#if the institution can’t tell you where they came from or to whom the remains belonged

[et-excrucior]

So I’m going to highlight something I’m not sure people who like skeletons and curiosities think about often:

the human skeletal remains you see for sale in oddities shops were invariably grave-robbed.

I worked with human remains in an academic research context in the US for more than a decade. One of the first things I tried to teach my students was respect for the remains in our collections, not only because they were people, deserving of dignity in their death, but also because most of the skeletal remains in academic teaching collections were not donated voluntarily. In most cases, we have no idea exactly where they came from or to whom they belonged.

Historically, there has been a huge international trade in human skeletal remains for teaching medical students. The trade reached its peak in the 19th Century and continued for much of the 20th, and while ostensibly the practice was banned in India in 1985, it does still exist illegally. In the US and Europe, most of the remains in teaching collections were sourced from India through bone traders. Bone traders were (are) lower caste people charged with disposing of human remains—often by cremation, but also by interring in graves—but instead of doing so, sold the remains on to medical schools in the US/Europe through the intermediary of anatomical and medical supply companies. These anatomical specimens are the remains of people who were, unknowingly and without consent of their loved ones, denied their humanity in death to satisfy the appetite of the West for anatomical specimens, despite the remains of their own people being considered largely sacrosanct.

Which leads me to my next point: this practice originated under British Colonialism in India. I hope I don’t need to draw this point out, but objectification of these remains by medical students and researchers is a furtherance of the Western colonial project and othering of people of colour. As medical students, we’re trained to divorce ourselves emotionally from the remains we learn from in the name of professionalism. Medicine can often be confronting, and it serves patients and doctors alike to be able to continue working calmly and objectively in the face of those challenges. But in a world where empires and scientific disciplines have been (and continue to be) built on a legacy of scientific racism and dehumanisation, it behooves us to consider exactly how those teaching specimens were acquired—and how they came to be for sale.

Any human skeleton or human bones you see for sale in oddity stores are invariably retired teaching specimens, or were otherwise originally purchased through an anatomical specimen supply company that leveraged bone traders for acquiring their wares. In other words, those remains were grave-robbed, or stolen from funeral pyres and morgues. It is vanishingly unlikely that they are remains of known, ethically-sourced provenance like informed donation. If they were, they would not have been relinquished to the general public to be sold for profit. There would be contractual obligations that dictate how those remains would be managed once they need to be retired from teaching/decommissioned.

Please keep this in mind when you see human remains for sale in oddity shops. Buy plastic or ceramic teaching models instead. Don’t unwittingly continue creating a market for stolen human remains.

[kanerallels]

For day two of @kaneraweek, behold my latest fic! Canon compliant, set after A New Dawn and before SWR

Read on AO3

It used to be, Hera didn’t have to fix nearly as many appliances on the Ghost. Sure, the caf maker had broken down once or twice, and obviously the ship itself needed upkeep all the time.

But before Kanan had joined her crew, she’d kept the kitchen appliances to just the caf maker, the stove it had come with, and a cooling supply unit. Basic and easy, nothing too fancy.

When Kanan had arrived, he’d almost immediately started pestering her about buying all manner of “completely essential” appliances. First the therma-slice for toasting bread, then a blender. By the time he started on his waffle maker vendetta, Hera had instituted the “buy it with your own money and you’d better have a really compelling argument when you bring it home” rule.

This had slowed Kanan a little, and had seen him heading back to the store to return a few items. But he remained stubborn on others of the appliances— and Hera had to admit, his arguments could be very compelling. Mainly the ones that resulted in some of his more delicious dishes. 

Luckily for him, the meals were making the repairs worth it. At the moment, Hera was working on repairing the sonic dishwasher— although she was pretty sure it was a lost cause. Kanan had found it second hand a few months ago, and it had seen better days, to say the least. The filtration system was barely clinging to life, and as a result the dishes were receiving more of a gentle dousing than a proper scrub.

We’re probably going to have to go back to handwashing dishes, she thought, sliding out from under the counter where it was installed. Setting the spanner she was holding back into the tool box, she rose to examine the parts scattered across the countertop.

“Here’s hoping some of this is salvageable,” she muttered— to whom, she wasn’t sure. She’d sent the other two crewmembers on a supply run. Kanan had been planning to pick something up for dinner, and Chopper had been sent with him to monitor exactly how much he spent. The man had a bad habit of spending far too much on seasoning.

As she started picking over the parts, a new song hummed out of the tiny speaker she had set up a little ways away, playing one of the music chips she and Kanan had found at the black market on Lothal. To her surprise, Hera recognized the song.

It was a song she’d heard a hundred times growing up, one her mother had loved. A swell of emotion pushed through Hera’s chest as she remembered Eleni Syndulla dancing and singing along to the song.

Swaying a little in time to the music, she closed her eyes, trying to remember the way she’d moved. It had been years since Hera had actually danced, and she’d never been the best dancer. But hearing this song, remembering her childhood, she found herself wanting to.

The sounds of the violin hummed through the air, and Hera hummed with it as she moved, her steps graceful as she followed the patterns her mother had traced on their kitchen floor when she was so much younger.

Growing more confident, she lost herself in the music, finding her rhythm much more quickly than she would have expected. Spinning, her steps were quick and light as she twirled again— and then came face to Kanan, who was standing in the doorway.

Hera froze, shock cutting through her. Judging by Kanan’s expression, he was just as surprised. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I just came to tell you that we’re back— I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You didn’t,” Hera said, her voice a little harsher than she’d meant it to be. She felt a flash burning across her face and turned, intending to move towards the radio and turn it off, but Kanan’s voice stopped her.

“I didn’t know you could dance.”

“I can’t.” Hera paused, realizing how silly her words sounded. “Well. I don’t. Usually.”

“Ah.” Kanan’s voice was quiet, thoughtful. Perhaps he was thinking, as Hera was, of the weight behind those words. Behind the culture she’d come from, where dancing wasn’t just dancing, but the job, far too often, as a slave.

He was the first one to break the silence. “I’ve never seen anyone dance like that. Would you… could you show me how?”

Hera, who’d been in the middle of turning off the speaker, stopped with her hand on the knob. Glancing over her shoulder, she frowned at Kanan. “What?”

“I’m wondering if you’ll teach me,” he said, a flash of self consciousness crossing his face.  His tone stayed easy and matter of fact as he said, “If you don’t mind.”

Hera stared at him for a minute. “If this is some half-hearted attempt to flirt with me—”

“It’s not!” Kanan protested. “Listen, I like dancing. And I like learning new things. This is the perfect combo.” Pausing, he frowned at her. “And I’ll have you know my flirting is never half-hearted.”

Hera snorted with amusement despite herself. “How could I make that mistake?” She paused, thinking over the moves she knew. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. This dishwasher isn’t going anywhere anyways.”

“Does that mean the repairs aren’t going well?” Kanan asked as Hera turned up the song, filling the room with the vibrant sounds of the violin.

“Let’s just say I wouldn’t pin all your hopes on that thing,” Hera said wryly, turning to face him. “Okay. Let’s give this a shot— I haven’t done this since I was a little girl, and my mother taught me by being my partner. So here goes nothing.”

“I have utter faith in you, Captain Hera,” Kanan assured her, taking the hand she offered him. His fingers laced between hers, and Hera felt a fleeting shiver go down her spine as he gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Ready when you are.”

Pushing the feeling away, Hera said, “Okay. Move with me.”

She started to take the first step— and nearly tripped over Kanan’s feet as he moved in the opposite direction. Cursing, he said, “Sorry, sorry. Wrong way.”

Clamping down on the urge to laugh, Hera said, “Let’s start again— this time a little slower.”

Step by step, she slowly walked him through the dance until he was confident and the song had long since finished. Then, she went back over to the speaker, and started it up again. “Let’s see how you do a little faster,” she told him.

His grin was confident and his grip was sure as Kanan took her hand. And then they were moving, feet tapping the ground in sync with the tempo of the drums.

Their start was a little off center, Kanan stumbling a little. But then he found his balance, catching up with her easily. He’d paid good attention to her instructions, and it paid off. Before long, any former missteps were long forgotten as they fell into the rhythm of the dance together.

They were moving in perfect tandem as they spun around the room, the drums and violin echoing through the kitchen. For what felt like forever, Hera could only feel Kanan’s hand in hers, the song humming through her veins, and a warm certainty that came from having the right partner. One who could keep up with her, no matter what.

And then, with a final burst of music, the song was done, and Hera was standing still, hand in hand with Kanan in the middle of the kitchen. Her heart was pounding against her collarbone, and as Kanan grinned at her, she found she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

“Not bad, dear,” she said as another song came onto the speaker, this one slower and smoother. 

“Thanks,” Kanan said. “I’m a little better at dances that I’ve actually had some time to practice, though.”

There was a question in his voice, a hint of a challenge, and Hera couldn’t resist meeting it. “I’ll be the judge of that,” she said, her voice dry but teasing.

The smile that crossed his face sent a warm flutter through her, and he caught her other hand, bringing it up to his shoulder. “Then by all means, judge,” he said, and with a smooth step they were dancing again, this time a slow waltz like they danced in the Core Worlds.

He hadn’t been wrong— Kanan was good at this, keeping time easily and guiding her gently. As they circled the kitchen, he quietly asked, “I’m assuming that song means something… personal to you?”

“It does,” Hera said, her gaze dropping to her feet. She counted her steps for a minute before she said, “It’s… my mother used to dance to that song. It makes me think of her.”

For the first time, there was the tiniest hitch in Kanan’s stride. “I didn’t mean to pry,” he said. “You don’t have to—”

“No— I want to,” Hera said, finding that it was true. That here, her fingers laced with Kanan’s, she wanted to tell him about her mother.

She couldn’t remember a time when that had happened before.

“It was when I was little,” she told him. “During the Clone War, when we were in the bomb shelters. She would show me the steps to this dance to distract me from the explosions. And to keep me from going to look at the ships.”

Kanan chuckled. “Sounds like you.”

“Hmm. Even when we weren’t in danger, I always seemed to hear that song around her.” Hera smiled at the memory. “I even found her and my father dancing to it once— and he’s not exactly one for dancing. But he— he did it for her, because he loved her. And she loved that song.”

Biting her lip, she paused, then said, “She died when I was thirteen.”

There was no response, and Hera dared a glance at Kanan’s face, wondering what she’d find. His eyes were gentle as he said, “The Empire?”

Hera gave a quick nod, feeling her throat tighten. “After that, it was just me and my father. And he was so focused on leading the Rebellion on Ryloth… it was only a few years before I took off on my own.”

Letting out a shaky exhale, she said, “But I still think of her when I hear that song.  And that dance is… it’s hers, to me.”

“When I asked,” Kanan said slowly, “I didn’t mean to pry into something personal—”

Hera shook her head, cutting him off. “No, no— you weren’t. It was… it was nice to tell someone else about it. She would have liked that.” She hesitated and then added before she could think better of it, “She would have liked you.”

Kanan’s eyes widened, and then a pleased look flashed across his face. “I’m sure I would have liked her,” he told her, his voice deep and sincere. The warmth in his voice made her suddenly hyper aware of his hand resting on her waist, his eyes on her. And… it wasn’t in a bad way.

Kriff. Hera held back her wince. This was the sort of thing she was trying to ignore, but had been finding harder and harder to miss lately. Namely, Kanan. His kindness, and his warmth, and how he treated her. Like she mattered, like his captain. Like a friend and… sometimes something more.

And she shouldn’t admit how much she enjoyed those times. Because she didn’t have time, she had to focus on the cause. Nothing mattered more than that. Nothing could.

But when he joked with her, or made a point of making one of her favorite meals, or called her “Captain Hera” in that voice, it could be very hard to remember that nothing was supposed to matter more. 

Even now, dancing with him in the kitchen, his hands gentle but firm, her mind whispered, What if I could have this, and still fight?

You know you can’t, she told herself. You’ll put it all first, and he deserves better than that. He wouldn’t stick around anyways, not for long. Not with that. No one could wait for that long.

“Hera?”

Kanan’s voice cut through her thoughts, and she glanced back up to see him studying her with concern. “You okay?” he asked. “You looked like you were a thousand miles away.”

“Fine,” Hera said, pushing the thoughts aside. “Just— just thinking. We should probably go get the rest of the supplies inside, and—”

“Hera.”

This time, it wasn’t a question, and Force, why did he have to look at her like that? Like she was the only thing in the galaxy, like the stars themselves were shining in her eyes. Hera tried to force herself to step back, to move away.

But she couldn’t. She didn’t want to. For once, she wanted something for herself, one thing that wasn’t a part of her cause. And so she stepped closer to Kanan and cautiously pressed her lips against his.

He went very still, and then he was kissing her back, hand at her waist pulling her closer and his free hand moving up to cup the side of her face. And his response was far from cautious. It was warm and gentle and so completely Kanan that Hera felt almost weak at the knees.

She hadn’t thought that it would be like this. So… right. Like she’d found a part of herself she was missing. And now that she found it, how was she ever supposed to be without it?

A clatter of metal on metal, and loud binary bwomping jerked her back to reality, and Hera pulled back, breaking the kiss. She stared at Kanan, who was just as wide-eyed as she was, and then turned to where Chopper was sitting in the doorway. “What the kark is going on in here?” the droid demanded. “We were supposed to bring in the supplies.”

“You’re right,” Hera said, shocked that her voice could stay so steady when she felt like she was shaking to pieces. “Both of you get started on that— I need to finish up here. And no arguments, Chopper,” she added as the droid started to beep a protest. “This isn’t a discussion.”

Chopper grumbled something sulky, and rolled back down the hall. Leaving Hera alone. With Kanan. Who she had just kissed.

Forcibly shoving the memory out of her mind, she told him, “You should go, too.”

“So… we’re not going to talk about—”

“No,” Hera said, keeping her voice firm and steady. “I am going to apologize, and then we’re not going to talk about it ever again.”

Because that was all she could do. She couldn’t have Kanan and the cause. There was no way. So she met his gaze and said, her voice soft, “I’m sorry. Now, please… go help Chopper.”

His gaze was unreadable as he studied her for a moment, then slowly nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Hera echoed, and turned back to the pieces of the dishwasher scattered across the counter, trying to pretend like he wasn’t still standing behind her, watching her. Trying to pretend like she couldn’t still feel the ghost of his lips on hers.

She heard him step closer to her, then pause. “Hera? Thank you.”

Hera wasn’t sure whether she should laugh or burst into tears. “For what?”

“For the lesson. And… for telling me. Trusting me. It means a lot.”

With that, he turned and left, footsteps echoing inside the hallway, leaving Hera in a swirl of emotions she didn’t know how to put back together. That was so, so stupid. Why did I have to do that?

It wouldn’t be easy to go back after this, but she’d find a way. A way to pretend they were just friends, that he didn’t mean more to her. She’d remind herself that the cause came first, that there were people who needed help, and go back to being his boss and his friend.

But. In the latest parts of the night, when she couldn’t hold it back, the memory of the kiss would resurface. And she would know that it was worth it. And that if she had the choice, she wouldn’t have changed it. She only would have stopped him from walking away.

[ambitionsource]

AMBITION Season 3 ♫ “Can You Dig It?” [ 3.07 ]

CREATED BY Esther (waterstribe) & Maggie (quincywillows) || Official Page || AO3

STAYIN’ ALIVE – After an unfortunate accident, the A class finds themselves working double time to fund their showdown performance. Charlie struggles to balance the past and the present, and Maya makes a desperate move. Farkle receives news that changes his life forever.

70 Minutes (33K words) || No content warnings apply.

[ ← The Comfort Zone ] [ S3 Synopsis ] [ Moment of Truth → ]

( Follow along with the music on Spotify here! )

EXT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

Music plays over the sound system, setting a comfortable and fun scene while most of the A class works together on the auditorium stage. The performers are working through showdown choreography or helping put the finishing touches on set pieces for the production, while the techies are split between those set pieces, the beginning of structures for their upcoming winter musical, and tweaking the lights. JEFF MONROE is up on the catwalk out of sight, NATE MARTINEZ perched on top of a scaffolding and passing him requested tools. DAVE WILLIAMS is balancing on a ladder against the scaffolding, helping hand things to Nate from below.

MAYA HART has taken over as dance captain, shouting commands at her classmates still running through steps. ZAY BABINEAUX watches from on top of the major set piece they’re building at center stage for the musical, unimpressed and maybe a bit envious. His injured left leg is now in a boot, wheelchair gone.

The conversation varies, from the impending showdown finals to college application deadlines. Everything is coming down the pipeline at record speed, right towards them, and they have to juggle it all at once. RILEY MATTHEWS glances around and asks where Jade is, which ISADORA DE LA CRUZ answers.

Isadora: She’s been locked up in the costume loft basically since last week. The deadline for her conservatory and apprenticeship programs is closing in, so she’s been working basically non-stop.

Maya: How does she not have enough samples already? Hasn’t she made everything we’ve ever worn in this school for the last three years?

A fair question, but it doesn’t get addressed. They’re all distracted by a new song coming on shuffle, playing loudly over the speakers.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Boogie Wonderland” as performed by Earth, Wind & Fire || Instrumental

Although the track is an undeniable bop, the assembled A class seniors don’t seem impressed. They all quickly pipe up to complain, calling for someone to skip it.

Darby: Where’s Jeff? Jeff! Hit skip!

Jeff, from above: A little busy right now!

Maya: Well someone better go change it!

Haley: And risk getting killed by Lucas because we dared enter the booth? No thanks.

Maya: Fair point. Riley, go change it.

Riley, in the midst of rolling paint on a set piece, raises her free arm in a shrug. Also a little busy. Zay shakes his head.

Zay: What is wrong with all of you? None of you have taste. Disco is classic. You should respect the excellence that came before you.

Maya: Sorry I’m not still living in the 20th century. It’s 2020, Zayby. Disco is dead.

Zay: You absolutely disgust me. If my foot wasn’t booted --

NIGEL CHEY finally relents amidst all their complaints, claiming he’ll risk his life to go change it if it will get them all to shut up.

For now, though, the boogie wonderland is ongoing. FARKLE MINKUS uses the opportunity to pick on Isadora, loosely disco grooving around her and trying to poke her into joining him. She laughs but tells him to cut it out, and when he gets too close, she playfully shoves him away.

Only she’s stronger than she looks, and he’s a beanpole, so she overshoots and pushes him a bit too hard. Farkle goes stumbling backwards -- right into the ladder that’s holding up Dave. Isadora yanks Farkle back just as the ladder falls out from under Dave, just missing Nigel, clattering to the stage next to them and creating a dent.

Dance! Boogie wonderland!

A bunch of the seniors cry out, scrambling away, now watching in horror as Dave dangles from the side of the scaffolding a dozen or so feet above the ground. He almost loses his grip, seconds from falling, and Maya screams. She backs away frantically and knocks into a paint can, spilling metallic silver paint all over their perfectly crisp black stage and splattering CLARISSA CRUZ, DARBY WINTERS, and SARAH CARLSON.

Ah! Ah! Dance!

Jeff and a couple of performers start shouting directives at Dave, trying to save him from a nasty fall off the scaffolding. Nate tries to pull him up, but it’s no use -- Dave is the giant after all, and Nate’s guns aren’t that swoll. Riley hides behind her hands, peeking through her fingers and unable to look away.

Riley: Oh my God, he’s gonna die.

Isadora takes over directing from below, instructing Dave to change trajectory and aim for the curtains to orient himself. Jeff objects to that, citing the integrity of the curtain pulley system, but he’s shouted down by the performers jumping on Isadora’s suggestion. Suddenly, everyone is yelling at Dave to go for the curtains, so that’s what he does.

Jeff: No, don’t -- !

All… the… love in the world can’t be gone!

Dave manages to latch onto the main curtain -- but it’s all downhill from there. That curtain is about as useless as Nate, and the pulley system holding it upright can only sustain so much weight (curtains are a lot heavier than they look). So the moment Dave latches on, it buckles underneath him, and seconds later the whole thing comes down in a spectacular show of destruction.

The A class scatters to avoid it, ducking down and covering their heads. Clarissa pulls HALEY FISHER down behind a set piece with her for cover; Farkle yanks Isadora out of the way and shields her behind him. Zay screws his eyes shut and hides behind his knee, thankfully a safe distance away. Then the dust settles, stunned silence giving way to the continuing groovy sounds of Earth, Wind, & Fire.

Riley pokes her head out from behind the set piece she was painting first, eyeing the heap of curtains and rods on the dented stage floor. She swallows.

Riley: … Dave?

For a moment, nothing but tense silence… from above, Nate releases a gasp.

Nate: Holy shit, we’ve killed him.

Then Dave emerges, pushing some dense drapery off of him and pushing himself into a sitting position. He seems dazed, but otherwise uninjured.

Jeff: Oh, thank God.

Isadora: Dave… you good buddy?

