re still puttering around here.

It's not so bad, that he hadn't known a need to procure foothold traps before leaving Ant. Pelt traps are easy enough to lay. Provided reliable wood and sufficient cordage, the hard part is always patience. He spent most of yesterday looking for a gap in the ice where he could cast the seine he usually wears for a shawl, but he only netted two small bass and a load of garbage from upriver. He’s surprised the snow and ice have persisted this late into the season. But, he’s been overjoyed he gets to eat something this week besides RadRoach, for the first time since they got themselves stuck inside Lockreed. It’s something of a frustrating inversion, for him to crave things to eat alongside the meat, but two months with not even so much as a tato or carrot has him a bit deranged.

He has a lot of reasons to be a lot of kinds of deranged.

His shallow, sharp breaths don’t condensate around his face. His thin cracked lips peel back in a grimace. He works at notching another piece of pine. His hand isn't acting up so much today. Occasional vague guttural snaps punctuate his strokes.

Even though they got one of the F.C. generators back online two weeks ago, ‘Choly still forbids any of them to go anywhere without extensive scrutiny beforehand–not to another floor, and certainly not outside. The little rat bastard thinks the place is haunted by the General or something, Sticks guesses. He was on about something, after they found that body in the basement. All Sticks followed was, give me a few days. The new project got him to leave Sticks alone for a bit longer than usual, anyway.

Open sesame.

The building security system calls ‘Choly Colonel Carey. Thanks to ‘Choly’s tinkering, it now thinks Sticks is some dame named Maria. He’s not sure what ‘Choly did, but now he can come and go as he pleases.

I’m free. I can cut all my losses and run like I wanted. Guy’s hyper-focused on so much history malarkey and a crap ton of computer projects. He’s constantly junked up. He wouldn’t notice for days. Maybe even months.

Sticks tucks his multitool back in his left hand, then stands and gathers his whittled components, and treks off to locate good trees for setting snares.

So why doesn’t Sticks just leave? It’s been so easy to string the guy along with bluffs of infatuation. It bugs him somehow that ‘Choly’s so readily respected his demand for space. Has the lovestruck worn off? If he did notice Sticks left, would he even care? Sticks can’t have lost his hook in him somewhere between here and Ant. And surely, 'Choly hasn’t been faking being into him, too. It would be too much for the ghoul, if he’d been getting played by his mark.

What exactly is 'Choly's angle with all this, anyway?

He finds a sturdy slim forked tree, and begins running some wire between its two trunks and through a branch through which he’s bored a hole. He sets to winding up the load.

Those disgusting Blue Flu smoothies. He could become contagious again without those. I can handle him cutting me every few weeks… Don’t lose sight of your grand prize, you fool. The bastard hasn’t made good on his promise yet to cook me Deenwood treats. He doesn’t just represent everything Deenwood has to offer–he has the whole damn cookbook and knows how to read it. And he won't even need that place to make the stuff!

He catches himself overwinding, and eases back the load a few turns before setting a safety branch. With a sigh, he kneels down to unpack a two-foot wide patch of snow. When the ground is too frozen to clear out a ditch, he replaces the snow as loosely as he can. Then to either side, he tamps down twin stakes with the butt of his machete, and ties a snare loop. He pulls out a cut open Vim can, into which he's stuffed the diced up second fish he didn’t eat the day before, and taps out a portion of it atop his makeshift camouflaged pit.

I can’t let go when I’m this close to my hard work finally paying off.

That’s all it is.

He mutters to himself, as though he’s forgotten what he’s been after for over fifty years.

"Whole damn cookbook…”

He’s got his rifle. He decides to track a Radstag once he’s done laying his snares throughout the nearby area. It will be difficult to dress larger game with a multitool and machete, but he’s overdue for a solid physical challenge, and damn, if he couldn’t go for some ribs.

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January 13, 2288 [2288.01.13-0,1]

A declarative chirp concludes the algorithmic gaussian repair scan. ‘Choly glances up at the terminal screen from the lease papers. He unglues himself at some point and reaches to eject the holotape from the Pip-Boy tape deck. His eyes trace the key-prong cord tethering the device to the terminal. Every time he remembers that there exists a model of Pip-Boy with two tape decks, he wishes he had one. In order to write from one holotape to another, or run any script on one and apply it to another, he must plug into a terminal to use its hardware. Neither jealousy nor anxiety seizes him so much as anticipation. Success signifies far more than a reading opportunity, but in the moment it’s exactly that: he can finally deglaze one background anxiety that’s caked his brain for months.

He couldn't risk the data on the nor'easter holotape with his script experiments. He had to be fully certain the script works, as he's ruined several dozen formatted JBD cartridges ironing out viable gaussian repair script. Applying his script to a formatted holotape has only served repeatedly to damage it beyond restoration. If it weren't so ironic to have caused permanent physical lacunae in the holotapes, in his attempts to test a tool intended to repair them, it would madden him to suspect that jogging his own memories of Division Day could bake in or even accrue further brain damage.

He's had his Pip-Boy back online for several days now, for his efforts, at least. He clutches the holotape a little too long, and a little too firmly. A broken sigh falls from a broken smile. He disconnects the Pip-Boy and clips it back on his right arm, and allows it to synchronize with his Vault Suit before reinserting the holotape and clicking the deck shut. He takes it with him to the break room, for reading material over lunch.

He notices that he's already hard programmed to walk as lightly as possible, and that he carries his cane sooner than bear weight on it. Though he can't term it fear in his condition, he remains cautious not to draw Sticks's attention, in the chance the ghoul has come back inside already.

Only once in the break room, choosing his boxed meal, does he chuckle softly to himself: Olivia salad.[2288.01.13-2]

He prepares a goulash and grazes on it. All this time, he’s expected to retrieve a single document for his efforts, but it surprises him to find that his transcript of the events of the Division Day Nor’easter span multiple entries. Between the holotape and the physical annotations, his transcript tallies upwards of fifty pages, all for an eighteen hour time frame. Speculation sublimates amid bewilderment, that even more may have been lost when they relinquished Lease 37. Not even his “Fly-Blown” session, with its strangely organic comixture of narrative and hard pharmacological fabrications, had been so prolific.

His arms feel so much heavier. A soporific grin pulls the corners of his mouth abreast. He checks the medical diagnostics tab of his Pip-Boy to confirm that he once again enjoys the benefits of these two hundred year old Meals Ready to Eat. He couldn't dream of having ready access to this quantity of DayTripper anywhere else. He’s grateful for his companions, but these gifts the General has left behind are his truest undeniable grace here.

One of the earliest entries details what he had endeared a Foucauldian cocktail. He chuckles at the neuroplastic engineering that explicates his capacity to have penned such a volume of information in such a short span. Enduring attention, enhanced cognition, lasting satiety, and suppressed fatigue. He wonders whether he moved even once the entire storm. He plans to hash out some future means to compound the cocktail into a single chem dose, with the intent to market it to the Commonwealth’s aspiring authors.

Continuing through the holotape, he encounters one instance too many where the entries reference his notes, and can stand it no longer. He shovels the remainder of his meal and returns to plant himself at the desk. Before he proceeds another second, he copies the Nor’easter holotape to a formatted JBD cartridge. He calls for Angel, to store the original, safe inside it. While in its storage, he puts his hands on the twin armillary baubles from Burlington Glassworks. He can’t imagine how they survived the lease liquidation. He plucks them from inside his Mister Handy, thanks it, and turns it loose to resume patrolling their empty building.

He eyes the baubles with an indistinct unease. Inside the storage compartment, they had cast their impossible color in lieu of light, but under the fluorescent office lights, their observable chroma is limited to their effect on reflected light, as though that peculiar green-red gold were only visible in shadows and images. He sets them on the desk and tucks a sublingual Mentat. He then inserts another JBD into his Pip-Boy tape deck, intent on stenographic exegetics as he jumps between reading on the terminal and reading on the written page.[2288.01.13-3]

It's a heavy read, and a dense one, but he persists. He can't remember any of the details transcribed in the lease notes or holotape, yet it is manifest that he penned it from a firsthand account. His account must then substitute his memory of it. An otherworldly choreography had played out that day, to the tune of a lethean blizzard's imperceptible cacophony. What had compelled the pretemporal images; the Satellites, Children, and Laners; the ants; Sticks or even himself? They all had followed a path, seemingly incomprehensibly exact in its byzantine dimensions, yet at once just as rudimentary in the sense by which its actors had connected with it. History forever repeats itself in echoes and distortions, a fractal formula of design.

Something brushes at the back of his mind like a loose hair, or silvering cobweb. He twitches, and wipes at it as though physical action can liberate him of it.[2288.01.13-4] It isn't a RadRoach. He checks to be sure.

Something deeper than chem reliance robs him of the grief, guilt, and terror he rightfully expects every time he gains fresh postwar information. He half suspects that he's simply so far past the threshold of these emotions that he can no longer register them meaningfully: in the same way human nerves have a limit to the amount of pain they can measure, the human mind must have a limit to the amount of fear or remorse it can process. He delights to have stumbled upon one of the oldest nepenthes known to humanity, left with no other choice but to forget, because remembering takes too much. He wonders if his cryogenesis monopolizes a similar stranglehold on his experience and recollection, or if some more profound trauma explicates his displacement.

But is biology to blame for this general anesthesia, both acute and chronic? He sneers and smears at his face to loosen tightness building between his temples. He chews up the Mentat and continues to knead the sides of his head with the heels of his palms. It feels uniquely myopic to suspect nothing greater is at play. The mathematics he implemented in this transcript are beyond him without Berries, but tenuous fringes of insight still hover around the formulas, diagrams, and statistics. The philosophy of intelligent design doesn't quite ring, but the deliberateness of it all still unfurls a certain welcome resignation.[2288.01.13-5]

Attempting to alter the trajectory set in motion by the events which bound the Pèlerins to the granite feels like trying to steer an explosion after the fact. He won't need to consult Mama Murphy on the tenets of free will: she alone is evidence that knowing the temporal terrain only reinforces the path it's blazed. She saw Jared's chem-warped, monstrous visage through 'Choly's Jet bleary eyes, easily a decade before 'Choly hallucinated it. Rhyme or echo, time cascades ever onward.

He can't control any meaningful aspect tangent to his existence, any more than he could have controlled whether Jared became a monster in Lexington, or whether the General melted together everyone in Lowell. He feels so small… like an ant.

The sensation of the stray thread laps at him again.

Ants follow the signals of a pheromone trail to dictate their path and behavior. Something just as ingrained must dictate how humanity moves and behaves.

He relinquishes the notion of free will. He accepts a lack of agency, and accepts the role of agent.

I was only following orders.

Something inside him cracks. He writhes in a hollow eroticism. He's always thought he seeks control in sex encounters, but perhaps even deeper he endeavors simply for things to transpire as intended. If that responsibility can be relegated to someone or something else, he can focus more completely on achieving results.

A resigned smile doubles down on his inability to feel terror, despite any logic that he well ought to.

"These silvered cobwebs. Nemiza plays cat's cradle all around me."[2288.01.13-6]

He reclines on the loveseat, and imagines an undetectable force willing him to undo himself. He flicks the stenographic capture lever which he's missed so dearly, and lets the Tryasovitsy work him apart with a calligraphic fever. He knows full well that Sticks is not sixpence to the good on any transaction to ferry him safe to the Afterlife.[2288.01.13-7] He can’t expect Sticks to do all the work for him, machete or not. For all he is and all he's done, as a ghost he can only expect to drown in a river of nepenthe. Neither this world nor the next has room for him.

You caress the insides of your thighs. And you tremble.

Your fingertips drag the contours of your pudenda through fabric. And you shiver.

You unlatch the busks and buckles of your Surgical Leathers, to intimate the ecdysial rapture of an insect capable of ripping off its own husk. And you rasp.

The zipper glides apart and even your garments peel off your form. And you burn.

The fingers of one hand tangle in your hair, to pin your neck over the armrest and bare your neck. And you’re bent and broken apart.

You’re laid bare, indelicate, and structureless. Your outgrown nails scrape bright lines on your skin. And isolation peals between your ears.

You're denied climax–imago and imagination. You can't come, or become. Not now, and perhaps not ever. Your only purpose now is to need, and continue to ever need. It always has been. And rotting, ineffectual aches bloat you.

Your nails graze your bare crotch, to appreciate the keratinous bite of the insect you fancy that you are. And you convulse.

You rake them down your thighs, and you rake them to fill them with skin and blood. And your own throat gags you.

Your feeble fingers can’t dig deep enough. You reach for the Komár, and unsheath it. You place its tip above the knee and drag it up the thigh, just to compare its bright red strokes to those you can leave yourself. No, precision and swiftness are unbefitting of you. Again you wrack your throat by the hair, and you press the blade beneath your jaw. And jaundice waxes you.

You'll claw yourself to sloughed viscera like this, reduce yourself to crystallized pheromonal commands made manifest. You'll sweat and writhe ad infinitum, forced to modulate your sex just to keep from slashing your own throat. And you’re paralyzed ever-waking, ever-watching yourself edged to oblivion.

Who has placed the knife to your throat? Who holds it there? As it should be. Your form only serves to hover perpetually a razor’s edge from expiration.[2288.01.13-8]

Again and again his skin stings and crawls. Even once he lets himself put up the Komár and return to the use of his fingertips, he can't wipe or scrape thoroughly enough. Raw and unsatisfied, he sprawls deflated, unable to decrypt exactly what his mind is on about. All the while, in a detached commitment, he continues gently grazing and caressing his red-streaked ragged body.

He decides he's not the ant, but rather the surface they traverse, the surface which their tireless path erodes underfoot.[2288.01.13-9] To humanity, granite is timeless. Even if humans manage to destroy it, its history-haunted sand will still blanket the beaches and oceans with granitic specters. His mind wanders to chemistry, and formic acid's varied uses. Originally identified from compounds isolated from ants, the substance was once a prime reagent in both pharmacology and resin synthesis. Too, it is the less egregious cousin to formaldehyde, the prodigal embalmer. Formica may not be granite, but they both posit crystalized dimensionality. The Lane's ants symbolize its granite's eternity, and its frozen granules of undiluted time.

But, he’s not granite: in this analogy, he’s more like formica, a substitute, a resin. He thinks again to Sutter Grove’s diorama, and how much like a diorama the Concourse itself resembled during the nor’easter. So much concern of surveillance saturates the nor’easter holotape transcript. Was he not the surface on which the actors play out their roles, but rather the surface by which an outside observer might perceive the play itself? A lens is a surface, he guesses, but a viewer-jailer dynamic only holds when the players are aware they might be watched. He speculates that the nor’easter’s mass lacuna was a consequence of environmental circumstances eroding a veil between the diorama and the audience which was meant to hold fast.

We witnessed the scurrying behind the curtain.

It would be impossible for him to guess what the author of such a performance would want to achieve through such a work. The ants were the flymen that fucked up, tugged strings they ought not have, at a time they ought not have, and sent the curtains tumbling down.

He wrestles to differentiate his fantasy from his understanding of the events of the nor’easter. If he’s the surface which suspends the audience’s disbelief, perhaps the collapse of such a curtain signals the erosion of the fourth wall. To what consequence, did the ants’ actions pull him down? And most importantly of all, did destroying their audience’s immersion mean the actors' performance was fictitious?

