#i wish there were physical copies of the english version | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rjalker · 10 months

Text

The Overcoat of Arsène Lupin, is now available in English, transcribed into text from a single PDF scan of the story from Popular Magazine #81, v6.

This is, as far as I am aware, the only version of this story available in English besides the original PDF. You're welcome.

Links:

Read or download from the Web Archive.

Download (and, optionally, leave a tip) on Itch.io <-- now includes two audiobook versions!

Buy a physical copy from Lulu.com

@walks-the-ages, @internet--archive (thought you might like to be tagged, lol)

You can also read this short story under the read-more right here on tumblr. It is 9,051 words long, not including the title.

Summary, by me:

A crime so terrible it barely bears thinking about has been brought to the attention of cabinet minister Jean Rouxval, and he has taken it upon himself to bring those responsible for this horrible deed to justice.

But his plans to go it alone are brought up short when a detective by the name of Hercules Petitgris is assigned to assist him. Despite his poor appearance, detective Petitgris comes highly recommended. The suspects arrive, and Rouxval begins his interrogation, the proceedings watched over by the silent Petitgris as Rouxval takes the lead, driven by anger over the crime he has discovered. Little does he know that Petitgris got the case all worked out as soon as Rouxval started talking...

(Archived read-more link)

[read-more link was here]

The Overcoat of Arsène Lupin

Written by Maurice Leblanc,

“author of “The Hollow Needle,” “813,” “A Gentleman,” Ect.”

[Image description start: A black and white illustration with a black border, showing four characters. One is a man sitting at a desk, in a suit and tie, gesturing with one hand, while another man stands in front of the desk with his back to the viewer, one hand on his hip. Then a man and woman looking worried, the man with his hat off and hanging by his side, his other hand held out as he speaks, the woman with one hand to her face, the other clutching her chest. Image description end.]

Hands behind his back, head sunk deep in the collar of his coat, his harsh countenance contracted in deep thought, Jean Rouxval nervously paced up and down the length of his vast study. At the threshold the chief page, detailed to the service of of cabinet officers, awaited orders. The minister betrayed by his short, quick steps, his drawn brow, his agitation, that he was shaken by emotion which assail a strong man seldom, and only at crucial moment of his life.

Stopping suddenly, he said to the page in a determined voice:

“A lady and a gentleman, no longer very young, will arrive presently. You will ask them to wait in the drawing-room. Shortly after I expect a gentleman, younger and alone. You will conduct him to the yellow room. They are neither to speak nor to see each other. You understand? I am to be notified at once of their arrival.”

“Very well, sir,” said the page, and withdrew.

Jean Rouxval’s political ability lay mainly in his tremendous energy, his attention to detail and a determination to know a bit about everything, whether it concerned his department or not.

Having enlisted almost at once in 1914 to avenge his two sons – both of whom had seemingly vanished from the field of battle – and the subsequent death of his wife, the war had given him an excessive sense of the value of discipline, authority, and duty. Affairs in which he was concerned always discovered him ready to undertake the most serious responsibilities and consequently found him assuming the greatest amount of power. He won the esteem of his colleagues, but they were also a bit wary lest the exaggeration of his good qualities might not drag the cabinet into needless complications.

He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to give. He still had time to glance over the record of the frightful case which had caused him so much anxiety. Just then, however, he was interrupted by the telephone. He seized the receiver; the president of the council wished to speak to him.

He waited what seemed an endless time. Finally the president himself spoke. Answering, he said:

“Yes, Rouxval speaking, Mr. President.” He listened, seemed annoyed, and then replied in a bitter voice:

“Certainly, Mr. President, I shall receive the detective you are sending. But don’t you think I could have obtained the necessary information? Well, of course, if you insist, my dear president, and if this Hercules Petitgris is, according to you, a specialist in criminal investigation, he can attend the meeting I have arranged … Hello! … Hello! … Yes …. What? … My dear president. … This Petitgris may be… Really! Is it possible? Ah! Well, merely a supposition … That is-- Petitgris has all the perspicacity usually attributed to Arsène Lupin. … Yes, sir...Perfectly. … I shall wait for him. Hello! … You are quite right, my dear Mr. President. … The case is very serious, especially since certain rumors have already begun to be circulated. … If I do not arrive at an immediate solution, and if the truth of the matter is at all what we fear, it will be a frightful scandal and a disaster for the country. … Hello! … Yes, yes, rest easy, my dear Mr. President, I shall do the impossible to succeed. I will succeed. … I must succeed.”

After a few more words, Rouxval hung up, muttering between clenched teeth:

“I must! I must! What a scandal!” He was considering the various paths which might lead him to a successful solution, when he gradually became aware that some one was near him, some one who was not seeking to be noticed.

He turned his head and was dumbfounded by what he saw. All but next to him stood a shabby, wretched-looking individual, a poor devil, one might say, holding his hat in his hand in the humble attitude of a beggar asking alms.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“By the door, sir. The chief page was busy parking people right and left, so I beat it straight in.”

“But who are you?”

The stranger bowed respectfully and introduced himself:

“Hercules Petitgris – the specialist whom the president of the council just recommended to you, sir—”

“Oh, then you were listening?” Rouxval broke in peevishly.

“What would you have done in my place, sir?”

He was a sickly looking, pitiful object, sad-faced – his hair, mustache, his pinched nose, his thin cheeks, the corners of his mouth, all drooped pathetically.

His arms hung wearily in a long, greenish overcoat which seemed about to slip from his shoulders. He spoke in a disconsolate voice, not without care, but accenting certain words in a manner peculiar to the common people.

“I even heard you speak of me as a detective, Mr. Minister,” he continued. “Wrong, all wrong! I am not even on the police force. I was dismissed from headquarters for ‘weak character, drunkenness and laziness.’ Those were the terms of discharge.”

Rouxval was unable to conceal his amazement.

“I don’t understand. The president of the council has recommended you as a man with a disconcerting ability to diagnose clearly and correctly.”

“Disconcerting, Mr. Minister, is the right word. There are people who even believe I am Arsène Lupin, as the president was telling you. That is why some gentlemen consent to my services, in cases where no one has succeeded or could succeed, without looking too closely at my record or my character. Sure they say I am conceited and insolent to my employers. And then what? When one of my employers puts his foot in it and I see the point right off, haven’t I the right to tell him, have a little laugh on the side? On the level, Mr. Minister, I have turned down money more than once just to be able to bust right out laughing. They are funny! You ought to see the faces on them.”

In that melancholy face, under the drooping mustache, the left side of his mouth curled up in a little, silent sneer, uncovering a huge tooth – the tooth of a wild beast. It gave him a look of sardonic joy for a moment. With a tooth like that the possessor would bite, and bite deeply.

The minister was not afraid of being bitten, but the stranger certainly did not appeal to him, and if the president of the council had not so insistently recommended him, Rouxval would have gotten rid of him promptly.

“Sit down,” he said gruffly. “I am about to question three people and have them face each other in my presence. In case you have any remarks to make, you will make them to me directly.”

“To you directly, Mr. Minister, and in a whisper, as I always do when I always see my chief putting his foot in it.”

Rouxval frowned. In the first place, he hated people who did not know their place – like many men of action, he was very sensitive and keenly feared ridicule. Concerning his efforts the phrase “putting his foot in it” seemed particularly outrageous and almost an intentional menace. But he had already rung; the page entered. Without further delay Rouxval ordered the there people brought to him.

Hercules Petitgris took off his worn, green overcoat, folded it carefully and sat down.

The lady and gentleman were the first to enter. They were evidently aristocrats, and both in deep mourning; she, still young, tall and very beautiful, with a lovely face, pale and austere, framed in graying hair; he, slightly shorter, slim, elegant, his mustache almost white.

Jean Rouxval addressed him:

“The Count de Bois-Vernay, I believe?”

“Yes, sir. My wife and I received your summons, which I confess, startled us a bit. But may we hope it has no ominous portent? My wife is not very strong.”

He looked toward her with affectionate solicitude. Rouxval asked them to be seated and answered:

“I am sure everything will be suitably arranged and that Madame de Bois-Vernay will excuse the slight inconvenience I have caused her.”

The door opened. A man between twenty-five and thirty entered. He was of more modest mien, not very carefully dressed; his countenance, though frank and kindly, gave evidences of dissipation and weariness, confusing one’s estimate of his fair, broad-shouldered young man.

“You are Maxime Leriot?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“You do not know this lady and gentleman?”

“No, sir,” answered the newcomer, looking straight at the count and countess.

“No, we do not know this gentleman, either,” said the count in answer to a question of Rouxval’s.

The minister smiled. “I regret that this interview should begin with a statement which I am forced to disbelieve. But that little error will right itself at the proper time. Without haste and without undue delay over nonessentials, let us begin at the beginning.”

He opened the records on the table, turned to Maxine Leriot and in a slightly hostile tone said:

“We shall begin with you, sir. You were born in Dollincourt, Maine-et-Loire. Your father was a hard-working peasant who starved himself to give you a suitable education. The mobilization of 1914 found you a private in the infantry. Four years later you were an adjutant, with the croix de guerre and five citations for bravery. After the war you reenlisted. Toward the end of 1920 you were in Verdun. Your papers gave you credit for ‘ability as an officer.’

“But, about the middle of November, in the same year, came a bolt from the blue. One night in a third-rate dance hall, after opening ten bottles of champagne, you lost your head in a senseless brawl. You were arrested. You were taken to the post. You were searched. On you were found one hundred thousand francs. Where did you get that amount of money? You were never able to explain.”

Maxine Leriot protested:

“I beg your pardon, sir, I said that I had received the money from a person who wished to remain anonymous.”

“A worthless explanation!” said the minister. “Nevertheless, an inquiry was instituted by the military authorities. It came to nothing. Six months later, after obtaining your discharge from the service, you were again the center of another scandal,. This time your bill fold contained forty thousand francs in war bonds. And concerning these, too – silence and mystery. And again no explanation as to your means of livelihood or any reason for the dissipated existence you were leading. No position, no resources to speak of, yet money flowed through your fingers as if they supply were endless.

“The special detectives assigned to your case at the time could discover nothing, and you continued from bad to worse. Chance only, or a misstep on your part, could undo you. And that is what happened. One day, beneath the Arc de Triomphe, a man approached a woman who came there each day to pray, and said in a low voice, ‘I expect your husband’s letter to-morrow. Warn him – otherwise—‘

“The man’s attitude was surly, his tone snarling and menacing. The lady was frightened and quickly sought her motor. Must I specify that one of these persons was you, Maxime Leriot, and the other the Countess de Bois-Vernay, and only a moment ago you pretended not to know each other?”

Rouxval abruptly held up his hand. “I beg of you, sir,” he said to the count, who was about to interrupt, “do not try to deny the evidence. The episode occurred near me, for I also go regularly to the sacred tomb each week to pray for my sons. It was I who overheard the whispered threat; and it was for my own enlightenment, without knowing any of the facts which I have just related to you, that I undertook to discover who the man was, and the identity of his victim, in this too-apparently blackmailing scheme.”

The count said nothing. His wife did not stir. In his corner Hercules Petitgris nodded his head and seemed to approve the conduct of the investigation. Jean Rouxval, who had been watching him out of the corner of his eye, felt reassured. The tooth was not to be seen; therefore all was well. Rouxval continued, forging additional links in his chain of evidence.

“From the moment when circumstances placed the direction of this affair in my hands, it took quite a different turn, perhaps because I saw it in one light rather than another. Instead of Maxime Leriot, the man of to-day, I immediately saw the soldier of yesterday. His past interested me more than his present. Instantly, the moment I glanced at his record, two things struck me forcibly – a name and a date: Maxime Leriot was in Verdun, and he was there in the month of November, 1920 – that is, at the time when the anniversary of the armistice was to be celebrated and when most the solemn of ceremonies was about to take place.

“I went there and directed and inquiry on the spot, which proved neither very long nor difficult. His former battalion chief, whom I questioned, showed me an old order of that date over his signature, which also struck me forcibly. It seemed the key to the situation. The leader of one of the eight funeral cars, brought from eight different points along the great field of battle and bearing the bodies of eight nameless heroes, one of which was to be the Unknown Soldier-- this leader was none other than Adjutant Leriot himself.”

Jean Rouxval struck the desk with his fists, straining every muscle in his anger. Then in a muffled voice, deliberately emphasizing every word, he said:

“You, Maxime Leriot, were in the gallery of the fort where this historic ceremony took place; you were one of the guard of honor. Your heroism, your fame in military annals, caused you to be among those chosen for a part in this ceremony, amid the tricolor flags of your country and the trophies of victory in the great mortuary chapel. You – you were there—”

Overcome by emotion, Rouxval was forced to interrupt his vehement denunciation. It was necessary, moreover, to state facts more accurately and with less passion if the purport of his secret thought was to be clearly understood. Hercules Petitgris continued to nod his head approvingly, which only served to fan the flame of the minister’s ardor.