Dave blinks, then offers a thumbs up. Everyone releases a sigh of relief… just as SHAWN HUNTER and HARPER BURGESS enter into the scene of chaos, having rushed in after hearing the commotion from down the hall. In the opposite wings, LUCAS JAMES FRIAR returns with DYLAN ORLANDO and ASHER GARCIA, all of whom stop dead in their tracks when they set their eyes on the disaster they’ve stumbled into. Asher’s jaw drops open; Dylan drops the toolbox he was carrying.

Whoopsie. Boogie wonderland…

From his perch atop the set piece, Zay breaks the silence, shaking his head.

Zay: Shoulda never dissed disco.

Cue title sequence.

INT. AAA - JACK’S OFFICE - DAY

JACK HUNTER is seated at his desk, working to maintain a neutral composure as HARRISON YANCY paces his office. He’s haughty and on offense, demanding to know what happened with the auditorium and grilling Jack for details. Of all the things he planned to tangle with at Adams, vandalism and destruction of school property was not at the top of the list.

Yancy: But, then, I suppose I should’ve anticipated such a turn of events. Considering you’ve struggled with reining in destruction before, and insisted so vehemently on keeping problematic entities in your student roll -- and now they’re student leadership, in fact!

Jack: He had nothing to do with this. Lucas wasn’t even in the auditorium when it happened --

Yancy: How convenient for him.

Jack: And it was an accident. No ill intent involved. It was an accident, and all of the damage is repairable. The curtains can be fixed and replaced, the dents in the stage can be filled, and the spilled paint can be removed or painted over in turn. I think we should be more concerned with the lucky reality that no one was hurt.

Yancy: [ ignoring that point ] The damage is repairable, yes, but it won’t be free. And I certainly won’t approve its reparation on the school’s dime.

Jack points out that such a decision isn’t his to make -- he’s still the principal of Adams. And that’s true enough, but as Yancy effortlessly counters, he remains under close watch. That’s the reason Yancy is present in the first place. Every decision Jack makes is under scrutiny, and a figurative nod of approval from him matters. Jack must be wise enough to realize that.

Jack, begrudgingly: So what, then?

Yancy: So, it seems to me that the A class will have to proffer the money to pay for the damages on their own.

Jack: That’s ridiculous. They’re students, not entrepreneurs. And they’re already scrambling to raise money for their showdown performance, not to mention ways to bolster their scholarship initiative since you voted to deny them funding at the board level.

Yancy: Then they must be experts at it. What’s one more money-making effort? At least it’s teaching them meaningful life skills -- budgeting, consequences, the value of a dollar. All very sensible lessons to learn… something you used to complain this institution lacked at the same time you were decrying the actions of students you now fruitlessly defend, if I recall correctly.

Well, you got him there, Yancy. Jack deflates, knowing there’s no logical path out of this. Yancy has him cornered, and the more he invites reminders about how he used to be or the ways he’s already fumbled, the graver his prospects grow. Yancy emphasizes this as he makes his exit.

Yancy: We at the board used to hold you in high esteem, Jackson. We saw great things in your future. Now, with all these foolish mistakes... let’s hope that all your promise hasn’t dissolved with the Hunter I used to know.

The threat is buried deep beneath the thinly-veiled condescension, hidden in a simple choice of plural. Mistakes. This battle is just one in a long, growing list Yancy is keeping against him.

Like he could ever forget it. Jack releases a heavy sigh after Yancy leaves his office, slouching in his chair.

Lucas, pre-lap: I shouldn’t be surprised. This might as well happen.

INT. AAA - TECHNICIAN’S BOOTH - DAY

Riley listens attentively as Lucas paces the booth, busying himself with gathering stuff for class for the sake of moving. Although his tone is sarcastic and indifferent, the weight of his words indicates he’s far from it.

Lucas: It’s not like I don’t already have enough to focus on, between the usual bullshit and the fundraising for showdown -- a showdown that we have to win if we want any chance of the scholarship thing actually taking off. That on top of the college applications I wasn’t planning on doing three months ago but now have to make really good, because suddenly I have dreams or whatever, even though I’m basically the most rejectable candidate on the east coast.

Riley: Okay, you know that’s not true.

Lucas: Fine. Most rejectable candidate in the greater Manhattan area.

Riley: You literally won an election.

Lucas: And the world is still wondering how and why.

Riley rolls her eyes, but she is sympathetic. She agrees that the stage accident was definitely an unexpected speed bump on everything they’ve got going on, but they’ll figure out how to handle it. There’s no way it’s going to be entirely on them, anyway, and they don’t even know how much damage was actually done yet.

She takes the opportunity to broach another topic, though, easing into a deeper conversation about college. She asks how his applications are going, which he claims are fine, in spite of the stress surrounding it.

Lucas: The only stuff I’ve got left are recommendations and personal essays. And I know I’m fucked on the recs considering you’re supposed to ask for those months in advance, and I know no one impressive, least of all who would sing my praises.

Riley: You could always ask my dad for a recommendation. I’m sure he’d have glowing things to say. Instant acceptance, I bet.

Lucas, flatly: You are hilarious. It’s no mystery how you managed to reel me in.

Riley: Well, that and my effortless charm and insanely dazzling visage.

Lucas gives her a look, but to be fair, he doesn’t argue her on it. She simply beams in response, sliding closer to him and halting his pacing by taking his hands.

Lucas: Honestly, I’m not really stuck on the recommendations. I think I’m going to ask Joe for one, because he can at least speak to my work ethic or whatever, and the other… I mean, it’s whatever. I’ll figure it out.

Riley: But…?

Lucas: But… I don’t know. With the rest of the app…

It’s clear there’s something else he’s really stuck on. Riley starts to offer him advice, or maybe just encouragement, but they’re interrupted by a knock on the booth door. Jeff appears moments later at the stairs.

Jeff: Class is starting. Judgment day is upon us.

Lucas and Riley share an apprehensive look, then follow the lighting technician out of the booth.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

Harper, Shawn, and ERIC MATTHEWS are on the stage, assessing the damage while the A class gathers in the front and center section. The destroyed curtain has been removed, the pock marks in the stage even more visible in its absence.

ANGELA MOORE emerges from the wings, Janitor HARLEY KEINER in tow. She’s just barely starting to show her pregnancy, but the flowy tops she’s wearing now conceal it fairly well.

Harley: Old curtain’s out back. Trash company will be by this afternoon to take it away.

Angela: I have to say, I picked a great day to stop by and visit. Never a dull moment.

Harper: Girl, tell me about it.

Angela laughs knowingly. Been there, queen. Eric and Shawn turn their attention to the seniors, coming towards the front of the stage.

Eric: Who wants to explain what exactly happened?

A whole bunch of them immediately launch into retellings, talking over each other and definitely exaggerating elements of the story. The camera jumps around to each of them, catching snippets of their perspective.

Sarah: If Jeff had just changed the song --

Jeff: I was in the catwalk!

Nate: So Jeff’s up in the catwalk, and Dave is handing me shit -- I mean, uh, stuff -- on the scaffolding --

Darby: Isadora pushed Farkle --

Isadora: I lightly nudged Farkle --

Maya: Farkle is like a house of cards and all it takes is a little wind to knock him over, so he goes flying into the ladder --

Clarissa: Paint splatters --

Yindra: The ladder goes crashing down and nearly takes off Nigel’s head --

Jade: Oh my God, what?

Nigel, pointedly: No, it did not. [ softer, to Jade ] No, it didn’t.

Yindra: It did.

Haley: Not like the curtains almost took out Dave!

Yogi: This class is a circus act.

Eric holds up a hand to halt them all, waving them down. He can’t figure out what any of them are saying when they all talk at once, so he asks for a volunteer to give the rundown. A few hands up go up, but Eric wisely selects Zay.

He pulls himself to his feet, gingerly, for the effect. Then he clears his throat, speaking plainly and matter-of-fact.

Zay: Farkle got knocked into the ladder. Ladder falls, dents stage. Dave almost falls, Nate is no help --

Nate: Whoa, okay then. Hater.

Zay: Maya stumbles back and knocks silver paint can over. Performers tell Dave to grab curtain, Jeff objects --

Jeff: Justice. Thank you.

Zay: Dave does anyway, whole thing comes down. Also, no one in this class has taste and for that they evoked the wrath of God. But apparently God can’t kill Dave Williams.

Dylan: So metal.

Eric: Thank you, Zay.

Zay does a pithy salute, lowering back into his seat. Harper goes on to explain the total damages done by the incident as well as relay the total cost of the repairs -- without saying a definitive sum, suffice to say it’s not cheap.

The A class immediately breaks into chatter again, trying to divert blame off themselves. Shawn notices one student doesn’t seem particularly vexed -- in fact, he appears to be laughing to himself behind his hand.

Shawn: I’m sorry, Friar, do you find this funny?

Lucas: What? Oh, no, no. Very serious business. [ clearing his throat ] It’s just… it’s so nice to not be the one responsible for once.

The performers immediately boo him. He simply smiles. CHAI FRESCO is the one who manages to redirect the conversation.

Chai: What exactly is he doing here?

All eyes turn to Janitor Harley, who stands sheepishly next to the faculty. Harper says she’s glad Chai asked, claiming that if anyone deserves an apology for what they did today, it would be him. He puts a lot of effort and care into maintaining their sacred space, this auditorium, and the damage done today walks all over that.

Darby: It really was an accident.

Harley: No hard feelings, Miss Winters. Mighty nice as it was for Harper and Shawn to invite me here, rest assured I know there was no ill intent or disrespect. And I can assure you that with the time and proper resources, we will return this stage to tip-top shape in no time.

Maya: Lovely. Problem solved then, no?

Eric: Not quite. You do still have an assignment to attend to, especially as it’s your last major one before finals.

Harper: Since it is a weird time in the calendar and we don’t want to barrel another assignment next week right before showdown, Shawn and I agreed that this assignment would be a two-week stretch, and ideally lower stakes.

Shawn: Even better now, considering how you all just doubled pressure on your own.

Harper: And since you’ve also in turn given Harley more pressure and work to attend to in this time, we thought it only fair that he decide your focus for the project.

With that, they pass the floor over to Harley again to make his declaration. The performers don’t seem all that unnerved -- it’s Harley Keiner. What’s the worst he could do? Clean-up anthems? He clears his throat, clasping his biker-gloved hands together.

Harley: When I’m in a particularly rough spot, or working through a grueling task, I have always found that a little music can really liven the task.

Yogi: [ under his breath ] Clean up, clean up, everybody everywhere…

Harley: But nothing gets me more fired up, ready to take on a challenge or dance to the beat, than some classic tunes from my early youth. And I’ll tell you kids, no one knew music better than the radio hits of my day.

Slowly, the possibility begins to dawn on the A class what decree awaits them. Dylan is counting backwards on his fingers, trying to calculate just how old Harley actually is, but Asher next to him has beaten him to it.

Asher: Oh no.

Harley: Ladies and gentleboys, we’ll be taking it back to the ‘70s this week for your musical assignments.

Dun dun dun. The A class expresses their obvious disdain. Well, all except Zay, who cracks a smug grin.

Zay: Heh heh… karma.

There’s only more grim news. Considering the stage is going to be undergoing repairs thanks to all this, they’re all essentially ousted from the auditorium for the time being. No sense practicing or rehearsing in a space that’s going to be under construction. JADE BEAMON sits up straighter, shooting her hand in the air.

Jade: We can still access the lofts, right? Like, I can get in the costume loft --

Eric: Yes, all the technical spaces, as well as the dressing rooms, are still fair game. But stay away from the stage.

Harper: And you might not get much work done when they’re doing things like drilling and hammering, so be forewarned.

Haunting… Jade hides in her hands, already stressed. Nigel tentatively pats her on the shoulder.

So yeah, all in all, some unideal circumstances right before some of the most important events of their high school career.

INT. AAA - CAFETERIA - DAY

Maya is in surprisingly good spirits in spite of the financial issues confronting the class, preening and showing off Valerie’s faux fur coat. She wears it effortlessly, entertaining Darby, Sarah, and a crop of underclassmen at a table as she shares the tale of her and Valerie’s instant starlit bond. When Darby reaches out to feel the coat, Maya quickly smacks her hand away.

Maya: You’re welcome and encouraged to look, but no touchie. Golden diva rule.

A couple of tables over, Riley and Isadora watch her showboating with amusement. Riley claims it was really generous of Isadora to give her the coat, but she shrugs it off.

Isadora: Seriously, she’s way more at home in it than I would ever be. Can you ever see me pulling that off?

Riley: I think you can deliver any design you endeavor, you know that. [ off her raised eyebrow ] But yeah, a bit out of your element. Ironically, maybe.

Isadora: Even that’s a stretch. But it really wasn’t a hard decision. As much as it inflates her ego, my mom did see something in her. Maya can use it as a bragging tool all she wants, and people probably won’t believe her because of it, but they probably would be in cahoots if Val were still here. [ a beat ] A lot of things were going to happen if she were here.

Oof. Riley senses the gloom impending, searching for a quick change of subject. She asks if Isadora found anything else cool in the boxes from the estate.

Isadora pauses, mouth parted open. The answer is plenty -- including the mystery hidden way deep down underneath everything else. But for whatever reason, she hesitates explaining what she found.

Thankfully, she doesn’t have to respond anyway. Dylan swoops into their conversation, dropping down into the seat next to Riley and smacking a piece of paper onto the table. It’s a flyer for scheme one of their fundraising efforts: a community dance, now officially ‘70s themed. Isadora turns it around to get a better look at the very bright poster.

Dylan: Hot off the presses, ladies. Another instant classic from the one and only ambassador of public relational fun and enthusiasm, comma right hand advisor, comma prime minister of the techies and secretary of kissing, mainly to the secretary and official marketing and communications director for the Friar administration.

Isadora: Colorful…

Dylan: Shout-out to Harley for basically choosing our theme for us. We’d been sitting on it for ages because Asher and Maya kept fighting over it.

Isadora: Really? What theme ideas could possibly be worth scrapping over?

Dylan: Nothing. Neither of them actually had an idea. I think they just automatically hate anything that comes out of the others’ mouth.

Isadora: Wow, just like a real body politic.

Riley excitedly swipes the flyer, praising Dylan for his enthusiastic design. She snaps a picture of it on her phone and explains she’s texting it to Charlie.

Riley: I’m so pumped for this. Disco isn’t my favorite thing, but it is fun.

Dylan: Bouncy.

Isadora: Jaunty.

Dylan: Ooh, thesaurus bonus.

Dylan and Isadora exchange a quick high five. Riley beams at them, then continues.

Riley: Besides, with how extremely crazy everything is right now between college apps and showdown and now this fundraising debacle, I think it’ll give all of us some much-needed serotonin. A nice evening of… disco dopamine.

Dylan: Oh, you know you just wanna see Lucas in some sick bellbottoms.

Isadora: [ with a gag ] God… please, I’m sitting right here...

Riley shoves Dylan playfully, then reiterates the point. It will be fun. A nice, well-deserved stress reliever after working their asses off these next couple weeks.

INT. AAA - COSTUME LOFT - DAY

And boy howdy, that could not be truer for Jade. She is in full frenzy mode, skipping lunch and hunkered down in the costume loft to work. It seems like she’s been there for days, her space under the loft essentially a nest of costuming supplies, her belongings, and discarded snack containers. Her hair is a mess of tangles falling half out of a ponytail, three different tape measures are draped around her neck like graduation cords, and she’s wearing an old button up paint smock about 3 sizes too large that only exacerbates the crazed hermit energy.

Asher and Jeff listen as she multitasks on cataloguing some of her projects and marks another in progress on the table in front of her, the former visibly disconcerted by Jade’s general state of being while the latter seems mainly tickled. She speaks around a pin caught between her lips as she explains the reason for the chaos -- college applications are due right around the corner, as are apprenticeship applications, and she needs to have all her portfolio pieces in perfect condition before she hits that submit button.

Asher: Again, I know this is hypocritical coming from me, but girl you need to relax.

Jade snaps her head up to glare at him, even scarier with that pin in her mouth. She removes it to stick something down while Jeff asks her what she has left to do. Apparently, she’s just about done after days of relentless work, so she’s on her last application assignment now: pick a decade and create a sampling of as many unique -- but historically accurate -- costumes as possible in her designer’s mind.

Jade: Luckily, Janitor Harley did me the favor of having to pick a decade. If we’re doing ‘70s stuff this week anyway, then we’ll probably need costumes, so I can knock out two birds with one stone.

Jeff: I don’t know if I’d say need…

Asher: Yeah, with the auditorium boarded up for the time being I doubt we’ll be doing any major productions.

Jade: With Maya and Farkle, you can never be too careful.

Case in point, she is way too swamped to even think about the fundraising bullshit. She feels bad, but there’s no way she can split her time. Jeff and Asher assure her it’s no big deal.

Jeff: I think the performers will let you off the hook considering you’ve made… every single costume they’ve ever worn since freshman year.

Asher: Least they could do.

Jeff: Yeah. You deserve a week off!

Jeff’s turn to receive the Jade Beamon death glare. He clears his throat, scratching his ear.

Jeff: Well, you know… not for you, but...

Jade stabs the pin cushion pointedly.

Zay, pre-lap: I guess if my clear eternal damnation is good for anything, it gets me out of fundraising to fix another problem caused by Farkle and the Pips.

INT. AAA - BOYS DRESSING ROOM - DAY

Zay and Nigel are taking their lunch in the boys dressing room, both on their laptops while they eat. They’re working on finalizing college application stuff, Zay sitting on the counter with his injured foot propped up while Nigel is leaning against the mirrors on the floor.

Nigel: Guess it’s worth it then.

Zay: Ha ha, so funny. If I could afford to move, I would kill you for being such a damn comedian.

Nigel: I’m more of a tragedies man myself. [ a beat ] What are you planning to do, exactly? For the applications.

Zay: [ with a sigh ] Just putting the pieces together and hoping for the best. Thank fuck I recorded a couple runs of my routine when I was going through my obsessive drills at the start of the year.

Nigel: Glad Diva Zay was good for something.

Zay: They’re not as polished as I want, but they’ll do. Not like I have any other options. I’m just going to convince myself via self-hypnosis that they’ll see the rough edges as loose, natural charm. Between that and other samples I have from shows and recitals and West Side Story, all I can do is hope that’s enough. And if I get far enough to book an audition… I’ll be better by then.

He says it like a guarantee -- he can’t consider the alternative. Nigel isn’t sure how to respond, but he’s spared from figuring it out as they’re interrupted by YINDRA AMINO entering with a few showdown costumes to replace on the rack. All of them freeze as they glance at one another, Yindra and Zay holding one another’s gaze for a few moments longer. Then Yindra brushes past the awkwardness, shrugging and focusing on the costume rack.

Yindra: No need to go on defense, boys. I’m only here on business.

She keeps her eyes on her task. Nigel picks up the conversational slack, explaining that they were discussing their college applications. He asks how Yindra is doing in plotting her college plans, as last they talked she didn’t have much set in stone.

Yindra, matter-of-fact: I’ll be applying to a couple of schools as a safety net, but my main trajectory remains Los Angeles. The current plan right now is to skip over the bureaucracy of academics I don’t care about and go out there to start striking while the iron is hot. Talent speaks for itself.

Nigel, ever the pragmatist, still seems uneasy about such a plan, but it’s Zay who beats him to the punch. He breaks the silence between him and Yindra with a snort, tone teasing but friendly.

Zay: Straight to Los Angeles with no foundation? Now that’s just asking for trouble, and that’s coming from a diva like me. Haven’t you seen Fame?

Maybe that kind of friendly fire passes when they’re on good terms, but it falls flat now. Yindra stiffens her shoulders, giving Zay a diva glare of her own.

Yindra: [ without looking at him ] Nigel, will you please inform Zay that despite what his superiority complex might think, I’m not an idiot?

Nigel: Oh, um --

Zay: Come on, Yindra. I didn’t mean it like that.

Yindra: And Zay might find it interesting to know that my dad is considering moving to Los Angeles as well, if I plan to be out there, so I don’t see how I’m swinging with no foundation. And I’ll be using the money that we would’ve wasted on tuition for studio time to record a demo, so there is in fact a method behind the madness. Just because I’m not following the same musty, beaten path as everyone else doesn’t mean I’m not on any path at all. [ haughtily ] And even in spite of his broke attitude, I wish him all the best with his less-than-ideal circumstances. Least of all this week -- I’m sure not being able to show off while he discos is simply killing him. Thanks for letting him know, Nigel.

Nigel: … you’re welcome...

With that, Yindra spins on her heel and exits. Zay rolls his eyes, but it’s clear that the state of their friendship is really bothering him. Nigel awkwardly attempts to move past it, commenting that the two of them are about as dramatic as a Shakespearean comedy of errors before coming back to Yindra’s closing point.