Suddenly, he can’t succinctly define fiction.

The nadir of an existential ego death throttles the last of his physical strength. He lies there with exhausted relish, beached with a raw unparalleled systemic throbbing. He'll clean up the mess he's made of himself… eventually.

He's exposed, and knows he's exposed, but doesn't seem to care. He stares up into the ceiling, legs sprawled across the back and arm of the couch, and fixates on what little he can see without glasses. He resents that he can perceive this fourth wall but cannot seem to alter it himself. He resents Sticks’s near-perfect Charisma. He resents the General’s ludicrously high Intelligence. He’s not Strong enough or Intelligent enough or Enduring enough or Charismatic or…

"Happy New Ye– Oh my stars, Sir!" Aghast, Angel shifts from entering to rushing to 'Choly's side. "No time to tell me what's happened to you. We haven't any Stimpaks. Oh, this won't do! I'll fetch the iodine."

'Choly bolts upright on the couch. Abjection gnarls his features.

"NOT MY IODINE–!"

It hesitates, caught between imperative concern for its owner and the need to abide by him.

"At least allow me to prepare a wash bin for you. Try not to move too much. I won't tarry!"

As the Mister Handy rushes off to the bathroom to wet a hand towel, he reclines again and his mental track persists. He thinks to just lock the robot out, but doing so would require that he get up. He wants to ask it to fetch him his next Melancholia dose five days early, but he also knows he would have to explain himself to Sticks if he were to need to replenish his medication a week ahead of their schedule.

What use is it, to be Melancholy? he demands of himself.

In his state, he hasn’t even the faculty to snivel over it.

Maybe, Melancholy has forgot how to be Melancholy all this time.

Maybe, he just needs a nudge to recall his nature.

And maybe, like the holotapes, and their Pip-Boys, and eventually Angel, he too can move past seeing dimly in a mirror of his own imago.[2288.01.13-10]

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[0] Formica. Both the ant genus and the resin.

[2288.01.13-0] Tagline for Carpenter's Prince of Darkness.

[2288.01.13-1] January 13, the Mara Winter. Considered the unLuckiest day of the Pagan Slavic calendar, during which the Tryasovitsy, cruel spirit agents of the winter deity Mara, are at their strongest. It's also Russian New Year's Eve: due to date shifts when changing calendar formats, Russia celebrates New Year's twice.

[2288.01.13-2] Olivia salad. Olivier salad is a traditional Russian celebratory mayo salad dish.

[2288.01.13-3] Exegesis. Critical objective explanation of a text.

[2288.01.13-4] Silvering cobweb. Серебряная паутина. Nods to the Strugatskys’ Roadside Picnic, and the threads that no one else seems to notice except the protagonist. ‘Choly is something of a pastiche of several characters, one of them being Kirill Panov. This fic was originally titled A Cure for My Me, after “a cure for his melancholy.” (The title did still work its way into being a chapter title in First Instar.)

[2288.01.13-5] Intelligent design. The pseudoscientific belief that the intricacy and inexplicability of certain aspects of the universe are proof that a supernatural entity played a role in its creation.

[2288.01.13-6] Nemiza. The Slavic pagan deity of death. He/She measures the thread of life and cuts it to the appropriate length, before sending it off to the Afterlife.

[2288.01.13-7] Sixpence, ferryman. Blended reference. A. In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis uses the metaphor of a father giving a child allowance, and the child then using that allowance to buy him a gift, to suppose that all humanity can give God is already His. B. Sticks's nickname is chiefly for being a ghoul trafficker who lives by the river, after the River Styx in the Underworld of Greek mythos. C. There are some similarities between Greek mythos and Slavic pagan beliefs. A comparison can be made between the River Lethe and the River Smorodina, in that souls must be ferried or risk forgetting everything and dissolving into the river. D. In many accounts, it's agreed that one must pay the ferryman his due or he may refuse or betray the request for a trip across. E. Here 'Choly feels like anything he could provide Sticks is already something Sticks can get for himself, that he brings nothing to the equation. Because he hasn't provided Deenwood chems as agreed upon, he's convinced Sticks has no reason to stay faithful to their arrangement.

[2288.01.13-8] The structure of the second-person narrative follows a mental track of what ailment each of the Tryasovitsy excels at inducing. Figuratively, rent asunder by mental demons.

[2288.01.13-9] I once heard the explanation that Formica got its name by being a surface which only ants’ tireless path could erode. I’ve since learned that it’s a substitute ‘for mica.’ I like my high school teacher’s story better.

[2288.01.13-10] Being Melancholy: he's had this vein of "art imitating life imitating art" navel gazing in the past, most notably in Chapter 10, "Fly-Blown." He adopted his nom a clef Melancholy, with the nuance that he felt contrived and fictitious, a fictional character at risk of knowing he's exactly that. He questions whether he commands self agency, in inventing himself or in how he might define himself. His skepticism of what it means to be Melancholy is, at its core, the very spirit of Anatomy.

[X] Sticks has gotten outside and wants to run off, but he is catching complicated feelings about conning 'Choly by faking being into him. Meanwhile 'Choly successfully restores the Division Day holotape, and he engineers some really fucked solace where he could otherwise find none after documentation of that eldritch mess is the only way he genuinely knows about it: in essence, history reads as fiction but is no less his reality.

#fallout 4 #fallout #fallout fanfic #sole survivor #fo4 fanfic #the anatomy of melancholy #melancholy #sticks #angel #sacredflamingart

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jackson-4 · 1 year

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Sourcing Soulcybin: A Spirited Guide to Microdose Mushrooms

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anghraine · 4 years

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pro patria, chapters 1-7

I don’t actually expect people to read this, but I want it over here for completeness’s sake, so—the Guild Wars 2 fic!

This one is ... different, apart from being for a canon that I think maybe three of my friends are interested in, because instead of writing a one-shot in my format of seven sections of seven sentences each, I've written an entire 70k+ fic that way. Each chapter is precisely 49 sentences long, which makes for a lot of very short chapters, so I'm bunching them up into groups of (of course!) seven.

It’s business as usual, however, in having copious footnotes (these ones assume everyone’s unfamiliar with the canon story).

title: pro patria (1-7/?) stuff that happens: a young Ascalonian woman grows from a sheltered aristocrat, to a hero rushing into danger to help a nearby village, to the investigator of a series of mysterious abductions and thefts tied to the Ministry itself. verse: Ascalonian grudgefic characters/relationships: PC (mesmer / human / noble origin / missing sister [Ascalonian]), Lord Faren, Minister Ailoda, Deborah, Countess Anise, Logan Thackeray; PC & Ailoda, PC & Deborah, PC & Anise, PC & Faren

ONE 1 I always thought of myself as Ascalonian first, and Krytan second. Both of my parents were Ascalonian—my mother came from a family of Rurikton refugees fallen on good times, my father from Ebonhawke, and I was born there, myself. Mother had resigned from the Ministry over some quarrel with Minister Caudecus, and hammered in her protest by uprooting the entire family for an extended holiday with my aunt Elwin in Ebonhawke. This was long before the Rurikton gate got fixed on Ebonhawke, so in the off phases, people generally took “going to visit family in Ebonhawke” as a euphemism for something. But Mother being Mother, she headed through Lion’s Arch to the Black Citadel of all places, carved her way through only the gods knew what to the gates of Ebonhawke, turned herself over to the Vanguard, and waited for Aunt Elwin to show up and get them released. She was seven months pregnant with me by the time she arrived, Father and five-year-old Deborah in tow. And two months later, she delivered me there, Father and Aunt Elwin at her side, and Charr siege engines in her ears. 2 Father always wanted to go back to Kryta, for Deborah’s sake and mine. And during the times that the Rurikton gate got switched to Ebonhawke, when our kin in Divinity’s Reach rushed supplies through, requests for Mother’s return to the Ministry came with them. She only said, “We need soldiers, not supplies—yes, I know centaurs are attacking them, but —” “We need to go home,” said Father. A Charr attack shook her resolve more than he did: one that briefly broke through the walls while Deborah was out walking with Aunt Elwin. But it was Aunt Elwin who convinced Mother that she could do more to help our people in the Ministry than as one more staff against the Charr legions. She accepted the latest offer from the Ministry, this time to serve as representative of the Salma District itself, and we headed—home, to a place I’d never seen. 3 My father was a Fairchild, a descendant—if collateral—of Duke Barradin himself, while my mother was only a Langmar, and a Langmar of mixed heritage, no less. But Langmar meant nearly as much as Fairchild in Rurikton, where the family had owned a mansion for generations. When we first arrived, I’d never seen anything like it, for Aunt Elwin’s house in struggling Ebonhawke couldn’t begin to compare to the splendid gardens and shining marble of a mansion in Divinity’s Reach. Even Deborah, her eleven-year-old dignity often stronger than any other feeling, couldn’t help staring around with wide eyes. Mother, meanwhile, gained a still greater mansion in the Salma District upon receiving her appointment as representative, but she wanted us safe from the politicking and corruption of the Ministry. Deborah and I grew up quietly in Langmar Manor, educated with other Ascalonian nobles by Ascalonian tutors, familiar with every corner of Rurikton and very little beyond it. Deborah chafed at the confinement, but I was a little girl, content enough to spend my days playing and studying with Yolanda, Corone, and Faren, new and lifelong friends. 4 Deborah joined the Seraph the day she turned twenty. “I don’t understand,” I said blankly. “We call ourselves Ascalonians,” she told me, “and that means more than tracing our family trees. You don’t remember Ebonhawke, but those are real Ascalonians, fighting for what they love—like our ancestors fought for what they loved—but we’re happy to boast of their names without doing anything. Captain Thackeray could just sit back and enjoy everything he gets for being Gwen Thackeray’s heir, but he isn’t, and I won’t either. Ascalon is lost, even if Rurikton and the Settlement and Ebonhawke will never admit it, but as long as Kryta stands, we have something to fight for.” Deborah as a Seraph, solving crimes, keeping order, and skirmishing with the occasional bandit raid, wasn’t half so chilling a prospect as Deborah fighting legions of Charr, so I didn’t say what I thought—as long as Ebonhawke stands, we have Ascalon to fight for. 5 Deborah’s departure left the whole family scattered: my mother in Salma, my father dead, my aunt and cousins in Ebonhawke, my sister stationed all the way down in Claypool, and some remote relations and me in Rurikton. Mother, still grieving Father and anxious over Debs, decided that at fifteen, I was old enough to come live with her in her Ministry mansion. I’d felt lonely and restless in Langmar Manor, but I still received the news with very little short of horror. “You’re going the next district over, not across the world,” said Yolanda. “I’ll take a house in Manor Hill too,” Faren said recklessly, “and we’ll have amazing parties.” Faren being Faren, he actually did, aided by his father’s relief at him showing interest in something beyond Rurikton high society—even if that thing was only Salma high society. My mother kissed me when we arrived, and with a smile, told Faren, “It’s a pleasure to know you’ll be keeping my girl company, and of course, just to see you—you’re looking so well!” He preened. 6 We spent those early weeks exploring Salma, curious and cheerful despite ourselves, suppressing giggles as we followed a dour guide about the district. “Orr was destroyed,” the guide was saying, “Ascalon was ravaged by the Foefire; only Kryta is left, and that by a narrow margin.” “Ascalon was ravaged by the Searing,” I said sharply, all laughter gone. Nobody would call Faren a great wit, but when it came to conversation and society, his instincts were impeccable. “You must have gotten the order confused, good sir—the Searing came first, the Foefire when everything was already wrecked—but a simple mistake, I’m sure—you were saying something about Kryta?” Biting back the first words that came to my lips, I forced myself to smile and say, “Sorry, we’re Ascalonian.” “I guessed,” said the guide. 7 I suppose I was a callow, coddled creature in those days, spoiled if not malicious—and though three years of even more luxury in Salma didn’t change that, a single letter did. To Minister Ailoda Langmar, I regret to inform you of the loss of Falcon Company in a centaur raid. Your daughter, Sergeant Deborah Fairchild, died honourably in battle. With my deepest condolences to you and your family, Captain J. Tervelan of the Seraph (Queensdale) As Mother staggered backwards, I caught her, and somehow afterwards, that was always the clearest memory: her weight in my arms, the letter falling out of her hand, fluttering downwards until it reached the floor, nothing visible but the seal of the Seraph. Until then, I’d been little more than an irritable butterfly, but with Mother shattered, I found myself willingly shouldering the work of mourning: the formal letters and heartbroken notes, the refusal of Deborah’s pension, the visits from friends and allies and enemies—I was warm and grateful to the Mashewes and Baroness Jasmina; coldly civil to that ass Zamon, whose commiseration fell little short of gloating; brave and dignified to Corone and his friend Edmonds; grieved but composed with Faren and Yolanda. Like a creature of a thousand faces, I sometimes thought in exhausted moments: not at all a proper Ascalonian hero, more Anise than Deborah—but it was the only way I knew to be strong.

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1) Ascalonian first: the PC from the first game was a resident of the human kingdom of Ascalon when the Charr, a species of giant cat people who lived in Ascalon a thousand years earlier, orchestrated a massive magical attack that killed thousands of Ascalonian civilians and devastated the landscape. Surviving Ascalonians were afterwards mostly killed or enslaved, except a few groups that escaped. The king then went mad and turned himself and the last survivors into vengeful ghosts.

2) and Krytan second: in GW1, the PC helps Prince Rurik of Ascalon lead a group of Ascalonian refugees into the neighbouring kingdom of Kryta. Some Ascalonians establish a settlement there while others live in the cities; generations later, this has resulted in a minority population of Krytan Ascalonians within broader Krytan culture, which the GW2 PC can belong to (though it has no impact on gameplay, which is what inspired the fic). In-game, Ascalonians are fiercely proud of their heritage.

3) Rurikton refugees: Rurikton, named after the Rurik in #2 (who was killed in the journey to Kryta), is the Ascalonian district of the Krytan capital, Divinity’s Reach.

4) Ebonhawke: a stronghold in the furthest reaches Ascalon built by elite Ascalonian soldiers and the civilians they fought to protect. It fell just outside of the king’s curse and has managed to survive the onslaughts of the Charr for 250 years.

5) I was born there [Ebonhawke]: there is no evidence for the PC being born outside Divinity's Reach, so this is probably one of the creakiest elements as far as canon goes. DR is canonically the PC’s home, and they strongly suggest they’ve never seen anything else. I made her very young when she arrived to finagle it, but it’s mostly there because I’m interested in the dynamic between Ebonhawke Ascalonians and Kryta Ascalonians, so I wanted to give her a foot in both worlds.

6) Minister Caudecus: a deeply corrupt Krytan minister who shows up in various storylines.

7) my aunt Elwin: Elwin Fairchild is a noblewoman of Ebonhawke in the game, a proud Ascalonian ambivalent over Krytan involvement in Ebonhawke’s affairs.

8) Rurikton gate: Asura gates are magic/technological portals created by a species of small, floppy-eared, ethically questionable scientists and researchers. They have a gate in Rurikton that will instantly transport you to the one in Ebonhawke, but it seems that it’s only recently been permanently fixed on Ebonhawke.