The former adjutant did not utter a sound. Like troops piercing an enemy line came Rouxval’s accusations. Hesitant, then stronger and stronger, and with greater force they had overwhelmed the foe before he could recover himself. The count listened and looked anxiously at his wife.

“Until this point in my investigation, I have only vague forebodings, no definite suspicions, no clews to lead me. I dared not understand. It was in this spirit, terrified, aghast, that I sought proofs of what I feared to know. These proofs were irrefutable. To begin: On All Saint’s Day, again the third of November, the fourth and the fifth, Adjutant Leriot, whose daily life I succeeded in reconstructing exactly, went, as soon as darkness had fallen, to an isolated inn.

“there he met a lady and gentleman with whom he remained in conference until dinner time. This lady and gentleman came to the inn in an automobile from a near-by city where they stayed at a certain hotel, the name of which I secured. I then went to this hotel and asked to see the register. From the first to the eleventh of November, 1920, two guests had been there – the Count and Countess de Bois-Vernay.”

A silence; the pallor of the countess deepened; Rouxval drew from the records two sheets of paper which he unfolded.

“Here are two birth certificates. The one of Maxime Leriot, born in Dolincourt, Maine-et-Loire, in 1895. That is yours, Maxime Leriot. The other, Julian de Bois-Vernay, born in Dolincourt, Maine-et-Loire, in 1895. That is your son’s, Monsieur de Bois-Vernay. Therefore, we may say, the same birthplace, the same age – two facts granted. Here is a letter from the mayor of Dolincourt. The two young men had had the same nurse. In youth they continued the friendship of their childhood. They enlisted at the same time. Again uncontestable facts.”

Rouxval went on reading from the documents as fast as he turned the pages.

“Here is the death certificate of Julian de Bois-Vernay; died in 1916 at Verdun. Here is a copy of the burial permit for the cemetery of Douaumont. Here is an extract of the report of Adjutant Leriot, who ‘brought back from a trench running along the road to Fleury-à-Bras and near an old surgical service station, the remains, in good condition, of an unknown infantryman.’

“Finally, here is a relief map of the whole scene of action. The old service station is here, about five hundred meters from the cemetery where Julian de Bois-Vernay lay buried. I went from one to the other. I had that tomb opened – it is empty! What has become of the coffin of Julian de Bois-Vernay? Who removed it from the cemetery of Douaumont, if not you, Maxime Leriot? You, his friend, and the friend of the Count and Countess de Bois-Vernay!”

Each sentence Rouxval uttered lent force to the final charge which the accumulated evidence imposed. The enemy was surrounded by undeniable arguments. There remained nothing but submission.

Rouxval, coming closer to Leriot and looking at him squarely, continued:

“This sinister venture is written on the pages of an open book. We know that the coffin of your foster brother was first taken from Douaumont, where he had been buried in an ordinary grave, to the trench where you were sent to secure the body of an unidentified combatant. We know that you took it there, and we know that it was this coffin which you brought to the fort at Verdun. In this we agree, I am sure. And the sequel – the choice, the supreme hour among the eight unknown—”

Again Rouxval could not go on. He mopped the sweat from his brow and tried to regain his composure. In a few moments he managed to continue in the same muffled and anguished voice:

“I hardly dare paint that scene. The slighted doubt in that direction is blasphemy. And yet, is this not rather a certainty than a doubt? Ah, what a frightful imposture! How did you ever succeed in your infamous plan? Answer—answer me!”

Jean Rouxval questioned, but it seemed as if he were afraid to hear the answer. His voice did not carry the authority which brings confession. A long silence ensued, fraught with uneasiness and anxiety. Madame de Bois-Vernay breathed the salts her husband gave her. She seemed very weak and on the verge of fainting. Maxime Leriot turned to the count, mutely asking his help. The count looked toward his wife, afraid to begin a dangerous struggle, asking himself upon what ground he would stand.

Then the count arose and said:

“Mr. Rouxval, because you have so shaped this interview, we there sit here facing you as if we were guilty. Before defending ourselves against an accusation, the meaning of which we do not yet clearly understand, we should like to know by what right you question us and by what right you demand our answers.”

“By the right, sir,” answered Rouxval, “of my great desire to suppress infamy, which, if it became public property, would injure my country inestimably.”

“If the affair is such as you have outlined it, Mr. Minister, there is no reason to believe it will become known to the public.”

“You are wrong, sir. Under the influence of alcohol, Maxime Leriot has talked. What he said was not understood, but various interpretations and rumors have been circulated—”

“False rumors, Mr. Minister,” broke in De Bois-Vernay.

“That makes no difference. They must be stopped.”

“How?”

“Maxime Leriot must leave France. A position will be found for him in southern Algeria. You will, I am sure, furnish him with the necessary funds.”

“And ourselves, Mr. Minister?”

“You will also leave – both you and madame. Far from France, you will be safe from further blackmail.”

“Exile, then?”

“Yes, for a few years.”

The count again turned to his wife.

Notwithstanding her pallor and frailty, she conveyed an impression of vitality and obstinate determination. She leaned forward and said firmly:

“Not a day, sir! Not for an hour will I leave Paris.”

“And why not, madame?”

“Because my son is there. In the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.”

Those few words, that explicit, frightful avowal, seemed to drop into a pit of silence, which echoed and re-echoed, syllable by syllable,a message of death and sorrow. In Madame de Bois-Vernay’s attitude there was more than an expression of an unconquerable will – there was a defiance and the calm acceptance of a challenge which she did not seem to fear. Nothing could change the fact that her son lay under the Arc de Triomphe, and no power on earth could trouble his last sleep in that tomb of glory.

Rouxval held his head in his hands, desperate. Until that moment he had been able to keep, in the face of all evidence, some illusion of an impossible justification. The confession took the ground from under his feet.

“It is really true!” he murmured brokenly, “I did not really believe – I could not admit it even to myself – it is beyond all reason!”

Monsieur de Bois-Vernay, standing between the countess and Rouxval, begged her to sit down. She pushed him aside, ready for the struggle, determined and defiant.

Only two adversaries now faced each other, implacable enemies, with the count and Maxime Leriot mere accessories.

Scenes of such extreme nervous tension must necessarily be of short duration, when from the first each one throws every ounce of power into the grueling struggle. What further enhanced the tragedy of this duel was the calm, the intense quiet with which it was waged. Not a loud tone, no apparent anger, simple words, radiating emotion. Simple sentences, no oratory, revealing the depth of Rouxval’s amazement and horror.

“How dared you? How do you continue to live, knowing what you do? I, myself, would have borne any agony rather than permit such a deed for one of my sons. It would seem to me I had brought him ill luck in his last sleep. Given him a tomb which was not rightfully his! Diverted to him the prayers, the tears, all the holy thoughts which flow over a loved one, dead! What an abomination! Can’t you see that?”

He glared at her, opposite him, tense and white, and continued more aggressively:

“There are hundreds – no, thousands! -- of mothers and wives who may believe that their son, their husband lies there. These bereaved women, as sorely smitten as you, with the same rights to seek consolation there – these women have been betrayed, pilfered, robbed – yes, robbed and vilely robbed!”

The countess shrank under these insults, this contempt. She had surely never paused a moment to consider her course of action in itself; certainly she had never weighed its ethical values. She had reacted impulsively, moved by the bitter suffering of a mother seeking to regain a small part of the son so cruelly torn from her; for the rest – nothing mattered.

Murmuring, almost in a dream, she answered:

“He did not rob any one. He is the Unknown Soldier. He is there in the place of the others; he represents them all—”

Rouxval seized her arm. Her words exasperated him. He thought of his own lost ones, whose remains he had almost found again that day of solemn burial and consecration. Now they had vanished once more in a fathomless abyss. Where now could one pray? Where find the dear ones, gone forever?

But the countess smiled, her face transformed by the happiness which fairly irradiated her whole being.

“It was circumstance which caused him to be chosen among all the others,” she said. “What I did, alone, would not have sufficed, if there had not been a greater will than mine in his favor. Chance might have assigned the honor to some soldier who did not deserve it, either in his life or in his death. My son was worthy of the reward.”

“All were worthy!” protested Rouxval vehemently. “Even if during his life he had been the most obscure, the most odious of men, the soldier chosen by destiny became, in that instant, the equal of the greatest!”

She shook her head. Her eyes gleamed with a contemptuous pride. Before her rose the ghosts of a hundred proud ancestors and the heroic dead of her country acclaiming her son the chosen one, born for glory.

“This has happened for the best, sir,” she said. “Believe in me and rest assured that I have stolen no tears, no prayers. Every mother who kneels there and weeps, prays for her dead son. Does it really matter if it is my son, if she does not know it?”

“But I know it,” said Rouxval, “and they may find it out! And then what? Can you imagine what will happen – the anger, the hate, the wild scenes of unbridled fury? No crime in the would would arouse such indignation! Can’t I make you understand?”

Little by little he was losing control of himself. He despised this woman. Her exile seemed more and more the only solution which could avert a calamity and at the same time appease his own pain.

Without any attempt to spare her, he said roughly:

“You must go, madame. Your presence at that grave is an outrage to every other woman. Go, and go now!”

“No, I will not,” she said.

“You will; you must! With you out of the country, their wrongs will be partially righted; the soldier there will once more become the Unknown Soldier.”

“No, no, no! What you ask is impossible. I could not live away from him. If I had to continue to live, it is only because he is there, because I can see him each day, speak to him, and hear him speak to me. Oh, you cannot understand how I feel when I stand there in the crowd! They come from every corner of France, bringing their offerings of flowers, of tears, of prayers. There are moments when I am so overwhelmed by a wave of happiness and pride that I almost forget he is dead. I see my son alive – alive and standing beneath that arch, smiling at me as I kneel before him. And you dare ask me to give up all of that! It is madness. It would be like killing my beloved child a second time!”

Rouxval clenched his hands, to restrain himself from killing this ungovernable woman. He knew now that she was stronger than he was. Driven to desperation, he threatened:

“You force me to the worst. If you do not go – I swear – I swear that I will denounce you! I will unmask you to the whole world rather than permit this ghastly imposture to continue --”

She laughed mockingly.

“Denounce me? Is it possible? You will denounce me and inform the world about this imposture which causes even you to tremble?”

“Nothing, nothing can stop me!” he cried. “I shall do my duty even if it kills me. Your trickery has made life intolerable. If you do not go, madame, he shall go – the body of your son shall be --”

She quivered, stricken by the brutal words. The frightful image of that poor body, torn from the tomb, roughly handled and cast into another grave, was more than she could bear. Tears came to her eyes; with a cry of pain her hand went to her heart. The count made a vain attempt to reach her as she tottered and fell to the floor, unconcious.

The duel was nearing an end. Wounded to the depths, but triumphant, she fell, not yielding a step in her struggle. The count carried her, still unconcious, to the couch with the assistance of Leriot and Hercules Petitgris. She was stifling, grinding her teeth, still fighting in her coma.

“Oh, how could you, how could you hurt her so!” exclaimed De Bois-Vernay.

But Rouxval made no excuses for his conduct. A temperament which drove him to extremes, when he had curbed his desires too long, did not allow him time for reflection or regret in a crisis. He saw red. The problem seemed to him so hopeless he would have stopped at nothing, however ridiculous, to solve it.

What difference did it make what he did, as long as he did something? It seemed as if his revenge were already nearer, if he could only proceed in some way. Action became a necessity. Should he call the president of the council? The telephone! He seized the receiver and, as soon as the president answered, gasped out breathlessly:

“Yes, Rouxval, Mr. President. … I must speak to you immediately, in person… You’re not free? ...In half an hour? ...All right. In half an hour I shall be there. Thanks. Situation serious. ...Quick action… Yes...Later.”

The countess was being cared for by the three men. She was evidently subject to these attacks, as her husband had a small case of medicine from which he quickly administered a dose. He took off his overcoat, knelt beside her, and tended her in an agony of fear which all but suffocated him, speaking to her constantly, as if she could hear him.

“It is your heart, darling, isn’t it? Your poor heart! But you are better, aren’t you? You are better – your cheeks have a little color – I know you are better. Are you, dearest?”

Madame de Bois-Vernay remained in the swoon several minutes, but at last her eyelids fluttered and she slowly regained consciousness.

As soon as she saw Rouxval she gave a cry of distress.

“Take me away! Let us go. I cannot stay here!”

“But, dearest, be reasonable. You must rest a few minutes.”

“No, no, not a moment! We must go. I cannot stay.”

The count begged Leriot’s aid, it was he who carried the countess from the room, while the count followed, completely upset, having been assisted into his overcoat by Hercules Petitgris.

Rouxval had not stirred. One might have thought that he had no connection whatever with the scene which had just taken place. These people, guilty of the most odious crime, were beyond his sympathies; he did not feel he owed either pity or kindness to a woman like the countess. With his head pressed against the windowpane he tried to think of a reasonable course of action. Why talk to the president of the council? Would it not be better to finish the affair and get in touch with headquarters, with the department of justice?