Nigel: It’s a shame about this assignment though. You’re probably the only one in our class who could truly thrive this week.

Zay smiles half-heartedly, both of them focusing back on their computers. After a moment, his smile dims.

Zay: Didn’t use to be…

INT. HAVERFORD PREP - HALLWAY - DAY

CHARLIE GARDNER is at his locker, reading the texts from Riley. He pulls up the photo of the flyer for the dance fundraiser, boasting the disco theme for the end of the semester in all its groovy glory.

Yes, it is a tragedy that Charlie isn’t there to participate. Another disco gay, barred from the dance floor. It’s clear from his expression that he’s bummed about it.

He’s only pulled out of his fugue when EVAN SCOTT approaches. He pats him on the shoulder as he passes and asks if he’s ready for rehearsal. With senior showdown finals so close around the corner, Brandon is going to be drilling them more than ever. Now it’s game time for real.

Charlie nods, putting his phone away and shutting his locker to follow him. But that melancholy still lingers in his features.

INT. AAA - JACK’S OFFICE - DAY

But he’s not the only one grappling with an unideal situation. Lucas is the king of that, settled in his usual chair across from Jack, only this time he’s not alone. Maya has been called in with him, the two of them waiting uncertainly as Jack prepares to share why he brought them in.

And the reason for his apprehension is obvious once he says it. He finally breaks the news to them that the school board declined to fund their scholarship initiative -- and that’s not even the worst part.

Maya: Nothing? 

Lucas: They’re not going to contribute anything?

Jack: I know, it’s disappointing. To be honest, I was anticipating at least a partial donation, but for whatever reason it was shot down wholesale. It was close, though.

Maya: Well. That’s just lovely. Could the state of the AAA union get any more despicable?

Jack: To put it simply? Yes.

Uh oh. Jack reluctantly informs them of the other bomb blowing up their administration -- that Yancy has insisted they pay for the damages to the auditorium since their class caused it. Both Lucas and Maya erupt in complaints, the latter literally leaping out of her chair and launching into a frantic pace behind it. She fans herself, taking deep breaths.

Maya: Okay. This is fine. No money, no problems. It’s fine. It’s fine!

Jack: … Miss Hart?

Maya stops behind her vacated seat, gripping the back of it. She takes in a deep breath, holds it, and releases it theatrically. Then she opens her eyes, plastering on her winning star smile.

Maya: It’s okay. Yes, everything is fine. The situation is unideal, in a word --

Lucas: More like bullshit.

Maya: Also a word. But money and I have been tussling my whole career. It won’t be getting the best of me now. We’ll come up with another way to fundraise alongside the dance social and then we will win showdown and absolutely everything will work out exactly how I want it to. It always does.

Jack: That so?

Maya: Thanks to the two powers that be, Principal Hunter -- star and will. And I’ve got both in spades. [ another breath ] Okay, damage control. Need new ideas. Gotta pool resources… brainstorm. I need to brainstorm. I’m thinking… I’m scheming...

Maya hums, entering zen diva mode as she gathers her things. She backs out of the office and assures Lucas she’ll update him as soon as she’s figured out their second moneymaker. Once she’s gone, Lucas and Jack wait a moment to let the Maya pheromones dissipate before continuing the conversation.

Jack: Say what you will about her, can’t pretend she doesn’t have moxie. An interesting choice to partner with you.

Lucas: Believe it or not -- and I’ll deny it if you tell anyone -- I think she’s the best second-in-command I could’ve picked. Somehow her brand of insanity is just right for the Minesweeper that is Triple A student government.

Hard to argue with that. Jack apologizes again for the fact that so much seems to be piling on him at once. He really did think they would get more help from the board… but they’ll keep marching on regardless. The initiative is worth fighting for, and besides, their fundraisers could really outsell their expectations. Especially with a theme like disco, their dance will probably be a smashing success. Lucas can’t help but smirk.

Lucas: Yeah, you’d know all about that, huh? Bet you were just a disco king back in your day.

Jack, flatly: How old do you think I am to have been discoing in the ‘70s?

Cheekiness notwithstanding, the prospects seem good. Not all hope is lost. Jack switches gears, checking in with how Lucas is doing on his applications with deadlines fast approaching. Lucas gives the same general response he gave Riley, tiptoeing around the challenge of the essay component and focusing on the fact that he might get it done at all. Now that it’s so close, it feels more and more daunting… not to mention all the other pressure that seems to be landing on top of him right at the same time.

Jack hears that, and dismisses Lucas so he has time to go deal with all those pressures. Before he walks out, Lucas pauses and turns back for one more thing. He struggles to articulate it since asking for any sort of help feels like specialized torture, but he manages to ask if Jack would be willing to write him a letter of recommendation for the applications. The request surprises Jack, which Lucas reads as discomfort.

Lucas: I know it’s like, pretty last minute and stuff. And there probably isn’t a lot to say about me, so it’ll take some work to throw something compelling together. I should’ve asked sooner, or like, bothered someone else. So I totally get it if you don’t have time or have too much to do or just, you know, don’t want to --

Jack is far from opposed, though. In fact, he’s touched by the request, expression softening to a smile.

Jack: Lucas. [ waiting for him to quiet ] I’d be happy to write one for you. It’s no problem at all.

Lucas: … okay. Cool. Um, thanks.

Jack: You’re quite welcome.

Lucas: I’ll send over the links and stuff later. Today. Later today. So it’s not any later.

Jack: Whatever works for you.

Lucas: Okay… okay. Cool.

Any more bashful vulnerability and Lucas just might implode. He mutters one more quick thanks and scampers away, Jack holding back his amusement long enough to spare Lucas further embarrassment. He chuckles to himself as he shifts back to his work, shaking his head.

INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT - ISADORA’S BEDROOM - DAY

Surrounded by various textbooks and scripts and with her laptop propped in front of her, Isadora sits on her bed. A half-finished essay about how the horror genre has developed over the years is open on her screen, but has been entirely abandoned in favor of the mysterious letter Valerie had in her belongings. Isadora holds several handwritten pages, eyebrows furrowed as she reads her mother’s words. She moves the first page to the side, and we catch a glimpse of Val’s loopy handwriting:

Dearest Zachary,

How lovely it is to hear from an old friend! I’m so glad that you’re doing well. Send my well wishes to that darling wife of yours.

To answer your question, I wasn’t entirely sure of who Isadora’s father was when I discovered I was pregnant -- as you well know, I often got rather drunk back then, so couldn’t be entirely sure of all my actions. However, upon reflection, I have come to the same conclusion as you.

Well, damn. Heavy stuff, even if somewhat rose-tinted through Valerie’s flowery language. Isadora bites her lip as she continues reading, clearly conflicted about this sudden revelation. 

Eric, off-screen: Dinner’s ready!

Isadora doesn’t seem to hear Eric’s yell, so after a moment, Eric comes to her room to tell her directly. She still doesn’t look up from the letter, peaking Eric’s interest. 

Eric: What are you reading?

Isadora: Hm? Oh, nothing.

She folds up the papers and shoves them under one of her notebooks nearby, giving Eric a small forced smile. He narrows his eyes at her, jokingly suspicious, which Isadora laughs off. She hops off her bed and asks what’s for dinner, successfully distracting him.

INT. THERAPIST’S OFFICE - DAY

Farkle is meeting with DR. MICHELLE HAN, assembled in their usual positions with her in her arm chair and him sprawled across the couch. He’s relaying the drama of the week and his unfortunate instrumental role in all the destruction, though at least this time it was far from intentional. But it’s clear he feels guilty about it, and he admits that his uncanny knack for making things worse is definitely not helping him combat those low moods that seem to creep up on him out of nowhere.

Dr. Han perks up at this, taking the opportunity to gear the conversation. She gently asks if they could discuss that further for a bit, his experience with the high and low moods. Everybody has off days, of course, but based on their previous discussions, she’s interested to hear more about how Farkle describes these different emotional states and the other factors that come with it.

It’s not hard to get Farkle to talk. He obliges without hesitation, launching into details about how it feels when he’s feeling especially frenzied -- sort of the opposite of what he’s dancing around now, but such a vivid experience when he’s in it that he remembers the sensation and always can vibe when it’s coming on. Dr. Han listens carefully, flipping to a clean page in her notepad to jot down his thoughts.

Farkle doesn’t think anything of it, but it seems like Dr. Han might be onto something more than just the typical one-on-one chat. A pronounced clapping counts us in...

INT. HAVERFORD PREP - AUDITORIUM - DAY

BRANDON RIVAS is clapping along to the downbeat while the Havies run through their showdown routine, the instrumental from How to Succeed playing on the speakers. He’s keeping a watchful eye on his classmates while they run through the choreography, shouting out when someone is off a beat or not sharp enough on the steps.

Charlie is definitely one of those people. He’s a couple of steps behind today, mind elsewhere, and when he accidentally bumps into BILLY ROSS he receives a glare in response. What’s the matter with you, man?

Brandon: Come on, Gardner! This is your choreography!

Fair point, Brandon. Charlie tries to get back on track, but lucky for him he’s far from the only one struggling this week. DWEEZIL HOWARD is out of step too, and his mistakes reverberate way more as he accidentally sends half the boys into a wave of near stumbles. Brandon yells for everyone to stop, shaking his head as Evan jogs to pause the music.

Brandon: This is not the time to get soft, guys. Showdown is right around the corner.

Havie: So what? It’s not like Adams is any competition. Six years of success speak for themselves.

Brandon: And complacency is the first step in breaking that streak. You want to be credited when that takes us down? [ off his head shake ] So, what’s going on? Is there some contagious case of vertigo going around that makes you all unable to balance on your own two feet?

Charlie chews his lip, shying away from the disappointment. He’s not the only recipient, but he knows he doesn’t have a good excuse -- and certainly not one Brandon would want to hear. But Dweezil answers first anyway, much more visibly frazzled than him.

Dweezil: I’m sorry, Brandon. I’m just really stressing about the MIT app.

Others murmur agreement, mentioning their own upcoming dream school deadlines and the pressure of finishing their applications. Charlie nods along as if that’s his problem too.

Brandon considers this for a long moment, scanning over his peers. He may have high expectations, but he’s not without compassion for his boys. He relents and expresses sympathy for everybody’s stress, claiming they can call it quits early today and cut down on afternoon rehearsals for the next few days while everyone is wrapping up applications.

The boys breathe a collective sigh of relief, thanking Brandon and starting to disperse. Brandon shouts after them to send those apps in fast and get ready to come back to work harder than ever -- they’re not going to slip and fall to AAA on his watch. Billy exchanges a handshake with him and suggests he take some time off to focus on himself, too, but Brandon shrugs this off.

Brandon: No, it’s fine. Think I’ll be able to make use of the time… might have to make some adjustments to the numbers anyway. [ quirking an eyebrow ] Make sure we’re the best we can possibly be.

For what it’s worth, the statement seems less than innocuous. It kind of feels like Brandon knows something we don’t, and based on Billy’s smug reaction, he’s in on it too. They exchange another fist bump before Billy heads out.

Charlie is one of the last to leave, pausing in packing up to check his phone. He’s got a surprising amount of texts on his lock screen, all from Daisy. He opens the thread, finding just under a dozen texts of her sharing live updates with him of an argument that apparently broke out between Rosie and Eleanor. Although her observations are characteristically dry and analytical -- a technical play-by-play rather than biased record -- the fact that she’s telling Charlie about it at all is a sign that she’s concerned about it. The final message she sent kind of sums up the looming stakes without saying so:

“Didn’t this happen with Bridgette?”

Either way, not good news. Charlie frowns. Before he figures out how to respond, Brandon startles him.

Brandon: All good, Charles?

Charlie: Uh, yeah. Yeah, just, you know. Lots on my mind. It was cool of you to give everyone a break right now.

Brandon: Well. [ with a shrug ] Nothing too serious going on with you, I hope. We need your talent to up our dance credentials -- I assume you realize by now how valuable you are to the team.

Charlie: Oh, well…

Brandon: Can’t afford to let anything distract us right now if we’re to come out victorious against Adams. [ a beat ] Least of all Adams itself… you know, it’s okay if you’re feeling conflicted…

Conflicted might be a bit strong -- although Charlie lives basically every day of his life conflicted -- but the notion that Brandon is even close to sensing what’s actually going on in his head sets him on edge. He clears his throat, frantically attempting to throw him off the trail.

Charlie: Oh, no. No. It’s um -- just family stuff. Stuff with my sisters.

Brandon: Ah… sibling nonsense. I get that. I’ve got two older brothers, and even though they’re not at home anymore it’s like I’m still carrying their baggage around.

Charlie: Big shoes to fill?

Brandon: Well, one was valedictorian and is starting his first year at Harvard Law, and the other is starting his third year in prison. So kind of high bars in either direction.

Well. No idea how to respond to that little fun fact. Brandon spares Charlie the awkwardness and lets him go, wishing him a good afternoon.

But pleasant as he is, it’s evident he doesn’t fully buy Charlie’s excuse.

INT. CHUBBIES - DAY

Isadora is at the counter at Chubbies, discussing all of the impending stressors with Lucas during his shift. They’re especially mindful of how Lucas’s scholarship plan is now basically hinging solely on a victory at showdown, which is feeling more and more like a long shot. With Zay no longer able to bolster their performance, they’re short star power.

Isadora: And since Haverford has Charlie, who is basically his counterweight, suddenly the scales are tipped heavily in their favor. We’ll be lucky if we can create some Frankenstein performance around the gaping hole Zay leaves behind.

Lucas: Have you thought about stepping up in his place? Not that you’re anywhere near the level of dancer that he is, but you do purportedly have star power.

Isadora: Gee, thanks. I’m honestly shocked you’re suggesting this.

Lucas: Believe me, it hurts. But I’ve got stakes riding on this too, and I know you’re talented. Maybe you could help prop things back up so we’ve got at least a shot of winning.

Isadora: I don’t know… I mean, I know I performed the other week, but it was all about that assignment, you know? It was specifically because it was out of my comfort zone. [ a beat ] Though, why, I don’t even really know anymore…

She feels more confused about performing these days than averse, with all the grieving she’s done over Valerie, but confusion still feels dangerous. Probably safer to just stay on the sidelines… probably...

Speaking of dangerous tasks, Isadora shifts to college applications. She submitted her NYU film school application ages ago, and she’s got a couple of other things in the pipeline, but she’s much more interested in how Lucas is dealing with his. When he feeds her the same lines he’s been telling everyone else, she raises her eyebrows. Not buying it.

Leave it to Isadora to see right through him. Lucas sighs, relenting and explaining that the essays are killing him. It’s like, everything else he can scrape together, fake, pull off like he’s scraped through everything else in his life. But the personal statements…

Lucas: I hate writing about myself. Why should all of my potential rest on how well I can sell myself in some 500-word anecdote? As if that paints the complete picture. Not that I want that either -- the full picture isn’t pretty. How am I supposed to convince some strangers to take a chance on me when I don’t even believe it? If I had the choice whether or not to know myself, I wouldn’t.

Isadora: Wonder what that says about those of us who do choose to know you.

Lucas: And what am I going to say? Howdy, I’m a son of a bitch, please let me into your school and give me your money to do so? Great fucking deal.

Isadora rolls her eyes. She points out that although he doesn’t want to hear it, when it comes to  finances he knows she can help. Once the money from her inheritance fully comes through, she’ll have plenty that she doesn’t know what to do with. If she’s going to use it to help others -- especially those she cares about -- then helping him pursue his dreams is a non-issue. But, predictably, Lucas recoils at the suggestion.

Isadora: I swear, you are impossible. And you have such a weird hang-up about money.

Lucas: Yeah, views that you shared until about a month ago.

Isadora: Well, I’ve grown. I can see the nuances in money now and how it goes around. And I’m just saying that if you’ve got all these complexes around who has it and who can give it to you when you’re stuck on the bottom rung, then --

No doubt it’s a complicated series of complexes. As Isadora is settling into her rant, MISSY BRADFORD enters the diner. Lucas glances over Isadora’s shoulder and spots her, immediately clamming up.

Isadora: ...it’s what Reagan sold as trickle-down economics, but the thing is if you don’t give any money to the lowest income households from the get-go, then they never --

Lucas: Yeah, yeah, okay. I’ve got to go to the back.

Lucas retreats from the counter without waiting for permission, causing Isadora to scoff. She wasn’t finished! But he’s already gone, leaving her high and dry. But he also successfully avoided Missy, who steps up the counter for a pick-up order and is helped by another employee instead. She doesn’t acknowledge Isadora, who eyes her judgmentally from her stool.

As Missy collects her order and leaves -- glancing over her shoulder one last time for her usual Chubbies worker -- Dylan and Asher enter with Farkle. They join Isadora at the counter, asking where Lucas is. She shrugs, claiming he disappeared to deal with something.

Farkle: You ready to go? Is Maya here yet?

Isadora: Not yet. Figure she’ll be a bit late after the “atomic bomb” Jack dropped on her and Lucas -- her words, not mine.

Asher: What are you all up to?

Isadora: Since Farkle and I were technically responsible for the destruction in the auditorium --

Farkle: One could make the argument that I should have died last year.

Dylan: That would be a sick personal essay.

Isadora: We thought it was only fair that we put in the time to help Maya craft whatever last-minute fundraising effort we’re going to pull together to cover it.

As for Dylan and Asher, they were just stopping by to catch up with Lucas before going to practice their assignment for the week. Isadora commends Asher for performing again, considering it was so out of his comfort zone.

Farkle: Yeah, that’s not -- you’re not thinking of making that a habit, are you? Not asking for any reason, just curious. Not because you’re also a tenor. I’m just wondering.

Isadora: Smooth.

Asher: No, not planning to change career paths. Rest easy, Farkle. Just getting this out of the way sooner rather than later. [ nodding to Dylan ] It’s not as bad since we’re doing it together. And besides, can’t ignore the pull of the funk.

Dylan, wisely: Disco is for the gays.

Asher: Gotta pay our dues and get down with the boogie.

Far out, fellas! Isadora and Farkle wish them luck and head out together. Isadora asks Farkle how his therapy appointment went, and while his answer is unbothered, he definitely seems to be a little spacy this week. Isadora notices and considers asking him about it, but opts not to press further. They’ve got enough going on right now.

INT. GARDNER HOME - ROSIE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

ROSIE GARDNER is huddled up in her bedroom, begrudgingly working on homework. She’s got Niall Horan playing, and the volume is turned up loud. It takes multiple knocks on her door before Rosie hears, shouting over the noise.

Rosie: Go away! I’m busy.

Charlie, from the hall: It’s me. Can we talk for a minute?

Rosie sighs, but gets up. She opens the door and spins back around to drop back into her seat at her desk, not bothering to greet him. But she let him in, which is more than anyone else has managed this evening.

Charlie blinks as the pop music assaults his ears. He gently closes the door behind him, raising his voice over Niall.

Charlie: Think you could turn Niall down for a second?

Rosie: Huh?

Charlie: Turn your boyfriend down so we can actually hear each other!

Rosie: Ugh. You’re so not funny.

And yet, she relents and lowers the volume. Charlie makes a show of shaking off the ringing in his ears, knocking his ear slightly.

Charlie: Just checking for significant damage. Need industrial strength noise-cancelling headphones to come in here. Like they wear when they guide airplanes onto the runway.

Rosie: You are so annoying. Did you want something, or?

Charlie explains that Daisy texted him that afternoon about a fight she apparently had with mom. She seemed pretty concerned, so he just wanted to check in. Is everything okay? Rosie rolls her eyes.

Rosie: It’s so whatever. Daisy is exaggerating.

Charlie: I don’t think Daisy is capable of exaggeration. We took all the drama genes, there wasn’t any left for her.

Rosie: Well, she is. Yeah, mom and I argued, but it’s like… it’s dumb, whatever. I don’t even care.

Charlie: You’re listening to your sad 1D playlist.

Rosie: I said I don’t care, Charlie. And I can listen to whatever I want whenever I want.

Charlie: Okay, well, can you at least tell me what it was about? Or what’s --

Rosie: Ugh. It was nothing! Can you mind your own business and leave me alone? I’m trying to work.

Yikes. Rosie has always had a little bit of early teen venom in her, but this feels like more than that. Charlie doesn’t want to just let it drop, but it’s more than obvious she will not be having any productive conversations right now.

Charlie: Okay. I’m only -- if you want to talk about anything, you know you can tell me. I’m here to listen. [ a beat ] Okay?

Rosie: [ not bothering to look at him ] Okay. Whatever. Thanks.

She turns Niall back up, effectively ending the talk. Charlie hangs around for a moment longer, words he wants to say on the tip of his tongue, but for now there’s nothing to be done. He reluctantly retreats, the ghost of the past looming over him.