9) Lion’s Arch: the former capital of Kryta; after a cataclysm caused by giant eldritch dragons, the original Lion’s Arch was sunk and the city rebuilt into an independent city-state, while Divinity’s Reach became the new capital.

10) The Black Citadel: the capital of Charr-controlled Ascalon, built on top of the former human capital (and human remains, according to one Charr).

11) turned herself over to the Vanguard: the Ebon Vanguard defends and seems to largely control Ebonhawke.

12) five-year-old Deborah: we don’t know the exact age gap between Deborah and the PC, but Deborah seems to be older.

13) the Salma District: the PC will always live in Salma, regardless of origin, even though the city has sharp class and ethnic divisions and you can belong to one of the minority populations.

14) Duke Barradin himself: Duke Barradin was the heir to the previous royal family in GW1, but loyal to the elected king, Adelbern. His daughter was engaged to Adelbern’s son Rurik, but both were killed, so he has no direct descendants. However, the PC’s friend Faren is explicitly descended from royalty, the noble PC is implied to be so, and the Duke of Ebonhawke is descended from Ascalonian kings in particular, so it seems likely that their progenitor was some relation of Barradin’s.

15) only a Langmar: Captain Langmar led the elite Ascalonian soldiers that ultimately founded Ebonhawke, though she died in the process. There’s no sign that she had anything like an aristocratic background, but we’re told that class hierarchy in Rurikton is rooted in descent from Searing-era heroes, as Langmar was.

16) mixed heritage: GW2 Ascalonians, especially in Kryta, are a lot less homogeneous than in GW1. We see NPCs of all sorts of RL ethnicities identifying as Ascalonian or strongly implied to be Ascalonian. OTOH, Ebonhawke Ascalonians are implied to regard Krytan Ascalonians as "less" Ascalonian than they are, and there's a remark about Logan Thackeray’s beige heartthrob status being partly because he’s pure Ascalonian. The NPC I appropriated as their mother is a minister with default Krytan design, but who is talking with a Krytan who tells her to get over the Searing.

17) safe from the politicking and corruption of the Ministry: per #13, Salma is canonically the PC’s home and I’m stretching canon. The game is pretty emphatic that Ascalonians live in Rurikton or the Ascalon Settlement, and since there are nobles and mansions in Rurikton, it can’t even be a matter of “but the noble ones are up on Manor Hill.” The real explanation is that the choice of ethnicity is purely cosmetic and not considered any further, but that’s boring, and we’re never told that the PC has always lived in Salma.

18) Yolanda, Corone, and Faren: Faren is a shallow flibbertigibbet, but he seems to genuinely care for the PC; Yolanda and Corone are two of the friendliest guests at the party he throws for you.

19) the Seraph: the Seraph are a cross between soldiers and police in Kryta, principally involved in fighting off centaur and bandit attacks.

20) Captain Thackeray: Logan Thackeray, the Seraph commander of Divinity’s Reach and ultimate mentor/friend to the PC. He’s the descendant of Gwen Thackeray from GW1/GW: Eye of the North, who was the BEST CHARACTER IN GUILD WARS enslaved by the Charr as a child, but escaped to fight them for the rest of her life between succeeding Captain Langmar, finding love, and establishing Ebonhawke. She’s an iconic hero to Ascalonians.

21) Ascalon was ravaged by the Foefire: you don’t get a chance to correct the Salma Guide, but otherwise these are his exact words. The Foefire was the mad king Adelbern’s final curse that turned him and the last survivors into ghosts; the game tends to emphasize this rather than the Searing + brutal invasion that led to it. (It’s particularly glaring in this case, as you personally see Ascalon ravaged by the Searing in GW1 and spend a good deal of time fighting there, years before the Foefire.)

22) Minister Ailoda Langmar: the Krytan-Ascalonian minister I mentioned above is simply "Minister Ailoda," with no other name given. There's no sign of any connection to the PC, but eh, game mechanics.

23) the Mashewes...Jasmina...that ass Zamon...Corone and his friend Edmonds: Lady Mashewe is a pleasant acquaintance who says her mother prayed for the PC; Jasmina's a noblewoman avoiding Faren; Zamon and the PC insult each other; Edmonds talks to the PC with Corone.

24) Anise: Anise is the charming, enigmatic, and powerful mesmer leader of the queen’s personal guard, the Shining Blade.

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TWO

1 My sister’s gravestone read: Deborah Fairchild Daughter of Kryta and Ascalon Died serving her country with honour, faith, and courage. No body rested beneath the stone; neither the Seraph nor Mother’s Ministry guards ever managed to recover the missing corpses. I never saw a ghost, never heard the merest whisper of her spirit. The grave was the nearest approximation we had, but I often felt drawn to it, dry-eyed and somber. A day rarely passed when I spoke her name, and a day rarely passed when I did not think of her, memories jumbled up with horror at what that missing body must mean. When Debs joined the Seraph, she spoke of Logan Thackeray, of Ebonhawke, of the ancestral heroes whose names brought us respect and luxury—not of Mother, Aunt Elwin, certainly not me. Yet I could not help feeling that somehow, had I done something different, been someone different, she would never have left us. 2 For a year, I played my part in what increasingly seemed a theatre of grief: three months’ withdrawal into mourning, gradual emergence into a solemn, reserved public life over the next six months, and another quarter-year to return to my old habits of gaiety and grudges—yet little altered for me, at court or during my weekly vigils at the grave. Not, at least, until one of the latter was interrupted by a familiar voice, saying: “Indulgence doesn’t suit you, darling.” “Anise?” I exclaimed, too surprised for offence; Countess Anise was a longtime friend of our family—only the Six knew how long—but I rarely saw her away from court, much less in the guarded seclusion of the Langmar cemetery. “All those faces of yours,” said Anise, her drawl indistinguishable from every other time I’d heard her, “and you’re squandering them on self-pity and an empty coffin.” “She wanted to be a real Ascalonian,” I blurted out—I, who hadn’t confided in my mother or my aunt or my friends, and somehow I couldn’t help but babble on, “a hero fighting for her home and her cause, and now—now she’s just like them, a martyr and a defiled corpse somewhere—” “You’re getting hysterical,” Anise said, not unkindly, and added, “Is martyrdom what it means to be Ascalonian, now?” I’d always liked Anise, a clever lady mesmer like my namesake, but alive and undefeated; I respected her uncharted skills and enjoyed her inscrutable charm, but until that moment, I never realized: she was Ascalonian, too. 3 Teach me, I found myself begging Anise, though I myself didn’t quite know what I meant—maneuvering in the court, or chaos magic, or defending another person, or outwitting potential threats, or generating clones, or simply surviving in prosperity—perhaps I did not mean anything in particular. I couldn’t be Deborah, and in my heart I didn’t want to be Deborah, a soldier locked into hierarchies and orders and thrown into small doomed skirmishes. In any case, I hadn’t Deborah’s resilience, or Captain Thackeray’s unwavering loyalty, or his foremother Gwen’s relentless courage—but if I did not envision myself as equal to Anise, hers were footsteps I could see myself following, regardless of the particulars. Even as I pleaded with her, I expected little from a woman at once detached and preoccupied—and thought little of what had driven her to intercede in the first place. But Anise, taking the request on its face, smiled. “Chaos for a devotee of Kormir? Delightful—I’ll expect you at moonrise.” 4 My life reformed itself over that next year. Mother, relieved to see me interested in something of substance, readily relinquished me to Anise’s patronage; Anise herself proved an exacting but gracious mentor, dispensing advice, demands, criticism, and praise in equal measure; and my friends found me more and more myself. Small concerns crept back into my mind: the superiority of silk over velvet, Barradin wine over Eldvin ale, Gwen Thackeray over Queen Salma. Greater ones, of course, drew my attention as well: the downfall of the Meades, one of the oldest Ascalonian houses in Kryta, and consequent disappearance of our childhood friend Kasmeer Meade; the desperation of the war in my birthplace and heightened Krytan aid; the murder of an Ascalonian minister. I miss Debs every day, I wrote to my aunt, but I know I have to make something of my own life, in my own way. I’ve been thinking of returning to Ebonhawke to help, since Anise says I am ‘highly proficient’ as an aetherist. I haven’t left Divinity’s Reach in years, though, so before I try myself against the Charr, I’m planning on making my way around Queensdale—at least Shaemoor. 5 To the world, my story began the day I stepped through Dwayna’s Gate into Shaemoor. The world is wrong, of course; my life didn’t begin with centaurs clubbing a frightened man the instant that I set foot in Shaemoor, with stalls and cottages roaring into flame, with a boy as blond as Debs huddled in a corner, with the blood and brains and screams of that day. It didn’t begin with the barely-heard orders from Corporal Beirne—with the indistinct impulse that had me running forward rather than back, urging strangers towards the inn, catching the boy up in my arms, consoling a woman over the slaughter of her dog as I dragged her with my free hand—with the furious spells tumbling from my mouth, focused through the weak wooden sceptre in my hand. I was someone before I became the hero of Shaemoor. I was myself, with my own history, my own concerns, my own people … the man, that man slaughtered before my eyes, was Ascalonian, and the boy too. If they had not been, perhaps the instinct of the moment would not have flung me into the horror as if I’d been tempered by the Searing, instead of sheltered in Divinity’s Reach. Or perhaps it ran deeper than that, and I would have turned onto that path had the man been Zamon, or an Asura, or even a Charr—but still, it was the turn, not the beginning. 6 Something did begin at Shaemoor, however: my association with Logan Thackeray. I’d met him before, socially, but only just—and in perfect honesty, knew him more as the butt of Anise’s wit than anything else. But I respected him from what I’d heard of his service to Divinity’s Reach, and for his determination to follow his ancestress’s footsteps and not just her name. In the midst of all that panic and death, it seemed only natural to rush to his aid when I heard that he was being overwhelmed. I had no sword, like Logan, or Deborah; I struck from among magical decoys, twisting chaos about our enemies from each direction—but it was something, and an hour from leaving the city for the first time, I was at Logan’s side, blasting aether at a massive earth elemental and the many smaller ones. He didn’t know me from Kormir, or at least from Kasmeer, but I knew we were a Langmar and a Thackeray again, thrown into another desperate fight, and there were worse ways to die. But we didn’t die; we lived and we triumphed, and by the time that I awoke in the care of a priestess of Dwayna, every Seraph from Logan on down knew who I was. 7 All my life, I had been Minister Ailoda’s other girl or the lady Elwin’s niece or Sergeant Fairchild’s sister or a Langmar, you know, on the mother’s side—or, now and then, merely my lady. I rarely heard my own name outside my little circle of Ascalonian nobles. I also rarely heard it in the immediate wake of Shaemoor. But now I wasn’t a satellite about greater relations, extensions of my mother or aunt or sister or heroic ancestors. I was the hero, myself, even as I wandered about Shaemoor in a daze. I didn’t do much: fought off little wyrms and harpies, found missing herds, gathered apples. Yet there was no my lady there, much less So-and-so’s relation: only the hero of Shaemoor.

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1) clever lady mesmer like my namesake: the PC's name isn't explicitly stated in this section, but those familiar with the original Guild Wars: Prophecies can probably figure it out from this reference.

2) Chaos for a devotee of Kormir?: all human characters choose a patron god/goddess, and the choice of god and the choice of profession are completely independent. But Kormir, goddess of order and truth, is a rather odd choice for a chaos magic-using mesmer.

3) the murder of an Ascalonian minister: Minister Brios, the representative for the Ascalonian Settlement, is poisoned in Divinity's Reach before a meeting with Anise. There are very few Ascalonian ministers, so the murder of one of them seems likely to be particularly troubling to Ascalonians.

4) before I try myself against the Charr: you can get to Ebonhawke straight from the starting zone of Divinity’s Reach, but Ebonhawke is in a level 30+ zone.

5) a boy as blond as Debs: Deborah will be blonde if you choose to be Ascalonian.

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THREE 1 These days, I knew better than to let myself get consumed by grief. Still, as I flung spells at spiders, giant worms, bandits, centaurs, anything, I couldn’t help but wish that Deborah could see me now. At the garrison, I snatched up a rusty sword and poured magic through it with every swing at a centaur; what would she think? Me, fighting with a sword? Maybe not the way she or the other Seraph did, but still! She wouldn’t believe it. She’d be proud, I thought—wouldn’t she? 2 I’d barely passed beyond Shaemoor when I heard from Faren: positively hasty, for him. His pet raven delivered a gushing note that, in the space of a few sentences, managed to tease me about my injuries, urge me to talk him up to my healer, and summon me to a party—at my own house. I could only laugh; ridiculous as he often was, I loved him dearly, and always had. Even as children, we’d been friends and companions, but after Kasmeer vanished and Deborah died, we found ourselves inseparable. We were among the last of that quiet, secure little Ascalonian world in which we’d grown up at Rurikton—certainly the closest. Deborah’s death had changed me, driven me beyond the walls of Rurikton and Manor Hill, beyond letters and parties and court gossip. But I remained Faren’s friend, as I would always be. 3 Many people, I think, assumed Faren and I were lovers; in fact, to our own bemusement, nothing could be further from the truth. When we were seventeen, he said, “I don’t understand it. You’re pretty—I’m gorgeous—but I really think I’d throw up.” I might have been offended had I not felt exactly the same. “Inbreeding, I expect,” I told him. Faren brightened. “Grandmama was a Fairchild.” 4 Faren waited ahead of the party—a sacrifice, in the world of Faren—to greet me with his most grandiose bow. “The hero of Shaemoor returns!” I shook my head, but I grinned despite myself. It turned out that my servants had gleefully conspired with him, and when I entered the courtyard, I found it full of strangers and friends alike, along with food, gossip, and a wizard. I’d enjoyed exploring Queensdale, pushing myself to further and further limits; it was good to know that I could enjoy simpler pleasures, too, although it didn’t extend to the dog fights and bear baiting that a cousin of Faren’s called for. “Not in my home,” I snapped, “and if you want to stay, don’t mention that again.” When I heard someone say my name, I seized the chance to turn away—only to find myself facing my mother’s most hated rival. 5 “Minister Zamon.” “You’ve done well for yourself,” Zamon said acidly. “All it takes for a noble to be a hero is a bit of swordplay, a few bottles of cheap brandy, and an inflated sense of self-importance.” He had said much the same of Deborah’s swift rise among the Seraph; she’d never responded, holding herself above partisan squabbles. “Then you’re almost a hero already, my lord,” I replied, smiling. “All you lack is the brandy and swordplay.” I was not Deborah. 6 Even my old friends seemed to see the hero of Shaemoor more than anything else. Corone, brought up with Faren and Kasmeer and me, and now a respected warrior, regarded me as if he’d never seen me before, and said he’d be honoured to fight beside me. Yolanda hailed me as a heroine—before chiding me for associating so much with Faren, “that rascal!” In his imagination, maybe. Fending off her interrogation about Logan Thackeray, I’d never been happier to see Faren bounce towards me. And the moment that I muttered something about being tired, he assured me that he was done with the party as well, and headed off to make our excuses to the servants. I was ignoring Yolanda’s meaningful stare when I heard him scream. 7 Corone got his wish sooner than either of us could have imagined. We easily trounced the bandits who swept into the party, but it didn’t matter: Faren was already gone. With Corone and Edmonds protecting the guests, I ran out of Manor Hill and into the district plaza, desperately trying to catch any sign of Faren, or even the bandits; they’d have to have some way to recognize each other, wouldn’t they? But there was nothing, just ordinary people carrying on with ordinary business, merchants calling out sales, the old tour guide talking to a woman with a red handkerchief about her neck … with that over her mouth, she’d look just like the bandits who had abducted Faren— “Madam?” said someone near us, and then “ma'am!” as I blasted the bandit with a bolt of aether. I fought at least half a dozen across the district, tracking them one by one to a house at the opposite end of Salma. At the sight of me, bandits poured out of the house, but I didn’t care: they’d learn what it meant to cross a daughter of Ascalon.