“Come now,” he said to himself, “no nonsense; a level head at any price!”

He decided to go as far as the president’s home; the walk there, the cool air, might calm his overwrought nerves. Taking his hat and stick from the stand, he started on his errand. To his surprise he found Petitgris sitting on a chair in front of the door, completely in shadow. He evidently had not left the study.

“Well, it’s you,” said Rouxval. “Still here?”

“Yes, Mr. Minister, and I cannot advice you too strongly to keep me company.”

Rouxval was annoyed and about to reprove him for his familiarity when a second glance at the man gave him a sudden shock. He noticed that the huge tooth of the detective was clearly visible, under a curling lip. He could not have been more discomfited if he had seen a ghost rise in front of him. The appearance of that tooth, long, white and pointed, the tooth of a wild animal, could only mean one thing – Rouxval was being jeered at, mocked.

“Confound it, I certainly have not put my foot in it!” said Rouxval to himself, remembering Petitgris’ words.

He pulled himself together. A cabinet minister, used to handling men and affairs of state, does not go “putting his foot in it.” Nor does he step into the pitfalls which trip the unwary. Having risen to such a position, he sees clearly, and goes straight to the goal. Yet the sight of that tooth troubled him. Why – what did it mean at this time? To reassure himself, he blamed the detective.

“If one of us has put his foot in it, it is that scamp. This whole thing is perfectly clear; any college boy could see that,” argued the minister to himself.

As clear as it was, however, he answered Petitgris by asking surlily:

“What is it? I’m in a hurry. Speak up!”

“Speak up, Mr. Minister?” he repeated. “I have nothing to say.”

“What do you mean, nothing to say? I don’t suppose you expect to sleep here?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Minister.”

“Well then?”

“Well, I’m just waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For something which is sure to happen.”

“What ‘something?’”

“Patience, a little patience, Mr. Minister! You are certainly more interested in knowing it than I am. It won’t be long, anyway – only a few minutes—at the most about ten minutes. Yes, just about ten minutes.”

“Nothing of the sort,” cried Rouxval. “The confessions these people have made are perfectly explicit.”

“What confessions, Mr. Minister?”

“What confessions? Why, Leriot’s, the count’s, and his wife’s!”

“The countess’, perhaps. But the count confessed nothing; neither did Leriot,” said the detective.

“What are you trying to put over now?”

“I’m not trying to put anything over, Mr. Minister; it’s a fact. You might say, the truth, the two men didn’t open their mouths. Only one person talked, and that was you, Mr. Minister.”

Without paying any attention to Rouxval’s threatening attitude, he continued:

“A wonderful speech, really, and I sure did appreciate it. What an orator! In the senate you would have been a riot! An ovation, publicity, and all the rest of it. Only a speech is not all that is needed. When you are trying to dig facts out of a criminal, you don’t stuff him with talk. On the contrary, you question him. You get him to gab. And then you listen. That’s the way to get to the bottom of things. If you think Mr. Petitgris was just snoozing in the corner, you can bet you made a mistake. Mr. Petitgris never took his eye off those two codgers, especially that Bois-Vernay. And that’s why I’m telling you, Mr. Minister, that in eight minutes some one is coming and something will happen – in seven minutes and a half.”

Rouxval was floored. He did not give the least credence to Petitgris’ predictions not to the special announcement that “something” was going to happen. But the man’s tenacity held him. And that canine tooth, which gave him an expression at once arrogant, fierce, wicked, enigmatic--

The minister capitulated, and returned to the other end of the room, where he gave vent to his rage by tapping furiously on the desk with a pen handle, by nervously moving the desk appointments about, by looking at the clock and watching Petitgris out of the corner of his eye.

The detective sat quite still, only moving once. He tore a sheet of paper from a pad, came to the desk, borrowed Rouxval’s own pen with an air of authority, and rapidly write a few lines. He folded the paper in half, put it in an envelope and slipped it under a magazine, which happened to be near the desk edge. Then he sat down.

What did it all mean? Why did he continue to sneer with that mysterious, abominable tooth? Three minutes. Two minutes. Rouxval, in a sudden burst of anger, jumped up and again started striding up and down the room, knocking over a chair, jostling against a table and upsetting all the bric-a-brac. This whole case was stupid. That blockhead Petitgris and his devilish tooth had unnerved him.

“Listen, Mr. Minister,” mumbled the detective, holding up his hand. “Listen!”

“Listen to what?”

“Footsteps! Listen. Some one is knocking.”

Someone was knocking. Rouxval recognized the discreet tap of the page.

“He is not alone,” asserted Petitgris.

“What do you know about it?”

“He can’t be alone, because what I told you would happen is going to happen, and it can’t happen unless some one else comes in.”

“Well, confound it, what is it that is going to happen?”

“the truth, Mr. Minister. There are times, when the hour has struck, that nothing can prevent the truth from being known. It comes in at the window if the door is closed. But the door is so near, Mr. Minister, you don’t want to stop me from opening it, will you, Mr. Minister?”

Rouxval, beside himself with rage, opened the door.

The page looked in. “Mr. Minister, the gentleman who left here a little while ago with the lady is asking for his overcoat.”

“His overcoat?”

“Yes, sir; the gentleman forgot it, or rather he got the wrong one.”

Hercules Petitgris explained:

“He is right, Mr. Minister. I see a mistake has been made. The gentleman took my overcoat and left me his. Perhaps the gentleman can come in and—”

Rouxval acquiesced. The page went out, and almost immediately Monsieur de Bois-Vernay entered.

After the overcoats had been exchanged, the count, having bowed to Rouxval, who carefully looked the other way, started to leave the room. On the threshold, grasping the handle of the door, he hesitated, murmured a few words scarcely audible, stopped and re-entered the room.

“The ten minutes are up, Mr. Minister,” whispered Petitgris. “Consequently, ‘something’ is going to happen.”

Rouxval waited. Events seemed to occur as the detective had predicted.

“What do you wish, sir?” inquired the minister.

After a few minutes’ hesitation Monsieur de Bois-Vernay asked:

“Mr. Minister, are you really going to denounce us? The consequences would be so serious that I am taking the liberty of calling them to your attention. Think of the scandal – public clamor --”

Rouxval lost his temper.

“Will you tell me if I can do anything else?”

“Yes you can – you should. Everything can be arranged between us two, in a perfectly legitimate way. There is no reason why we should not come to some agreement.”

“I did propose an agreement, but Madame de Bois-Vernay would not hear of it.”

“She would not, but I will.”

Rouxval seemed surprised. Petitgris had already made the distinction between husband and wife a short time before.

“Explain yourself!”

The count seemed embarrassed. Irresolute, hesitating between sentences, he went on:

“Mr. Minister, I love my wife beyond words – and – sometimes I am weak enough to do things – for her which I know are – wrong, dangerous. That is what has happened. The death of our son so completely demoralized her – that twice – in spite of her deep religious sentiment – she tried to commit suicide. It became an obsession. In spite of my watchfulness, my every care, she would have carried out her intentions. But at an opportune moment Maxime Leriot came to see me. While talking to him about the war, our son – the idea came to me-- to combine – the Unknown—”

He shrank before the decisive words. Rouxval, more and more irritated, broke in:

“We are losing time, sir, since I know the result of your machinations. And that is all that matters.”

“It is precisely because the result alone matters that I am here. Because you discovered certain preparations, you concluded too hastily, perhaps because of your apprehension, that a sacrilege had been committed. That is not so.”

Rouxval did not understand.

“It is not so? Then why didn’t you protest?”

“I could not.”

“Why?”

“My wife would have had to hear me.”

“But Madame de Bois-Vernay herself confessed.”

“Yes, but I did not. It would have been a lie.”

“A lie! But the facts are there, sir! Do you want me to reread the records, the inquiries, the proofs that the body was removed, your meeting with Leriot?”

“Again, sir, may I say that these facts show definite preparations, but not the execution of a deed?”

“That is to say?”

“That is to say that there were meetings between Maxime and ourselves, and the body was removed. But I never, never had an idea of committing an act which I, too, should consider unforgivable sacrilege. For that matter, Maxime Leriot would never have consented.”

“Your idea then—” began the minister.

“My intention was to give my wife the --”

“To give her?”

“To give her the illusion, Mr. Minister.”

“The illusion?” repeated Rouxval mechanically, as the truth was beginning to dawn upon him.

“Yes, sir, an illusion which might sustain her, give her a faint desire to live – and which has sustained her until now. She believes it, Mr. Minister; she believes it! Try to imagine what that means to her! She believes her son is in that sacred tomb, and that belief has kept her alive.”

Rouxval bowed his head with his hand before his eyes. Overwhelmed by this sudden happiness, the restoration of his shrine, he feared they might see how disturbed he was.

With an affectation of indifference, he said:

“Ah, that is what happened! There was a pretense—” He stopped. “But how about all these proofs?”

“The proofs I took great care to accumulate, that she might have no doubts. She saw all, sir; she insisted upon being there during the entire proceedings: the removal of the body, the transfer to the funeral car. How could she have suspected that the funeral car did not go directly to the fort of Verdun, that our poor child is buried a little way on in a country cemetery where I go, when I can, to kneel at his grave and beg his forgiveness – his forgiveness for me and his absent mother.”

Rouxval was convinced that the count told the truth, that there was nothing in the evidence to contradict his statement of the facts as they had actually occurred.

“And Maxime Leriot’s part in this?”

“He obeyed my orders.”

“How about his actions since then?”

“Alas! The money he received turned his head, degraded him. It is my one great regret. The more I gave him, the more he wanted; that is why he threatened to reveal all to my wife. But rest assured, Mr. Minister, I will answer for him. He is really an honest, loyal soul, and has promised me he will leave the country at once.”

Rouxval meditated a moment and then said:

“Are you prepared to swear to the absolute truth of your statements?”

“I am prepared to swear to anything, provided my wife learns nothing and continues in her belief.”

“We agree in that, sir,” said the minister. “The secret shall be kept. I swear it.”

He took a sheet of paper and was about to ask the count for a written statement when Hercules Petitgris leaned over and whispered to him:

“There it is, Mr. Minister — under the magazine -- just lift it up and you’ll find it --”

“I’ll find what?”

“The statement. I drew it up a few minutes ago.”

“You knew?”

“You can just bet I knew! The count only needs to write his name on it.”

Rouxval, nonplused, pushed the magazine aside, snatched the paper and read:

I, the undersigned, Count de Bois-Vernay, acknowledge that I, with the connivance of Maxime Leriot, proceeded with certain arrangements in order to impress my wife with the conviction that our son was buried under the Arc de Triomphe. But I swear on my honor that no attempt was made by me, or by the said Maxime Leriot, to fulfill these arrangements and give my poor child the honors and resting place of the Unknown Soldier.

While Rouxval remained silent, the count, who was as astonished as the minister, slowly reread the document aloud, as if weighing each word.

“Quite right. I have nothing to add nor curtail. I should have written the same thing if I had drawn it up myself.”

He then affixed his signature without further hesitation.

“Mr. Minister, I must trust you,” he continued. “The slightest doubt on her part would cause the death of a mother who is guilty of nothing but too great a love for her child. I have your promise?”

“I have but one word to give, sir. I have given it. I shall keep it.”

He shook hands absent-mindedly with Monsieur de Bois-Vernay, accompanied him without a word to the door, closed it, and came back to the window where again he remained standing, with his head pressed to the windowpane.

“So Petitgris guessed the truth!” he mused. “In that chaos, that entanglement of fact and fancy, he saw the narrow path which led to the truth.”

Rouxval was distressed, angry; the pleasure he might otherwise have felt in seeing his case in another light was singularly diminished. Behind him he heard a tiny chuckle, undoubtedly the detective’s manifestation of triumph. It conjured up a vision of the pointed tooth, that terrible tooth.

“He has the laugh on me,” thought Rouxval. “He has known from the beginning. He maliciously let me put my foot in it. He could have warned me and he didn’t. What a beast!”

But his prestige as a cabinet officer would not permit him to remain in that humiliating position. He turned suddenly and taking the offensive said:

“Yes, yes, and then what? Luck was on your side! You probably discovered some clew—”

“Not a clew,” sneered Petitgris, who was not granting any favors. “What did you want clews for, anyway? Just a little bit of judgment, a grain of common sense, were all you needed.”

And with hideous good nature, he continued:

“Come on now, Mr. Minister! That long rigmarole of yours didn’t stand up at all. It was just bunk. Contradictions, omissions, impossibilities of every kind and color. Just a rotten scenario! That the countess should have bitten, all right, but you, a minister of your rank! Honestly, do you think people juggle with corpses in real life? Have a heart!

“They make every effort to have the Unknown Soldier be an unknown soldier! Arrangements for the public, funeral cars, functionaries, generals, brigadiers, ministers; in fact, the devil and his whole crew, and are you credulous enough to believe that any little gentlemen with cash in his pocket can afford the luxury of making a laughingstock of the world, and of burying an everlasting concession under the Arch de Triomphe! Well, I’ve heard some good ones, but that one has ‘em all beat.”