INT. MINKUS HOME - FARKLE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Farkle, Maya and Isadora are spread out around Farkle’s bedroom as they brainstorm ideas for fundraising. Maya paces around, occasionally picking up little trinkets and inspecting them before putting them back down in the wrong place. Isadora, meanwhile, is laying down on Farkle’s bed on her back, her head hanging upside down off the side. Farkle has gathered a blanket around him as he sits at the other end of the bed. 

Maya: You need to add some meat to that stick of a body, Farkle. You can’t keep living like an orphan who’s freezing to death on the streets of Victorian London. 

Farkle: It’s not my fault I have a fast metabolism. You’re just jealous. 

Maya: Yes, I’m very jealous of the boy who looks like he’s dying of scurvy.

Isadora snorts in amusement, for which Farkle shoots a glare at her.

Maya: Go get us some snacks, orphan boy. We’ll fatten you up Hansel and Gretel style.

Farkle: This is offensive to orphans everywhere, I hope you know. 

Isadora: As the only orphan here, I’m not offended. Maya, you may continue your bullying.

Maya grins, but Isadora frowns as she realizes what she said. Technically, she isn’t an orphan, if her father is out there alive... despite rolling his eyes, Farkle does get up to get snacks, blanket still tightly wrapped around him.

Once she and Maya are alone, Isadora sits up straight and turns towards her, lips pursed in thought as she considers what she wants to say. 

Isadora: Do you know who your dad is?

Maya stops wandering around and looks at Isadora in surprise.

Maya: Where’d that come from?

Isadora: I don’t know. Just wondering about the orphan thing, I guess.

Maya: Izzy, that was just a joke. And directed towards Farkle. All jeers are reserved for our darling beanpole -- I’m not stupid enough to drag you.

Isadora: Appreciated. [ a beat ] I know nothing about my dad.

Maya: [ with a shrug ] I know my dad’s name and some basic facts about him, like his job, but nothing else. 

Isadora: Have you ever considered getting in touch with him? What if he’s out there somewhere? Mine or yours.

Maya: When I was younger I thought about it… but he abandoned me, so what’s the point? If he wanted me in his life, I would be. He knows who I am and how to contact me, but he hasn’t. Why waste my precious time and energy dealing with him when I already have my mom? She’s all I need.

Isadora nods, considering this. Her father situation is quite different to Maya’s, so not all that helpful. Regardless, it’s something to think about. Maya is pensive, too, mind now occupied by thoughts of Katy. Isadora notices her shift in mood.

Isadora: You miss her?

Maya: [ with a theatrical sigh ] Always. [ then, a bittersweet smile ] It’s okay, every artist has to have their tragic backstory. It’s good. Gives me personal agony to work through.

Isadora: … well, actually --

Before she can say anything further, Farkle returns with an armful of snacks. He tosses them at Maya and Isadora.

Farkle: Here you go, little piggies. Oink oink.

Maya: You can’t say that to us, we’re women.

Isadora: We could have you cancelled for that.

Maya: Besides, as the only poor one present, I reserve all rights to the word pig. [ eyeing them ] Capitalist swine…

Farkle: Yeah, speaking of lack of funding...

The conversation moves on, back to fundraising, but Maya gets out her phone to send Katy a quick message letting her know that she misses her.

INT. AAA - ATRIUM - DAY

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Boogie Shoes” as performed by Glee Cast || Performed by Asher Garcia & Dylan Orlando

Kicking off the first official performance for the ‘70s theme, Asher launches us into number with an impressive opening note. He starts at the top of the stairs in the atrium, starting down the steps while singing towards Dylan, who’s waiting down below. When he sings “boy, to be with you is my favorite thing,” Dylan playfully points to himself and beams. They’re both dressed in modern-day approximations of disco garb -- colorful dress shirts, glossy vests with matching flare pants, funky patterned ascots.

And they’re setting the standard for what performances will be like without the usual stage of the auditorium. Their chosen location is the atrium, mostly empty as it’s during class hours, the rest of the A class scattered around the space to watch and provide back-up vocals (as well as their usual reactions and applause). Zay is particularly torn, clearly flipping between jealousy that he can’t be dancing and basically vibrating with the infectious groove.

In the case of Dylan and Asher, there is plenty to cheer for. They’re simply undeniably a joy to watch, especially with each other, and Dylan was right when he said disco is for the gays. They’ve got the night fever, full of energy and charm as they dance together. On the “woo!” during the bridge, Dylan lifts Asher in a funky little hop moment. And Asher’s vocal runs throughout are nothing to scoff at either.

It’s a smashing way to start the assignments off right!

INT. AAA - PRACTICE ROOM - DAY

As strong a showing as that little number was, the upbeat mood doesn’t last long. Stress dominates in the meeting between Maya, Yindra, Farkle, Jeff, and Isadora, who are deliberating on the current status of their showdown setlist. They’re attempting to analyze it and rework with the knowledge that Zay will not be able to participate, but it’s easier said than done.

Lack of focus doesn’t help matters. Farkle is noticeably zoned out, lost in his own head, and Maya has to snap at him to get him back at attention. This is not amateur hour! No time for spacing out, Farkle! He apologizes, but Isadora notices he still seems far away somehow.

The fervent discussion is immediately halted when Zay enters the studio, realizing they’ve all convened to work without him. He asks what gives.

Maya: It’s not personal, Zayby. But considering your current situation...

Zay: I’m still choreographer. Even if I’m not performing, I should be included in meetings. Especially if you’re talking about altering the routine.

Jeff: We’re not.

Farkle: At least, not right now.

Isadora, diplomatically: We just know that not being able to participate is difficult for you, so Riley suggested… we figured it would be better not to like… force you to deal with it. Or rub it in your face.

Maya: Exactly. See? We’re doing this for you.

How sweet. But Zay isn’t moved. He grows defensive, nodding along but dripping with sarcasm.

Zay: Great. Thanks. Well I guess if you need to drag me out of the recycling bin to comment on choreography, you all know how to reach me.

He storms out -- a bit unevenly on his boot -- leaving them awkwardly in his absence. Farkle clears his throat. The only who doesn’t seem uncomfortable is Maya, who shifts gears back to the matter at hand effortlessly. It’s just business, after all.

Maya: So star power --

INT. THRIFT SHOP - DAY

Riley is searching the racks for an outfit for the ‘70s dance, Charlie in tow. Every now and then, she’ll find a vintage shirt that’s his size and hold it up against his chest just on instinct, always on the lookout for her friends even if they’re not looking themselves.

Riley: It’s amazing how every color looks good on you. You should really consider branching out beyond neutrals and inoffensive shades of blue.

Tell us something we don’t know, Riles. Charlie brushes off her compliments, keeping his focus on the topic at hand while they shop. He’s seeking advice on how to handle arguing family members, since unfortunately, Riley has plenty of relevant experience with that. He’s had it in his family before with Bridgette, but he can’t remember much of it and honestly, one of the keys to their family dynamic is how most unpleasant things occur behind closed doors. Most of the time, they don’t even know when something is wrong with each other.

Riley: Do you have any more details? I feel like context would help.

Charlie: Nope. I only heard about it through Daisy, and when I tried to talk to Rosie, she wouldn’t budge.

Riley contemplates and admits she’s hesitant to try and give advice when the context is so vague and wide open, but ultimately the most important thing she thinks he could do is to continue being there for Rosie. He told her he was, and that’s the best he can do under the circumstances. If he actually witnesses another argument for himself, then that’s a different story.

Riley: But no matter what happens, try not to let yourself get caught in the middle of it. I mean, you should help where you can, but there’s nothing worse than trying to fix problems that aren’t yours and you can’t control. It’s between them, not you, and trying to mend it from the outside is only going to result in failure and frustration. You have to look out for your own well-being first. I wish someone had told me that before my parents fell apart.

Very important advice. Charlie thanks her and expresses sympathy for her messy parental situation again, but she shrugs it off and moves past it. Instead she finds another cute ‘70s material button down in classic sky blue, enthusiastically lifting it up to measure against Charlie.

Riley: Pair a blazer with this, and you’d be all set to boogie. Makes your eyes pop too… ugh, you’re so pretty it’s disgusting.

Charlie: I thought we were shopping for you, not me. I’m not the one who gets to disco.

Riley: Well, that’s not necessarily true. The fundraiser is open to everyone -- that’s the only way we’re going to make any profit, after all. And you know you’d be more than welcome.

Charlie: Yeah, maybe… with showdown so close and everything…

Riley: Charlie. [ holding his gaze ] You’re family. Forget showdown, forget east and west side. As long as I’m around, you fit. And I know for sure I’m not the only one who feels that way. Got it? Can you dig it?

Charlie, grateful: I can dig it.

Riley: Righteous. I’m serious though, what you should dig is this shirt.

As Riley shifts back to searching for her own look, they jump to chatting about college applications. Charlie asks how hers are going after she explains Lucas’s poorly concealed stress about them, and she claims they’re going fine.

Riley: I’m a pretty textbook candidate, all things considered, and my poor tragic backstory of being bullied out of school and divorced parents sure makes for great personal essay fodder.

Charlie: Kind of weird how they teach us to exploit our own trauma…

Riley: I’m definitely applying to Barnard, and I’ve decided I’m going to throw my hat in the ring for Tisch even though it’s basically the longest shot there is. Add in a handful of second choice picks and you get the idea. But honestly, I’m not all that pressed about it right now. I feel like it’s going to be way harder when acceptances and rejections come through and it’s all… real. I can throw any application out there I want and I don’t have to do anything about it. When I actually know what my options are… then it’ll be real. You know? When I actually have to decide what path I want to take. Because right now, I feel like I have no idea what I want that to be.

Charlie nods, agreeing wholeheartedly. He definitely knows the feeling of not having any idea what he wants the future to be… as the low hum of an unfamiliar instrument floats in…

INT. AAA - BLACK BOX THEATER - DAY

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Amazing Grace” as performed by The Military Band of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards || Performed by Dave Williams

In what is probably the weirdest performance AMBITION has seen to date, Dave stands alone in front of the classroom and goes to town on the bagpipes. Yes, apparently, Dave Williams can play the bagpipes (though whether he plays them well is a whole other story). And he gives it his all on this immensely famous tune, bewildering his peers and rendering them speechless.

That being said, while they can’t find any words, that doesn’t stop the A class from reacting. The expressions range from confused to stunned to struggling to keep it together. Maya stares in disbelief and then scrunches her face, looking around to see if anyone else is seeing this. Zay and Nigel are on the verge of tears from stifling their laughter; Yogi is misty-eyed from sheer emotion at his best friend’s… powerful performance. Nate mouths trying to sing along to the screechy tones with an absolutely delighted grin, while Dylan emulates the patriotic vibe by standing and giving a salute. Asher shakes his head from next to him, also hiding laughter behind his hand.

When Dave finally concludes, releasing a big exhale, the room is filled with silence for a long moment. Yogi starts the applause that the others uncertainly mimic, until Isadora finally, bluntly breaks the silence.

Isadora: Okay, I’m just going to say it -- what the hell, Dave?

Dave: What? Is something wrong?

Sarah: Where the hell did this come from? Are you seriously damaged?

Yindra: Forget that. I’m dying to know when you learned to play the bagpipes. And why have you deprived us of it for so long?

Farkle: The assignment is ‘70s music. How did you end up on “Amazing Grace?”

Dave, baffled: I don’t get what the big deal is. I found the song on a ‘70s playlist on Spotify, I can show you. And I looked it up -- the fig Newton dude wrote the song in 1779.

Clarissa: Fig newton --

Zay: [ at his wits end trying not to laugh ] I can’t. I can’t --

Dave: 1779! So it’s from the ‘70s.

All, in unison: 1970s, Dave!

Dave: … WHAT?!

The class descends into hysterics. Harper attempts to thank Dave for an… interesting performance, if nothing else.

Harley: I found it quite spirited. Very much enjoyed.

Dave huffs, marching back to his desk. He drops his bagpipes on the desktop --

EXT. AAA - REAR PARKING LOT - DAY

Which becomes a soapy sponge landing with a splat on the hood of a car, Haley working to scrub it clean. A few more quick shots help establish the setting -- Jeff and Darby untangling hoses; Riley and Chai filling up buckets of water; Asher ringing out a washcloth as far away from his body as he can stretch it, mildly disgusted.

Yes, Maya’s new fundraising scheme is in full swing -- a car wash! Cars are lining up for the A class to give a shining clean-up. Considering they threw the concept together in just a couple of days, it’s really not a shabby showing. Maya is praising her own quick thinking by the pay table, where they’re also selling baked goods. Zay is manning the cash box, since he can’t do much else.

Maya: I swear, sometimes my own mind amazes me. Never lets me down. And you can’t go wrong with a good old-fashioned classic.

Zay: Yeah, except car washes are usually in the summer. Not the dregs of autumn when we’re all going to get hypothermia.

Maya: It’s actually unseasonably warm today. And that’s the brilliance of it. Who else is doing a car wash in this weather economy? No competition, big bucks.

At least the weather is nice. With them out in their cotton shorts and tees to do all this work, Zay’s right to have reservations. But the sun is out, and the income has been steady thus far. Nate finishes off drying a car with Dylan, who has his hair pushed back with a tie-dye bandana.

Nate: You know, we should all just wet our shirts. That will get the girls and gays to come running.

Maya: [ into her bullhorn ] Don’t accelerate the hypothermia, Martinez. Keep it classy.

Nate: You’re turning down a million-dollar idea!

Maya waves him off, gesturing that he get back to work. And they all put it together real fast when another customer pulls up at the end of the line, EVELYN RAND emerging from her nice SUV and coming over to greet them. She commends them for their efficient set up.

Maya: That’s all thanks to me, Maya Penelope Hart. Vice President and overall go-getter. I’m the one that makes things happen.

Evelyn: And modest as they come, too.

Evelyn happily accepts Maya’s handshake, but she tosses a wink to Zay and Clarissa working the bake sale table. She claims she’s eager to help the cause, and she’s sure they’ll do an excellent job with her car. While she waits, she’s hoping to have a brief chat with Jack, so can she just leave her keys with them? She trusts them to move her vehicle twenty feet when it’s her turn.

Maya: Of course. We here in the A class pride ourselves on our care and attention. Your vehicle is safe with us.

Zay snorts, turning it into a cough. Evelyn hands over her keys pleasantly, waving to the rest of the kids working as she heads into the building. Maya spins the key ring on her finger for a moment, contemplating.

Maya: Can’t afford to screw this up. Gonna need someone extremely anal and annoyingly cautious to handle this one. [ into the bullhorn ] Garcia! Get your persnickety nonexistent ass over here!

Nigel arrives at that moment with a takeout bag in his hands. He tries to weave through the cars and avoid drill sergeant Maya as he heads towards the back entrance to the school, but unfortunately he’s not slick enough.

Maya: Chey! What do you think you’re doing? Cars are over here.

Nigel: Oh. Yes. Well, Jade’s holed up in the costume loft with all the projects she’s finishing…

Maya, unmoved: Uh huh.

Nigel: And I know she isn’t great about eating when she’s under this much stress, so I brought her some food to eat while she works. And I thought I’d go… give it to her… [ quickly ] okay, check you later.

He turns and speeds towards the entrance, making his swift escape. Riley saunters over to join them at the cash table, tilting her head fondly.

Riley: That’s so sweet.

Maya: Meh. A convenient excuse.

Zay: And how are you one to talk, Maya? You realize standing around shouting orders at everyone isn’t work.

Riley: Come on, Madam Vice President. Time to put in a little elbow grease.

Zay raises his eyebrows, accenting Riley’s challenge. Pride in jeopardy, Maya sniffs and relinquishes her bullhorn, placing it on the table. She spins and flips her ponytail over her shoulder, marching over to contribute to the cause. Riley and Zay exchange amused looks, while the boombox blasting the iconic opening hand claps takes over the soundscape...

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Car Wash” as performed by Rose Royce || Performed by Maya Hart (feat. AAA Seniors)

You all knew it was coming. The moment we started scrubbing those fenders, you should’ve seen it coming. Maya leads the A class in a funky rendition of the disco classic, swaying her hips and swinging her ponytail as they put in the hard work (though, somehow, Maya still manages to avoid most of the heavy lifting). She handles most of the verses, though Yindra also takes some of the spotlight with vocal runs. Nate perfects his slutdrop as he cleans tires.

In the midst of the grooving, the business is bumping. Interspersed amongst the performing we see Clarissa and Dylan charming patrons at the bake sale table, money changing hands, and Zay dutifully keeping track of everything as he mans the pay station.

On the last chorus, Maya has made her way onto a roof of one of the cars, Yindra, Haley, and Darby emulating her on the other cars they’re working on. The A class does some rad synced choreography to take the number home, Maya sliding down the front windshield and kicking up her leg before Farkle makes the finishing swipe of a washcloth across the hood.

Car wash! Zay deposits another payment into the cashbox, snapping it closed with a flourish.

Evelyn’s car is now closer to the front of the pack, and more business is still coming. Charlie makes his way over from the parking lot, waving to Riley as he makes his way over to the tables. Clarissa and Dylan greet him cheerfully, Riley and Maya jogging over from the line of cars. Zay doesn’t say anything, but offers a hesitant smile, which is better than nothing. Charlie mirrors it.

Clarissa comes out from behind the table to give him a hug, but warns him not to let Haley see him -- she’s soaked and will probably get him all damp. Charlie claims he didn’t plan to stay long, he just wanted to come by and see how things were going, as well drop off some baked goods they could sell that he and his sisters made. Dylan takes them happily. Maya asks where his car is and what kind of wash he wants, which Charlie awkwardly laughs off.

Charlie: I wouldn’t make you guys do that. But I can make a contribution --

Maya: Please, what do you think this is, a pity party? We don’t accept charity.

Zay: Yes we do.

Clarissa: We’ll take all the charity you’ve got.

Maya: This is a business, and we provide a service. So put your boring little sedan in line and turn your patronization into profit.

Riley: Maya, if he doesn’t want --

Charlie: You know what? Okay. [ raising his hands in surrender ] I’ll take whatever the easiest job is. Meet in the middle.

Fair enough. Maya relents, going back to shouting orders at others. Zay shows Charlie what their pricing options are, and though Charlie is going for the cheapest one, he overpays anyway.

Charlie: What Maya doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

Zay: Yeah, and it’ll probably save us.

They exchange something close to a conspiratorial wink. Riley senses that they’re actually communicating without imminent disaster, so she comes over to join them. Charlie asks how business is going -- it seems to be moving pretty swiftly. Riley is optimistic, claiming that between this and the dance -- which is garnering a lot of buzz on social media -- they may just cover their expenses yet. At mention of the dance, Riley makes a quip about how Charlie should’ve bought that shirt at the thrift shop to wear, which catches Zay’s attention.

Zay: You’re coming?

Charlie: Oh, no. No, I wasn’t, um… I hadn’t really thought about it.

Zay: Oh.

Charlie, shyly: … would it be okay if I did?

Zay meets his eyes, uncharacteristically timid. He doesn’t know what to say, because he honestly doesn’t know how he feels about the possibility. Things aren’t as tense as they were before, and they’ve managed to break some of the ice that’s frozen them in place, but it’s far from thawed. He doesn’t know if he wants it to be or not. It’s all confusing, and being put on the spot proves just how much.

He’s spared from answering when Isadora pipes up from the curb.

Isadora: Oh, fuck no.

Charlie jumps, turning to search for the problem. Zay leans around him to look too. The issue is not hard to identify.

The Haverford boys. A whole bunch of them, rolling up in their classy cars, totally filling up the back end of the car wash line. Billy honks obnoxiously in his, waving to the washers working further down the row.

Brandon hops out of his car, the rest of the boys following suit. He leads the saunter over to the tables, where Maya, Farkle, and Isadora rush to head them off. Charlie stares as they approach, obviously mortified that they’re here; Zay frowns, glancing at him suspiciously.

Maya: What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re blocking the line.

Dweezil: Blocking? Is that any way to speak to a customer?

Isadora: One we’re about to kick the hell out, yeah.

The congregation bristles, but Brandon holds up his hands -- both out of innocence and to signal his crew to halt. He remains smooth and unbothered as ever, calmly stating that they’re simply here to support the cause.

Brandon: It’s the least we could do, showing up for the less fortunate. We want showdown to be a fair fight, don’t we?

Maya: Oh, if that’s what you’re looking for, we can give you a fight.

[ Brandon raises his eyebrows, clearly amused by Maya’s sharp spunk. ]

Farkle: How did you all even hear about this?

Brandon: Why, I would think that’s obvious. Charles told us.

[ Many eyes throw to Charlie at once. He swallows, dipping his head. ]

Brandon: Well, technically, he told Evan, but I don’t see why he didn’t just share it with the boys. Evan was more than happy to pass the message along, though, and we all thought it was just a swell idea. Quaint, really.

Billy: Yeah, where’s the lemonade stand? You should jump on that hot market next.