FOUR

1 After Shaemoor, the bandits were nothing. They kept jumping out of their safehouse one by one—idiocy—and flailed at my clones, even their supposed leader. “Soon, you’ll beg me for death!” he shouted. I laughed, and blew up the clones. He went down like a basket of eggs. But I never laughed for long. I’d yet to see Faren, and images of bandits beating him, tormenting him, cutting his throat, flickered before me, each as vivid as every spell I cast. 2 Inside the bandits’ safehouse, I raced upstairs, barely wasting attention on the few guards left inside. Fear and victory kept my blood rushing fast: I didn’t even think about Anise’s lessons, but my feet landed exactly as she’d taught me, my body slipped away from each attack, and every spell hit its mark. Beyond them, I could just see Faren. He seemed alive, thank the gods, but stretched out in magical chains that turned my anger and fear to raw fury. I fought through a haze of rage, but one that illuminated rather than blinded—everything seemed crisp and bright and clear, more than ever before. When the last of them collapsed, I scrambled the rest of the way up the stairs, and tried to clear my head. “Um,” said Faren, “a little help here?” 3 When I broke the chains, relief flooding through me, he gave a hoarse laugh. “Am I pleased to see you!” he exclaimed, then grinned and added, “though if you wanted me to leave the party, a simple ‘Begone, freeloader!’ would have sufficed.” Captivity or no, Faren clearly remained Faren. “I’ll make a note of that,” I said dryly, and asked after any information he might have picked up on what the devil was going on. But he knew only that they operated out of a house in Shaemoor, where they’d meant to lock him up, and that in recent months, they’d turned more brazen, bloodthirsty, and focused on rebellion against the crown. “I can't save you and leave the others to rot,” I decided, and managed to smile at him. “Bad form, you know.” 4 Faren, looking determined (for him), said, “Count me in—I may not be a centaur-killing berserker like you, but I can take care of myself.” I’d believe that when I saw it. On the way to the bandits' den, I said, “Glad to have you with me, but do me a favour? Stay close”—I poked him with my sceptre—“and that way, we can protect each other.” Faren shrugged that off, which didn’t comfort me, but he actually managed himself well enough; he didn’t even get blood on his clothes as we fought our way into the concealed and guarded caves, nor when we rescued all the prisoners caged inside, so it counted as a success as far as he was concerned. “If you know any fair maidens, be sure to tell them who rescued you,” he said, and added with a grin, “the dashing Lord Faren … and his friend!” 5 The mission did count as a success for me, too; one of the captives had filched papers about a plot in Divinity’s Reach. We escorted him and the others out, taking down the remaining bandits with impatience (me) and glee (Faren). “We showed them what Ascalonians are made of!” he said triumphantly, and I straightened right up. “That’s right.” When Logan Thackeray arrived to help, Faren swaggered up and said, “My friend and I defeated these delinquents with panache and aplomb; you're just in time to celebrate our victory.” “I’m … amazed,” said Captain Thackeray. I knew the feeling. 6 “Then again,” he said, favouring me with a respectful nod, “I should have known that the hero of Shaemoor wouldn’t let your kidnapping go unanswered.” I remembered Shaemoor, fighting alongside Captain Thackeray with my stick of a sceptre just like Gwen and Langmar once had, all those years ago, and tried not to think too much of it; we’d barely met, outside of a few social occasions he clearly didn’t remember. But I also thought of Faren struggling in his chains, and danger spreading to the home that was supposed to keep us safe, and that we were all Ascalonians together. “No one hurts my friends without answering to me,” I said firmly. I handed over the papers we’d acquired, but to my surprise, it was Faren(!) who proved most useful; he noticed the quality of the paper, and even knew of the papermaker I could track down to identify it. I promised, “I'll get the information you need, without anyone realizing the Seraph are aware of the traitor in the city.” “Be careful,” said Captain Thackeray. 7 Although he warned me, I didn’t realize so many skale existed in the world as I wiped out on that trip—luckily, I found a new sceptre on the way, so I managed to keep them at a distance, and my clothes remained as pristine as Faren’s. When I arrived, I found the paper maker he’d mentioned; Fursarai was a small, prissy man, an impression not helped by his quite beautiful waistcoat, but it didn’t stop him from shouting at a departing Norn about getting his supplies back to the city. “You there—you look like you can handle yourself in a fight!” he announced, gaze fixed on something in my direction; I glanced over my shoulder, but none of the Seraph seemed to be behind me, nor anyone else. He gabbled something about the garrison and cowardly guards at the empty air—unless—unless "you there" was supposed to mean me? What a boor: but unfortunately, a boor who could direct me to Faren’s attackers. Friendship had its sacrifices. I looked at my silk sleeves, and sighed. FIVE 1 “What do you cost?” Cin Fursarai demanded, and now I preferred to believe he wanted a replacement for that Norn. It was flattering, I suppose, that he looked at me—a young noblewoman in silk, wool, and fine leather, carrying only a sceptre and a small sword—and thought I looked like someone who could fight. “I’m not a mercenary,” I said, and added: “I'm here to ask for help identifying the craftsmanship of a piece of handmade paper.” Fursarai sniffed. “If you found quality paper in Divinity’s Reach, I can assure you, I made it.” By sheer force of will, I didn’t roll my eyes—I had a conspiracy to unearth, never mind how irritating this little prig was—and instead requested his help, only for him to sniff again and go on about how he had no loyalty to the crown, because he happened to live in Lion’s Arch. He had red hair and dressed in high Rurikton fashion; he had to be Ascalonian, descendant of refugees saved by Kryta’s rulers, yet—yet— 2 It didn’t matter. It didn’t, not right now—and anyway, our fashions had spread far and wide, Lion’s Arch had long ago drowned its history, and true Ascalonian identity meant more than ancestry, whatever they might say in Rurikton. Deborah had taught me that much; if he didn’t care about it, then I wouldn’t, either. Easier said than done, though. “I need this information as soon as possible,” I told him. “But why should I trust you?” he retorted. “Who are you, anyway?” 3 I lifted my chin, and for all I might tell myself, I felt as if the pride of generations clustered about me, even with my foremothers’ spirits hopefully at peace in the Hall of Echoes. I had not forgotten what I came from. All those Langmars, the children and children’s children of Gwen Thackeray’s great captain. The Krytans they’d married now and then, abandoning an easy heritage to transplant themselves into Rurikton, absorbed into Ascalonian life and identity. The Fairchilds in Ebonhawke, kin of the last kings, of the duke who still haunted Ascalon and his martyred daughter. They’d fought a long defeat, on and on, yet managed to keep a last corner of human Ascalon alive; my aunt still worked to keep Ebonhawke standing while this man sneered over paper. “I am Lady Althea Fairchild of Divinity’s Reach and Ebonhawke,” I said. 4 Fursarai eyed me suspiciously. “Well, which one?” Despite myself, my defiance flickered. I would always be Ascalonian above all else, yet I would always serve the queen, too, and set myself against the enemies of Kryta. I belonged to Ebonhawke, my father’s land, my birthplace and my pride; I belonged to Divinity’s Reach, the only home I knew, where my mother’s people had lived and fought for generations. Anise always called me a creature of two faces, and I supposed I was. “I don’t know,” I admitted. 5 He grunted. “Explains why you don’t stink like the rest, anyway.” “Thank you,” I replied dryly. After a minute of meditation (not helped by Fursarai’s string of complaints), we headed out. I was just about ready to kill him myself by the time we got to the Shaemoor garrison; he’d have easily died without me fighting skale and centaurs and one exceptionally large spider by sceptre and sword, but he made not the slightest attempt to defend himself, just cowering against his bull and yelping the entire way there. That was before I had to take down three centaur catapults and Lyssa knew how many centaurs, with maybe two Seraph backing me up. Naturally, his gratitude upon entering the garrison amounted to checking his supplies three times, turning to me, and pronouncing: “I feel like I was run over by a herd of marauding dolyaks!” 6 Irritation aside, he did supply the information I needed, admitting that he sold his paper to Minister Zamon. Zamon, the man who’d all but gloated at my mother when Deborah died, purely—I thought then—because of malice at the suffering of a rival. And then, not long ago: the man who’d sneered at my defense of Shaemoor. “He has excellent taste,” Fursarai said, his glance clearly implying that I didn’t. As if he’d know. I silently decided that I’d never buy anything from him, even if I had to go to Lion’s Arch myself to find another papermaker. I smiled and said, “Don’t leave Divinity’s Reach.” 7 I found Captain Thackeray in the Seraph Headquarters, deep in a discussion with Anise, of all people, but his head snapped up when he caught sight of me. “Do you have any news?” “Fursarai admitted he made the paper for Minister Zamon,” I said, suppressing any signs of satisfaction. Well, mostly; Anise cast an amused look in my direction. “Setting up citizens to be robbed and brutalized?” exclaimed Captain Thackeray. “That's out-and-out treason.” Why, so it was.

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1) The Fairchilds in Ebonhawke, kin of ... the duke who still haunted Ascalon and his martyred daughter: i.e., Duke Barradin, while his daughter, Lady Althea—this Althea’s namesake—was burned alive by the Charr.

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SIX 1 “But where are my manners?” said Captain Thackeray, whom I’d never seen with so much as a wrinkle in his surcoat or a hair out of place. “Allow me to introduce you to Countess Anise, Master Exemplar of the Shining Blade.” Bemused, I nodded at my mentor of years, while Anise bowed with a faint, ironic smile. Disregarding the matter of manners, she said smoothly, “Minister Wi’s hosting a party tonight; it’ll be a good opportunity to eavesdrop on ministers, their allies, and enemies.” Captain Thackeray couldn’t quite bring himself to disagree, but clearly wanted to; he proposed a (perfectly legal) raid on Zamon’s house instead, and worse still, left the choice to me, insisting that he couldn’t give me orders—even though he clearly had no idea who I was. In fact, I wasn’t even sure he’d realized I had a name. 2 Naturally, I consulted with Anise—Thackeray or no Thackeray, she was my guide and teacher. “Personally,” she said in her light voice, “I prefer convivial, face-to-face situations. Then again, cloak-and-dagger skulduggery is always fun.” I laughed. “The way you describe it, it all sounds so charming; I’ll have to think it over.” I didn’t, actually. Minister Wi lived in Rurikton, and Faren was my best friend; if I knew anything, it was Rurikton parties. 3 “Minister Wi’s party,” I announced. “I’ll see what I can learn.” “Are you sure?” said Captain Thackeray, though with a distinct note of resignation. “You can’t break into Zamon’s place if you attend Minister Wi’s party.” “I’m sure,” I told him. “Minister Wi’s party it is.” He sighed. 4 “Your fellow nobles seem to have a knack for making my life interesting,” Captain Thackeray told me, clearly putting the best face on it. “Let’s see if we can’t return the favour.” “We nobles, Captain Thackeray?” I said, amused; everyone knew about his relationship to Gwen—and his relationship to Queen Jennah, too. “A step down from royalty making your life interesting, I’m sure.” To my surprise, he flinched. Some lover’s spat, perhaps; I decided it was none of my business, and turned to Anise, who promised to meet me at the party—because it wouldn’t do to make us share the spotlight during our entrance. Of course. 5 I listened to a few complaints and registered some unsolved crimes after Anise left, then headed out. At least, I meant to, but on my way to the door out of Seraph Headquarters, I caught sight of an open book—a register. “That lists the names of all Seraph soldiers for the last two decades,” an officer told me proudly. I glanced over my shoulder, undoubtedly looking as suspect as a priest of Grenth on Wintersday, but nobody seemed to be paying attention; the officer had drifted over to settle a dispute over a farm, Captain Thackeray was talking to a lieutenant, and everybody else looked up to their ears in work. I opened the book, scolding myself for being foolish, giving into a pointless sentimentality that would achieve nothing, recover no corpse for a grave—but still, I turned the pages, searching for the name I would know. I felt like a spy, flipping through pages, for all that the registry was open to the public and I had every right to look—and then, there it was, near the head of its page. Sgt Deborah Fairchild; missing in action, assumed dead. 6 “Are you looking for someone?” said Captain Thackeray. I nearly jumped straight into the air; as it was, I flinched as violently as he had. “No, sir,” I said, and realized—Debs would have said no, sir in the exact same tone, would have stood in this very room as I did now, would know it all better than I did. What would she have thought, if she’d known that one day I would be investigating crimes for the Seraph, reporting to Captain Thackeray himself? She’d never pressed me to be anything I wasn’t, never seemed to love me less for being the thoughtless, frivolous creature I was then, but I couldn’t help but imagine she’d have been proud. Imagine how this whole thing might have gone if she’d been alive—maybe we’d be investigating Zamon together, or— “Good luck, Captain Thackeray,” I said, and walked out. 7 By happy coincidence, I already had an invitation, of sorts. My mother’s said Minister Ailoda Langmar and one other. “You want to go?” said Mother, looking startled. “I would have thought you’d be busy slaying monsters or saving people or whatever else you do these days.” I frowned, unsure how to take this; it might have been pride, if not for her studiously neutral tone—did she think all this unimportant, or regrettable, or beneath us? Or was it fear, with Deborah dead on Seraph business? For a wild moment, I longed to tell her, cling to her and admit that I was frightened and angry as well as resolved, to confide in someone who would always see Althea first and the hero of Shaemoor second. “I need to keep an eye on Faren,” I said.

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1) his relationship to Queen Jennah: Jennah is the Queen of Kryta, and a beautiful young woman; it’s widely rumoured that she and Logan are having an affair. The last time royalty made his life especially interesting was when he deserted his dragon-hunting guild, Destiny's Edge, out of love for Jennah.