Rouxval restrained himself with difficulty and said:

“But the proofs—” began Rouxval.

“Those proofs – they were good enough for kids. I said to myself right away: ‘As long as the count couldn’t possibly afford the Arc de Triomphe, what was he cooking up with Leriot?’ Just as soon as I saw the way he looked at the wife I got it. ‘My boy, you're a good thing. Just to help the wife along, you’re going to play a little game and make her believe you did the real thing. But you’re a bit weak, too, and if my chief gets good and mad and threatens you, you’re going to give in.’ There’s the whole trick, Mr. Minister! Rage and threats on your part, and little Mr. Bois-Vernay gives in.”

“All right, well and good so far,” said Rouxval. “But you could not know he was coming back and that ‘something,’ as you put it, was going to happen.”

“Say, listen! What about the overcoat.”

“The overcoat?”

“Great Scott! how could he come back without it? He had to have some excuse to leave his wife and to confess before the department of justice put its nose in it.”

“Well?”

“Well, when he was leaving, I helped him on with my overcoat instead of his. He was all up in the air; he couldn’t see anything – but red. Then outside in the car, when he saw my cast-off, he jumped at the chance to run back here! D’ye get it? What do you think of that piece of work? I put over some better ones in my life, a couple of harder ones, but never a shrewder one. I got that without moving – a decision with hands in my pockets – and landed a punch that knocked the other fellow out. That’s some good job!”

Rouxval was silent; the cleverness, the ease with which Hercules Petitgris had handled the situation, disconcerted him. All alone in his corner, without interrupting the inquiry, without asking a question, and knowing nothing about the case, except what Rouxval himself was telling, Petitgris had really conducted the examination, guided the trend of questions, thrown light on the whole case. With one little move at the right moment he had managed to have the problem solve itself in the only way possible.

Rouxval put his hand in his pocket to draw out a bank note. But it went no farther. The detective sneered:

“Put it back, Mr. Minister. I’ve got mine.”

The tooth gleamed implacably. A frightful chuckle, and his face again resumed the fierce look of a wild animal. Could one help remembering the jeering words: “when one of my employers puts his foot in it, haven’t I the right to tell him, and have a little laugh? I have turned down money more than once just to be able to bust right out laughing! Are they funny? You ought to see the faces on them!

“Don’t blame yourself too much, Mr. Minister. I’ve had worse cases. Your big mistake was to rely too much on logic, and the logic of what you see and hear isn’t worth a nickel. The real logic runs underground like some rivers, and when it does run out of sight, then you have to keep your eye on it. That was where you lost your head. Instead of going into the details of that ceremony in the fort of Verdun, you turned away! ‘I hardly dare paint the scene. The slightest doubt in that direction is blasphemy!’

“Damn it all, Mr. Minister, that’s the time you should have gone ahead, investigated, put your whole mind to it! You would have seen there wasn’t a chance of a fraud. And what is more, Hercules Petitgris wouldn’t be laying down the law to-day to a cabinet minister in his own study.”

He had risen and was putting on the worn, green overcoat. Rouxval had a strong desire to take him by the neck and strangle him, but – he opened the door.

“Let us say no more about it. I shall advise the president of the service you have rendered us.”

“Oh, don’t bother!” returned the detective. “I’d rather do that myself.”

“Sir!” cried Rouxval.

“Well, what, Mr. Minister?”

Petitgris suddenly drew himself up and seemed to change personalities under the very eyes of the minister. He was no longer the poor devil begging alms, but a lively, self-possessed young man entirely at his ease. With thumb and forefinger he delicately removed the enormous tooth; the lines in his face changed; the horrible grin disappeared. He looked cheerful and gay, but still arrogant.

Rouxval asked:

“What does this mean? Permit me to ask who are you?”

“Who I am is of no importance whatever,” he answered. “Let us say that I am Arsène Lupin. The memory of your recent mistake will perhaps be less bitter if you connect it with the name of Arsène Lupin, rather than with that of Hercules Petitgris.”

Rouxval showed him the door. The detective passed gracefully in front of the minister to the anteroom. In that doorway, he said:

“Good-bye, Mr. Minister-- and a word of advice: Don’t go out of your little world again. A case of shoemaker, stick to your last. Straighten out government squabbles, help them make the laws, but – when it comes to police work leave that to the specialist.”

He started to go. Would he never stop talking? He came back and said:

“After all, you may be right – perhaps I put my foot in it. Come to think of it, what proofs have we that the count did stop on the way, that he did not go through with his plot? It is quite possible, and he did make excellent plans! Well, it’s all over my head. Good-by, Mr. Minister.”

This time he had nothing more to add. He left the anteroom.

Rouxval returned slowly to his desk and sat down heavily. He was singularly troubled by the detective's last words. They were a last bite of that frightful tooth – a drop of distilled venom! He felt vaguely that he would always be in doubt, that his case would always remain a mystery. He knew it was absurd, but all the same – the proofs – the removal of the body – the transfer to the funeral car --

“Damn it all!” He cried, infuriated. “What an infernal bird he is! If ever I lay my hands on him again!”

But Rouxval knew that Petitgris was none other than Arsène Lupin, and Arsène Lupin was not one to be caught a second time.

57 notes · View notes

blackswaneuroparedux · 2 years

Photo

In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?

- Samuel Beckett, Collected Poems in English and French

I went to a restaurant once that said it served "breakfast at any time" so I ordered French toast during the Renaissance. My waiter got the joke.

What isn’t a joke is the traditional English breakfast as a national institution. Most of us love a full English breakfast; you can even travel abroad, to the Mediterranean resorts in Spain for example, and find this quintessentially British dish on sale in cafes and restaurants.

Sometimes also called a ‘fry-up’, the full English breakfast consists of fried eggs, sausages, back bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried bread and often a slice of white or black pudding (similar to bloodwurst). It is accompanied by tea or coffee and hot, buttered toast. These days, breakfast may also include other items such as baked beans and hash browns.

There are many regional versions of this staple. For example, the Ulster Fry includes Irish soda bread; the Scottish breakfast boasts a tattie scone (potato scone) and even maybe a slice of haggis; the Welsh breakfast features laverbread (barra lawr, made from seaweed); and the Cornish breakfast often comes with Cornish hogs pudding (a kind of sausage).

The tradition of breakfast dates back to the Middle Ages. At this time, there were usually only two meals a day; breakfast and dinner. Breakfast was served mid or late morning, and usually consisted of just ale and bread, with perhaps some cheese, cold meat or dripping.

A lavish breakfast was often served by the nobility or gentry at social or ceremonial occasions such as weddings. A wedding mass had to take place before noon, so all weddings took place in the mornings. The first meal the new bride and groom ate together would therefore be breakfast and became known as the ‘wedding breakfast’.

By Georgian and Victorian times, breakfast had become an important part of a shooting party, weekend house party or hunt and was served a little earlier. The gentry loved to entertain lavishly and that included breakfast.

Breakfasts were unhurried, leisurely affairs with plenty of silver and glassware on show to impress the host’s guests. The breakfast table would groan under the weight of the produce from the host’s estate. Newspapers were available for the family and guests to catch up on the day’s news. Indeed, it is still socially acceptable today to read newspapers at the breakfast table (a definite ‘no-no’ at any other meal).

As well as eggs and bacon, which was first cured in the early 18th century, the breakfast feast might also include offal such as kidneys, cold meats such as tongue and fish dishes such as kippers and kedgeree, a lightly spiced dish from colonial India of rice, smoked fish and boiled eggs.

The Victorian era saw a wealthy middle class begin to emerge in British society who wished to copy the customs of the gentry, including the tradition of the full English breakfast. As the middle classes went out to work, breakfast began to be served earlier, typically before 9am.

Surprisingly, the full English breakfast was also enjoyed by many of the working classes. The punishing physical labour and long hours of work in the factories of the Industrial Revolution meant a hearty meal first thing in the morning was necessary. Even as late as the 1950s, almost half the adult population began their day with a good old English fry-up.

#beckett #samuel beckett #poem #poetry #english breakfast #eggs #bacon #beans #sausage #toast #heart attack #breakfast of champions #culture #society

121 notes · View notes

yr-obedt-cicero · 2 years

Note

hi! ik that we don't know that much about what Hamilton's and Laurens' relationship was like but i was just wondering if we have any stories or if we know how their friendships was viewed by others in the camp? like do we know if they had any inside jokes or things they would do together even as just friends?

Overall, they were noted to have been the closest out of the Aide-de-camps. And many viewed they just had a close tight knit friendship.

McHenry - a fellow aide - once compared them to Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar, who were both leaders of ancient civilizations;

The attack was a resounding victory and the Americans were ecstatic. “As soon as the success of the Am[erican]-arns was ascertained, the Marquis desired Major McHenry to hasten to the redoubt and congratulate Col. Hamilton [and] Laurens in his name” McHenry did. “The first officer he recognized was his friend Col. Laurens—when—embracing him he exclaimed here is Caesar but where is Alexander–He is safe replied Laurens.”

(source — James McHenry, Forgotten Federalist, by Karen E. Robbins)

After Laurens requested Hamilton to remind the family to write to him, interestingly, Hamilton's response letter seems to claim that the military family thought they had a sort of “partnership”;

I have conveyed your reproof to the lads. They have considered me as the secretary of the family and fancied a partnership which did not exist. Writing or not writing to you, you know they love you and sympathise in all that concerns you.

(source — Alexander Hamilton to John Laurens, [September 12, 1780])

It's not clear if Hamilton is referring to partnership as being the “secretary of the family”, or if the aides were referring to his bond with Laurens since he was the one to convey Laurens wished for them to write to him. It could possibly suggest various things; that perhaps the others perceived Hamilton and Laurens to be so close that their friendship was exclusive, and that Hamilton realized that that wasn't the case. Another possibility being that maybe they had caught onto Hamilton's flirtatious mannerisms towards Laurens. Or as others have interpreted it;

This suggests that much of homoeroticism in Hamilton's letter was an imposition. Hamilton was the bastard without family connections from the West Indies and Laurens was the scion of the prominent South Carolina family. In intellect, imagination, vaulting ambition, and lust for derring-do, the two were equal. Is it possible that Hamilton sought to trump Laurens' advantaged upbringing by highlighting the physical attraction they had for each other which if consummated would have invited scandal?

(source)

As for inside jokes and anecdotes, author William Benemann made the humorous suggestion that the suggestive and homoerotic innuendos written in the drill manual that Laurens and Hamilton helped Baron von Steuben compose were intentional;

There was no time to have a drill manual composed and printed, so each day von Steuben would write a portion of the manual in French, and give it to his aide Pierre Duponceau to translate into English. Duponceau would pass the translation on to Laurens and Hamilton to edit into proper military form. The Baron would then commit the new English version to memory, though he could understand very little of the actual words and grammar. The new portions of the manuscript were copied again and again by hand, and the written sheets distributed to each of the fourteen brigade inspectors. Each morning as the men began to follow the new drill procedures, von Steuben was busily at work writing out the next day’s chapter. The drill manual eventually found its way into print, and it remind the official United States military blue book until 1812. To a modern reader the Baron’s instructions have an oddly salacious ring, sounding more like a sex manual than a drill manual:

Bring the right hand briskly, and place it under the cock….Quit the butt with the left hand, and seize the firelock at swell….Bring the left hand down strong upon the butt….Bring the butt of the firelock under the right arm, letting the piece fall down strong on the palm of the left hand, which receives the swell, the muzzle pointed directly to the front, but butt pressed with the arm against the side….

Although it is tempting to read the drill manual as an elaborate homosexual joke devised by von Steuben, Laurens, and Hamilton at the expense of the unwitting military brass, a comparison with other drill manuals of the period reveals that the language is very much in line with what might be expected of the genre. The double entendres that are so striking to a modern ear were probably unheard in the eighteenth century.

(source — Male-Male Intimacy in Early America, by William Benemann)

While Benemann is correct that this vocabulary was nothing particular for drill manuals, the terms and phrases used did have the same meanings as they do today and from the 18th century. So, it is still quite plausible.

Many stories involving Laurens and Hamilton also involve all the other aides as well, so this is not quite exclusive to them particularly — but Hamilton and Laurens, alongside the other aides, used to conversate in the middle of the night;

The abodes they stayed in were frequently too cramped for comfortable living and the aides normally shared rooms, oftentimes beds, if they had beds, and occasionally slept in kitchens, hallways, or, as Timothy Pickering wrote in the summer of 1777, with “the General lodged in a bed and his family on the floor about him.” From Valley Forge in December 1777, Timothy Pickering told his wife that “the General's family. are exceedingly pinched for room.” At West Point in the summer of 1779, Alexander Hamilton remarked, “We are rather straitened in our quarters.” These “straitened” quarters promoted closeness between the aides. Tench Tilghman called their beds “sociable Bunks” because the aides would talk in their sleeping quarters and “hear much... where all is under the secure lock and key of Friendship.” All this, of course, was when they were not on the move and forced to sleep “in the fields, under trees, exposed to the night air and all changes of the weather.” James McHenry summarized, “When I joined his Excellency's suite I gave up soft beds, undisturbed repose, and the habits of ease and indulgence, which reign in some departments, for a single blanket, the hard floor, or the softer sod of the fields.”