But belittlement aside, they really are here to get their cars washed. That’s all. The A class can take it or leave it, but if they choose to turn away willing customers then that’s their prerogative.

Well… business is business. Maya forces a smile, keeping her diva daggers locked on Brandon as she instructs Isadora and Farkle to go start filling the buckets. Brandon holds her glare, evenly matched with his cool, subtle smirk.

INT. AAA - JACK’S OFFICE - DAY

Jack is enjoying a catch-up with Angela over coffee, in generally good spirits all things considered. As he says, it’s nice to take a moment to forget all of the stress and just chat with a good friend. Angela is touched, placing her hand on her chest. She claims if her visit will be good for anything then, that’s a great reason.

The two of them get on the topic of her pregnancy, and how she’s feeling about impending motherhood. She confides that Shawn is way more nervous about it than she is, but ultimately she feels okay about it. Pregnancy isn’t the most fun experience in the world, but she has always thought that a family would be part of her future. Considering she’s not getting any younger, it feels like the right time.

She asks if Jack ever thought about having kids, and he grows a bit more somber. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it… and to be honest, he figured if he did he’d beat Shawn to it, but clearly that wasn’t in his cards. And now here he is, coming off a failed serious relationship, already in his 40s…

Angela: It’s never too late, Jack. If it’s something you really want. I mean, hell, look at Eric! He skipped all the hard stuff, too.

Jack: I guess that is one way to look at Isadora’s tragic loss…

Angela: I’m just saying, never say never. You’re a great mentor, responsible and fair, and you care. You care a lot. If you chose to try, whether by yourself or with a partner, I think you’d be a great dad.

Maybe… it all just feels so out of the realm of possibility. Besides, he argues, he basically has 200 kids at any given time to take care of. It’s not the same, no, but he watches out for the Adams students as seriously as he would his own. And you know, sometimes…

Jack: Every once in a while, it kind of feels like they are.

It’s not hard to guess who he’s thinking about. Angela starts to question him further, thinking this is probably a meaningful discussion to have, but they’re interrupted by Evelyn knocking briskly on the door. She greets both of them cheerfully.

Evelyn: So nice to see you again, Angela! I do hope I’m not intruding on anything important -- I meant to come sooner, but I got caught up in a riveting chat with Mister Keiner. 

Jack: No, of course not.

Angela: In fact, I was just getting ready to head out, so I will get out of your hair.

Jack: I just wasn’t expecting you.

Evelyn: No need to rush, Angela. [ to Jack ] I’m just here to participate in that splendid car wash you’ve got out back. They’ve got a great little operation going, I have to say. And that Maya Hart -- talk about a firecracker.

Jack: Trust us, we’re quite familiar with her spark.

Angela bids both of them goodbye, promising Jack she’ll see him later. Once they’re alone, Evelyn commends Jack on inspiring his students to find creative ways to fund their financial endeavors. Especially given how their original proposal for the scholarships was voted down at the school board. In her opinion, she was hoping they’d at least contribute a portion -- she thought it was a nifty idea.

Jack: Yes, they weren’t thrilled to hear the decision either.

Evelyn: It’s disappointing, although hardly surprising considering the way Jefferson campaigned behind closed doors. He’s got a fairly influential stake in the voting bloc, unfortunately.

Jack: What? What do you mean?

Evelyn: Oh, Jack, I thought you already knew. It was an extremely close vote on the board to provide funding, but Jefferson tipped the scales against it. He and Yancy basically talked it down for days with colleagues before the actual tally.

Um, no, Jack did not know about that, and it obviously pisses him off. He’s speechless, trying to process the blatant partisan maneuvers being played against them within the inner workings of the board. Especially from someone who is now working within the walls of AAA. He knew Yancy didn’t like him, but this…

EXT. AAA - REAR PARKING LOT - DAY

The Haverford boys are loitering while they wait for the A class to finish cleaning their cars, showing how completely unbothered they are to hang around and watch their competitors sweat. Charlie is also hovering to nervously keep an eye on things, staying with Clarissa at the baked goods table and nibbling on a sugar cookie.

From where he’s scrubbing Dweezil’s windshield dry, Nate glares at them derisively.

Nate: Rich pricks. I should smash this damn window…

Yogi: Easy, bulldog.

Dave: Just smile and wash, boys. Smile and wash.

Thankfully, they’re efficient, and it doesn’t take them long to grit their teeth through the work. Maya slaps her washcloth against Brandon’s hood, declaring it finished, then marches her way back over to where he’s slouched against a lamp pole near the pay table.

Maya: Alright, knock-off Warblers, your cars are done.

Evan: Warblers?

Dweezil: From Glee.

Billy: Ha! She thinks we watched Glee.

Bottom line is, their business here is done, so they can roll their asses out. Maya essentially shoos them, but Zay pipes up from the pay table.

Zay: Um, they can’t go yet. They’ve still got a tab to settle.

Maya: They didn’t pay upfront?

Billy: Well, couldn’t very well do that. Why would we pay you before we get any proof that you’re going to do a good job? It’s simply smart shopping.

Clarissa: Well, the job is done now. So you can pay up.

Brandon: Ooh… see, I think there might’ve been a misunderstanding here.

Charlie tenses, sensing impending doom. He steps out from behind the table in case he needs to mediate, just as Isadora and Farkle march back over with their buckets and rags to see what the hold up is. They’ve got other potential customers waiting.

Brandon: Another smart business practice is to agree on the terms and conditions before you make a deal. Now, we always knew our payment was going to be contingent on the quality of the work. Sure, Babineaux here laid out the pricing for us, but we didn’t get anything in writing. You didn’t get our John Hancocks signing off on it.

Zay: You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Charlie, nervously: Come on, guys --

Maya: So you mean to tell me that we just spent the better part of an hour scrubbing your ungrateful little shits until they shined, and blocking other well-intentioned customers from coming in the meantime, only for you to stiff us at checkout?

Dweezil: At least we made you look busy.

Billy: Yeah, consider it practice. We know you could use all of that you can get.

Brandon: [ with a shrug ] Should’ve gotten it in writing.

Isadora: Yeah? Well how about you fucking get this --

She and Farkle snap first, lifting their buckets and sloshing them directly at Brandon. It catches him off-guard, totally dousing him in sudsy water.

Charlie: Oh no.

Riley, from the curb: Oh no.

Billy: Oh, hell no!

Hit the queen bee, feel the sting of the workers! The Havies immediately fire back, grabbing whatever they can get their hands on -- hoses, abandoned buckets -- and lobbing it back at Isadora and Farkle.

And with that, it’s a full-on brawl. Water and soap flying in every direction, the other Havies and Adams seniors launching into the battle without hesitation. Maya shrieks as she’s soaked, shouting for her classmates to take the Havies out. Zay salvages the cash box and dives under the table, taking cover.

INT. AAA - JACK’S OFFICE - DAY

Jack is still searching for what to say in response to the bombshell information Evelyn dropped, but Harley leaps in the doorway and gets both their attention.

Harley: Major problem at the car wash. It’s completely devolved.

Jack exchanges a quick look with Evelyn, then jumps up from his chair.

EXT. AAA - REAR PARKING LOT - DAY

Jack and Harley emerge as the water fight is in full swing, and basically everyone is dripping in soap water. Jack takes control and marches into the fray, stepping into authoritarian mode and demanding that all of the nonsense cease. The Adams students drop their weapons immediately, not daring to get even a drop on their principal.

Though he doesn’t command the same respect with the Haverford boys, they don’t push it any further. They got what they came for, managing to derail the car wash and pull a fast one on the A class. They cackle with laughter as they sprint back to their cars, piling inside in record time and peeling out of the parking lot.

Brandon’s car is one of the last to leave, catching the eye of Maya, Zay, and Charlie through the passenger window. He smirks and tosses a wink in their direction, but it’s impossible to say who it was meant for. Maybe all of them.

None of them look especially pleased either way. Maya shoots a death glare at Charlie, even though he arguably got the worst of it, completely drenched from head to toe. If he was in on the whole thing, he looks pretty miserable about it.

Break 1.

INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT - ISADORA’S BEDROOM - DAY

Now in fresh, comfy clothes and bare faces, Riley, Isadora and Maya lounge around in Isa’s bedroom. Maya’s hair is up in a towel wrap, while Riley’s is down and in the process of drying, and Isadora’s is pulled back into a messy bun. Isadora is also wearing her glasses rather than usual contacts. With a stretch, Maya hops from the bed.

Maya: I never want to work like that ever again. I’m exhausted, in pain, and starving. Is this Hell?

Riley: You truly weren’t built for working class, were you?

Tell her about it! Maya disappears to raid Eric’s fridge, leaving Riley and Isadora free from her complaints. Isadora uses the opportunity to pick Riley’s brain. 

Isadora: What do you think our chances are in the showdown? Full disclosure. 

Riley: Full disclosure? Not great. [ with a sigh ] But we could still pull through. If we work hard enough, and come together to --

Isadora: I don’t need the full spiel, but thanks. I know how stressed Lucas and Maya are about it, and I’m considering -- considering is the key word here -- offering to perform. You know, if it would help.

Riley’s face lights up, but upon seeing Isadora’s level glare, tries to suppress her smile. She fails. 

Isadora: Don’t look at me. Forget I said anything. 

Riley: Aw, come on. I’m happy you’re thinking about it yourself instead of, like, being peer pressured by Maya or something. 

Isadora: She’s very nearly at her breaking point, I can tell. Every day her will to just let me be is deteriorating bit by bit. 

Riley: I think… not to get too Uncle Eric here, but I feel like because you keep thinking of performing as doing it in front of an audience, like being judged, it’s holding you back. You should just do it for the joy of it. Why were you drawn to performing in the first place? 

Isadora, reluctantly: … because it was fun...

Riley: Exactly! Because it’s fun. You have to have fun with it.

In fact… Riley brightens with an idea, reaching for her phone and searching for a song.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Lady Marmalade” as performed by LaBelle || Performed by Riley Matthews, Maya Hart & Isadora De La Cruz

[ Lyrics specific to characters -- follow along here! ]

As the bass and keys begin, Riley stands up on Isadora’s bed, pulling her up with her. Riley sings the initial “hey sister, go sister” to Isadora, who stands awkwardly in the middle of the bed, not looking all that impressed.

In the first verse, Maya walks into the room with her haul from the kitchen. Her mouth opens when she sees Riley singing. 

Maya: Are we doing this? Okay, we’re doing this.

She drops the snacks without a care, jumping onto the bed to join Riley -- just in time for the chorus. They move around Isadora as they belt out iconic vocals, trying to get her in the groove.

Maya takes on the second verse with Riley on the backing vocals. Although Isadora tries to remain stoic, she can’t help but begin to vibe with them. By the end of the next chorus, she’s singing along, too. In French, no less! But maybe let’s not look up the lyric translation…

In the instrumental break, the three girls get down from the bed and strut forwards towards the door. They pass through it one at a time, puffs of makeup and glitter blowing around them in slow-mo as they do.

INT. AAA - LECTURE HALL - DAY

This time, the temporary performance space is the lecture hall, which is an inspired choice since it actually has a pseudo-stage and lighting capabilities.

When they emerge onto the small stage, they’re in full glam. Hair glossy, makeup glowing, and outfits iconique. They each wear a skintight jumpsuit along with oversized faux fur coats. Riley’s getup is a white jumpsuit and yellow coat, Isadora’s is a blue jumpsuit and pink coat, and Maya’s is a pink jumpsuit and white coat. They strut to the front of the stage, spotlights on them.

Isadora takes charge of the next verse, confidently singing and dancing with her friends by her side. Riley and Maya come in towards the end, before all three complete the rest of the song together. It’s glamorous, it’s sultry, it’s powerful. Foxy, ladies!

We fade out of the performance to see the rest of the class and Harper as they applaud. Although the girls don’t look quite as glam out of the performance-dreamscape, they look just as badass. Lucas and Farkle in particular seem stunned by the performance.

INT. AAA - TECHNICIAN’S BOOTH - DAY

Zay hands over the cash box from the car wash to Lucas.

Zay: Despite the carnage, the most important thing survived.

And, in spite of the disastrous end, it seems like they made good for their work. They raked in a pretty penny for all the scrubbing and washing -- it’s far from all that they need, but it should make a sizable dent in the auditorium accident debt. And that’s not nothing.

Lucas thanks Zay for his help and for watching the money, getting up to put it in a safe place in the booth. He claims he can’t do it until Zay leaves, though, since there are certain things only he should know about the booth. Zay rolls his eyes but obliges, throwing in an offhand comment about how weird he is before slowly making his way out.

As he’s heading down the steps, he passes by Missy, who is casually making her way up into the booth. Like she goes up there all the time, like it’s no big deal. She even greets Zay as they pass, which he uncertainly returns. He frowns at her over his shoulder as she heads on up, obviously confused by her presence.

As confidently as she enters, Lucas evidently wasn’t expecting her either. He jumps when she addresses him, moving away from wherever he stashed the car wash cash. When he realizes it’s her, his posture grows even more defensive.

Lucas: What are you doing in here?

Missy: Only what anyone would deem visiting this musty space worthy for. I’m looking for you.

Lucas: I don’t know if you missed the memo, but people don’t waltz in here whenever they want. No matter how privileged they are.

Missy laughs, allowing him the dig. Following their increasingly common rapport, back-and-forth that straddles the line between friendly fire and hostility depending on your lens. She maintains innocence as she waits for him to settle back in his usual chair, claiming she only wanted to discuss the current A class financial crisis.

Missy: I heard your little car wash wasn’t half-bad. Congratulations are in order. Though I don’t believe I heard much about you out there breaking a sweat to wash those vehicles...

Lucas: You can congratulate the rest of the class when you see them.

Missy: Shame. I’d think if we put you out there front and center, you might’ve garnered a greater profit.

Lucas: Please.

Missy: You shouldn’t undersell yourself, Lucas. It worked for Chubbies, did it not?

If her increased patronage is any indication, then technically, yes. But Lucas doesn’t seem keen to acknowledge that. She moves closer and hops onto the lighting booth table, crossing her glossy legs where they are in perfectly accessible view. In a place where Riley often sits. It just feels wrong. Lucas averts his gaze, looking down at the soundboard instead.

Missy: Anyway, as cute as the fundraising effort is, I don’t exactly see the point.

Lucas: Well, for those of us not in the 1%, there’s this annoying everyday thing we have to do called “acquiring money.” I’m sure that’s probably confusing for you --

Missy: I meant for Adams. Or for the A class, more specifically. I don’t see why you all should be out there sweating through manual labor… when you could just ask me for the money.

Oh. Well that’s… an interesting proposition. Lucas is surprised she’s even offering it, enough to lift his head again to meet her eyes.

Lucas: … it’s hundreds of dollars…

Missy, coolly: Drop in the bucket. [ looking him over ] Surely you would know that by now.

Lucas hesitates, contemplating. Missy observes him, watching for the chinks in his armor. Those rare moments when he’s not as aloof and disdainful as their banter leads her to believe.

Lucas: I don’t see why you would help when it does nothing to benefit you.

Missy: Isn’t helping the class helping me in the end? [ off his skeptical eyebrow raise ] And oh, they’ll find a way to pay us back somehow. Every debt gets paid eventually. Name on an auditorium seat, plaque outside the lecture hall. That’s the charity solution to everything, slapping your name on something. I’m sure daddy would love to have the Bradford name in gold somewhere in this heap considering the chilly reception Hunter gave us when all this started.

Missy found about a dozen unintentional trigger words to throw in that sentence to change Lucas’s tune. Whether the most credit can be given to the word “charity,” or invoking Jack in a negative light is debatable, but Lucas is suddenly even stonier than before. He clenches his jaw.

Missy, softer: It’s not like you haven’t already accepted donations from the Bradford fortune… and that’s lightened the load, hasn’t it? Nothing wrong with that. [ a beat ] And you and me… I wouldn’t call us friends, but we certainly have… our own thing here. Don’t we? We… mean something. To one another.

Lucas drops his gaze again, cornered. The very insinuation that they have a relationship in any capacity makes him uncomfortable… but then, it’s not wrong, is it? If he’s willingly taking her money, knowingly, then that does symbolize some sort of association. He can’t in good conscience deny it, not when her money is a big chunk of the reason his future is even possible. And she could take all the pressure off them, off him, in an instant… no more fundraising… no more sweating over showdown… scholarships guaranteed…

But his instincts are stronger than that. It’s too good to be true. Everything comes with a cost, and while he might be willing to risk that here and there for his own feeble endeavors, he’s not going to tie his legacy and the rest of the class to it. He returns her eye contact, resolute.

Lucas: If your family wants to donate to the cause, then by all means do. But I’m not asking you for anything. I don’t beg.

Well said and well meant! For what it’s worth, Missy doesn’t seem put off by the rejection. If anything, she seems impressed by his stubborn resistance, even if she knows damn well it’s full of contradictions. Impressed, and definitely stirred by that same fire that captivated her the first time they met during the school board trial. The tension in the air makes that loud and clear.

Missy: No, no you don’t, do you. All part of your… provocative charm.

Message received, it appears… some message, at least… Missy slips off the table and begins to make her exit, assuring Lucas that she understands his perspective. Some things are better kept quiet, and she gets his need to maintain appearances -- and his pride.

Missy: It’s our little secret. And I get where we stand. [ with a smirk ] I think we understand each other better than one might assume.

The mere notion makes Lucas a bit queasy, but he keeps his mouth shut. Missy bids him adieu and disappears down the steps, wishing the Slumdog President the best of luck with his continuing financial campaigning.

Even once she’s gone, Lucas can’t shake off the discomfort of her presence. He has to get up, walk it off, gathering his things and fleeing from the space -- one of the few he’s never felt the need to escape from before.

EXT. HAVERFORD PREP - COURTYARD - DAY

Charlie is having lunch with BRIDGETTE GARDNER, occupying their typical table in the grassy outdoor space. She listens attentively as he catches her up on all of the stuff with their sisters, Charlie clearly seeking counsel from the one person who has been on the other side of this potential falling out. Does she think he should be worried, based on her own experience?

Bridgette: And you haven’t seen any of this for yourself?

Charlie: No, at least not yet. But I don’t think that means much -- I had no idea most of this stuff was going on with you until it was already way too late. When I first saw you having arguments with mom, it was volcano level.

Bridgette: To be fair, you were what, 14? Even younger than that when it all started. But true. Our family is really good at concealing the ugly, and then pretending it doesn’t exist when the moment has passed.

Charlie: And this is coming from Daisy. You know she wouldn’t make things up just for the hell of it.

Bridgette: Also true. She sure is an unaffected little freak. [ a beat ] I say that with love. Every Gardner has to be fucked up one way or another.

Still, with so little firsthand information, it’s hard to say. She doesn’t think Charlie should tie himself in knots trying to problem-solve something he can’t see, but…

Bridgette: Look out for Rosie if you can. You know, keep an eye out. If history is going to repeat itself, and she’s following in my forsaken footsteps… I don’t want her to go through that. She shouldn’t have to go through what I went through. Not that I’m not fine now --

Charlie: Right.

Bridgette: But she’s not tough like I am. And I mean that in the best way possible. Rosie… she’s sensitive. Sweet. Her heart is right there on her sleeve, even if she tries to act like she’s all grit. [ softly ] Reminds me of another sibling I’ve got.

Charlie smiles, but underneath the kind words she’s confirming his concerns. If the stormy energy around Rosie does whip up into a hurricane, then it’s looking more and more likely to be an unavoidable disaster. History may just repeat itself -- and more brutally than before.

INT. AAA - COSTUME LOFT - DAY

Rosie isn’t the only one in a tempestuous mood. Jade is in full-on crunch mode as her deadlines loom ever closer, and even though she’s been basically holed up in the costume loft at all hours she still feels miles from the finish line. She’s skipping lunch to wrap up a couple of last-minute additions to another piece of her portfolio, using Asher as her mannequin. Currently, he’s sporting a rather fancy, outlandishly patterned and bold blouse over his maroon polo. It looks like it could be a ‘70s dance shirt, or the wardrobe of a funky, flamboyant villain, or perhaps an especially stylish swashbuckling pirate… but it’s a Jade Beamon original, so it looks fantastic.

If only the job of mannequin was as fun as the clothes he’s modeling. Asher is gritting his teeth so hard they might crack, cringing every time Jade threads her needle through a piece of it or sticks a pin somewhere. She’s an expert, a professional, but given her stress level she’s missed the mark more than once the last couple of days.

Jade, snapping: If you didn’t wince every two seconds like a little baby, then maybe I would stick you less.

Asher: [ through his teeth ] The two dozen pin prick battle scars I have beg to differ!

Nigel picks that moment to enter, catching the tail-end of their sharp exchange and clocking the vibes immediately. He hesitates by the door, not sure whether he should come in and interrupt anymore or not, but Jade spots him before he can duck out. She immediately loses some of her unpleasantness, straightening up and clearing her throat.