--------------------------------------------------------------------- SEVEN 1 I headed back to Rurikton for the party, though a good while before it was set to begin. I hadn’t been home for a while—months, though it felt like longer—and I wanted to get my bearings. I strolled past the familiar stone gryphons, a light calm settling over me. It deepened as I made my way down the streets, passing refugees and servants who gave slight bows: respectful, no more. Clusters of nobles nodded familiarly at me. I stopped by local traders, most of whom I knew by name. One bookseller had a pair of rare books on Ascalonian history, one of which I’d wanted for ages; I purchased them on the spot, and after these weeks of fighting and investigating and rescuing, it was a pleasure to let it all slide for a moment, and decide that today was already a success. 2 I personally carried my books to Langmar Manor, since I’d forgotten to bring any servants, and didn’t feel very much inclined to send for one now. Oddly enough, I had gotten used to managing on my own. The walk from the district square was a short and easy one in any case; I strolled down the streets, encountering nothing worse than a few seditious posters I tore down, and a man complaining about Captain Thackeray to an unsympathetic friend. “You know, just because your wife’s taken a shine to Logan Thackeray doesn’t make him a bad guy—he’s cursed.” At the first man’s scoff, the friend added, “Cursed with good looks and true Ascalonian blood! It’s not his fault that every woman fawns over him.” Not every woman, I thought. 3 The people of Rurikton had always mingled at the Maiden’s Whisper as well as Rurikton at large, so I attracted no particular curiosity when I strolled into the tavern. Several other lords and ladies stood near the entrance, smiling and lifting their glasses towards me as I passed, while everyone else simply continued their own conversations—despite the Norn inexplicably towering at the side of the room. “I like that Minister Caudecus,” one girl announced. “To Queen Jennah!” someone just out of sight said, echoed by a dozen toasts to the queen, Divinity’s Reach, Captain Thackeray, and assorted ministers. Across the hall, a man bellowed drunkenly, “Show me a woman who can wrestle a bear, and I’ll show you a keeper!” “If the Charr think they can come here,” said a woman, her voice clear and pleasant, “me and my meat cleaver will tell them otherwise.” I smiled; despite everything, it really was good to be home. 4 I spent the last few hours before the party skulking around Rurikton, but found nothing beyond a particularly incompetent group of adventurers and ordinary conversation on the street. Returning to the inn, I searched for a relatively secluded place, found it in a library, and closed my eyes, peering through those of a near-invisible clone as she drifted through Minister Wi’s manor. She wasn’t caught, but turned up nothing except preparations for the party. I was sure there had to be something we’d missed, but apparently not. Well, Zamon might be acting in secrecy. Might. I resigned myself to the inevitable: I would only discover what I needed to know at the party, and I would have no preparation beyond what I already knew. 5 When I arrived at the manor in person, the place was positively oozing Ministry guards, for no particular reason. Anise slanted them a glance that betrayed nothing, then eyed my finery with nearly smug approval. “This will be delightful,” she said, apparently no more inclined than usual to bother with such minutia as greetings and farewells. “Having the hero of Shaemoor on my arm will make tongues wag.” Even though it was just Anise, I flushed. So much for separate entrances—but it was like Anise to enjoy disrupting plans, even her own. “Thank you for letting me join you this evening, Countess,” I said, because it was like me, too. 6 “Mingle,” she said. “Speak to everyone—you never know who’ll say something they regret later.” It was an encouraging thought. “Second,” said Anise, “don’t limit your conversation to nobility; servants and guards see everything.” “Understood,” I replied, adding, “I suppose it goes without saying that I should be discreet?” “You catch on fast,” she told me, and touched her finger to the end of my nose, eliciting a startled laugh. “Go and charm the masses.” 7 “You know where to find me if you need me, pet,” Anise concluded, while I still tried to wrap my mind and dignity around the fact that she’d bopped my nose. But at the moment, I found her at my side, setting my hand on her arm and marching forward in her tall boots. She actually smiled when I matched my steps to hers, even if I could hardly match the total assurance of her stride and her drawl—but she smiled more at the sudden hush that fell over the grand room when we entered. “The Countess Anise,” the servant at the door announced, and after a suitably dramatic pause, continued, “and the hero of Shaemoor!” Virtually everyone in this room had known me from childhood, but they all bowed anyway, as if my mother herself stood in my place, rather than the other way around; she’d abruptly developed a cold when she heard Zamon would be there. Zamon himself was nowhere to be seen. Interesting.

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1) Cursed with good looks and true Ascalonian blood: this (and much of the dialogue here) is part of the ambient dialogue near the inn.

#anghraine's gaming #anghraine's fic #ascalonian grudgefic #ascalonian grudgeblog #althea fairchild #ailoda langmar #countess anise #marius corone #deborah fairchild #edmund fairchild #elwin fairchild #lord faren #julius zamon #logan thackeray #captain tervelan #guild wars 2 #pro patria #footnotes ahoy!

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arcticdementor · 3 years

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This is on them, those brave and bold MSNBCNN warriors who sold out the conservatives who once took their cruises until Trump exposed the grift; these True Conservatives™ then proceeded to help elect Grandpa Badfinger pseudo-president. Well, at least they are consistent – when they were nominally conservative, the GOP squishes they backed led us to disaster, and the Dem libs they back now are doing the same.

The Conservative, Inc., crew are the smart guys. The moral guys. The experts of expertise. Just ask them. The Never Trumpers are the adults in the room, even if adults aren’t the North American Man-Boy Lincoln Project’s usual target demo.

This Afghanistan disaster, this utter abomination that will lead to tens of thousands of deaths of foreigners who trusted America, the humiliation of our country – country first, right guys? – and a possible hostage crisis to boot that will require us to thaw out and redeploy Ted Koppel, is on them.

But it’s not completely on them. Let’s face it, they don’t have that much influence anymore. Their purpose is solely to pretend that there is a conservative constituency for leftism. No one points to these doofuses and says, “Yeah, let’s harken back to the glory days when these geniuses were managing America’s decline – that was much better.” They failed then, and they are failing now, and when the Silicon Valley suckers funding these turncoat losers wise up and turn off the cash spigot, no one will listen to them at all.

It’s funny – you look at a toad like Bill Kristol and you wonder what bothers him most – the fact that a bunch of conservatives despise him, or the fact that most modern conservatives couldn’t pick him out of a line-up with LTC Bratwurst, Ana Navarro, and Brian Stelter, who is a potato.

You need to understand who these guys are. They are unaccomplished footnote people, whether it’s “Is a hot dog a sandwich or a taco?” dilemma pundit Jonah Goldberg (whose been coasting off his one good book for years), or drag queen story time advocate David French – whose name we once could have made fun of by citing the Gallic stereotype of military ineptness, except it turns out the frogs are courageously going out into Kabul to sweep up their citizens while the demented muppet the Ahoy Crew voted for has ordered our American forces to sit tight.

They are co-owners of this fiasco. They wanted Biden. It was imperative to saving the Republic, or something, we were solemnly informed. Those mean tweets, those damnable mean tweets – we needed the calming, soothing normality of a steady statesman and got a senile cone-licker-in-chief instead.

If these guys weren’t wrong, they’d be nothing.

…

How do these traitors come back from this, to the extent they ever could come back from their serial betrayals over the last half-decade and their pathetic performance as conservatives who never conserved nothing over the prior decades? They won’t, but they will still benefit from the milieu they have vigorously defended, the one that assures that even adjunct members of the in-crowd like them will never, ever be held to account. Start wars you have no idea how to finish – to the extent you want them to ever finish – and what happens? You get rewarded by the elite instead of shunned. Come on down to the green room – noted intern -employer Joe Scarborough’s got some questions! And don’t forget to fret about Muh Insurrection! I hear that was 9/11 times a zillion.

Pathetic.

Do not underestimate the capacity of these chameleons to adapt. David French went from pretending to be conservative hard to confessing his white privilege – whatever tune you need him to dance to, just make it rain and he’ll start shimmying. What the hell does David French actually believe, anyway? I don’t care, nor do you, but I am curious, not about what it is but whether he actually believes anything at all anymore. Hold on guys, because my money is on an upcoming column at whatever unread blog currently hosts his mewlings titled “The Conservative Case for Sharia.”

#kurt schlichter #townhall.com

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argylemikewheeler · 6 years

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mike sort of gets angry about small things and has mini temper tantrums sometimes. like one day mike will be going off about someone at work who has the worst attitude and will’s learned that one of the only ways to calm him down is to just plant soft kisses on his face as he’s yelling. often times will has to shut mike up by kissing him. and mike knows exactly what will is doing but he never stops him.

“You aren’t going to fucking believe what happened today!” Mike bust through Will’s front door without knocking, not that he ever needed to. Will could hear him stomping up to the door, rattling the planks of the porch.

“You know I love a good work story.” Will said calmly, placing his sketchbook aside. He’d been working on his most recent commission, waiting for Mike to return from his shift at the mall. Work hadn’t been going well since the first day. Will was sure it was a combination of Mike’s lack of interest in the service industry, the constant interaction, and the fact that he was using the job to avoid being home as much as possible. It was wearing on Mike, and it showed. More so in moments like this– temper flared and aggravation driving him all the way to Will’s house blind– than anywhere else.

“So, I’m trying to fucking do my fucking job, and this girl comes up to me–” Mike starts, pointing his finger off to the side, giving stage directions to the scene he was painting in front of Will. “And she asks me where she can find a fucking Sears.”

“Which does exist in the mall.” Will added quietly, trying to add logical footnotes to Mike’s story. He held a hand out to Mike and waved him over to the couch. Mike didn’t take it at first, still waving his hand around. Will grabbed it before he took an eye out and pulled him toward him. “Go ahead.”

“Yeah. It’s one of the main goddamn stores in the mall– she’s got to be blind to not know where it is. But I tell her. Because I have to. I have to be nice. Nice and scoop fucking ice cream. That’s all I do.” Mike grumbled. He fell back and plopped next to Will. He rested his head against the back of the couch and sighed loudly, with enough force to muster up a growl.

“You do a really good job with both, Mike.” Will said quietly, placing a hand on Mike’s arm. “You always give me a really big scoop with a beautiful smile.”

Mike sighed and let his head loll toward Will. “I have to be nice to you.”

“You don’t have to.” Will laughed, shaking his head. “But you do. Because you’re nice. And you scoop ice cream.”

“I still fucking hate it.” Mike muttered, clenching his jaw. “Because then, after I tell her, she goes away with all her friends.”

“Okay.” Will listens but begins slowly smoothing the collar of Mike’s uniform. “So she leaves. She’s gone.”

“And she comes. back. and she starts saying I gave her the wrong directions– which I didn’t! She just literally doesn’t know her rights from her goddamn lefts!” Mike sat up and waved his arms out, giving examples to the nonexistent audience.

“Mike, hey, come on.” Will said, placing a hand on Mike’s chest to try and pull him back in. Mike was upset about more than being told he gave bad directions. He was probably told he was bad at something a little more personal that morning at the breakfast table. Will didn’t have to ask, but he also didn’t want to know what had been said. Will had heard his own variation of it from Lonnie, he was sure.

“This girl starts standing at the counter, blocking the line behind her, and starts ripping into me– she’s like thirteen. I could have stepped on her if I wasn’t getting paid to be nice and scoop. fucking. ice cream.”

“Hey, come on.” Will moved on the couch and kneeled beside Mike. “You’re going to tire yourself out, Mike. We have dinner later.”

“She got away with it! Every other worker there heard her screaming at me for literally nothing and they didn’t do anything.” Mike continued, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck.”

Will copied the action, running his fingers through Mike’s hair after him. He leaned in close to Mike to admire the timid curls trying to form along Mike’s ears. The very end of the curl tucked up and under Mike’s ear, resting on his cheek. Will nodded along to Mike’s continued ravings, but leaned in and placed a soft kiss just at the end of the curl. Mike’s jaw loosened, nearly going slack– if only for a moment.

“Oh did I tell you about my fucking boss?” Mike started again, jaw tight again.

“No, you didn’t.” Will said softly.

He moved up and placed his lips gently against Mike’s temple. He was on his way to a headache if he didn’t stop screaming and straining himself. Will kissed his temple again before trying to reach across his entire forehead.

“He told me that if I didn’t start putting in even more hours, he was going to start cutting my shifts down. Which doesn’t make any fucking sense! I’m only one person! I have a life, a sleep schedule, a boyfriend!” Mike cried. “I’d like to spend time with him. God knows I’m barely allowed that anymore.” Mike was allowed a secret runaway to Will’s house twice a week thanks to Nancy’s careful, consistent lying. “Everything is falling to fucking shit and all I–”

“Hey, it’s alright.” Will whispered, placing his hands on either side of Mike’s face. He placed a kiss over each of Mike’s furrowed eyebrows.

“What are you doing?” Mike sighed, his face relaxing, but mostly to change into confusion.

“I’m helping.”

“Is that what this is?” Mike said, lifting an eyebrow. “I still have a shitty fucking job and a shitty fucking family and a shitty fucking–”

“Would you shut up for three seconds?” He laughed.

Will pulled Mike’s face up to his own. Mike’s lips were still parted when they kissed, a word resting between them. It froze, the anger behind it dying the minute Will pulled him in. Sure, Mike had more to say and more to be upset about, but Will just wanted him to be quiet for just a moment. He wanted Mike’s mind to sputter and stall into a silence and allow him a reprieve from his own rumbling turmoil. Will never knew if it worked, but Mike at least always seemed to stop yelling afterward.

Mike sighed and blinked quickly as Will pulled away, bringing Will’s face into better focus. “My job sucks.” He said plainly.

“I know. It does.” Will agreed. He kept his hands on Mike’s face and let his thumbs gently brush over his cheeks. “But, you made it through today and now you’re with me.”

“I am. I am with you.” Mike nodded, a smile finally cracking his grimace. “Tell me about your day.”

“Finishing up that drawing for someone’s skateboard deck– one of Max’s friends.” Will said with a laugh. Mike lifted his eyebrows and looked down at the other cushions.

“Where is it? Can I see?”

“No, it’s not finished yet–”

“Oh, come on!”

“It’s not good enough yet!”

“Will, don’t fire me back up!” Mike teased, clenching his jaw. Will giggled and quickly placed another kiss on Mike’s lips. Mike placed his hands on Will’s waist and pulled him across his body. Will fell onto the opposite cushion with his legs stretched out over Mike’s lap, feet resting on his sketchpad.

“Not sure I like this angry side of you.” Will said with a quiet laugh.

“May I?” Mike’s hand grabbed Will’s foot by a toe and hovered before lifting it and grabbing the book.

“If you must.” Will waved toward the book with permission. “They wanted a Dessert Wasteland theme.”

“Clever.” Mike said, turning the book around before trying to find the right angle by craning his neck. “It’s good, Will. Really good.”

“Thank you.” Will said. There was still a certain tension in Mike’s voice, but Will wasn’t sure how much of that he could make go away with soft spoken words and kissing. He moved forward to sit on Mike’s lap, able to rest his head on his shoulder. Mike was looking at it upside down. “This way, Michael.”

“Oh.” He said, quickly flipping the book. “Still looks good– although now all these waves make sense. A-Are they waves? What is that?”

“Melted ice cream.” Will said, tracing the lines back to the vase-shaped glass sundae boat framing the corner design.

“Melted? What made you do that?” Mike said, furrowing his eyebrows again.

“Well, you see,” Will said, taking the book from Mike’s hands slowly. “I know this hothead that works at the Scoops Ahoy–” Mike sighed and let his head fall back again. Will giggled and threw his pad onto the coffee table. “I’m sorry. It was funnier to me.”

“Gotta kick me while I’m down, huh?” Mike said, sighing dramatically.

“Oh come on.” Will said, trying to pull on Mike’s collar and get him to level his head again. “Kiss to make it better?”

ao3

#byeler #Byler #will byers x mike wheeler #stranger things writing #to link #prompts #something cute and short and fluffy for y'all

112 notes · View notes

thisweekingundamwing · 7 years

Text

This Week in Gundam Wing Dec. 10th - 16th 2017!

Hello everyone! Hope your holiday season is going well!