(source — Alexander Hamilton: The Formative Years, by Michael E. Newton)

Hope this helps!

#amrev #american history #american revolution #alexander hamilton #historical alexander hamilton #historical john laurens #john laurens #history #lams #historical lams #queries #sincerely anonymous #cicero's history lessons

74 notes · View notes

cousticks · 11 months

Note

hi bestie, I'm going to need your thoughts about BEAST. it doesn't matter how long. 🙏I find that LN very interesting plus my blorbo Odasaku is there TT

if you're up to the challenge of sharing most, if not all your unhinged thoughts about BEAST, I would greatly appreciate it.

If not, that's okay too. No pressure fr ❤️

This ask makes me stare at my computer screen in horror for the can of worms you've opened, my friend. I'm better now, but there was a point in time a couple years ago I carried my physical copy of the Beast LN with me everywhere in my school bag & called it my Bible. Needless to say its quite important to me. I wasn't sure how to approach this at first, but as I've been going I kind of ended up breaking it down by character. I will also say that I've read the LN and seen the movie, but I haven't read the entire manga yet, so if there's anything manga specific you were hoping I'd mention that I don't I apologize! This is comically long I am so sorry.

I will admit I kind of suck because, though Beast is primarily about the interactions between Atsushi and Akutagawa, I don't have much to say about either of them. But Beast is so so so refreshing to me to see some of the characters that I thought deserved better in canon receiving their time in the light. The interactions between Aku and Oda are everything to me, especially when Akutagawa has to babysit the kids, and through it he has to learn when to be gentle and when to be harsh. Its so so so important because you get to see that he can do both. The same Akutagawa who's first appearance in the main timeline is blowing up a police station without any care for civilian casualties is capable of gently playing with children, WITH his ability. It opens up a depth to his character that, at least at the time of Beast's official English translation coming out (I had it on Preorder lol), we didn't really get to see in the main timeline. It told me that there was so much more to see from him, more that Asagiri wanted to say about him, and not only made me really attached to his Beast version but made me enthusiastic to see what was to come from the main timeline for him.

Its kind of similar with Atsushi in Beast, if the opposite way. I was always a little disappointed with the anime's adaption of Atsushi, as he always felt a bit watered down to be a one-size-fits-all protagonist, when he has more character and snark in the manga that makes him so much more interesting. I don't love it for him because yanno that shit traumatizing, but I do for me enjoy having seen what happens when you put him in the mafia instead. Do you ever think about how he would have been like, 12, when he was recruited into the mafia? That's like 6 years earlier than in canon. This is assuming that Beast Dazai goes and picks him up at the same point in time that he acquires Akutawaga in the main timeline. (Aku was acquired when he was 14). So by the time of Beast's main plot, that gives Atsushi 6 years in the mafia to become the White Reaper, and what a name that is. To be associated with the death he's so afraid of. Ohh, he's interesting. I wish I had more to say about him. Honestly, beast aku and atsu are more my boyfriend @pmreaper's wheelhouse, and I highly recommend taking a look at his thoughts. Between the Orphanage and the Mafia, Beast Atsushi hasn't really seen much honest kindness, aside from Kyoka. And christ, the collar. I'll talk more about the collar later, but that does something to me. He goes from the orphanage causing him pain and problems about being the tiger when he doesn't even know, to a much more restrictive controlling pain when he does know. He's taught that being what he is just leads to being in pain and he has no control over it and it makes me miserable for him. Despite spending so much time fighting on the Mafia's behalf, on Dazai's behalf, this boy has no idea how to fight for himself.

I think that's a major difference between beast Atsu and Aku honestly. Akutagawa will fight for himself. He'll fight his way out of a bad situation. Beast Atsushi won't. That self pity of feeling he deserves it. Christ. Them. Their soft moments interacting together before everything goes to shit in Beast are everything to me. They're just kids from bad situations they understand each other. Their interactions in Beast stab me through the heart.

I don't have much to say about Gin but I want to mention her anyway. Mostly because I think she's the most mentally stable of the mafia members close to Dazai in Beast that we see (Chuuya, Atsu, Kyoka, Gin). She'd have a Keurig on her desk and make the best coffee on the floor. She's such a stark difference from her main timeline counterpart, too. Gin the mafia assassin and Gin the mafia secretary are so different, visually. But... this is a Gin that isn't fighting to survive in the same way. I think so much about how she was taken so that Dazai had some kind of control over Akutagawa without having him in the mafia. I think about how she decided Akutagawa wasn't ready to have her in his life again. About how she was ready to be killed for the Mafia. We barely see any of Gin in the main timeline, but we see so much of her here. Her loyalty to the mafia, her own feelings of betrayal, there's so much to her that we just haven't seen from the main timeline at all. I adore her. I want to see more of her. I like to think that after the events of Beast played out she stole a mafia helicopter and she and Kyoka flew off to Cancun on a girls trip to recover from All That Shit.

I generally ignore the Beast version of Chuuya the way he's presented in canon if I'm honest. And I quite actively ignore whatever the movie ending with the chains is because the fuck is that. Chuuya's presence in Beast canon is something that i acknowledge and then throw away. I have a very specific mental timeline of how Beast progresses in my head as far as where it diverges from the main timeline. In my heart, Atsushi is dragged into the mafia shortly before Dragon's Head Rush, possibly when the conflict is originally starting up in Yokohama, or some time during it. Somewhere in the 88 days before the final face-off against Shibusawa. (I have a lot of opinions on the nitty-gritty details of that timeline both in Beast and Main timeline but that's a not-right-now problem.) This is the event that, in the main timeline, Dazai ascends to executive. I believe that in the Beast timeline, during the DHR conflict is where he stages his coup to become the PM's boss. Which is... kind of a wild thing to do at 16, I guess, but this is a Dazai that has memories of the main timeline as well as of this world, so is he really mentally 16 at that point with the combined life experience? Anyway. Why do I mention this timeline when I'm talking about Chuuya? Because Dazai needed help staging that coup. Chuuya's help. He was well liked in the mafia even then (we can see Chuuya's own reputation was pretty damn good at this point as its not long after Stormbringer). I believe they had a more amicable relationship in the Beast timeline than in main timeline, and that this was calculated to make Chuuya's loyalty lie more with Dazai than the mafia at large so that the coup would work. But after Dazai is boss? Nothing. Cold and all-business once Dazai is in place to start playing with the entire city like his own personal barbie dolls to get everything in place to allow Oda to write his book. Whatever. Which leads to Chuuya's loyalty-hatred complex a bit but I have... a lot of opinions on that entire interaction between them that I don't really know how to articulate. But it fucking sucks.

As far as within the Mafia hierarchy, I think that very few people ever report to Dazai himself. Only Gin, Atsu, Chuuya, and maybe someone really trustworthy like Hirotsu. Chuuya is the boss's right hand in this, he's the second in command, above what a normal executive position would be. Dazai is busy making plans on his insanity corkboard trying to ensure this world stays perfect for Oda. He's busy scheming on what to do to make the mafia more powerful to ensure its reach can accomplish what he needs it to. He's busy doing all the meta-number-crunching to minmax his power so he can treat the world like a plaything. I think he leaves a lot of the normal day-to-day running the mafia to Chuuya, who acts more like the boss in the level of Mori in the main timeline, since the Mafia itself in Beast is like 3x the power it was in canon. Someone has to be keeping an eye on the city itself. I think the executives more of report to him than they would Dazai. It just becomes this really weird hierarchy of designated people leading what they need to so Dazai can focus on what he wants. Obviously none of this is supported in Beast canon at all its just what I believe in my whole heart. I also think that there may have been a point in time they tested something similar to the collar Atsushi is given with Chuuya to see if there was a way to shut down Corruption without Dazai needing to be involved. It failed and Chuuya was hospitalized for a week after and 100% made it Dazai's problem. Which, tangentially, do you ever think about the Beast aftermath? How if something comes up where Beast Chuuya has to use Corruption, there's no longer a way to stop it? Because I sure do.

This brings me down to more thoughts about Beast Dazai himself, who is such a wild character to me. He's everything normal timeline Dazai doesn't want to be. Oda wouldn't want this. Oda wouldn't want a world where so many people are miserable that don't have to be just for his sake. Its depressing, but main timeline Odasaku had chosen his time to die and was quite ready to do so. And main timeline Dazai? He just had to accept that. And grow beyond it. And learn how to create connections with others. But Beast Dazai? He swings the opposite. He doesn't try to recover, he's obsessive, he tears everyone else down into his misery with him to try to create a world that Oda can survive and write his novels in without ever thinking about the fact that Oda would never want that, would never ask for that, but he's on such a pedestal in Dazai's mind that its never considered. Its selfish. He thinks he's doing something for someone else but its so, so very selfish and frankly ridiculous. He chose to never really make any connections with anyone else. Oda of that universe doesn't even know who he is, other than the boss of the mafia that ruins people's lives. There's no connection. Beast Dazai is so untethered and doesn't see anything in that world as anything more than means to an end and I'm so, so obsessed with him. He's tragic. He's trying so hard to do something correctly and doesn't even understand what he's doing wrong because he's so caught up in saving the one person he's so fixated on. He's crafted an empire out of the mafia and couldn't care less about it. He's put himself into the shoes of a god and sacrificed every mortal comfort because of it. I have so much I could say about him but my brain is going to short circuit if I think about him for much longer. I'll probably talk more about him again when I finally reread Beast. I hate him more than I can explain. He's the most interesting man alive. He's no man at all. I'm in hell

Odasaku. Oda. He's still alive. He has even more orphans. Akutagawa is one of his orphans. He thinks he's the most normal guy but he's so, so weird. He trusts Akutagawa with his kids. He'll fight Akutagwa in the middle of the Agency as a training exercise. He probably has the most bland coffee order you can imagine. Anyone know that textpost about the guy that got the black coffee with the blueberry flavoring? The ordinary man with something deeply wrong with him? That's beast Oda. He wants to be a writer, he succeeds, he has a mafia boss obsessed with him and doesn't even know until said dude goes off and dies. I have NO idea what the fuck he was doing in the movie. I generally ignore the movie honestly. He's just some guy. This world was made for him and all he wants is to be ordinary. This world was made for him and he chooses to be mundane. This is a man that knows mortality well. That knows the best parts of life are the small ones. He wants to help people and he succeeds. He sees other people who had a past of violence, like he did growing as an assassin, and he helps them get out of it, he prevents it from happening, he offers care in a way those unused to receiving it can accept. He isn't perfect. He's just a guy. It makes him perfect. I want to kick a wall.

The agency in Beast and how they all rally together is so interesting as well. We don't really get to see them all in action together that often honestly and its a delight. I wish I had more to say about all of them. They're such a cohesive unit of strays and I love them.

I certainly have so much more I could say about Beast but this is already like, the length of an average one-shot fanfiction on AO3 just of my incoherent rambling. If there's anything you want me to talk more on please send another ask because this was a fucking blast to dig up a lot of my old thoughts. I have several unedited one-shot beast fics tucked into storage that maybe one day I'll share because they're all based off of my headcanons and personal beliefs on the timeline.

My boyfriend and I also have an ongoing project called Beastswap where we explore what happens to the characters if they start randomly popping between the two timelines in the post-Beast fallout after everything has settled a little and once I get my writing spark back there will definitely be some of that floating around as well.

#im so sorry this is so long and incomprehensible but gathering thoughts on beast is Difficult #i have so many of them #asks? answered. hotel? trivago.#beast.#beast ensemble #bungo stray timeline #(kind of)#🏢#< beastswap tag

9 notes · View notes

stormboundscholar · 2 months

Text

Day 1/10 of getting back on my feet.

Took a shower.

Shaved.

Brushed my teeth.

20 minutes of German duolingo

Started reading war and peace by Tolstoy

Swam for two hours

Ate a bit unhealthy

Chatted with my family.

I know I know, these are mostly just the basics, but I think it's a good start to get back on my game.

German duolingo turned out to be nice. I already know a bit of German from my middle school days, but I forgot a lot since then. At least the sounds and structure is a bit more familiar but the articles are giving me a bit of trouble. Wish I had been a bit more attentive on the lesson like I was with English. But overall it has been nice.

War and peace is.... longer than I expected. When you have a pdf instead of a physical copy you don't notice you are getting into a 5000 page book! I had read an abridged version as a kid so I didn't really think it would be this long. I got started, so I guess I will just chip away at it slowly.

I went out to the beach, swam a couple of laps around with my dad and then just relaxed on the shallower parts of the sea with my sisters. It's nice, I wish I could do it year round but I don't live in a coastal city sadly. Maybe I will settle down somewhere like this in the future.