Jade: Nigel.

Nigel: Um… hello. [ holding up lunch ] I know you’re working through lunch again, so I just thought I’d bring something by.

Jade: Oh, that’s… that’s nice. You don’t have to keep doing that.

Nigel: It’s all good. I like being able to help. It’s the least I could do, make sure you eat.

Asher: Someone should.

Jade: I’m still holding pins, Asher…

As if that wasn’t signal enough, Nigel bravely ventures the question of how costuming is going this afternoon. Jade claims it’s all fine, and Asher repeats her comment in a tone that makes it very clear he doesn’t agree. Sensing that the best friends might benefit from a break from one another, Nigel offers to hang around and be her stand-in for a while.

Jade: Really?

Asher, hopeful: Really?

Nigel: Sure. All I have to do is stand there and look pretty, right? Think I can manage that. You know, if I clear the costumer’s standards, of course.

Jade: No, no you -- of course. Of course you do. You’re more than -- obviously, you’re up to standard. I mean, above. I, um…

Asher can’t help but laugh, but he hides it behind a fake sneeze. Jade shoots him a glare, then states it would be preferable actually for him to take Asher’s place for now. It seems like Bird Bones agrees, hopping down from the step stool and carefully removing the fanciful top.

Asher: It’s for the best anyway. I’m supposed to be helping Dylan proofread his college essays. I want to check mine one more time too -- Jade says reading them over seven times is more than enough, but pot meet kettle.

Nigel: A Dylan Orlando personal essay, huh? I’d pay to see that.

Asher: I’m sure he’d let you read it for no charge. One of the applications he’s filling out had the prompt to “describe a work of art from the last century that surprised, inspired, or challenged you and in what way,” so he wrote a whole thesis statement on why Taylor Swift’s album Lover is the most important contribution to art, culture, and society since the invention of music.

Nigel: Wow.

Jade: Of course he did.

Asher: I’ll be genuinely surprised if it’s not a video essay on his vlog in like four months. But you know what, no admissions officer can say he doesn’t have enthusiasm.

True that! Asher makes his grateful exit, handing the piece over to Nigel and wishing him luck. Jade giggles nervously once they’re alone, Nigel smiling and asking if he should just put the shirt on and stand where Asher was. She confirms, avoiding her gaze by digging through her sewing kit until he’s all set and ready to be pinned and needled.

Nigel: I hope I’m doing your work justice.

Jade: You, um… it’s good. You’re good. Ha ha.

She nervously pushes some hair behind her ear, then steps closer to get back to work. If anything can overpower shyness, it’s the stress of an impending deadline upon which your entire future rests. Jade softly explains to Nigel what she’s doing as she does it, since he’s never been her model before, and reassures her that he’s not worried and she can do whatever.

Nigel: I trust you, Jade. You are the expert, after all.

Jade glances up at him, processing the compliment. The declaration of trust. The fact that they’re standing so close, that if he just stepped down off the stool they’d be close enough to… it’s a lot. Sophomore year Jade would probably have ran and hid by now, if not passed out.

But this is the present, and Jade has work to do. So she swallows her butterflies and focuses on her needlework.

Quiet settles over them for a minute, then Nigel speaks again, barely above a whisper.

Nigel: You’re incredible, you know that?

Jade: Huh?

Caught by surprise, Jade’s hand slips… and accidentally sticks Nigel with the needle. He winces and she immediately launches into apologies, retracting her hands to drop the needle and asking if he’s okay. He promises he’s fine, keeping her from spiraling over it by taking her hand so she can’t drift any further away in retreat.

Nigel: Really, I’m good.

Jade: … so you were saying?

Nigel: Yeah. I just wanted you to know… I hope you know how amazing you are. I know you’re super stressed about all this and what these schools and programs are going to think of you, but they’d be insane to reject you.

Jade: I don’t know if I’d go that far.

Nigel: I would. I mean, you’ve made basically every costume we’ve worn for the last three years -- which I know everyone keeps throwing back at you -- and they’re fantastic. Not just because they look good, which they always do, but they’re durable. No matter how gorgeous they look, they can withstand a lot. When we finish a production, they’re worn in, but it’s still as if they’re freshly stitched. That’s impressive. Trust me, I’ve been in enough local Shakespeare productions to say so. One time a piece of my tunic fell off in the middle of the first act.

Jade laughs, charmed by the story and calmed enough by his gentle tone to actually breathe. Nigel smiles at her, fond.

Nigel: You’re reliable. That’s the best thing a person can be, in my opinion. And you’re talented to the extreme, hard-working, humble… I mean, is there anything you can’t do?

Jade: [ with a snort ] Socialize.

The word slips out, and Jade is instantly embarrassed by it. She hides her blush in digging to grab her needles again, going back to work as an excuse not to elaborate.

Nigel: Seriously? You’ve never struck me as without company. With the techies --

Jade: Oh, yeah, that’s the height of engagement. Just me and a bunch of emotionally inept teenage boys plus Dora, getting up to the same old shenanigans. Every girl’s dream. [ with a sigh ] Don’t get me wrong, I love them. Especially Asher, he’s my best friend. And I’m not saying I’m like, a recluse or anything, I have friends, I just… I don’t know. I don’t even know why I’m talking about this. Sorry.

Nigel: No worries. I don’t mind. But for what it’s worth, I don’t see you that way. Anyone would be lucky to have you as a friend. I know I am. [ a beat ] Or like, any kind of relationship…

Jade coughs, not prepared for that. She giggles compulsively again, frantically brushing off the thought as she focuses intently on pinning a piece of the fabric into place.

Jade: I haven’t… ha, I’m so busy, I… a relationship… I don’t have the time to even…

Though she can’t form a coherent sentence, Nigel gets the message. Not available right now. And he admittedly looks a bit disappointed, but he puts his acting credit to use and swiftly covers with another smile.

Nigel: Well, again. Anyone would be lucky. And in the meantime, I’m just happy to support you however I can. Even at risk of puncture wound.

Jade absorbs this, unable to hold back her shy smile. She murmurs a thank you, then hides by throwing all her attention to the task at hand.

But for Nigel, the only thing he can focus on is her. So incredible… and so close… as the easy bass line floats in…

INT. AAA - LECTURE HALL - DAY

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “How Deep Is Your Love” as performed by Bee Gees || Performed by Nigel Chey (feat. Dylan Orlando)

The lights are low and the set-up is simple, just Nigel on the stage with a microphone stand and sporting the finished product of one of Jade’s ‘70s costumes -- a glossy gold suit, styled like Saturday Night Fever, over a black silk shirt. He’s shimmering like a disco ball under the stage lights, reflecting the whimsical, dreamy quality of the number.

The only other person on the stage with him is Dylan, accompanying him on bass and providing back-up vocals. He’s dressed much simpler, dressed in black and wearing his custom-made Jade Beamon original suit jacket from junior prom. His hair is the ‘70s-ified element, swept up and combed back like John Travolta. While he happily lets Nigel hog the spotlight, he does take a moment in the performance to wink to Asher in the audience.

INT. AAA - COSTUME LOFT - DAY

Intercut with the performance, we check back in with Nigel and Jade in the loft, doing a metaphorical dance of their own around each other as Jade costumes. There’s something surprisingly amorous about the set-up when it’s paired with the ballad. Jade remains oblivious, studiously sewing away, but the romantic tension is more than apparent, in Nigel’s expression and the smooth delivery of his vocals as he looks at her.

And you may not think I care for you When you know down inside that I really do…

INT. AAA - LECTURE HALL - DAY

While she’s good at avoiding him while at work, Jade can’t keep her eyes off Nigel during the performance. Clarissa, Haley, and Asher cast knowing glances at her, but she doesn’t pay them any attention. In the back seats, Nate, Dave, and Jeff sway along to the beat playfully.

Cause we're living in a world of fools Breaking us down when they all should let us be

Ultimately, though, even if certain truths remain unsaid, what can’t be denied is an excellent performance. Nigel brings it home with grace, understated as always but, in this case, pretty swoonworthy.

We belong to you and me…

INT. BABINEAUX HOME - ZAY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Zay is on the phone with Riley, the latter walking him through all of the bulletins from that day’s showdown discussion. He listens eagerly, living vicariously, but it’s obvious he’s also frustrated that he’s being excluded. He reminds Riley that they can call on him at any time to brainstorm on choreography or reevaluate concepts, but she gently waves him off by insisting she doesn’t want to put any additional pressure on him.

Zay: Well, to be honest, not being consulted kind of makes me feel more --

Riley: Oh, shoot, Maya’s here. She’s supposed to be meeting with Farkle after his therapist appointment this evening, so I’m sure she just has a bunch of notes she wants to Maya-splain to me first.

Zay: If she wants to get on speaker, then she could --

Riley: I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? And I’ll let you know if anything major happens. Love you!

Zay: But Riley --

She hangs up before he can get a word in, even a goodbye. He sighs and drops his phone on his bed, pulling his laptop back towards him. He has his applications webpage open, where he’s painstakingly attempting to piece together the final elements of his portfolio. It’s not in bad shape, but with the glooming reality of his booted foot and inability to make anything more, it doesn’t feel like enough. It feels like being trapped.

He grabs his phone again, obviously wanting to talk to someone about it. But he can’t talk to Riley -- he knows she’s busy. He can’t talk to Yindra. He can’t talk to Maya -- and nor would he want to, thank you very much.

Charlie…

He could talk to Charlie. God, he wants to talk to Charlie. And they’ve opened up the lines of communication again, haven’t they? Couldn’t it be easy, like it was before? All he has to do is say something… but he doesn’t know what that would be. It’s still confusing and twisted up inside him. And whatever happened with Haverford at the car wash is admittedly suspicious, though it just doesn’t feel right to think Charlie would do something like that.

Confusing. Complicated. Stuck. He’s stuck, stuck, stuck.

INT. THERAPIST’S OFFICE - NIGHT

Farkle plops down onto Dr. Han’s couch, releasing a dramatic sigh and telling her there’s much to discuss (as there usually is). He starts to rattle off about the showdown drama because of Zay’s injury and how he and Isadora dumped water on their greatest rival at the moment, but Dr. Han carefully interrupts. She explains that there’s actually something she wants to open this appointment with, something that she thinks it’s important to start exploring as soon as possible. Farkle is confused but intrigued, sitting upright and gesturing for her to go on.

She turns to her notes, pulling out a couple of prepared informational sheets and taking on a gentler, more professional tone. She explains that after their last few meetings, she thought a lot about some of the patterns Farkle had been mentioning in his recovery. She decided to follow her hunch and do a little more research, and she thinks she’s landed on what might be the root after conferring with his primary care physician.

Dr. Han: It’s my belief that you show all the clear symptoms of bipolar disorder.

It’s like all the air gets sucked out of the room. Farkle freezes, staring at her, but words stop making sense. She continues to explain how common it is for it to be misdiagnosed as depression, how now they can focus on proper treatment for his actual affliction, how it’s just as manageable with the right approach, but it’s like she’s talking underwater. Everything feels hazy, static, like Farkle is suddenly a thousand miles away.

Farkle: No. No, I -- I can’t be.

Dr. Han: I understand that an unexpected diagnosis can be intimidating. And bipolar disorder, like most mental conditions, is shrouded in a lot of misrepresentation and stigma. But with the right perspective --

Farkle: I’m not. I can’t… I have to go.

Farkle blankly gets to his feet, suddenly certain he has to get out of there. It’s like he’s underwater now too, like he can’t breathe. Dr. Han warns that he’s likely just having a strong reaction to the news, anxiety, but she assures him that the diagnosis does not change anything about him or his prospects. If anything, it will improve things, because now they can confront his reality with the right tools. And it will be safest for him to just relax here and process it during their session.

But no, Farkle can’t stay. He numbly repeats that he has to go, ignoring Dr. Han’s disagreement and stepping out of the office.

INT. THERAPIST’S BUILDING - HALLWAY - NIGHT

Farkle doesn’t stop until he’s fully out of her space, back in the endless office sprawl of a building like this. He waits a moment, dreading Dr. Han chasing after him and dragging him back in there, but she doesn’t come. He collapses back against the door, releasing a shaky exhale and screwing his eyes shut.

Bipolar. He’s bipolar.

A gentle piano begins to play, an iconic familiar riff while we stay close on Farkle’s face.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “All By Myself” as performed by Eric Carmen || Performed by Farkle Minkus & Zay Babineaux

Farkle takes the first lines of this legendary ode to isolation, singing them softly as the camera slowly eases away from him. The further away we pull, the more his sense of smallness grows, dwarfed by the hallway that seems to stretch on forever.

When I was young, I never needed anyone… those days are gone…

INT. BABINEAUX HOME - ZAY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Zay pushes off his mattress and rises to his feet, going a bit too fast at first out of habit and nearly stumbling on his bad ankle. He cringes, falling back on the edge of the bed to right himself. He huffs and hides his head in his hands, easing into the next lines.

Living alone, I think of all the friends I’ve known But when I dial the telephone, nobody’s home…

EXT. THERAPIST’S BUILDING - NIGHT

Farkle emerges onto the steps of the building in the financial district just in time to launch into the chorus. He carries on singing as he begins to make his way home, weaving through the streets and other passersby as if he’s invisible. Although he’s clearly emotional, it’s evident the information hit him hard, because he’s not at all at his usual level of verve.

INT. BABINEAUX HOME - ZAY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Zay keeps it tamped down whenever it passes back to him as well, though his limitations are outside of his control. He spends his portion of the vocals at his window, leaning out to breath in the life and excitement of the city he loves that he feels so locked out of.

Whether within or without the city, for vastly different reasons, both Zay and Farkle are feeling the same ache.

INT. MINKUS HOME - NIGHT

Farkle makes it home in time for the piano solo, showing off his proficiency on the instrument lest we dared to forget. Then he and Zay harmonize on the final, showstopping chorus, delivering a whammy even when they’re not quite in top form.

INT. BABINEAUX HOME - ZAY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Zay rounds out the number, stepping away from his window and shutting it forlornly.

INT. MINKUS HOME - FARKLE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Maya is back to brainstorming in the Minkus home as promised, pacing in front of the moodboard they’ve been working off of for weeks. She’s avidly running through potential pitfalls to their showdown prospects, which seem to be piling up by the minute, while Farkle is seated on the edge of his bed. He’s stone-faced, truly lost in his own head now, and Maya doesn’t fail to notice. As she’s ticking off more items on their doomsday list, she halts and gives him an unimpressed glare.

Maya: … and an inattentive diva. [ snapping in his face ] Farkle! Earth to Farkle!

Farkle: What? Oh, sorry.

Maya: I swear, you have been exceptionally offbeat this week. Of all the times, too, naturally it would be our greatest time of crisis that your zany passion eludes us. Honestly, Farkle, where for art thou? Why have you abandoned me in our time of need?

Farkle: I’m bipolar.

Maya: Okay? And I’m a narcissist. Just because we use pretty words doesn’t change the state of the union, darling.

Farkle, shaky: No, like, I’m literally bipolar.

Maya pauses, actually looking at him. His tone convinces her that he’s not being cheeky, and his sallow expression drives it home. Her demeanor shifts instantly, dropping much of her diva arrogance.

Maya: What?

Farkle: I’m bipolar. I don’t know how many more times I can say it.

Maya: I heard you, I just -- when? How?

Farkle: My whole life, presumably. How, ask God for me.

Maya: Well… well, like, what does that mean? Like, so you’re bipolar, well, what does that mean for --

Farkle: I don’t know. I don’t know, my psychiatrist just told me. I didn’t… I didn’t do a great job of listening to what came after that.

Wow. Silence reigns as Maya attempts to process this new information. Farkle speaks again, even more uncharacteristically timid than before.

Farkle: I know this is bad timing. Just… with this, and everything at school, I don’t know how on top of it I can --

Maya: No, no, of course not. Shh. It’s fine. You don’t have to worry about all that. You need to focus on yourself. On this. Don’t worry about Triple A. I’ll handle it.

Farkle: But Maya --

Maya: I’ve got it. It’s okay.

She pats his shoulders reassuringly, then turns it into a hug. Farkle hesitates for a moment before returning the embrace, desperately leaning into the comfort. Maya remains stalwart for the both of them, features intense as her mind runs to problem-solve a million miles an hour. Based on the furrow of her brow, it seems she might already be onto something.

Maya: I’m going to handle it.

INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT  - NIGHT

Riley, Isadora and Eric sit around the dining table, chatting casually after finishing their meals. Eric looks between the two girls with a warm smile before offering to clear up. 

Riley: I’ll help.

Riley gets up to help Eric clean away the plates, but Isadora places a hand on Riley’s arm to stop her. Riley gives her a questioning look. 

Isadora: I actually… I have something I want to show you. In my room. [ to Eric ] If that’s okay? 

Eric: Of course, go ahead. I’m perfectly capable of filling up the dishwasher on my own.

Intrigued, Riley follows Isadora into her bedroom.

INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT - ISADORA’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Isadora goes straight to her desk and opens up a notebook to reveal Valerie’s letter. She passes it to a confused Riley, who takes a moment to look over it. When she realizes what it is, she looks up at Isadora with wide eyes. 

Riley: Is this…? 

Isadora: [ with a nod ] A letter to my father. I found it in one of Val’s boxes. You’re the first person I’m telling so don’t… don’t tell Eric or anything. 

Riley: Oh, totally. Sure. [ a beat as she scans through the pages ] Why aren’t you telling him, though? 

Isadora: I don’t really know how I feel about it yet.

Riley guides Isadora to her bed, where they both sit. She collects her thoughts. 

Riley: Did you know anything about your dad before now? 

Isadora: No. I asked about him a few times, like ages ago, but Valerie always claimed she didn’t know who he was. I can’t tell if she was lying or not; I don’t even know when she wrote this. 

Riley: It seems like she didn’t really think about it until he wrote to her. And it definitely seems like he wants to be part of your life. [ a beat ] Do you want him in your life?

Isadora: I don’t know. I don’t even know what that would look like. My gut is screaming at me that it’ll end in disaster, like it always did with my mom, but at the same time… like, I’ve gotten by fine without a dad until now, but it does feel there’s a part of me missing. What if it’s him?

It’s clear that she’s been thinking it over a lot. Riley admits that she isn’t sure what she could say to help considering her complete lack of experience in this department, but suggests again that she should talk to Eric. 

Isadora: I’m scared to. 

Riley: What? Why?

Isadora: I don’t want him to think that he’s not enough for me. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t want to ruin it.

Riley places a hand on Isadora’s shoulder and offers a sympathetic smile. Isadora responds by resting her head on Riley’s shoulder, so Riley moves her arm to wrap around her. 

Riley: You know how much Eric cares for you. There’s nothing you could do to ruin it. You’re part of the Matthews family forever now, no matter who your father is and whether you meet him or not. 

Isadora: You’re my favorite cousin. 

Riley: I won’t tell Auggie you said that. And you’re my favorite cousin, too.

Riley plants a kiss on Isadora’s cheek with a ‘muah.’ Isadora pulls a face of disgust and escapes from her grasp as Riley giggles.

Isadora: Minus five cousin points. Auggie’s in the lead now. 

Riley: Nooo!

She chases after Isadora, trying to engulf her in a hug as both girls laugh.

INT. GARDNER HOME - CHARLIE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Charlie is back from a late rehearsal for showdown, changing out of his Haverford uniform. He strips off his shirt and places it in the laundry hamper, checking how his clothes from the car wash are faring.

Still damp. At this rate, it feels like they’re never going to go back to normal.

Suddenly, the house below him erupts with sound, voices being raised in the kitchen downstairs. It goes without saying, but raised voices are almost non-existent in the Gardner household. Charlie freezes, listening intently until he recognizes exactly what he’s dreading -- a higher-pitched, defensive voice. Rosie’s voice.

He drops the wet clothes and reaches for the first top he can find -- which just happens to be an AAA sweatshirt -- and yanks it on as he rushes into the hall.

INT. GARDNER HOME - KITCHEN - NIGHT

This time, there’s no question as to whether there is a fight. Rosie and ELEANOR GARDNER are more heated than we’ve ever seen either of them onscreen, yelling at one another and cheeks flushed. Rosie is particularly loud, in near hysterics since she’s young, emotional, and also on defense; Eleanor maintains a cool, superior tone even as she raises her volume.

Charlie slides into the room right in the thick of it, jumping in the middle without hesitation and questioning what the heck is going on. When he can get them to acknowledge him, Eleanor actually seems pleased by his presence, openly welcoming him into the argument.

Eleanor: Oh, perfect, just what we needed. A second opinion. Rosamund, why don’t you tell your brother why you’re in trouble? Go on.

Rosie, on the other hand, is not receptive to Charlie joining the conversation. She loses a lot of her fire, shrinking back and face flushing in embarrassment. Eleanor scoffs, though it seems like this is exactly how she expected her to react.