Here’s what’s been happening in the Gundam Wing fandom this past week!

~Mod Hel.

Fanfiction:

@amberlyinviolet, @yourbloodlikewine

In This Light, Chapter 3: Eli

http://archiveofourown.org/works/12386715/chapters/28402484

Duo x OC, Trowa x OC, Solo x OC. AU, child abuse mention, Sexual Assault Mention, homophobic parents, Re-Written Characters, Drug Use, Violence, off screen murder

Duo spent the last semester working in his older brother's coffee shop. He's resigned himself to a boring spring when a stranger appears, shaking up his entire life.Eli left home last fall, choosing to spend the last six months living out of his van on his travels from the Midwest to the East Coast. By the time he arrives at Ink's, the novelty of traveling alone has started to wear off. Still, the last thing he's expecting is to meet someone who's going to change all that for him

@anaranesindanarie

Life isn’t Fair http://archiveofourown.org/works/12968199

M/M, Mystery - Relationship

mystery - Character

Death, Tears, Crying, all the feels, Mystery Characters - Freeform, you pick the characters

Life isn't fair. You don't always get a chance to say goodbye before a loved one is snatched away forever.

@chronicwhimsy

Saudade (Ch. 14) http://archiveofourown.org/works/11352189/chapters/29734539

Warnings: Underage

Relationships: Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner

Characters: Trowa Barton, Duo Maxwell, Quatre Raberba Winner, Catherine Bloom, Heero Yuy, Chang Wufei

Additional Tags: Trowa is a good bro, Duo is a terrible bro, but he tries very hard, Confident!Quatre, circus shenanigans, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, thin line between being a good wingman and interfering, Mentions of Underage Sex, Underage Drinking, Duo and Trowa Bromance 5eva

Series: Part 1 of Slowly Moving Forwards

Summary: Wufei finally arrives in Budapest, for a brief stop that has a bigger impact than he realises.

DarkPanthress

No Other Way (Ch. 23: Snippet 2) https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8219920/23/No-Other-Way

There have been a lot of clichéd stories. This is picking some clichés and just dumping them into a new version of the story. Heero needs an out from a difficult situation with Relena, and the out seems to be a fake engagement!

@duointherain

Not Quite Single (Ch. 8) http://archiveofourown.org/works/12786444/chapters/29732475

M/M, Multi

Fandoms: Gundam Wing, Captain America (Movies)

Relationships: Duo Maxwell/Heero Yuy, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers

Characters: Duo Maxwell, Duo Maxwell Jr., Hilde Schbeiker, Heero Yuy, Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes

Duo has some time in Purgatory.

FireCats20

THE SIREN OF ATLANTIS (Ch. 4) http://archiveofourown.org/works/12938835/chapters/29741259

F/M, Multi

Fandoms: Yu-Gi-Oh!, Gundam Wing, Yu-Gi-Oh! Series, Yu-Gi-Oh! GX, Yu-Gi-Oh! 5D's, Yu-Gi-Oh! ARC-V

Relationships: m/f - Relationship, M/F/M - Relationship

Characters: Kaiba Seto, Mutou Yuugi, Bakura Ryou, Marik Ishtar, Otogi Ryuuji | Duke Devlin, Heero Yuy, Quatre Raberba Winner, Duo Maxwell, Trowa Barton, Chang Wufei, Yugo (Yu-Gi-Oh), Yuto (Yu-Gi-Oh), Yuri (Yu-Gi-Oh), Sakaki Yuya, Fudou Yuusei, Yuuki Juudai | Jaden Yuki, Johan Andersen | Jesse Anderson, Crow Hogan, Edo Phoenix | Aster Phoenix, Marufuji Ryou | Zane Truesdale, Marufuji Shou | Syrus Truesdale

Alternate Universe, BDSM, Human Trafficking, Reverse Harem, Humiliation, Rape, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Murder, Underage Sex, Underage Drinking, Past Life Flashbacks, Consensual Underage Sex, Attempted Murder, Blood Kink, Torture

HeavenMayBurn

Stranieri in terra straniera http://archiveofourown.org/works/13012710

Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell, Trowa Barton, Quatre Raberba Winner, Chang Wufei, Relena Peacecraft

Language: Italiano

Wufei sposta lo sguardo verso i suoi amici, e vorrebbe domandargli come hanno fatto ad essere certi di fare la cosa giusta, durante quegli ultimi giorni. Vorrebbe chiedere se erano certi di appartenere al posto in cui sarebbero tornati, o se la guerra non fosse ormai entrata sotto la loro pelle.

Vorrebbe chiedere a Heero quale sia il suo posto, se davvero pensava che fosse possibile smettere di combattere per persone come loro.

@kangofu-cb

Lunch Date

https://kangofu-cb.tumblr.com/post/168506599562/lunch-date

So this is a small little, stupid thing that I’ve drummed up for @claraxbarton because Reasons and also because I’ve shamelessly stolen her theater!Trowa and… whatever it’s vaguely Christmas-y because I wanted to write something quick and festive and anyway it’s below the cut.

Warnings: cavity-inducing fluff, un-beta’d

Pairings: 2x3, because always

East of Eden (Ch. 7)

http://archiveofourown.org/works/12591796/chapters/29750499

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Duo Maxwell/Quatre Raberba Winner, eventual - Relationship, Chang Wufei/Duo Maxwell/Quatre Raberba Winner, some side, Trowa Barton/Heero Yuy, and maybe some, Long Meilan/Hilde Schbeiker

Characters: Duo Maxwell, Chang Wufei, Heero Yuy, Trowa Barton, Quatre Raberba Winner, Zechs Merquise, Treize Khushrenada, Hilde Schbeiker, Long Meilan

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Fae & Fairies, Vampires, Were-Creatures, Blood and Violence, Sex, Magic, Angst, Death, Canon-Typical Violence

Chapter 7: My Religion, Mostly porn. Some explanation. Everyone gets a birthday! And porn. Loads of porn.

Kayura_sanada

By Your Side (Ch. 8) http://archiveofourown.org/works/12948579/chapters/29771868

M/M, Duo Maxwell/Heero Yuy, Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner

Duo Maxwell, Heero Yuy, Chang Wufei, Trowa Barton, Quatre Raberba Winner, Sally Po, Lady Une, Relena Peacecraft

Animal Transformation, Pining, Post-Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Friendship

If Duo wants to be human again, there's a certain ingredient needed for the recipe. The pilots head out to get it.

@lifeaftermeteor

LAM snippet https://lifeaftermeteor.tumblr.com/post/168623134956/presidents-suite-brussels-belgium-26-january-208

Duo Maxwell

tw for reference to alcohol used as professional coping mechanism

LittleMouse

What Dreams May Come (Ch. 3) http://archiveofourown.org/works/12772926/chapters/29791854

M/M, Chang Wufei/Duo Maxwell, Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner/Heero Yuy

Chang Wufei, Duo Maxwell, Trowa Barton, Heero Yuy, Quatre Raberba Winner, Sally Po mentioned

Flashbacks, Non-con touching, Violence, Threesome - M/M/M, Anal Sex

Part 2 of the Dreaming... series

WarCraft (Ch. 6) http://archiveofourown.org/works/12429339/chapters/29791503

F/F, F/M, M/M

Heero Yuy, Chang Wufei, Duo Maxwell, Quatre Raberba Winner, Zechs Merquise, Trowa Barton, Treize Khushrenada, Hilde Schbeiker, Sally Po, Lady Une, Relena Peacecraft, Lucrezia Noin, Dorothy Catalonia, Iria Winner, Chang Meiran, Catherine Bloom, others as i go

Alternate Universe, Fantasy, Non-con touching

Luvsanime02

Engage (Ch. 8) http://archiveofourown.org/works/12458772/chapters/29667069

Heero Yuy, Relena Peacecraft, Zechs Merquise, Lucrezia Noin, Trowa Barton, Quatre Raberba Winner, Duo Maxwell, Original Characters, Mariemaia Khushrenada, Dorothy Catalonia

Post-Series, Politics, Friendship, Canon-Typical Violence, Minor Character Death, Government Upheaval, Language

Maldoror_Chant

The Source of All Things (Ch. 15) http://archiveofourown.org/works/12121344/chapters/29662827

M/M, Multi, Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner, Eventual Chang Wufei/Duo Maxwell, Even more eventual 1x2x5

alternative universe, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Plot Twists, fairly graphic depiction of sex, Mild description of self-harm, Mathematical Magic, weird science, crones - Freeform, Magic and Technology brawling and eventually screwing, Eventual Threesome, Kinda, Insanity of arcane origin, The universe is a pile of marbles and other dubious allegories

Freeport (Ch. 18) http://archiveofourown.org/works/12654255/chapters/29778882

M/M, Chang Wufei/Duo Maxwell

Chang Wufei, Duo Maxwell

long ass fic ahoy, socio-politics, with violence and hot guys, Blood and Violence, no EW, Slow Burn, Case Fic

@miss-m-muses

Yippee Ki-Yay http://archiveofourown.org/works/12998766

M/M, Duo Maxwell/Heero Yuy, Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner

Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell, Trowa Barton, Quatre Raberba Winner

Christmas Party, First Meetings, First Kiss, Fluff, Cliche, AU

Being forced to attend a festive themed costume party was not Heero’s idea of fun. But maybe his unique costume and a new friend will make it more enjoyable...

Nomechan

Nameless (Ch. 14) https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12738986/14/Nameless

Victorian Fantasy AU. When the royal family of England calls upon a team elite investigators to find the whereabouts of a missing princess, mysteries concerning the royal family, supernatural events and other court scandals will unfold, creating unexpected bonds that will be the key to overcome the greatest enemy. 01xR, 06xN, 02xH. Summary sucks but take a look R&R

@passingdestinies & @the-indomitable-bhg

CAPCOM (Ch. 1-5) http://archiveofourown.org/works/12979587?view_full_work=true

F/M, M/M, Trowa Barton/Heero Yuy, 1x3

Heero Yuy, Trowa Barton, Duo Maxwell, Quatre Raberba Winner, Chang Wufei, Zechs Merquise, Lucrezia Noin, Sally Po, Relena Peacecraft, Treize Khushrenada, Dorothy Catalonia

Slow Burn, NASA, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Drama, Minor Character Death, Tragic Accident, Outer Space, International Space Station, Really Freaking SLOW Burn, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Lots of Footnotes

Astronaut Heero Yuy has spent months preparing to embark on his second mission to the International Space Station, but days before departure he is stricken with illness and forced to forfeit his position to his alternative, astronaut Trowa Barton. Over time Heero's animosity for his replacement transforms into respect, and then ultimately obsession. Can he maintain his professional boundaries, even with over 200 miles of atmosphere separating them?

@ransomedbard

Arbiter (Ch. 3) https://archiveofourown.org/works/12855798/chapters/29775639

Duo Maxwell

Resurrection, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence of the bullets and blood variety, Dark but with humor, Resurrecting is not as great as it sounds, Thinking oh so much thinking

Relena for President

End Game https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12756343/1/End-Game

A.C. 198. When Heero approached Relena about joining her detail, she had been amenable to the idea. It didn't hurt that she harbored personal feelings for Heero, and he knew it. Not that he would ever exploit that, but it certainly made their situation all the more convenient. However, if she was hiding things from him, it was about to make their arrangement much less agreeable...

@remsyk-blog

Volunteer Work http://remsyk-blog.tumblr.com/post/168454989547/volunteer-work

Trowa, university professor and all around nice guy, volunteered to help with Midnight Breakfast, a little something the faculty does for students during finals week.

Scath Rocco Meoi

Deception (Ch. 3) https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12740720/3/Deception

It started as a simple bet among friends. Dress up as a woman, go to a bar or club and get a man's phone number. He was never meant to fall in love... But then Quatre had always hated to lose. AU 1X4

Shenlong

Bound, Bonded and Betrayed (Ch. 67) http://archiveofourown.org/works/7188593/chapters/29759034

F/M, M/M, Heero Yuy/Duo Maxwell, Relena Peacecraft/Heero Yuy, Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner, Treize Khushrenada/Lady Une

Chang Wufei, Zechs Merquise, Hilde Schbeiker, Dorothy Catalonia, Lucrezia Noin, Sally Po

Sap, Angst, Bondage, Slavery, Yaoi, Lemon, Lime, Het, Violence, Fluff, AU, OOC. - Freeform

Shinigamiinochi

A Stagnation of Love (rewrite) (Ch 70: Chapter 8, Part 25) http://archiveofourown.org/works/2490005/chapters/29750241

F/M, M/M, Heero Yuy/Duo Maxwell, Quatre Raberba Winner/Trowa Barton, Trowa Barton/Duo Maxwell, Heero Yuy/Relena Darlian, OC/Duo Maxwell

Duo Maxwell, Heero Yuy, Relena Darlian, Zechs

Child Abuse, Bullying, Angst, Suicide, Incest, Alternate Universe

SmallSound

Two Truths and A Lie (Ch. 3) https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12748596/3/Two-Truths-and-A-Lie

Heero and Duo find some time to assess their relationships while alone on a cleaning shuttle during a cleaning mission in the L3 sector. Mostly a character exploration, 1x2 potentially 1x2x3 in the future.

Sunhawk16

Go http://archiveofourown.org/works/12978021

Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell, Trowa Barton

POV Heero Yuy

Junk Fic http://archiveofourown.org/works/12978456

M/M, Duo Maxwell/Heero Yuy

Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell, Chang Wufei

POV Heero Yuy

Veggie Tales II http://archiveofourown.org/works/12977856/chapters/29668704

M/M, Duo Maxwell/Heero Yuy

Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell

POV Heero Yuy

Ion Vignette http://archiveofourown.org/works/12978339

M/M, Duo Maxwell/Heero Yuy

Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell

Bagels http://archiveofourown.org/works/12978219

M/M, Duo Maxwell/Heero Yuy

Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell, Hilde Schbeiker

POV Heero Yuy, Implied/Referenced Suicide

Moonlight http://archiveofourown.org/works/12978120

M/M, Duo Maxwell/Heero Yuy

Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell

POV Duo Maxwell

Hush http://archiveofourown.org/works/12978402

M/M, Duo Maxwell/Heero Yuy

Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell

Light Angst, POV Duo Maxwell

xX_Rabble_Rouser_Xx

Life After Gundam (Ch. 3) http://archiveofourown.org/works/10873356/chapters/29659143

F/M, Duo Maxwell/OC

Duo Maxwell, OC (female)

Fluff, Domestic Fluff

A series of one-shots taking place post-Endless Waltz in the lives of the former pilots, soldiers, politicians, and civilians. A grab bag of characters, relationships, themes, and subject matter. No defined timeline or storyline.

Zennelia

Hinter dem Horizont (Ch. 9) http://archiveofourown.org/works/10336529/chapters/29675979

F/M, Relena Peacecraft/Heero Yuy

Heero Yuy, Relena Peacecraft, Duo Maxwell, Zechs Merquise, Original Characters

Family, Hurt/Comfort, Philosophy, Drama, Post-War, Preventers (Gundam Wing), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Action/Adventure, Medical, Fluff, Romance, Post-Endless Waltz, Post-Canon, Real Life, Friendship, Character Death, Character Development

The raw manifestation of the disease bore into Duo's very eyes and mind and he witnessed the other side of Heero which made him as he was.