Also had a chat with my dad about moving. Pretty weird schedule on their end, wish things were a bit more simpler. See my big sister has to stay in one city, and I want to go to a bigger one to get a better education, and my father wants to go somewhere nice where mom and him can retire. They decided to go with me first, then leave again 2 years later. I have to stay in a dormitory anyhow so I didn't quite understand what they are thinking lol. Things could get interesting, let's see what will happen.

It was a pretty nice day, I hope I can slowly go back in the rhythm of life. I hope you guys have also been doing well, and I wish the best of luck to you! Have a good night.

#diary entry #online diary #studyblr #productive

4 notes · View notes

mushroom32x · 4 months

Text

Physical PS4/PS5 copies of Re-Sparked are being sent out because they finished manufacturing first; Switch copies come early July apparently. I am at the mercy of LRG expecting the cassette soundtrack, plush, and Switch game together so hopefully I won't be waiting too long in July.... (Knocking on wood as I type). Anyways, ahead of the digital version some footage has appeared here. The uploader said the colors are a bit off because of the PS5's recording.

More impressions under the cut:

Lovely little animated intro that sums up the collection nicely: fast, colorful, and full of action. Thankfully from what I saw all the games appear to look and sound just as they did, no off-sounding instruments or graphical oddities that didn't previously exist. Edit: Some say the sound is a bit muffled? It reminds me a bit of how it would sound playing it on my actual console… or enabling the low pass filter in an emulator. Maybe it was unintentional?

However, the games are slightly edited to remove stuff like "Licensed by Nintendo" from the SNES game title screen, skip past copyright/Konami logo when starting up (although it shows up for the SNES game so maybe the player just skipped past it in the other two games?), and the options appear to only let you modify the difficulty. You used to be able to change the controls and hear the sound test too. Not exactly sure why you cannot remap the controls anymore but the collection relegated all the game's music into a single area to listen, so the sound test options were omitted for redundancy. (The options screen sure looks a lot lonelier without all the other stuff present lol.) There is credits for everyone involved in this collection and it even includes those who worked on the intro animation!

As for the menus, for each game is a boss rush mode, rewinding, and overlay with several configurations for the visuals and load/saving your game. Sparkster on the SNES has a "boost mode" which appears to reduce/eliminate the game's slowdown which is very present if played on an actual console. Screen size options include Full, Native (320×224 Sega, 256 x 224 Nintendo), Native 2X, Stretch, and 4:3. You can use a variety of borders (or leave it all black) and enable a CRT scanline filter. You can change the game's region and language for main menus (English, French, Italian, German, Spanish, and Japanese.) Though, I haven't seen word of a Japanese release for this collection... would be silly to have to make Japan users have to go through extra hoops to play this game.

The boss rush simply has you face every boss in order for each of the respective games. It tracks the total time and bosses defeated then gives you an overall rank. Though, I didn't see any difficulty options for this, like playing it on Crazy Hard or something. It loads a state just as each boss begins with a score of 0 and 0 lives, so dying ends the rush.

The museum is filled with lovely artwork, some which I haven't seen before. There are magazine adverts, box art, design documents/artwork, and art/videos regarding the animated intro. I thought the video section was going to include the game's commercials too but that was wishful thinking on my part. Their scan of the SNES box art is leagues better than mine ha ha. The sound test has all the soundtracks and main menu music accounted for in one tidy area.

I am glad this collection exists and I can't wait to play these games another 1000 times. 😛

#sparkster #rocket knight adventures

5 notes · View notes

the-yearning-astronaut · 1 year

Note

Thank your for your lengthy answer on the murderbot ask. I know neither you nor the author can influence the price I was just really surprised you know?

I'm not American so target is not an option for me. We do actually get it as paperback in my country tho.

I do wanna support the author that's why I wanted to buy a physical copy from a local book store instead of the ebook from amazon but I do wonder what the publisher were thinking at 20 bucks for a paperback when my normally 800 page paperbacks are like 10.

Sadly English audiobooks don't work at all for me, tho I did just check and my library does have the books available at the moment. But I'm not really a library person. I always worry to much about taking care of the book. I'm like a breaking the spine person. Tho with under 200 pages per book I probably could read it at the library in like two hours or so... Hmm we'll see.

Oh man I've seen some of the covers for the international versions and I'm High Key jealous -- they are so pretty. Anyway, I wish I had more relevant international resources/info to offer.... Unfortunately I struggle to even find things here in the US sometimes due to uhhhhh certain monopolies on advertising and distribution. And yeah the price is definitely surprising. I think it's becoming more common tho for novellas to have that price point? At least, one of my other favorite novella series is also $20/book. (Incidentally, A Psalm for the Wild Built is also about humanity and identity and robots...I'm sensing a Theme...)

I'd be surprised if the spines of the library books weren't already broken tbh so maybe you wouldn't have to worry about that! I'm the same way with books tho, especially when I'm borrowing them, so Can Relate.

And the author should still get compensated for the book, even when it's an ebook from Amazon! I just don't know how much. Same with any legitimate purchase/rental -- it's the pirating of books that actively harms the authors. So whether you do decide to check it out or purchase it, you'll be supporting the author either way ☺️

Me @ you:

#fox answers #the murderbot diaries #i hope my answers are coming across as idk... conversational? friendly?#and not confrontational or something #its been a long exhausting week and ive been struggling with both reading and conveying tone/intent the last few days sooo yeah 🙈

3 notes · View notes

finsterhund · 1 year

Text

Reading this and finding this context makes me sad. For the record I didn't find out about Skinamarink personally until late November but I did evidently end up torrenting it. I desperately wanted to see it but it was only in film festivals. I try to make the effort not to pirate indie productions as this is pretty much the only situation where piracy does very much hurt creators but I absolutely still want to officially support it when I have a way to.

Skinamarink is something special to me and while I've gone on record to say I don't think it "works" as a movie and I had multiple issues with it, I've become extremely captivated by it all the same and I think it's safe to say it's a special interest now. I think Kyle is talented and I take pride in a fellow gay Canadian creative putting his work out there and feel a great sense of comradery in how this movie taps into the way my childhood neglect often felt. I think watching this movie may have also allowed a previously closed off or repressed part of my memories to become accessible too.

All the theater showings were way too far away for my disabled ass to ever hope of attending when it did get brought to theaters but I pretty much signed up for Shudder briefly solely to support Skinamarink lmfaooo

I wish there was a way to directly send support Kyle's way though. I really want to physically own a copy and also want merch. I saw at certain showings there were stuff like little pin buttons and I think Kyle should set up an Etsy or something. I could just buy/make fan merch but if it's just gonna be a button of a photo of the chatter phone with the movie's title above or something I'd like to get that from him. I only buy fan merch when it's created and handmade.

I guess now "everything turned out okay" and the movie made a comparatively massive amount of money upon theatrical release but I still feel bad.

Skinamarink is very divisive and pretty much my entire main friend group didn't like and roasted the hell out of it (I poke fun too because I meme the crap out of the things I hyperfocus on) but it's still something special to me. In a similar way that the English dub of the Tiny puppy tired and weak movie is. Weirdly my attachment and softness towards Tiny is of childhood nostalgia and Skinamarink is like, something I didn't grow up with but it's *how* I grew up and there's nostalgia I guess. One of the first things I said about it after I had first finished watching that it's basically if they made a machine that supposedly records videos of memories but spit this out instead, and that it's the memories from an alternate universe of me that isn't sentient, and that I was afraid it would be what I would experience after I died. It really accurately to me showed the way my nyctophobia works which I don't see all too often in video format.

In the end what it mainly did was inspire me. I want to remake a version for myself. Saccharine and masturbatory or whatever the phrase is. More character depth in Kevin and more information in regards to the entity mainly. I'm so entranced by the little scraps of lore we got that I really want more detail into the world that was made. Managing to feel inspired after the diagnosis and then losing Cazza to cancer has been increasingly more and more difficult so I'm really grateful to Kyle Ball for making something that caused me to think creatively again.

But yeah. Kyle idk if you're ever gonna read this but thank you for making it. I've had a lot of fun since discovering the movie and want to see more things in the future. Sorry me and a bunch of other people are negative at times but Skinamarink does still mean a lot to me and I'm interested in what you do next.

#text post #Skinamarink

3 notes · View notes

igotthecinema · 2 years

Note

Okay, I am awake and I think now less emotional (or not! hahaha) I must say, Baela is my favorite of the Velaryons! She is a perfect copy of Laena in posture and attitude! Very sassy! One thing I didn't realize is that the twins were separated, Baela was living Rhaenys and Rhaena with Rhaenyra! But still, they both look beautiful and wonderful! They both look very much like their mother! Although Vaemond publicly expresses Rhaenys' thoughts, I really wanted to punch him in the face! hahahahaha Speaking of Rhaenys, that queen pose of hers on the wooden throne was 🔥🔥🔥🔥!!! A true queen! I love this woman, my God! Daemon defending Rhaenyra was everything!!! I spent almost the whole episode screaming haisuhdaushd And when Daemon caressed baby Viserys' head???? 😭😭 And Viserys reaction when he met his grandson was so beautiful! 😭😭I liked that they put Daemon more present and defending Rhaenyra at all costs, which Leanor didn't do. She is capable of defending herself, but there were times when she really needed someone to take the reins and Laenor just didn't do anything and Daemon is now doing it! I just love it! This scene here?

It just blew me away! I had to muffle my screams to be honest, my friend who was watching it with me… poor him! hiauhsdasihdis And speaking of Daemon defending Rhaenyra, that scene with Vaemond showed exactly that! And what a scene! I'm not a big fan of gore and explicit sex scenes, and HOTD is doing it very well, totally different from GOT, which were very gratuitous and unnecessary scenes most of the time. That dinner was beautiful! Even Otto was smiling! Who would have thought! I was waiting for Viserys' scene with the mask, but I didn't expect him to take it off, it was really scary! I have to confess that Aemond is gaining a place in my heart along with Daemon, that bitch behavior is everything! And yes, the pig scene was the cherry on top of the cake! Perfect!

That tea that Dyana and Rhaenyra drink is an abortive tea (by the way, Alicent's hypocrisy here… oh sister…)

I'm in the beginning of the book and I'm enjoying it. I'm still in the Aegon, the Conqueror part (I don't know the names and titles in English because I'm reading in Portuguese so maybe I'm speaking the wrong names/titles). But yes, it is worth it! The book is not a romance book, it is more of reports and the most common are from the septon Eustace and the court jester Mushroom (best character by the way!) I wish they had put him in the series. But it has other versions, for example, if I am not mistaken the Laenor part has 4 or 5 versions and the series follows some of them, for example the Alicent parts the series uses more the septon's reports and the Rhaenyra ones they are using more Mushroom's reports.

For I'm reading the book on kindle, I downloaded a copy of it, but as soon as possible, I want to buy the physical book (I need to make room on my bookshelf so for now all the books I read are on kindle)

Hi Beca. Hope you’re doing good!!

E7 and E8 has a small time jump. I personally think it would be great if they add that on screen instead us knowing.

Rhaenys would make a fierce queen if she was chosen. Stupid Jahearys. And when said to Vaemond ‘My brother will have your tongue for this’ I cant stop fangirling the character.

At least Viserys is dead knowing he had one last night with his family in a happy mood and his daughter and wife made up. I love viserys when he supports Rhaenrya irrespective of the shit she does.

Just for you Beca

I knew i’ll be a mess if i see at Sunday night. So I waited until it was Monday morning keeping my phone away for spoilers and it was worth waiting. Oh and my dad was sitting beside me and I was mentally praying that no explicit scenes should start. And thank god there weren’t any.

Viserys started the whole Dance of the Dragon by saying ‘Aegon’ where he was mentioning Aegon Conqueror but here Alicent is thinking it’s her stupid elder son. and then Rhaenrya goes and names her son also Aegon. Like what’s wrong with people in House Targaryen? Even jon snow original name was Aegon *smh*.

Tbh, not a big fan of books/novels. But thinking to give it a try. Let’s see what happens. If i start reading them, I’ll let you know.

PS: Neither the video nor photo belongs to me.

#house of the dragon #hotd

5 notes · View notes

nikitasavla21 · 9 months

Text

‘OLIVETTI is back'.

DRAFT 1 - Assignment 5

K. McCarthy smiled lopsidedly. As his self-driven car halted at a red signal, his eyes through class glared at this giant floating display informing the world ‘OLIVETTI is back'. Happy for its comeback, he was taken aback because of its incomplete version. His episodic memory took him back to the late 2090s.