Eleanor: What’s the matter? Are you suddenly shy? You sure were loud enough arguing back to me about it, and now you won’t tell Charlie?

Charlie: Can someone just tell me what’s going on?!

Eleanor: Gladly!

Eleanor pointedly places Rosie’s phone on the countertop, which she’s been holding the whole time. It’s open to an Instagram photo on an unfamiliar page, one of Rosie’s new friends at her gifted high school. It’s a series of photos from some hangout the freshmen were having, but the photo in question surprisingly features another familiar player -- a bunch of the freshmen are sitting around and laughing, and Rosie is grinning while sitting on the lap of URI MINKUS.

It’s pretty innocent, but the implications are enough. Eleanor relays the whole tale, how one of Rosie’s friends from Catholic school told their mom about the photo in her tagged images and the mother was kind enough to inform Eleanor about it. This is already after a discussion she had with Rosie over this boy when she saw them interacting in a less-than-acceptable manner after school when she picked her up. She thought they had cleared it all up, but apparently not, between this photo and the fact that the text messages between her and this Jewish boy are nothing if not flirtatious.

Rosie: You shouldn’t have even been going through my texts anyway!

Eleanor: Oh, shouldn’t I? I didn’t realize you were the authority now! Privacy is a privilege, Rosamund, and you’re continuing to prove that you haven’t earned it!

They continue to escalate again, Charlie bewildered as he slides the phone towards him to get a better look. The photo really is so… nothing, and the whole argument feels so blown out of proportion. But Charlie knows the patterns, he knows what Bridgette warned him about, and all of the shouting and conflict is making him lightheaded.

Charlie, weary: Stop arguing.

Eleanor: I knew we shouldn’t have let you go to the gifted school. I knew you’d be better off staying in the Catholic system.

Rosie: Then why did you let me go?!

Eleanor: Maybe I shouldn’t have! Maybe that’s the thing I shouldn’t have done! In fact, maybe I’ll have to put a call into the deans and see if they can’t transfer you back --

Rosie, mortified: Mom, no!

Charlie: Stop…

The room is starting to spin a little bit. Charlie braces himself against the countertop, screwing his eyes shut and trying to block out the yelling. But he can’t run from it. He can’t hide.

Rosie: Charlie got to go to a different school! He got to go somewhere new without you breathing down his neck!

Eleanor: Because Charlie is responsible enough to handle it! You don’t see him posting suggestive content, flirting shamelessly, making questionable decisions. I don’t need to monitor your brother because he doesn’t give me any reason to be concerned!

Oh, Eleanor, if only you knew… it’s being invoked and talked about in such a discordant way that acts as the final straw. Charlie tries to catch his breath, but it’s not coming back, and it’s like the whole world is slipping away from him…

If anything will stop an argument, passing out probably does the trick. Charlie stumbles and then collapses onto the tile floor, shocking both Eleanor and Rosie out of their anger. Rosie shrieks and rushes to his side.

Eleanor: Charlie?! Ambrose! [ rushing to the entryway ] Ambrose, Charlie’s -- come quickly! Hurry!

Charlie’s down, all right. Rosie rolls him onto his back, checking for obvious injury -- lucky he didn’t crack his head open or something -- and trying to rouse him. But he’s out like a light… all of the tension slowly fading away…

INT. HAVERFORD PREP - AUDITORIUM - NIGHT

Meanwhile, Brandon is staying late at Haverford once again, only this time he’s not alone. He’s meeting with a mysterious figure, a HIPSTER 20-something man who is probably into photography or a wannabe filmmaker. But he’s clearly there on business, Brandon and the man speaking in hushed tones as they converse even though they’re the only ones around.

Brandon: And you’re sure you’ve got the whole thing? I’m not paying for poor quality or fractions.

Hipster: I’ve been doing this for six years. Think I know what I’m doing at this point. But yes, it’s all there. Professional quality. You’ll be able to see whatever you need to see.

Brandon deems this response satisfactory enough, nodding. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small wad of cash, trading it off with whatever object the hipster is offering. When they retract their hands, Brandon comes away with the secret item -- a flash drive.

He scrutinizes it idly while the hipster quickly counts the bills, then they exchange a nod, Brandon thanking him for his service. The hipster makes his exit, Brandon pacing for a bit on the stage and turning over the flash drive in his fingers. Whatever it is, he seems pretty satisfied to have it in his grasp.

He loses some of his easygoing confidence when he hears the auditorium doors open. He slips the flash drive into his blazer pocket and straightens up, narrowing his eyes to assess his new company. When he recognizes who it is, though, an intrigued smirk blooms across his face.

Brandon: Well, well, well. I have to say, this is an unexpected surprise.

Maya Hart. Dressed in one of her sharpest ensembles, Valerie’s fur coat giving her that extra oomph, matching Brandon’s cool sophistication effortlessly. She leisurely saunters her way down the aisle towards the stage, taking her sweet time.

Maya: So this is the fabled Haverford Prep. [ pursing her lips ] I have to say, I was anticipating greater grandeur.

Brandon: It’s hard when the indigent experience excellence for the first time. Never quite meets the expectations of their hapless daydreams… [ off her sneer ] Is there something I can do for you, Hart? Let alone at this late hour?

Maya: Don’t flatter yourself. It’s 8PM.

She’s made her way to the stage now, coming to stand opposite Brandon front and center. There’s a healthy distance between them, keeping them staunchly on opposing sides, but they regard each other with respect. Maya claims she just wanted to come have a little chat, clan leader to clan leader.

Brandon: That so? I thought Friar was your figurehead.

Maya: We both have our respective areas of expertise. I like to think of myself as the Cheney to his Bush. Conservative politics notwithstanding.

Brandon: Was going to say. I don’t see Cheney being much of a swinger for socialist handouts like you all are gunning for. [ sizing her up ] But I’ll admit, I pegged you for a captain rather than a lackey. You sure took front and center at the car wash.

Maya: Ah, yes… the function you so ceremoniously soiled.

Brandon: Hope you’ll forgive the incursion. It’s only business. A little competitive spirit is all.

Maya: Oh, no arguments from me. I’m more incensed I didn’t see it coming. Wish I had thought of it myself.

Brandon chuckles, perhaps a bit won over by her… unique Maya charms. He claims he got the sense they were more alike than different… in fact, if circumstances were different, and they weren’t sworn rivals… Maya catches onto his drift right quick, mirroring his smug charisma as she feigns sympathy.

Maya: So you like what you see. Don’t despair, you’re far from the only one. But I’m afraid that’s a forgone impossibility.

Brandon: [ processing what might be a rejection ] Ah. I see. [ like they’re confidants ] You play for the other team?

Well. That’s a pretty bold assumption to jump to just because she doesn’t want to get with you, Brandon. But Maya maintains her coolness, unperturbed by such arrogant conclusions. She makes a face, as if she’s contemplating.

Maya: … no team. Let’s put it that way.

Brandon: And what’s that supposed to mean exactly?

Maya: The only team I play for is Triple A. And that’s what I’m here for.

Brandon backs off his advances and allows her the floor, back to all business. She tactfully begins to discuss negotiations around senior showdown, dancing around the details of everything going wrong inside the ranks of the A class but letting just enough of her cards show to indicate that she’s only here due to dire circumstances. Then she subtly tries to charm her way to an ideal outcome, brokering a deal where maybe, just perhaps, Haverford might find themselves on the losing side of the showdown confrontation.

You know she’s desperate if Maya is trying to arrange a thrown victory. And Brandon can sense that too, even as aloof as she’s acting, which just makes the whole situation more amusing to him. Though he feigned listening to her pitch, he is all too eager to shoot it down. Why would Haverford want to throw the competition, he muses, when their winning streak is so hot and their competition is apparently so weak?

Brandon: I knew you all were hardly a threat, but this is even more pathetic than I thought. I mean, you and Friar coming to me trying to cut a deal for an easy victory -- what a leadership duo. You all must be in harsher condition than I imagined.

Maya: Wait, what?

Brandon: … you didn’t know? That your president already paid me a little visit earlier in the semester?

Maya doesn’t respond, but the way she’s lost her easy confidence as she stares at him answers for her. Brandon laughs, shaking his head.

Brandon: What presidential teamwork. Clearly, the future of Adams is in outstanding hands. But with such low confidence, and even lower moves you’ll stoop to… no, I believe Haverford is just fine where we are now. We’ll beat you handily, as we have for the last six years, and rest assured Hart, it’ll be with immense pleasure. [ a beat ] You should probably be going, then. The security doesn’t take kindly to riff-raff hanging around our hallowed halls.

He swivels and swaggers offstage, leaving Maya alone and humiliated in enemy territory. She’s fuming, gritting her teeth and fists clenched at her sides.

INT. CHUBBIES - NIGHT

Riley is seated at the counter with her laptop, keeping Lucas company while he works the late shift. She’s running through analytics of the RSVPs they’ve already gotten for the dance fundraiser, which she claims is looking pretty good.

Lucas isn’t in a very optimistic mood, commenting that even if they get half of Manhattan to show up, it probably won’t be enough to cover all their expenses including the scholarships. With their chances at showdown dwindling by the minute… who knows. Maybe he’s not doing absolutely everything he can to make it happen…

Riley closes her laptop, giving him her undivided attention.

Riley: Don’t count Triple A out of showdown just yet, please and thank you. But I think I know what this is really about.

Lucas hesitates, freezing up.

Lucas: You do?

Riley: Yeah. You act like you’re so hard to read, like I don’t know you well enough to figure out when you’re not telling me something.

How could she know… did Zay tell her about seeing Missy in the booth? He swallows. She reaches across the counter and takes his hands, giving him a sympathetic look.

Riley: You’re freaking out over the college essays.

Lucas: Oh. [ a beat ] Yeah, well, I guess I am.

Riley reminds him that he doesn’t have to keep that kind of stuff from her and act like he’s unshakeable all the time. And honestly, she gets why he’s nervous about them. It sucks writing about yourself no matter what -- unless you’re Maya -- but it’ll be even harder for him given the things he’s been through. He hasn’t exactly been encouraged to view himself favorably, at least not until recently. Old habits are hard to break.

Riley: But that’s not necessarily what they’re looking for anyway. You don’t need to prove to them that you’re the most perfect shining candidate to ever apply, you just need to give them a really good story. Make them invested, get them to care about you. Show them a bit of your individuality, your personality -- which you are not short of in either department. And I know for a fact you can draw people in…

She is, after all, a prime example. Lucas still seems doubtful, but her perspective does help. And her belief in him continues to astound him, forged in steel even when everything else feels so unpredictable. Riley leans forward to give him a soft kiss, which lingers between them.

It’s impressive, too, how being with her grounds him. How their closeness doesn’t feel like an intrusion… and somehow, feeling cornered by other forces or put on edge just makes him want to be with her more. Lucas initiates another kiss, forgetting everything else for a moment, taking shelter in that inexplicable safety with her. Riley has no complaints, leaning deeper into it and tightening her touch on his hand.

Then the front door bangs open, the bell jangling ominously. Both of them jump and pull apart. Maya marches into the diner, indignant and blue eyes burning.

Maya: What the hell, Friar?

Lucas: What’s the matter with you now?

Riley: Is everything okay?

Maya: When were you going to tell me you shook down Brandon?

Riley: [ whipping to look at him ] What?

Lucas clams up, straightening upright and taking on a defensive stance. But the sheepish expression on his face gives him away. Busted.

Maya: You know, I think that kind of mercenary maneuver is exactly the sort of decision your VP should know about. Were you just never going to let me in on it?

Riley: Why the hell did you do that?

Maya: I don’t care about that. Friar’s a shady bastard, we all knew his methods were going to be far from clean. Who gives a shit. I’m pissed he decided not to keep me in the loop! Do you have any idea how humiliating it was for me to roll up there only for Brandon Rivas to hand my ass to me on a silver platter? Cocky prick, like he knows absolutely everything --

Riley: Wait, wait. [ eyeing her ] Why were you confronting Brandon?

Oh. Well. Cough. Maya flips her hair off her shoulder, but she can’t give a good excuse that doesn’t make her just as culpable as Lucas. He raises his eyebrows at her, emphasizing that if he’s going down she’s going with him. Riley closes her eyes, trying to catch up to this turn of events.

Riley: Let me get this straight. Both of you went to our competition, at separate times, to try and threaten them into… what? Giving up? Throwing the showdown?

Lucas: I just thought that --

Maya: Our prospects are in shambles even without the money. I was just --

Lucas: And I didn’t want you to be disappointed --

Maya: Everyone is counting on me, we’ve all got a lot riding on --

Riley: Okay, okay, stop. Enough!

Riley holds her hands up, getting them both to shut up. She takes a moment to compose herself, taking a deep breath, then she jumps into fixer mode.

Riley: This must be the week for damage control, because now you’ve really done it. You realize now we’re going to have to bring it even harder, since you’ve made it perfectly clear to Brandon and the Havies that we’re spooked. You wouldn’t go and grovel for mercy if we weren’t.

Lucas: That wasn’t --

Maya, scoffing: I do not grovel --

Riley: I cannot believe you would do something so stupid. [ to Lucas ] And that you would do something like this and not tell me…

Oof… hit him where it hurts, Riles. Lucas lowers his head, avoiding her eyes. Case in point, it doesn’t make anybody look very good. And now, Riley proclaims, she has to fix it once again.

Riley: We’re going to have to brainstorm fast for showdown and make sure everything is in pristine shape, which we already know is a shot in the dark. Call Yindra, tell her to come by our place in twenty. I’ll see if we can get Jeff and Isadora too.

Riley puts her belongings back in her bag and hops off the stool, Maya already heading out. Riley goes to follow her, but she pauses in the doorway and glances back over her shoulder at Lucas. She shakes her head, obviously disappointed.

Riley: I can’t believe you.

She leaves it there, pushing through the doors without another word. Lucas looks after her, ashamed, then curses to himself and lightly hits the counter with his palm.

Break 2.

EXT. DANCE LOT - DREAM SEQUENCE - NIGHT

Charlie is sprawled on the asphalt, just like when he collapsed, the city uncharacteristically quiet around him. When he comes around he jolts upright, spooked at being outside and on his own. He looks around in confusion, no clue where he is or how he got there. He slowly gets to his feet, recognizing the dance lot as a place he’s been before, but unsure where exactly it is or where to go next.

Only one clue exists to help guide him. Music.

It’s quiet, muffled, but he can hear it. A thumping bass, hypnotic beat… he spins until he zeroes in on the source. A heavy metal door installed into the wall opposite him, propped open just slightly, with a neon sign above indicating it’s likely some kind of club. Colorful light leaks out from the crack, mesmerizing and more than intriguing.

But it’s really the music that wins him over. He’s a dancer, and he cannot resist a compelling groove. He cautiously approaches the door, pulling it open and then stepping inside… as the faraway rhythms slowly become a familiar tune...

INT. DANCE CLUB - DREAM SEQUENCE - NIGHT

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Voulez-Vous” as performed by Mamma Mia! Original Movie Cast || Performed by AAA Seniors & Haverford Seniors

The rambunctious ABBA classic kicks off with a bang, music loud and boldly setting the scene. The lighting is mysterious, electric, the fully romanticized version of what a sultry, exciting disco scene might be like. Charlie is no longer dressed in his everyday clothes but is suddenly styled to match the vibes, sporting a sleek disco suit with Riley’s aforementioned blue dress shirt completing the look.

And as he ventures deeper into the club, he discovers he’s not alone. The place is packed with his classmates both current and former, Haverford populating one side and Adams the other, but all dressed in similar, near identical, disco suits. All eyes lock on him the moment he’s within view, judging him, waiting for him to make a move -- or pick a side.

The vocals start, and Charlie does neither, jumping down from the steps and sliding into the center of the glowing dance floor -- right down the middle of party lines. He starts the number dancing alone, challenging the established status quo in the club, tension mounting around his transgression of crossing lines…

Until Zay pushes through the crowd on the A class side. On both feet, looking fly as ever, no injury in sight and nothing holding him back from showing his stuff.

And here we go again, we know the start, we know the end Masters of the scene

Charlie pauses, locking eyes with Zay. For a moment, finishing up the pre-chorus, they just hold eye contact… letting that tension bubble over…

Then Zay jumps into the center of the floor with him, joining in the dance.

Voulez-vous!

For the first chorus it’s just Zay and Charlie, dancing sometimes together and sometimes in contrast, epitomizing the back-and-forth pull between them. But it’s them, so the dancing is remarkably good, and especially satisfying considering how long it’s been since we saw them share a routine. Their timing and chemistry is just as sharp as ever, and it’s also a relief just to see Zay be able to move again.

Throughout the second verse, they weave back into their respective schools, Charlie’s peers still eyeing each other suspiciously and reluctant to break rank. But Zay manages to get Riley out on the dance floor (with Lucas in tow), and then Charlie nudges Evan. Bit by bit the classes mix and mingle, caught somewhere between dancing in tandem and facing off like foes. This becomes especially pronounced during the bridge about 3 and half minutes in, when the chorus becomes stripped and just relies on “ahas,” Charlie leading the Haverford delegation and Zay fronting the A class as they mirror movements and poses.

Then they officially bleed together, classmates crossing into opposite territory for the final chorus. For those who don’t already have a pair in their respective class (unlike say, Dylan and Asher), they pair with someone from the opposite school, like Brandon and Maya.

And, naturally, Zay and Charlie. They’re back together at the center of it all, intensity rising with the music, choreography much more intertwined this time and very close together. If not breaking charged eye contact were an Olympic sport, they would win gold easily.

The flash. The glamor. The drama. ABBA would be proud! When they round out the final seconds and strike their final pose, Zay and Charlie’s faces are so close, all it would take is a centimeter in either direction…

Zay: Charlie...

Charlie’s eyes flit down to his lips, as if he’s contemplating that very thing…

Rosie, faraway: Charlie!

INT. GARDNER HOME - CHARLIE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Alas, not meant to be -- even in dream sequence. Charlie rouses awake when he’s shaken by Rosie, sitting on the bed next to him.

Oh, well. Wouldn’t be the same as doing it for real anyway.

Charlie blinks to adjust back to reality, Rosie releasing a momentous sigh when she sees he’s conscious again. She snaps at him for scaring her, informing him that his fainting spell totally freaked her and Eleanor out. Ambrose is on the phone with their doctor friend right now. He manages to sit up and apologizes for worrying them. It’s probably just… stress.

Rosie: Either way, bad party trick. Mom was so bugged out. You shouldn’t tell her you think it’s stress, or else she’ll probably yank you out of school too and back into Catholic prep.

Charlie: Yeah, speaking of… you really think she’s going to do that to you?

Rosie: … after you passed out, the conversation was basically dropped. If I keep quiet and don’t do anything else to incriminate myself, I think she’ll let it go. [ embittered ] Though sucks that I can’t even text who I want without her knowing every message I send. I doubt she’ll even let me speak to Uri now.

Charlie: Pro-tip? Change his contact name. Mom only goes looking for what she thinks is a problem. If you give him something inconspicuous, she’s never going to know otherwise.

Rosie stares at him, shocked her saltine brother would even think of something like that. I mean, he might be an alcoholic, but still… but it’s good advice all the same. Charlie goes on to explain that he was worried about her, too, and he doesn’t want her to feel like she’s trapped or she has to lash out. You can negotiate with Eleanor, you just have to be clever about it. He doesn’t want her to make the same mistakes that Bridgette did.

Rosie: Yeah, I know… thanks for looking out for me.

Charlie: So… Uri Minkus, huh?

Rosie: Ugh.

Charlie: He’s really that worth sneaking around to text?

Rosie: … I guess you could say… perhaps… maybe… that I have like, the tiniest crush on him. Just a little bit.

Charlie can’t help his smile. He jokes that she should be careful, not because of Eleanor’s concerns, but because if they get married then Farkle is going to become their in-law, and she has no idea what she’s in for if that happens. She groans and nudges Charlie, telling him to shut up, but it’s clear she’s already in better spirits than most of this week. She asks if he’s okay given that all his “stress” is literally making him pass out. Is everything okay with Adams? Charlie admits that he wishes things were easier to navigate than they are.

Charlie: Honestly, I think I’m just naturally gifted at making everything worse. [ with a weak laugh ] Probably should’ve listened to dad when he asked if transferring during senior year was a good idea.

Rosie points out that maybe some of that stress weighing on him is just stuff he creates in his own head. Not to demean it or anything, but like… does everything have to be an anxiety-inducing dilemma? If he wants to go hang out with his friends, from either school, then he should just go do that. He’s allowed to enjoy himself every once and a while and take a break from being the perfect saltine protective older brother. You know, have fun.

Rosie: [ holding up a finger ] Sober fun.