Fanart:

BlackManaBurning

https://blackmanaburning.deviantart.com/art/Always-Accepting-Custom-Requests-Glass-Charms-719885849

Glass Charms, WuFei Chang

@donitkitt

http://donitkitt.tumblr.com/post/168414668751/overly-optimistic-and-loud-and-his-quiet-reserved

Duo/WuFei

http://donitkitt.tumblr.com/post/168409284451/doodle-a-wufeiei

WuFei Chang

@elfbingo

http://elfbingo.tumblr.com/post/168595327835/commission-done-for-gw-ficrecfriday-of-one-of-my

Quatre and Heero

@gundamwingafterdark

https://gundamwingafterdark.tumblr.com/post/168574587210/treize-x-heero-watercolor-painted-on-watercolor

Heero/Treize, NSFW

@kangofu-cb

https://kangofu-cb.tumblr.com/post/168455634757/for-chronicwhimsy-who-is-amazing

WuFei/Duo

Leodin96

https://leodin96.deviantart.com/art/ORX-000-Origin-Gundam-720286774

Wing Gundam

Liza-lunashine

https://liza-lunashine.deviantart.com/art/Death-scythe-hell-Gaito-719394873

Deathscythe crossover art

Murumokirby360

https://murumokirby360.deviantart.com/art/Colored-Sketched-013-Gundam-Deathscythe-Hell-Head-719907525

Deathscythe Hell headshot

@risingwinter

http://risingwinter.tumblr.com/post/168484046614/ugh-these-were-such-pain-but-hey-this-dead

Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell, Trowa Barton, Quatre Winner, WuFei Chang

Seraphiczero

https://seraphiczero.deviantart.com/art/Hi-Resolution-Wing-Gundam-Zero-EW-4-719950596

https://seraphiczero.deviantart.com/art/Hi-Resolution-Wing-Gundam-Zero-EW-3-719950320

https://seraphiczero.deviantart.com/art/Hi-Resolution-Wing-Gundam-Zero-EW-2-719949874

https://seraphiczero.deviantart.com/art/Hi-Resolution-Wing-Gundam-Zero-EW-1-719949373

Wing Zero, model

@viewtiful-jojo Operation Meatier

Mobile Suit Abridged: Gundam Wing! (Episode 3 is in the works!)

Episode 1: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GK1SeYH2kYg&feature=youtu.be

Episode 2: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6_WaXjuXEIE&feature=youtu.be

Photosets/Screenshots:

@vegalume

https://gundamwingarchive.wixsite.com/fanfiction/gw-pics-w-invader-zim-quotes

All of the Invader Zim quotes on Gundam Wing screenshots.

Photo Prompts/Prompts:

@remsyk-blog

Never Skip Leg Day http://remsyk-blog.tumblr.com/post/168594337012/ladies-and-gentlemen-i-present-to-you-another

Duo asks Heero an important question, for a friend.

@the-indomitable-bhg

“Pick your pairing” https://the-indomitable-bhg.tumblr.com/post/168397938287/slashyflightsuit-pick-your-pairing-fic-im

Heero/Duo

Not what you’re expecting, but cute!

@yuy-heero

https://yuy-heero.tumblr.com/post/168529108564/whats-wrong-trowa-paused-in-the-middle-of

Photo prompt, 1X3 cuteness

Chats/Dialogues/Discussions:

@lelola

http://lelola.tumblr.com/post/168401428290/i-love-that-relenas-the-one-catches-heero-both

Relena catching Heero

Calendar Events:

@gw-evewar

GW Eve War Event https://gw-evewar.tumblr.com/post/164079261510/an-open-gundam-wing-fandom-community-science

Post works (Saturday) December 23, 2017 - (Sunday) December 24, 2017

@gwsecretsantaexchange

Secret Gundam Santa https://gwsecretsantaexchange.tumblr.com/post/167303149500/gundam-wing-secret-santa-2017

Gundam Santa gifts due for posting December 20-25!

@thisweekingundamevents

Cocktail Fridays!

#This Week in Gundam Wing #thisweekingundamwing #Gundam Wing #December 10-16 2017 #weekly roundup

30 notes · View notes

tariqk · 7 years

Text

falling out of love with Iain Banks’ the Culture

So, like, I had this thought yesterday about Iain Banks' Culture books, that kind of drove the nail through my love of the series. It's been a long while coming, to be honest — I was in love with the idea of the Culture, but there was always parts of the books that I was leery of — but yesterday's epiphany, especially with regards to the thinking I've done about transhumanist ideas, just sealed the deal for me.

NB: I've only read, so far, Consider Phlebas, The Player of Games, Use of Weapons and Excession. So that is, from what I can see, Banks' earlier work on the Culture. I don't know if he's changed after that, but guessing from the discussion that's happening, and what's been said... probably not.

If you want to know more about the series, here. I'm putting the rest behind the cut, because it honestly is heavy shit that deals with genocide, murder, rape or consent violation, and heavy shit like that. If I've missed anything send me an ask and I'll add more warnings. Also, spoilers ahoy.

So. First, the revelation: In Excession, there is a ship, that's well-known for violating the taboo that the Culture's most powerful beings (the Minds, transcendental intelligences way above the human range) have with regards to not meddling with the minds of its citizens. It's name is the GCU1 Gray Area, but everyone calls it — admittedly, behind it's back, because GCUs are pretty fucking capable: Culture ships are able to lay waste on planets and star systems with not trouble — Meatfucker. This is supposed to convey the contempt Grey Area is held by its peers, because it's a highly-charged insult.

My revelation was this: If the Culture prizes the liberty of its individuals, why is Grey Area called Meatfucker and not something worse?

Let's be real, here: it spends the beginning of Excession in orbit around a planet, delving into the minds of its biological inhabitants, extracting and copying memories, constructing a history of what happened there, and, after identifying at least one person, subjecting at least that one person to horrific mental torture until they literally die of terror.

That these people, and the people of this world, were perpetrators of a (very successful) genocide might be seen as justification for Grey Area's actions... maybe? But that doesn't excuse Grey Area's actions, it merely explains it. But why is Grey Area called Meatfucker when their proper name ought to be Rapist? Because that's what they are.

Like, if you have mind-altering and mind-reading tech, and you don't hesitate to use it, my concern isn't that you're “consorting with lower beings”, or substrates, it's that you're violating someone's consent. For a society that's pretty big on liberty, and is an anarchist society par excellance, the fact that one mind can subject its “lessers” to mental violation and escape merely with censure is... pretty telling.

Actually, the pathological meat-hate that exists among Minds in the book is very telling. Meat is, as seen by the first scene in Excession with a Zetetic Elench2 drone3, slow, inefficient, and a waste of space. Minds and drones treat humans with a sort of benevolent condescension, except when the mask of benevolence comes off and violence is threatened.

It's rare that it happens, but when it does, drones and Minds that do so are rarely if ever brought to task or made to make amends — in The Player of Games, Jernau Morat Gurgeh, a Culture-born human, finds himself blackmailed and threatened by Mawhrin-Skel, themselves a decomissioned Special Circumstances drone, into a traumatic, year-long campaign against a society so breathtakingly violent and brutal that by the end of it, it's pretty clear that Gurgeh himself is traumatized.

We only later find out — Gurgeh never does, not even to his dying day — that he was manipulated into events by Special Circumstances, thanks to Flere-Imsaho, ostensibly another drone, but in truth Mawhrin-Skel. Such is the respect that drones and Minds of the Culture towards their “lessers” that they don't even try to hide signs of their subterfuge.

In some ways, I don't think Banks — and by the extension, the Culture — actually get what liberty and consent mean. Like, the empire that Gurgeh goes against — the Empire of Azad, named after the game that Gurgeh later uses to dismantle the entire empire by defeating their emperor with it — is horrifyingly brutal, with all but a small group of elites basically oppressing, suppressing, torturing and murdering everyone else, with the Culture essentially making value judgements to the Azad and ultimately finding them wanting.

Yet, at the same time, this is the same Culture that interferes with the Empire, causing enough death and destruction along the way, while traumatizing and manipulating one of its own citizens for reasons that aren't entirely clear (couldn't one of the Minds have played the same role, or put themselves at the same level of risk? Apparently not). We're made to understand that, what was wrong with the Azad was their tendency to dominate, forgetting that domination, at least in controlled environments, like in, for example, play, is expected and often encouraged, so long as the participants are consenting.

That the Azadi do not engage in consent among its participants is understandable — they are a society of biological beings, limited in power and understanding, based on Banks' logic. Yet the Cultre does not either, and thus cannot escape judgement. Not that they are omnipotent or omniscient, though — they aren't. But they don't even appear to bother to try. Consent is manufactured or manipulated in, and characters like Gurgeh often appear to consent... yet by how much? Information is withheld, or in Gurgeh's case, is finally shown to him in all it's glory, in a way, again, to traumatize him, to manipulate him to the Culture's final goal. It's telling that by this point, Gurgeh doesn't say — but of course he cannot, he is completely dependent on his survival by Flere-Imsaho — how does the Culture's actions differ from the Empire, in other ways other than in degree?

In some ways, this makes the actions of other characters facing the Culture, either as opponents (Bora Horza Gorbuchul in Consider Phlebias) or as collaborators (Cheradenine Zakalwe, in Use of Weapons) more understandable. Horza constantly rails against the Culture's Minds, who are seen as stifling the agency of the beings under them, and aligns himself with the Idirans, who eschew creating sapient minds and are ultimately doomed (the Idirans are themselves finally defeated when the Culture “awakens” — you'll note a common thread here — the Idiran's planetary network, who then coerces the Idirans to surrender and eventually subsume into the Culture). Zakalwe is often used as a pawn, put in danger — even (quite literally) losing his head in one case — kept in the dark, yet even he had a final revelation that was too horrifying for the Culture to stomach — and one that finally leads to “Zakalwe”'s abandonment by the Culture.

All of this, kind of, outlines my dissatisfaction with the entire business of Banks' work. As complex narratives with cool science-fictiony bits jammed in, the Culture, as many science fictional works, delivers. It really does. But outside of that, in the axioms that form the ethical and moral dimensions that the works operate in, Banks' work is, to be honest, mediocre. And I'm kind of done with it.

General Contact Unit, a specific kind of Culture ship (a list of ship types are provided here). ↩︎

a Culture spin-off, that consists of members of the Culture that disagreed with the Culture and spun off their own society ↩︎

another Culture name for independent, autonomous robots with intelligence comparable to human minds ↩︎

#Iain Banks #The Culture #consent #liberty #rape tw #genocide tw #murder tw #torture tw #violence tw #gore tw #spoilers

2 notes · View notes

tuckerblogs · 7 years

Text

Ahoy, cheezos...

I don’t know where I am. I’m lost.

Not physically, of course. My phone has a GPS, and even a scant glance around the current surroundings reveals that this is, yes, this is in fact my living room. I live here. This is where I live now.

What I mean is that I don’t know where I AM. Where am I in life? I have 2 kids, a loving wife, and I am miserable. No, not miserable. Lost.

I am now back in Chicago. Los Angeles is over. 15 years are over. I called the bluff on the belief that brighter pastures lie in the Midwest. Sure, there’s more rain, and vibrant green growth is a more constant staple of Illinois, what with the 15 year drought LA coincidentally experienced in the precise time frame I lived there, but I always thought that I would strut back here like Doug Braveheart, the main character in Braveheart (I stole that joke), and people would be just itching to take my kilt for a spin.*

*That’s not supposed to be sexual. I only meant that I thought I would appear to be a big fish in a small pond, and the correlation between the word “itching” and a course, woolen man wrap from the 13th Century** was the direction the bus was headed in my mind. That sentence was upon us whether we liked it or not. I’ve been drinking, and I won’t shy from obvious connections if it gets words down.

**Wikipedia states that Kilts were en vogue in the 16th Century, making me, Braveheart, and all the previous footnote wrong.

Anyhoo, here we are, in 2017, continuing a blog that was already behind the times when it started in 1994. Yes, that’s right: 56 years of drivel about Miley Cyrus and beer cans that no longer exist. You’re welcome, Internet. What were we talking about?

Oh yeah, I’m sad and shit. Totally lost. Stuck in Chicago as a reformed Californian who yearns to tell a tale, but telling it is like.... hard, man. Won’t you pity me? Won’t you join me at the mopey table so we can all excuse our lives on the gumption that we be SO talented, but this stupid world won’t recognize it. And why should I make content for them when nobody’s looking? Bish Pish Nish Fish, as Katy Perry says nowadays. Yeah, WORLD! You gotta ASK me for my shit. I ain’t creating pro bono! I’m just sitting here, making no calls, showing nothing to anyone, horribly offended that you haven’t knocked on my door. It may be Riverside, but it feels JUST like LA!

Of course this, like all of this, is bullshit. I have a paid Voice Over gig to record tomorrow, along with 2 national auditions. What I have to do tomorrow morning would have been described as heaven 10 years ago, or 5, or 2 weeks ago. It’s a fickle business, and I am a fickle man. Misery is creativity, and business is good. But conviction and dedication make product, and product leads to success, killing the motivator... On we go...

Like I said, I’m lost. Stay tuned.

#alliteration #miley cyrus #return #i'm back

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junker-town · 6 years

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Sosa-McGwire home run chase tracker

What was it like in 1998, during the nail-biting race to beat Roger Maris’ home run record? We track the big headlines and the dingers as the world watched.

Welcome to the spring of 1998: Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa are coming off seasons of 58 and 36 home runs, respectively, and it’s McGwire’s first full season in St. Louis. Predictions of him breaking Roger Maris’ single-season home run mark of 61 are already flying. Six short months from now, McGwire and Sosa will both have accomplished the feat with the former edging the latter by four home runs to set a new record of 70.

Before that finish line, though, both men would hit more than 130 combined dingers throughout the year, and there would be magazine covers, commercials, and late-night shows tracking them the whole way. The home run race would captivate baseball fans, as well as people who wouldn’t otherwise care about the sport, and it would stay lodged in the mind of kids everywhere — some of whom grew up to be today’s stars of the game, and can still articulate how they felt during that summer.

So, whether you’re someone who remembers the McGwire-Sosa home run chase in all of its enthralling detail, or a future MLB fan who wasn’t yet old enough to recall all of the specifics of the season-long battle (hi, hello, it’s me), either way, it’s been 20 years since that race and its can’t-miss action brought fans back to baseball. Let the dingers fly!

[Note: Our tracker took into account all available recorded dates, field positions, and distances for McGwire and Sosa home runs in the 1998 season.]

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McGwire steps in, wins homer contest

McGwire’s home runs were already meriting column space in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch in early March, but not because of a game situation. In a batting practice home run derby against Blue Jays players, he hit all of the Cardinals’ seven homers to win. That March 8, 1998, anecdote would be a prelude of what was to come, and he even did it without his usual bat.

Sammy time: “Sosa predicted last spring he would hit 50 home runs. Now he’s out of the prognostication business”

Sosa took a step back from the confident position he had with his 1997 home run totals in the March 9 edition of the Chicago Tribune. He should have stayed with it though, since even though he wasn’t “out there to hit 40 home runs” he did that, and more. It’s safe to say he did accomplish his goal of hurting teams every day.