It was during K. Olivetti’s Christmas party at his residence in Ivrea and had invited hundreds of other people. In the middle of all the glitters and festive, a man as charismatic and smart walked towards McCarthy, with his LY suit and gear and a bottle of wine in hand. It was K. Olivetti, heir of the Olivetti family. The ice melted as quickly as it did in the recent past. After minutes of greetings, chats and laughs, Olivetti asked McCarthy if he could share a secret and if fine with him McCarthy, a potential author of the time could help. Initially hesitant, McCarthy then agreed to help his new friend. Both of them accompanied by Olivetti’s team including head designer Cunsey headed towards a room, in the extreme corner of his residency. They were plodding to a room of complete darkness when Olivetti threw light on a candy-red device placed on a timber stool.

“This is the future of story writing! And a comeback for Olivetti too! Lettera 52!” his smartwatch read, converting his Italian dictation into English with the same modular tone of voice

“It holds immense power and technology against today's time, with a rather classic ‘Olivetti’ aesthetic. It can bring life to narratives, and can deliver the exact visuals to the writer’s content.” Mimicked the watch again.

Unable to make any head of its speech, McCarthy expressed his worry and asked Olivetti about the functionality of Lettera 52.

“52 can visualise the images from any user's head onto a holographic screen, only with the use of these headsets. They sync in with the prefrontal cortex nerves to help paint the image a writer has in his mind onto these surfaces when they type their thoughts out”

“All one has to do is to clear the screen, wear the headset and plug in its key, enter his copy para by para and hit enter. The device takes 12 seconds to visualise your mental images into physical ones per para. You can have a look at the typewriter if you wish.”

With a startled expression, he said “I, I…..I would love to do that! But why are you showing this to ME ?”

“I wish you to try this for your next copy. I want to user-test my product in the actual world to see its full potential. I know the power of your writing, and that’s the reason I called you. I would say again use the piece first if you wish and let me know your decision by the new year. Have a great evening, Pal and enjoy your drink”, he left.

To both their remembrance the next two years went by quickly, with the opening of wine bottles, the trials of McCarthy’s next novel were entered on Lettera 52 and edited again if not up to the mark. Olivetti and McCarthy both enjoyed this new process of scripting. While these trials were going well and both sides were enthusiastic, the officers from the Humanitarian Psychological and Well-Being Ministry intervened for bad. They obliged the use of this brain-linking act considering it to be the exploitation of human intelligence for future prediction and asked the Olivettis to stop their testing and production at that very moment. Lettera 52 was seized right away, and Olivetti was cautioned that if the innovation was practised of any kind, his fortune would be taken over by the government. Within a week everything rested.

Days passed, and McCarthy’s much-awaited phone rang. It was Olivetti. He tapped his index finger twice against his thumb, hearing a modulation saying, “My residence, at 9 pm.”

“What’s the deal? Is the matter sorted? Did they allow you to start the manufacturing of Lettera?” With a chuckle, Olivetti responded, “No, I wish those idiots did?! But I have good news for you. I was able to save the latest copy of your novel that we reviewed together. You can take it from Cunsey and publish your book. I know it’s going to be great. And don’t worry about me, if I could develop Lettera to its current version, I can surely come up with a version that suites these *** while still being true to its time and technology. I hope I did some good for you! See you soon, Pal!”

They met. Exchanged things and thoughts and then briefly drifted their paths with a firm handshake.

Months later McCarthy’s novel was published and it was a blast. Over a thousand copies were sold physically and millions were purchased in their digital version. He soon became one of the greatest writers of the time. Passing years, only brought a rise in his career.

Bzzzzzzz! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The sound of the car went into his ears! Turning left and right to see his surroundings, he had reached his doorstep. With a smile he got down, and entered his house, to see the family screen, which also showcased his moments with Olivetti from the late 2090s. With a last thought about the forbidden plug, he moved on with his daily chores.

______________________________________________________________

A product speculation attempt using Near Future Kit

Action - Translate

Archetype - Retail Signage

Attribute - Forbidden

Object 1 - Key thing - entry coupon

Object 2 - Typewriter

0 notes

izziebeex · 2 years

Text

My nerd of a neighbour {chapter four} || e.m

summary: Eddie really needs to get his priorities in check if he wants to graduate this year, but he’s in need of someone who is going to keep him accountable. So, he asks the smartest girl he can think of. Although hesitant at first, she soon agrees. But she’s nothing like what Eddie had imagined. pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader word count: 1.5k genre/tropes: unknown mutual pining, straight A student x freak, shared trauma, kissing in the dark. warnings: use of y/n, not exactly following plot, groping, kissing, mild sexual content!, thunderstorms? NOT PROOF READ!! author’s note: I really hated chapter three and I wish I never wrote it. I just needed something to fill the gap. I’m so sorry you guys had to read that… I’m also sorry I haven’t posted in a couple weeks. But I hope this chapter makes up for it!!!

{chapter three}

Y/n and Eddie were in his trailer, sitting on the floor on either side of his coffee table, reading the modern version of Romeo and Juliet. She had picked up two copies at the school library that afternoon, as well as the movie (1968 version obv) from Family Video on her way home. Eddie had a big test on the play coming up in English, and since he had done so well studying for physics, y/n decided it was best to just hunker down and study for this one. Surprisingly, Eddie had passed that physics midterm with a C. Definitely an improvement, considering he had failed last time he had taken the course.

They were nearing the end of the play, reading Act V, Scene I. Balthasar had just informed Romeo that Juliet has been pronounced dead, unaware of Friar Lawrence’s plan.

“There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee. And that’s the end of scene one,” y/n concludes.

“Wait, so this Romeo dude is gonna kill himself because he thinks his girl is dead, but she’s not really dead?” Eddie tries to clarify.

“Yeah. The friar gave her something that would make her seem dead, but then Romeo would find her in the Capulet’s crypt, and they would run away together,” she told him.

“Seems a bit quick don’t ya think?” Eddie asked with a funny face. He seemed pretty appalled by the fact that they had the type of relationship they did.

“Well Eddie, things were much different back then than they are now. Most people were married and had kids by the time they were fifteen. At least the women. They were normally married off to older men,” y/n explained to him, laughing lightly at his expression.

Eddie just sat there, jaw hanging open. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Y/n just giggled and continued to read the remaining scenes of the play.

——————————————————————————

“A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.” y/n finished.

It had started raining pretty hard while she was reading the last act. Now it was torrential downpour

“Well, that’s a depressing end to a play about love,” Eddie complained. “I just wasted two and a half hours of my life on these dumb kids just for them to kill themselves.”

“One, you didn’t waste any time. You need to know the story for you to pass this English test. And two, were you not listening to me reading? The play isn’t just about love. It’s about conflict and desire. The forcefulness and inevitability of fate. The power of hatred, and defiance. Family and the obligation to conform to familial ideals,” y/n went on, naming themes of the play. “All of Shakespeare’s plays have deeper meanings than people normally pick up on the first time through.”

Eddie was staring at her in awe. How could someone be so passionate about something he found to be mind-numbingly boring? He only hoped she was too busy ranting about star-crossed lovers to notice him making goo-goo eyes at her from across the coffee table.

Y/n got up and tossed her book onto the table. She walked over to the kitchen counter and picked up the bag from Family Video. She threw the VHS tape over to Eddie, who was still sitting on the floor, before walking back into the kitchen.

“Why don’t you set up the movie while I make us something to eat,” y/n said.

“No, no! You’re a guest in my trailer. I should be the one doing the cooking,” Eddie complained, even though he knew he couldn’t cook for shit.

Y/n practically fell down because she was laughing so hard. She also knew that Eddie couldn’t cook for shit. She laughed until she couldn’t breathe. And Eddie just sat, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t burn down the trailer park,” y/n teased him with a smile.

She began digging through cupboards, looking for noodles and pasta sauce, while Eddie sat on his worn-down couch, remote in his hand, trying to get Romeo and Juliet to play on the tv. Just as the opening credits started to roll, Eddie heard the water boiling in the kitchen.

“Do you want me to pause it?” Eddie called to y/n.

“No, it’s alright. You just keep watching,” she reassured him.

The actors were just entering Act I, Scene IV, when y/n walked over to the couch, a bowl of spaghetti in each hand. Romeo was having second thoughts about going to the Capulet ball, and Mercutio was spewing his famous Queen Mab speech.

“I can’t understand half the shit these idiots are saying! The fuck kinda English is this?” Eddie complained, which he was doing a lot of today.

“It’s called Shakespearean English for a reason, Eds,” she told him and rolled her eyes playfully.

All he did was look at her with a goofy smile spread on his face. She had never called him that before, but he was hoping she wouldn’t stop. Eddie had sat in thought about his growing feelings for y/n quite a few times since they started spending time together. He knew he liked her – her sense of humour, her intelligence, her face – but he didn’t know how to approach it. He’d never had feelings like this before. Sure, he had been attracted to girls before, but this felt different.

Does he tell her?

Does he keep himself quiet and hope that his feelings go away?

They were done their spaghetti and halfway through the Balcony Scene when the power totally cut out.

Y/n yelped and tucked herself into Eddie’s side, bunching his shirt in her fists. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder in response. She had forgot to mention the fact that she had a teeny tiny fear of thunderstorms.

“Hey, it’s alright. It’s only a power outage,” Eddie tried to reassure her, before there was a big clash of thunder and y/n jumped again, clinging onto him harder than before.

“You’re okay, y/n. I’m here, nothing is gonna happen to you. You’re safe with me, I promise,” he whispered to her, trying to bring her comfort.

It was only now that y/n was acutely aware of just how close Eddie’s body was to her’s – and just how good it felt. After that night at his show, she’d had plenty of time to think about her feelings towards Eddie. She never thought that she would grow to have romantic feeling for ‘the freak’, but he was so much more than people made him out to be. He was funny. He was caring. And he was really, really cute. Although, she did still have her doubts. She didn’t know if he harboured the same feelings as she did. But right now, all she wanted to do was grab him and kiss him.

And she definitely wasn’t going to let her doubts get in the way of that.

She reached for his face in the dark, and slowly turned his face her way. She sat up a bit, getting closer to him, before meeting his lips with her own. They shared the gentlest kiss either of them had ever experienced, conveying all the things they had been wanting to say to each other.

They were breathing heavy when they pulled away, from both the excitement and lack of air. They just sat there, y/n still holding Eddie’s face, until Eddie reached for her again.

He put his hands on her back, just under her shirt. Eddie pulled her body closer until their chests were touching, then he met her mouth in another kiss, more rushed and passionate than the last.

They were sloppy, running their hands over each other. Y/n’s hands were running through his hair, Eddie groaned as she tugged on it. Eddie was hungrily touching her body, kneading at the fat of her hips. Eddie slid his hands down to her ass, laying y/n on her back as she let out a breathy moan – to which he groaned in return. He had just wrapped her legs over his hips, when the power came back on.

He pulled his mouth off of her’s, breathing heavily as he looked down at her. He placed a hand on the side of her face, slowly rubbing her cheek with his thumb. Still gazing down at her with a dazed grin.

“You’re beautiful.”

#eddie the freak munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie my boy #eddie my beloved #eddie my baby #eddie my love <3 #st4 vol1 #eddie munson story

111 notes · View notes

sodone-withlife · 3 years

Text

i know who i am

summary: really, he never saw himself ever willingly letting anyone in on his broken past, but here he was, sitting in across from Waipo in the tiny cramped office at the back of the shop and nervously sweating about what he was about to tell her

read it on ao3: chapter 1 is the original version with Mandarin, chapter 2 has everything translated into English

the movie really hit me hard as an ABC, and I really wanted to write something for it. even though she barely had any screentime, I loved Waipo—she reminds me of so many of my relatives—so I decided to make her be one of the most important people in Shangqi’s life, and it turned into this wonderful mess (i had to stop writing this for a bit because I literally made myself cry). there is mandarin in this, it's kind of intended to be a physical manifestation of how my bilingual brain works (i did put the English-only version first, the original version with Mandarin is under that one but the formatting for it one is better on ao3, so i suggest reading it from there). apologies for my shitty mandarin; I have mediocre language skills, but I'm still so excited to be able to incorporate it in my writing. in regards to the character's names: I only know for certain the Chinese characters used for Shangqi and Wenwu, but for Xialing, I'm going to go with what it apparently was in the hong kong release (夏灵, with 灵灵 as the nickname)

English Translation:

“Waipo, do you have a bit of time?” Shangqi stood in front of Katy’s grandma, fidgeting nervously as fluent Mandarin rolled off of his tongue with an ease he's never felt in any other part of his life. “I want to talk to you about something."

She pinned him with a knowing stare. “Does it have anything to do with the trip you and Katy went on this past week?" she asked, Not waiting for his answer, she got up from the shop register and beckoned him into the back office. Feeling oddly like the first time he came into the store years ago as a teen—when he first met Katy’s family who had since taken him under their wing—he followed her into the familiar, cramped space.

He wasn’t exactly sure what within him prompted this interaction. He had come to San Francisco for a normal life, to get as far away from his father’s reaches as he could and to outrun the blood that stained his footsteps.