McGwire’s chances of breaking homer mark is among topics discussed with Reds’ minor leaguers

Someone was making predictions though, at least for McGwire. Pete Rose, joining a trend that would be a big feature of that season’s Spring Training coverage, appeared in the March 15 Post-Dispatch confidently predicting McGwire could top Maris’ mark, and offering managers advice they wouldn’t quite follow: walk him a bunch. McGwire would end the season with 162 walks, but even that many free trips to first didn’t keep him from setting the record.

While McGwire was getting all the prediction coverage, Sosa had headlines following him during Spring Training.

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“Sosa’s No. 1 need: Discipline at plate”

He struck out three fewer times in 1998 than in 1997 (171 to 174) but hit 30 more home runs than the previous year. So this March 22 Tribune headline isn’t necessarily wrong, but it turns out his plate discipline didn’t matter when it came to crushing as much as everyone thought. Hey, not every preseason prediction was going to land.

Over in McGwireville that same day, the Sunday edition of the Post-Dispatch fills us in on McGwire’s opinion on all his publicity with the most 1998 reference, saying, “He has graced the cover of The Sporting News Baseball Yearbook and the Sports Illustrated special baseball issue and the most recent issue of Sports Illustrated. He is on the cover of the Cardinals’ media guid. He’s been on more covers than Monica Lewinsky. And McGwire, predictably, isn’t wild about it.”

Lewinsky name drop aside, McGwire admits he would rather not be on covers and only be written about for his feats rather than constantly having to take photos and be the center of attention. “I would rather do the articles and that’s about it.” McGwire said. “I don’t like publicity.”

That is … not a wish that will come true.

Twin towers of power

In the March 25 edition of the Tribune, with the season almost underway, a prediction of 75 or 80 homers for Sosa and teammate Henry Rodriguez gets space in the sports section. They’d combine for 97 home runs, with Sosa accomplishing the bulk of that, of course. Rodriguez did end up notching 31 of his own bombs, only five away from his career high.

In response to Cubs’ first baseman Mark Grace being tagged as the cleanup hitter and Sosa slotting in third in the batting order, Grace said in the March 27 Tribune that he’s happy with that setup because, “I want to see Sammy get as many pitches as he possibly can. Because when Sammy puts the bat on the ball, good things happen.” If you only knew, Mark Grace. If you only knew.

Players: 61 HRs before .400

Also on the 27th, a small item in the Moline, Illinois, Dispatch noted that Grace said McGwire, Sosa, or anyone on the Rockies would have a chance at reaching Maris’ threshold and then passing it, which is a pretty close prediction considering Sosa didn’t break 40 the year before. Cubs GM Ed Lynch did Grace one better and named McGwire or Ken Griffey Jr. as players who could hit 70 home runs, specifically. Hit the nail right on the head there. Hopefully he bought some lottery tickets after media availability that day.

All eyes are on McGwire as he aims at homer mark

Two days from Opening Day, McGwire still wasn’t comfortable with being the center of attention while his teammates failed to garner the same close analysis and predictions. He told the Post-Dispatch: “I know there’s a lot of eyes on me. There should be a lot of eyes on everybody else.”

Hopefully he got used to it. Because once the season began, these confident preseason predictions would look like a middle-of-the-paper footnote compared to the home run race fervor. Covers and attention, ahoy.

Everyone [remembers] right? As a kid growing up that was amazing. Sosa was just so electrifying, so fun-loving. McGwire was that classic, stoic Cardinal Way just dropping bombs into Big Mac land. Every time we play in St. Louis it says Big Mac up on the third deck and you can’t help but remember that summer. What a great time for baseball. —Gerrit Cole, Houston Astros

It was very significant. You’d wake up every day and see if they hit one. I was just rooting for excitement, for homers. I wasn’t team Sosa or Team McGwire, I was just team excitement. —Jed Lowrie, Oakland A’s

“Get Ready for a Slugfest: Why Maris’ record and a lot of others could fall”

McGwire’s first cover of the season came eight days before he would hit his first home run. Sports Illustrated’s March 23 cover was all Big Mac with the exception of a brief mention of NCAA Tournament upsets happening that week (10-seed West Virginia had beaten 2-seed Cincinnati, 6-seed UCLA beat 3-seed Michigan, and 8-seed Rhode Island pulled off the upset over 1-seed Kansas).

I might have been in fourth or fifth grade? But I remember watching it every night. ...I think I was going for Sosa. I really liked the way he hopped. Plus I’m from North Alabama so Chicago, St. Louis, they’re right there. —Craig Kimbrel, Boston Red Sox

You know things are legitimate when the brands get involved. A trip for two to the World Series from Pepsi just for guessing the home run champion’s dinger total was a sure sign the race was top of everyone’s mind, instead of just the baseball world’s.

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In May, McGwire and Sosa combined for 12 home runs in a single week.

Just a lot of home runs. I actually remember on ESPN they had a count and it seemed like every other day one of them was hitting a homer so it’s just cool to look back on that, to remember that. —Trevor Story, Colorado Rockies

It was amazing. Every time you watched a game when they were on the TV it was a home run and it was pretty interesting and electric to see two guys go at it for a home run title. —Aaron Nola, Philadelphia Phillies

Nike’s “Chicks Dig the Long Ball” commercial, in which Tom Glavine and Greg Maddux train to hit home runs to impress fans (including Heather Locklear!!), who are more captivated with McGwire’s prowess at the plate. One of the best things to come out of the 1998 season.

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I thank Sammy and McGwire for doing what they did because that brought baseball back. The fans came back to paying attention to baseball, because it was a little cold until they came in and did the home run challenge, which is almost impossible to do. Every baseball player should thank them for doing what they did, that’s why we are where we are right now. Everybody’s having a career right now because of it. —David Ortiz, Boston Red Sox (ret.)

As a kid, it was something that really drew you into the game of baseball and watching it every night. Not just those two guys, but all the fans and all the teams, you know it was definitely one of my early baseball memories. —Paul Goldschmidt, Arizona Diamondbacks

I was pretty young, but I just remember every day there was something. I didn’t know really how special that was until looking back on it and seeing how many people haven’t even reached 60 homers, some of the best power hitters ever. I’m glad those guys are out of the game now so I don’t have to face them. —Patrick Corbin, Arizona Diamondbacks

“Slammin’ Sammy: Sammy Sosa is on a record home run binge”

The next big cover featuring either Sosa or McGwire didn’t come until June 29, when Sports Illustrated put Sosa on a cover of his own. At this point, Sosa had 32 homers to McGwire’s 36, and the race was well on its way to the top of Hype Mountain. This cover just about marks the point where the race actually turned into a race and not “just” McGwire chasing Maris.

I think I was 12 maybe. So playing little league baseball, that was really exciting to follow. I remember no matter what we were doing, if we were at somebody else’s house or I even remember times when my dad was making me mow the yard, someone from inside the house would yell, “Hey, McGwire’s gonna come up” and I would run inside real quick and watch his at-bat and then have to go finish my chores. I appreciate that part of it, it got me out of doing some extra yard work. That might have been the summer where I fell in love with the game and it became my most favorite sport. —Sean Doolittle, Washington Nationals

I always watched SportsCenter when I was laying in bed going to sleep. Obviously, being able to watch that race was unbelievable. I was a McGwire guy. I liked the Cardinals a little more because they were closer to home, so I’d always watch the Cardinals. —J.T. Realmuto, Miami Marlins

“Outta Here!”

With McGwire at 44 home runs and Sosa at 40, TIME issued the first cover to feature them both. Neither of them posed for this one, and based on both of their reluctance at the beginning of the season to be the absolute center of attention, it’s notable TIME went the route of having an artist draw them rather than setting up a photo shoot or using wire photos.

The eventual World Series champions get a mention here, but it’s a small one. The Yankees’ even came after the note on stadium food. But the most important part of this subhead is the phrase “baseball is back.”

The predictions and the hope of a home run spike may have been one thing, but the actual race did something better than being exciting: it gave baseball a second life that wasn’t guaranteed after the 1994 strike.

I remember it was awesome feeling. Especially when they played each other. The way that they’d go at each other. I think that baseball really grew a lot after the strike and baseball got back on top after that. —Kenley Jansen, Los Angeles Dodgers

“The Great Home Run Chase: In pursuit of Mac, Junior and Sammy. A remarkable 72-hour odyssey”

Oh look, a Ken Griffey, Jr. reference on the August 3 edition of Sports Illustrated. Griffey would end the season with 56 home runs, a full 10 behind Sosa and a total that in most other years would have gotten him all of these covers. Instead he got this brief mention before the two main men in the race uncorked things and went on their August and September tears. At the time of this cover, he was one behind Sosa and four behind McGwire.

I just remember how much fun baseball was. Obviously, when you have two big names like that going at it with the home run race, two iconic organizations too … as a kid you can’t ask for anything better than that. —Jon Lester, Chicago Cubs

I remember how far and how long they were hitting them, how excited everybody was. The Home Run Derby was something I always watched growing up as a kid and that was a special event. It was Home Run Derby every day for them. —Michael Brantley, Cleveland Indians

Not every current player remembers the home run race. Whether because of youth or growing up in another country, their introductions to what McGwire and Sosa did came late.

I was in Brazil so I don’t want to say I barely watched baseball, but it was hard. When I moved here, to see that. Still to this day, 60’s and 70’s? It’s like, geez. I think I might have just gotten past that career-wise and those guys were doing it in one year. It’s really cool. You heard it a little bit on ESPN Brasil but at that time, I was playing baseball but wasn’t really following baseball as much. I was more following NPB, Japanese baseball. —Yan Gomes, Cleveland Indians

I didn’t have the opportunity to watch that in Cuba, we didn’t have the stations. But I heard about it and when I came here I watched videos of that. It was very special. —Jose Abreu, Chicago White Sox

As McGwire’s record-breaking home run neared, pop culture made room for No. 62. Including Hank Hill from King of the Hill asking him to please hit the big one so their season could start. Hill’s 1998 season was delayed so FOX could make sure they aired McGwire passing Maris.

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“One Cool Daddy: How Mark McGwire is beating the pressure”

There’s a lot of things about the September 7 Sports Illustrated cover that wouldn’t happen 20 years later: the pose that looks like McGwire is breastfeeding his son; the headline “One Cool Daddy” for a piece authored by Rick Reilly; and an article about golfers’ sex lives. Or at least you’d hope that all of those things are relics.

There it is, No. 62 and assured immortality in the record books. A 341-foot left field shot that just snuck over the left field wall a few feet from the foul pole. In any other context, a normal home run. But not here.

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McDonald’s took advantage of the “Big Mac” nickname connection, promoting their line of baseballs with McGwire’s face on them for $3.99, and congratulating him for the achievement with that year’s “Big Mac getting a Big Mac” commercial.

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It’s mid-September, both men had cracked 60 home runs and McGwire has officially passed Maris with a September 8 shot to left. So the covers are really picking up.

“The Record: What it means to Mark McGwire and to America”

McGwire, unsurprisingly, gets the cover of Sports Illustrated for breaking the record. But over on Newsweek it’s both Sosa and McGwire smiling and grinning with their arms around each other as the season nears its end.

In case you haven’t realized by now how big a deal the race was at the time, both the Swissair Flight 111 crash that killed 229 people and that summer’s market crash were demoted to the top bar with baseball getting the rest. On Newsweek!

I actually watched a little of the Sammy Sosa thing, I think it was E60. I watched that and it was showing some of the clips from that year. How they were hugging and doing that fist handshake and stuff, and it brought back some memories. Obviously being in the southeast, back then TV was WGN I think carried the Cubs and then TBS carried the Braves so that was kind of who we got. So I remembered a lot of it. It was something you probably won’t see again. —Mitch Moreland, Boston Red Sox

“Suddenly it’s This Close: Sammy Sosa jumps right back into the home run race”

Just because the record was McGwire’s doesn’t mean that the race was over, and a pair of covers from September 21 celebrate both things. Sosa stood at 63 home runs to McGwire’s 65 at the time so Sports Illustrated went with “Suddenly it’s THIS CLOSE” and ESPN the Magazine, still in the first months of its existence, dubbed McGwire’s 62 “the greatest sports moment of our time.”

McGwire answers the “Where do I go from here?” question posed on this SI cover in an exclusive piece from his own pen that reflects on the night of the record, how things have changed after unseating Maris, and what his priorities are now that people look at him differently and ask more of him as the single-season home run record holder. It’s a snapshot of one man’s mind in the days immediately after his life changed — for the better, at least at that point — and re-reading can be strange knowing what we know now, but also bring forth an appreciation of McGwire doing a piece this honest.

September 26 saw Will Ferrell do a Mark McGwire impression on Saturday Night Live, the only time he would portray the athlete on the show. If getting spoofed on SNL when it was at one of the peaks of its powers isn’t a sign that this home run race was consuming all, nothing was.

What A Season!

Sometimes, the numbers do all the talking. McGwire finished with 70 homers. Sosa won the RBI battle, even though McGwire jacked more home runs. Kerry Wood had a 20-strikeout game. Cal Ripken, Jr.’s consecutive games streak ended at 2,632. Alex Rodriguez had 42 home runs and 46 stolen bases. And oh yeah, besides all of that, the Yankees set an American League record for wins in a season.

But sometimes, talking does the talking. McGwire followed up his Season of Many Covers by appearing on The Late Show with David Letterman, and later spoke with Barbara Walters for her yearly Most Fascinating People special. McGwire’s Letterman appearance included guests who were very of-the-time, like “Life Is Beautiful” actor/director Roberto Benigni and singer Bruce Hornsby.

McGwire cracks jokes in an all-black, oversized 90’s suit that would make any tailor today cringe. He’s comfortable in the chair and brags a little, Hollywood style, but also veers into “aw shucks” territory with things like shouting out friends and family, and continually saying he can hit anything that’s over the “white part of the plate.” Letterman, for his part, does the Lord’s work by asking whether McGwire calls home runs dingers, taters, or something else. The semi-disappointing answer? “Homers.”

Letterman also points out that this race was what baseball needed and McGwire answers that he and Sosa did it “for the country,” not just baseball. That it doesn’t seem like hyperbole in that context is the most incredible part.

I always get on Big Mac, because he’s our bench coach, to get him to take BP one time but he won’t do it. He can still hit bombs for sure — he just won’t do it. He’s pretty quiet about it, but he’s awesome. —Brad Hand, Cleveland Indians

Sportsmen of the Year

On December 21, a pair of covers came out that featured both men but couldn’t have been more different. In one, McGwire and Sosa are named Sportsmen of the Year by Sporting News, and look like they’re going to a baseball-themed prom.

In the other, they’re named Sportsmen of the Year by Sports Illustrated and … the rest will live in infamy.

McGwire capped off his year with the Barbara Walters interview, once again taking the spotlight while Sammy preferred not to (or didn’t receive any offers to) appear on the top late-night or news magazine shows.

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Walters refers to McGwire as “a gracious man” and the 1998 season as “a time we’ll all remember,” and neither description could be phrased better than that. Leave it to Barbara Walters to wrap up a season that simultaneously brought baseball back, and set baseball on a path to questioning many of its recent heroes in such an apt way.

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