Never did Shangqi imagine that he would end up claiming the ancient rings that now sat in a heavy-duty (thanks to Xialing, with whom he now keeps in regular contact because of the promise they made to each other before he left the compound because he already left her behind once, and he’s never doing it again damn, my baby sister is running the Ten Rings now, and she’s trying to turn it into something better) and a very well-disguised (thanks to the sorcerers in the New York Sanctum and holy shit he’s in contact with famous superheroes now) back in his mess of a studio apartment.

Never did he imagine letting anyone in on his broken past, and even though his hand had been forced when it came to telling Katy, here he was going to the second person who truly saw something in him when he first started his new life and planning to tell them everything.

(Okay, fine, Shangqi wasn’t actually planning on letting anyone else in on it after telling Waipo, not even the rest of Katy’s family, but he really didn’t want them to be so involved yet—he still had no idea what he himself was doing and he wants to preserve what normalcy he can.)

(Also, he’s been reliably informed that anyone close to a public figure is bound to be targeted for attacks—which he figured out when the mercenaries attacked on the bus because yes, Lingling, he does have brain cells thank you very much.)

“Little Dragon, what’s on your mind?”

Little Dragon.

He started at the nickname, the one originally given to him by his mother. Somehow, it had completely slipped his mind that Waipo also called him that, starting a few weeks after he first met the Chen family. He barely kept it together, the long-unused nickname dredging up memories he had thought left him forever.

You have the heart of a dragon, she had declared firmly when he asked her why she decided on that particular nickname.

(That was exactly what his mother had told him right before she died, and yet he stood by, hidden behind a door, and did nothing while the men beat and killed her, the heart of the family.)

(He would carry the guilt with him for a lifetime.)

It was a while before he could bring himself to visit the family again—there were a lot of awkward excuses before Katy reluctantly backed off—and it took even longer for him to get somewhat used to the name again, but he eventually started seeing it as a gift with each faint impression of happier days that he got every time Waipo called him that.

Old, weathered hands gently covered his own, which were shaking and clammy with nervousness. Shangqi wondered how Waipo would react to the darker side of the lost boy she had basically adopted all those years ago, wondered if the legends of Ta-Lo and the Great Protector were known outside of the rather insular communities that continued to tell the stories, wondered if she had heard about his father through the stories that were passed down for thousands of years, from generation to generation…

(It can’t be wrong to miss him, can it? Even with the years of hell Wenwu had put him through, he was still his father. Shangqi still faintly remembered the man his father had been when his mother was still alive, the happy times they shared as a normal family…)

(But those times were long gone, ripped from their grasp by the past Wenwu wanted so badly to leave behind. Grief had shattered the whole family, and it ultimately led to the children fighting the father who had been driven to near madness in his denial, in his quest to put his broken family back together again.)

Mom, I miss you so much.

(And now Wenwu is dead, just like his beloved wife.)

(But just as she died to protect her children, he did the same. Now, his children are reunited and in contact again, getting ever closer despite living as far apart as they did, and he was reunited with his love in the afterlife.)

Finally, he straightened his posture and took a deep breath, looking directly at Waipo, who he’d come to view as the grandmother he never had.

“Waipo, have you heard of the legend of the Ten Rings?”

And Shangqi told her everything.

He told her everything and more,

She listened.

She listened as he described the legends behind the Ten Rings, Ta-Lo, and the Great Protector; his father’s history; his own history, from witnessing his mother’s death to ripping open the throat of the man who killed her when he was barely a teen, from leaving Lingling behind to seeing her again in the fight club she built from the ground up, from returning to the compound after a decade away in San Francisco to the battle in Ta-Lo…

Finally, he fell silent and stared at his hands but it wasn’t long before Waipo moved, slowly standing up with one hand on her cane. He made to help stabilize her but was quickly waved off with a stern look. He sank back into the chair and felt her move behind him. The shaky weight of her hands on his shoulders as she gently pressed down and straightened his posture was familiar, even after years of not having his posture deliberately—so gently—fixed like that every time he saw Waipo.

“You are the legacy of all who came before you, but you are your own person.” she finally said gently, and the tension in his shoulders slowly loosened under her familiar touch. “You decide your own fate.”

~~~

That night, Shangqi knelt before the altar he had in his apartment, the only part that was carefully maintained in all the years he had lived there. But now, two smiling faces stared back at him, a joy reflected in their eyes that he knew would disappear in less than ten years after the photo was taken.

Am I still your pride and joy? Lingling grew up, but I didn’t even take care of her like I should have.

I swear to you, I will never abandon her again

Even as his life got even more unbelievable as the years went by, the altar and his copy of his parent’s wedding photo would remain a constant. He and Lingling dove deeper into their family history—of the Ten Rings, of Ta-Lo, of both the good and bad—and both worked to carry on their parents’ legacy.

(With all of the proper discretion agreements and threats when needed, of course.)

Lingling is dating my best friend now, and they’re so happy together. Mom, I know you would have loved Katy. Dad, I know you didn’t like her much, but she really is a wonderful person.

Life went on.

There were the good days, when he went out with others and could almost feel normal, and there were the bad days, when phantoms pains plagued him and he woke up from a restless sleep expecting to see bruises mottling his body like they did so often when he was younger.

(Also, he was considered a superhero now and holy shit that’s still insane, even years after he first got in contact with the Avengers and the sorcerers in New York. Now he was going all over the West Coast, to help the locals take care of whichever crazy supervillain decided to wreak havoc that day.)

Dad, I hope you find this story as funny as I did: I helped a group of American superheroes yesterday. They’ve never been to San Francisco before and were extremely unfamiliar with the roads, especially Lombard Street. They spent half an hour trying to drive down the street, but I ended up driving them down myself.

(San Francisco was still home, and he had found a life there with all his friends and Xialing whenever she visited. He had a job now, too, at the local youth center teaching martial arts and self-defense, teaching and guiding the youth in a way he wishes his father had with him.)

People came into his life; some stayed, some left, and some even got together.

Mom, Dad, Lingling and Katy are getting married today and everyone is so excited for them. I’m taking over the Ten Ring within a month so Lingling can take a break. She’s led the organization for so long, it’s my responsibility now. I hope I can live up to her standards, she’s done really well. She’ll be back in a few years, but even after, I’m going to be much more involved to lessen Lingling’s workload.

Shangqi walked the path knowing who came before him and who was still with him.

Most importantly, he walked the path knowing who he was—demons, flaws, strengths, and all.

Mom, Dad, don’t worry. I’ll take care of them.

I hope you’re happy together in the afterlife.

~~~

Don’t be afraid, Shang-Chi, for you have heart of a dragon and the power of the Ten Rings.

We will always be with you and Xialing.

Original Version w/Mandarin

“外婆，您有没有一点儿时间？” 尚气 stood in front of Katy’s grandma, fidgeting nervously. “我想告诉您一些事情。”

She pinned him with a knowing stare. “是不是跟你和瑞雯这前个星期去的旅行有关？” Not waiting for his answer, she got up from the shop register and beckoned him into the back office. Feeling oddly like the first time he came into the store years ago as a teen—when he first met Katy’s family who had since taken him under their wing—he followed her into the familiar, cramped space.

Never did 尚气 imagine that he would end up claiming the ancient rings that now sat in a heavy-duty (thanks to 夏灵, with whom he now keeps in regular contact because of the promise they made to each other before he left the compound because he already left her behind once, and he’s never doing it again and damn, my baby sister is running the Ten Rings now, and she’s trying to turn it into something better) and a very well-disguised (thanks to the sorcerers in the New York Sanctum and holy shit he’s in contact with famous superheroes now) back in his mess of a studio apartment.

(Okay, fine, 尚气 wasn’t actually planning on letting anyone else in on it after telling 外婆, not even the rest of Katy’s family, but he really didn’t want them to be so involved yet—he still had no idea what he himself was doing and he wants to preserve what normalcy he can.)

(Also, he’s been reliably informed that anyone close to a public figure is bound to be targeted for attacks—which he figured out when the mercenaries attacked on the bus because yes, 灵灵, he does have brain cells thank you very much.)

“小龙，你有什么心事儿？”

Little Dragon.

He started at the nickname, the one originally given to him by his mother. Somehow, it had completely slipped his mind that 外婆 also called him that, starting a few weeks after he first met the Chen family. He barely kept it together, the long-unused nickname dredging up memories he had thought left him forever.

你有神龙之心，she had declared firmly when he asked her why she decided on that particular nickname. You have the heart of a dragon.

(That was exactly what his mother had told him right before she died, and yet he stood by, hidden behind a door, and did nothing while the men beat and killed her, the heart of the family.)

(He would carry the guilt with him for a lifetime.)

Old, weathered hands gently covered his own, which were shaking and clammy with nervousness. 尚气 wondered how 外婆 would react to the darker side of the lost boy she had basically adopted all those years ago, wondered if the legends of Ta-Lo and the Great Protector were known outside of the rather insular communities that continued to tell the stories, wondered if she had heard about his father through the stories that were passed down for thousands of years, from generation to generation…

(It can’t be wrong to miss him, can it? Even with the years of hell 文武 had put him through, he was still his father. 尚气 still faintly remembered the man his father had been when his mother was still alive, the happy times they shared as a normal family…)

(But those times were long gone, ripped from their grasp by the past 文武 wanted so badly to leave behind. Grief had shattered whole family, and it ultimately led to the children fighting the father who had been driven to near madness in his denial, in his quest to put his broken family back together again.)

妈妈，我太想你了。

(And now 文武 is dead, just like his beloved wife.)

Finally, he straightened his posture and took a deep breath, looking directly at 外婆, who he’d come to view as the grandmother he never had.

“外婆，您听说过 ‘十环’ 的传说吗？”

And 尚气 told her everything.

He told her everything and more,

She listened.

She listened as he described the legends behind the Ten Rings, Ta-Lo, and the Great Protector; his father’s history; his own history, from witnessing his mother’s death to ripping open the throat of the man who killed her when he was barely a teen, from leaving 灵灵 behind to seeing her again in the fight club she built from the ground up, from returning to the compound after a decade away in San Francisco to the battle in Ta-Lo…

Finally, he fell silent and stared at his hands but it wasn’t long before 外婆 moved, slowly standing up with one hand on her cane. He made to help stabilize her but was quickly waved off with a stern look. He sank back into the chair and felt her move behind him. The shaky weight of her hands on his shoulders as she gently pressed down and straightened his posture was familiar, even after years of not having his posture deliberately—so gently—fixed like that every time he saw 外婆.

“你是所有在你之前的人的遗产，但你是你自己的人，” she finally said，“你决定你自己的命运。”

You are the legacy of all who came before you, but you are your own person. You decide your own fate.

~~~

That night, 尚气 knelt before the altar he had in his apartment, the only part that was carefully maintained in all the years he had lived there. But now, two smiling faces stared back at him, a joy reflected in their eyes that he knew would disappear in less than ten years after the photo was taken.

我还是你的骄傲吗？灵灵长大了，但我也没好好照顾她。

我向你发誓，我再也不会抛弃她。

Even as his life got even more unbelievable as the years went by, the altar and his copy of his parent’s wedding photo would remain a constant. He and 灵灵 dove deeper into their family history—of the Ten Rings, of Ta-Lo, of both the good and bad—and both worked to carry on their family’s legacy.

(With all of the proper discretion agreements and threats when needed, of course.)

灵灵跟我朋友最近开始谈恋爱，他们俩可开心了。妈，如果你还在我们身边，我保证你会喜欢她。爸，我知道你一开始不太喜欢她，但她确实是一位精彩的人。

Life went on.

爸爸，我希望你跟我一样觉得这个故事很好笑：我昨天帮了一组美国超级英雄开车。那是他们第一次来旧京山，对道路非常陌生—尤其是 Lombard Street。他们开也开不好，花了半个小时慢慢的开下去。最终，我把他们的车开下去的。

(San Francisco was still home, and he had found a life there with all his friends and 夏灵 whenever she visited. He had a job now, too, at the local youth center teaching martial arts and self-defense, teaching and guiding the youth in a way he wishes his father had with him.)

People came into his life; some stayed, some left, and some even got together.

妈，爸，灵灵她今天会跟我最好的朋友结婚，我们都很兴奋��我一个月之内开始接管十环的业务，让灵灵休息休息。她干了多少年了，现在是我的责任。我希望我能辜负她，她管的非常棒，帮了许多人。她几年后会回来继续当领导，但我好像在领导方面发挥更大的作用。

He walked the path knowing who came before him and who was still with him.

Most importantly, he walked the path knowing who he was—demons, flaws, strengths, and all.

妈，爸，你们放心吧，我会照顾他们。

我希望你们俩来世都幸福。

~~~

尚气，你别怕，你有神龙之心，十环的力量。

我们永远会在你和灵灵的身边。

#i’m so sorry if the mandarin is shitty #the format is better on ao3 #but i’m so excited to be able to at least try it #shang chi spoilers #shang chi and the legend of the ten rings spoilers #shang chi fanfiction #shang chi #shang chi and the legend of the ten rings #marvel fanfiction #mcu #shang chi imagines

23 notes · View notes