Charlie’s turn to laugh and nudge her. But maybe she has a point. And there might be just the perfect upcoming event where he can relax and have some fun…

INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

We join Eric and Isadora in the midst of their conversation. Eric reads Valerie’s letter while Isadora watches with her lips pressed together. Once he finishes the letter, he takes a moment to process it. 

Eric: Wow. That’s… a lot. 

Isadora: What do you think? 

Eric: I think that what I think isn’t important at all right now. What do you think? Do you want to get in contact with him?

Isadora thinks about it as she wrings her hands. 

Isadora: I’m not sure. But… you aren’t upset? 

Eric: Why would I be upset? 

Isadora: If I do want to meet him, I’m worried you’ll think that you’re not enough for me or something. I don’t want to hurt you. 

Eric: Isadora, that could never happen. I’m not hurt at all, I just want what’s best for you, and a relationship with your father could be something really good. 

Isadora: What if it isn’t, though? I don’t want to set myself up for disappointment. Again. 

Eric: That’s understandable. You don’t have to make a decision now, though. You have all the time you want to think it over. [ a beat ] If you want, you could write a letter to him yourself. You don’t have to send it, but it can be cathartic to write out everything you’re thinking and feeling about the situation.

Unsure, Isadora pulls a face. Eric reminds her again to just think about it -- no major decisions necessary right now.

INT. AAA - JACK’S OFFICE - DAY

Lucas is meeting with Jack one last time before the dance fundraiser to grab another cash box and go over any last minute details. Jack questions if he’s going to be dressing for the occasion, to which Lucas rolls his eyes but begrudgingly admits that he thinks Riley would be even more upset with him if he didn’t. Though he doesn’t have all the details, Jack assures Lucas that he’s sure Riley isn’t going to be angry for long.

One can only hope. Jack wishes Lucas luck and then he heads out, leaving him to his work. He settles back into it until he lifts his gaze and catches Yancy heading out of the building, checking out for the weekend.

All of Jack’s frustration from his conversation with Evelyn bubbles back up again. He pushes out of his chair, jogging out of his office.

EXT. AAA - DAY

Jack catches Yancy on his way down the steps, telling him that they need to talk. Yancy claims whatever it is can surely wait until Monday, but Jack isn’t having it.

Jack: No, I don’t think your active sabotage of my school can wait another damn second.

Yancy is stunned by his coarse language, effectively halting him long enough to have the confrontation. Well, what then? Jack questions when exactly he planned to let him know about his ongoing anti-campaign against the student government’s scholarship endeavors, or what would drive him and Graham to work to pit the board against them. He knows that they aren’t fond of him, especially after his stunt at the trial, but taking it out on the students? Who does that benefit? What do they gain from that?

Yancy, sharply: Actually, Jackson, you’ve hit the nail on the head. After your little unprofessional display, why wouldn’t we be invested in halting any other schemes you deem a good idea? Particularly when your chosen favorite himself just miraculously managed to become student body president in a school that hates his very existence?

Jack: You have no idea what you’re talking about, and Lucas won that election on his own merit. It had nothing to do with me.

Yancy: It has everything to do with you! Everything does! So long as you are at the helm of this ship, making all the calls, everything ties back to you. And we used to trust you with that power. But all this behavior as of late -- declining lucrative offers, favoring delinquents --

Jack: He is not a delinquent!

Yancy: Or how about cavorting with a fellow employee? [ off his shocked expression ] Oh, come on, Jackson, I’m not naive. Did you and Eric really believe you could flaunt your little flirtation right in front my face and I wouldn’t notice a thing? As if my whole purpose at that school isn’t to keep it from collapsing under your unprofessional whimsy and desires!

This whole time, he’s been observing, watching the operation of AAA from the inside out, trying to determine if Jack remains fit to head the institution. Yancy admits, when Graham first put him up for the job, he was skeptical -- he’d always had great belief in Jack as an educator. He was doubtful that he had really slipped so far… but now he’s seen for himself. There is a certain way things are done, and it seems Jack has forgotten all of his proper perspective in service to that law and order.

Yancy: When I finish my report to the board at the end of the semester, they’ll be the judge of whether or not you deserve to stay where you are. But believe me, if I had it my way, you’d be out of that position and filing for unemployment faster than lightning.

Jack: You can’t do this. You can’t eject me from the role simply because your perspective is too old-fashioned to be flexible. Or empathetic. And unwilling to examine context --

Yancy: Well, we’ll just let the board decide that, won’t we.

Guess we will. Yancy fussily buttons his coat.

Yancy: I would watch yourself if I were you, Jackson. In my opinion, it’s far too late, but we both know how easy it is to tip the scales slightly in your favor. Maybe you’ll salvage this yet. Otherwise, I’d start contemplating alternative paths. Have a good evening.

Yancy stomps down the steps, not waiting for a goodbye. Jack swallows his panic, trying to remain resolute in the face of so much pressure. Scrambling to figure out what to do next...

A groovy disco track bleeds into the soundscape, totally dissonant to Jack’s dread --

INT. DANCE VENUE - NIGHT

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Streetdance” as performed by Disco Street Machine || Instrumental

The ‘70s dance fundraiser is in full swing, and it seems to be doing well! The venue is packed not just with Adams students but other community members, promising at least some greater revenue from the whole ordeal. The scene is set with funky lighting and a dance floor, along with some flower-power type decorations and a fun mirrorball hanging above it all.

It’s mainly cool to see everyone leaning into the theme and dressed in their best approximations of ‘70s garb. We’ve got funky vests, blazers for days, chunky platform boots, a few bohemian chic vibes, you name it. A few establishing shots show us all these looks and more while the assembled crowd grooves to the disco track. Yogi is wandering with his camera, capturing footage for posterity and social media.

Lucas is manning the check-in table, this time keeping control over the money in his own hands. He maintains a cordial enough demeanor as he interacts with potential patrons, and he is giving some semblance of ‘70s as promised in his collared-shirt-under-sweater look. He’s serving like… gothic Fred Jones, which is about as much as you’re gonna get from him.

Asher and Dylan, on the other hand, are representing much better. Asher is repping the funky vest and puffy sleeve shirt vibe, matched well with some maroon bell-bottoms and swooped back hair, while Dylan is truly going disco with a silky vibrant shirt tucked into silver pants, a huge, chunky pair of Elton John tinted glasses the cherry on top of the ensemble. They ask how cash flow is going, and Lucas claims fine, but they’re not out of the woods by a long shot.

Lucas: If things don’t pick up, I’m going to start pickpocketing.

Asher: Yes, that’s exactly what we need. A literal crook for president.

Dylan: Isn’t that like every president?

Anyway, Lucas needs to chill. Or as Dylan puts it, surrender to the boogie. Which is what he and Asher are going to go do right now -- the dance floor beckons them. Asher leads the way, Dylan walking backwards so he can maintain eye contact with Lucas and literally disco groove away from him as encouragement to give in to the funk. Lucas just shakes his head, unimpressed.

When Lucas gets back to work, who should be waiting to purchase a ticket in but Charlie Gardner. He’s dressed for the occasion too, dressed in dark pants and a white blazer… with Riley’s chosen blue shirt underneath. It seems he followed her guidance and went for it after all. Lucas greets him and commends him for turning out, considering all the bad blood between Haverford and AAA right now. Brave of him to show up.

Doesn’t he know it… but he wants to be here. Lucas takes his money and nods for him to go on in, sending him into the fray.

Meanwhile, Zay is parked at one of the tables, not in the best mood considering he’s surrounded by the boogie and can’t participate. Nigel is doing his best to cheer him up, but it’s sort of a fruitless effort. When Zay catches him eyeing Jade, who the techies managed to extract from the loft to at least enjoy the dance, he sighs and tells him to go have fun. He doesn’t have to waste away with him. Nigel argues against that take, but Zay nods him onward, insisting.

So Nigel bounces to his feet, thanking Zay before cutting through the crowd in the direction of Jade. Zay watches him go, bittersweet at being left alone again.

Charlie skirts the edges for a bit before finding companionship in Farkle, who greets him plainly. He’s dressed like Eric Forman, wearing a simple button down and bellbottoms combo with a loose brown corduroy jacket. He and Charlie briefly catch up, commenting on how the turn out is and how great the aesthetic is. But Farkle is still a bit lost in his own head, and Charlie notices. He elbows him lightly.

Charlie: You okay?

Farkle: [ with some of his usual humor ] Chuck, that’s like asking the sky if it’s red. I think you already know the answer.

But he’ll live. Once he figures some things out… it’ll be fine. It has to be. Vagueness aside, Charlie can tell there’s more to it, but he opts to focus on distraction rather than problem-solving. He’s had enough problem-solving for a lifetime this week. He invites Farkle to go dance instead, playfully challenging him to show what disco moves he’s got up his sleeve.

Farkle: Oh, you’re going to regret this -- and not because I’m good.

Charlie laughs, gesturing for him to lead the way onto the dance floor.

Maya jumps up onto the small stage set up with the DJ booth, taking the microphone and briefly thanking everyone for coming out. No applause necessary for putting it together, really… and she waits until the audience feels compelled to applaud. Then she waves them off “humbly” before reminding them of all the ways they can support the Adams senior class while at this benefit -- mainly financially! And by getting down and boogie-oogie-oogying. Peace!

Lucas shakes his head at Maya’s speech, lightly amused, but all of his calm is wiped away when Missy walks through the door. She’s dressed in simple ‘70s, a gorgeous and slightly revealing silk disco mini dress and with her hair blown out like Farah Fawcett. She cheekily compliments him on his get up.

Missy, sarcastic: An ensemble that elaborate must’ve taken ages to throw together. I see you really put an effort in.

Lucas: Maybe. And what’s your excuse?

Missy: Not everything needs to be silly and over the top. In fact, I think the richest things in life are those that go understated. Left unsaid… makes everything a bit more exciting, anticipating whatever more there might be to explore. [ a beat ] Same goes for fashion.

Lucas: … so are you paying, or what?

Missy: As I understand it, Adams seniors get in free. But since I can afford it…

She reaches into her small satin purse, pulling out a wad of cash. She siphons off about half of it -- way more than a ticket would cost -- and drops it into the cash box for him. He eyes it suspiciously, then flits his glare towards her.

Missy: I thought about our little chat. And you’re right, maybe there needs to be something in it for me -- which in this case is a victory at showdown. We’re embarrassing enough right now as it is. At least with the funding, we’ll look good when we crash and burn. And as for the rest…

She folds up the remaining bills in her hand and holds them out for him, gesture subtle but unmistakable. Lucas stares at the money, then glances around them nervously to make sure no one else is looking.

Lucas: What the hell are you doing?

Missy: Come on, Lucas. Don’t be noble. We know how things are between us. I’m just trying to help. And it stays discreet. Think of it as… a bonus, for all the hard work you’re doing for the A class. [ quieter ] I heard you in the booth. You don’t ask for help. Well, sometimes, you don’t have to beg. You can just take… whatever you want.

She raises her eyebrows, subtly challenging him to take it. Lucas hesitates, holding his breath… it feels like a test, he knows it is… but he’s already taken plenty from her without asking. What’s a little more…

Missy: Davis isn’t going to pay for itself, is it?

No. No it isn’t. She’s right, and he knows his chances of reeling a scholarship are slim to none. Does he really want all of this stress for applications to be for nothing?

Reluctantly, Lucas takes the money from her and slips it into his back pocket. Missy smiles, genuinely pleased, though why it’s hard to say. But it’s clear, now more than ever, that whatever little arrangement they’ve got going on here is a pattern now. It’s not just going to flutter away on its own, and the consequences that might come of it remain a mystery.

Missy: Groovy. Enjoy the dance, Lucas.

Lucas doesn’t respond, using the cash box as an excuse not to look at her. But based on flipping through the amount of money she handed over for the fundraiser, they’re way closer to their goal than before. And that has to make it all worth it, right?

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “September” as performed by Earth, Wind, & Fire || Instrumental

One of the best songs of the decade comes on next, earning an enthusiastic cheer from the crowd. Riley weaves her way through the throng and rushes up to the entrance to find Lucas, Nate in tow. She’s dressed in a shimmery lavender-mauve jumpsuit, a complimentary hair scarf tying together the groovy look. She pushes Nate in front of her.

Riley: Nate here is taking over table duty.

Nate: You know how I love dem bills, my brother.

Riley: So that you can come dance with me.

Lucas cringes, weakly putting up a fight. Oh, no, no, no… but Riley’s already got her hands on him, and her smile is so damn cute, it would be impossible to refuse her. So he lets her drag him out into the crowd.

Once they’re actually on the dance floor, Riley beams at him and pulls him closer, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Lucas does his best to be a good sport and play along, especially since he’s already in trouble, placing his hands on her hips and casually swaying to the beat.

Lucas: So… does this mean I’m off the hook for the Brandon thing, or…

Riley: Hm… so as long you’re dancing with me and you look so cute in that sweater, I suppose you can be forgiven.

Better than nothing, though Lucas still clearly feels guilty about disappointing her. Just one of many ways he feels like he’s letting her down… but for now she’s happy, so he’ll just focus on touching her waist and how hot she looks in her jumpsuit.

Across the dance floor, Dylan and Asher are in conversation with Jeff and Yindra, Dylan with his arm draped casually around Asher’s shoulders and bouncing to the beat. They’re discussing the everchanging stakes of their showdown routine -- at this point Yindra claims they should just scrap it all and start over, they’ve got equally as bad a shot with the shoddy routine they have now. But Asher claims that would be a disaster, and they should only cross that bridge if they absolutely must.

Dylan spots something that seems to capture his attention, his eyes widening in excitement. He pinches Asher’s ribs and leans closer, Asher tilting his head to listen to his murmur.

Dylan: Shakespeare in Love, straight ahead.

Asher squints through the dancing crowd and finds what he’s talking about -- Nigel and Jade. He’s actually managed to pull her onto the dance floor, engaging in loose and easy grooving together. She’s laughing, waving off how bad a dancer she is, but he holds one of her hands and assures her she’s good.

Totally radical. Asher and Dylan exchange knowing looks, unable to hold back a grin.

Zay is less enthused, mainly because of his current view -- Charlie, dancing with Farkle of all people to one of the greatest songs there is. Not that there’s anything to be concerned about, really, since they’re clearly just goofing around with each other and Farkle is as promised quite an embarrassing disco dancer. But he’s up and moving, free, having fun, making Charlie laugh -- with Charlie looking disgustingly attractive in his expertly chosen shirt -- and it kind of feels like a perfect vignette of what’s locked away from him.

Everything Zay wants, desperately misses, but can’t have.

His brooding is interrupted when Isadora plops down into the chair across from him, giving him a nod in greeting. He asks why she’s not out there grooving on the dance floor, and she sagely says she’s not interested in getting up to boogie so… publicly. She’s amazed Riley got Lucas out there, but that’s only because of her unique Riley charms. It’s torture in her eyes.

Zay: Speak for yourself, but you’re entitled to your whack opinion.

Isadora: I know, I know. This is killing you. And I respect that. Just not for me. [ a beat ] Maybe it’ll give you some peace to know that you being benched is an undeniable tragedy for all of us.

Zay: The considerate part of me says no, but the egotistical side does love it, thank you.

Isadora: You’re welcome. [ with a sigh ] Now there’s talk of changing the routine if we can’t figure out how to fill your vacancy. Not that I don’t think we could pull it off, but it would take all hands on deck and everyone on board, and I don’t see that happening unless there’s no other alternative. Right now, if we could just find someone to fill your spot -- never as strongly, of course --

Zay: Again, my ego thanks you. You’re not going to take the spot?

Isadora: Uh… I mean, I don’t know. A couple of people suggested it, but look, we know I’m no you. I don’t learn as quickly, and I’ve got enough of a track record with performance mishaps on my own. I mean, what if I do it but I completely freeze the moment we have to go out there? My mom’s parting gift to me was giving me the one thing she never had -- stage fright. Doesn’t that seem too risky to throw in there when the stakes are higher than ever?

Zay: Man, I don’t know. I get what you’re saying, but all I know is that I would kill to be able to perform right now. And if you’re debating it at all, then to me, that means you want to -- and if I had the ability to do it, I wouldn’t waste it for a second on what ifs.

Very insightful, Zay. Isadora contemplates this… then she points out to Zay that just because he’s off his feet doesn’t mean he has to fade into oblivion. He’s got to take the time to heal, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be involved in the class or productions. He just has to find new ways to involve himself rather than what he’s used to.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Y.M.C.A.” as performed by Village People || Instrumental

Another classic! In an instant, Riley appears at their table, teeming with enthusiasm and reaching for Zay’s hands. She insists that he get up dance with her -- to which he reminds her that he’s booted -- but she points out that anyone can do the Y.M.C.A. It’s just shouting and arms! So he relents, allowing her to help him to his feet, but his grin betrays his aloof demeanor.

Farkle slides over moments later, telling Isadora that she better get up and join them too. If Zay can do it, she has no excuse. She rolls her eyes, but she really can’t argue with him on that.

So the dance wraps up with a flourish, the full class laughing, sing-shouting and goofing off together to the party favorite that literally anyone can do. Nigel and Riley each support Zay on either side, and he looks about as joyful as he has in weeks. Asher and Dylan prevent Lucas from escaping, keeping him on the dance floor and trapping him in the Y.M.C.A groove too. Charlie dances with Haley and Clarissa, who take turns twirling under his arms.

Yogi and Dave make their way through it all, capturing all the joy of a successful fundraiser on camera so they’ll never forget it.

INT. DANCE VENUE - LATER - NIGHT

The party has wrapped up, only the A class hanging around to clean up. Well, the A class and Charlie, who insisted it was no problem to stay back and assist in tidying. He’s working with Nigel and Yindra at stacking chairs, the latter of which comments playfully that he really is too helpful for his own good.

Yindra: Such a good little Christian, truly. It’s like God injected his compassion mission into your cute white boy veins.

Charlie: Well… not that good, admittedly. [ a beat ] I think if he was going to make his prototype golden child, he would’ve skipped the part where he made me gay.

Oop. Wow, a casual coming out -- and with a little humor, too! Charlie is getting better at this. Yindra raises her eyebrows at him, assessing for a moment whether or not he might be joking… and then she breaks into a wide grin, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Yindra: Oh, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie… I always knew I liked you. And I should’ve known, considering that awful Les Mis kiss still haunts my nightmares.

She asks how long he’s been out, or at least telling people, and Nigel slides in to proudly note that he told him before Yindra. She rolls her eyes. Charlie admits it’s slow-going and hasn’t been easy, especially with the community outside of AAA, but it feels good every time he does it. Hopefully the rest of his world will turn out tolerant too.

Yindra invites him to her church that Sunday for a change of pace. She’s performing a solo in the choir, so it’ll be guaranteed entertaining, and it might be good for him to see an actually accepting church environment for a change.

Nigel: She just wants to force you to see her ‘70s performance before she shares it with the class on Monday. The more people she can force to be her audience, the better.

Yindra: Hey, now, I don’t care for your sass, Chey Chey.

Either way, her church runs later than his, so it shouldn’t conflict. And Nigel will be there too -- she’s bribing him with brunch -- so it’ll be like a fun little outing. Charlie just seems happy to be connecting with his peers again, so he happily agrees.

Nate, pre-lap: 70… 80… 90…

INT. CHUBBIES - NIGHT

Lucas, Maya, Riley, Dylan, Asher, Isadora, and Farkle are convened in and around the back corner booth, watching nervously as Nate counts the final income from the dance fundraiser. All of them are holding their breath… Maya is pacing like a wildcat, ready to pounce and tear him to shreds if the number is too low.

Isadora: Jesus, Nate, can’t you count any faster?

Nate: No, I don’t cut corners when it comes to money. Now shut up, or I’ll have to start over.

Farkle, exhausted: Hush, Isa. Don’t make him start over.

Silence settles over them again… and Nate finishes counting the bills from the cashbox. He lifts up a finger to halt them from asking, writing the number down and then pulling up the calculator app on his phone. After combining the total from this with the car wash haul…

Nate: We did it. Crazy sons of bitches, we did it!

They officially made the money to pay for the damages and fund their showdown needs. Victory! All of them cheer, hugging each other and clapping enthusiastically. Riley wraps her arms around Lucas and kisses his cheek, while he’s looking pretty relieved.

Nate: I gotta say though, the numbers seem kind of skewed based on the actual attendance we had. Someone must’ve made a huge donation. [ to Lucas ] Did you notice anyone drop some major cash?

Oh, interesting… Lucas pauses, then breezes past the question. He claims it doesn’t matter who donated what -- they’re in the clear, and now they can focus on what matters. It’s time to kick Haverford’s pretentious privileged ass at showdown.

Hear, hear! The group cheers again, exchanging high-fives and reveling in their hard-earned success.

INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Isadora arrives home, shedding her jacket and shoes at the door. She’s relaxed, and has a relieved smile on her face. From where he sits on the sofa, Eric looks over to her. 

Isadora: We did it! We raised all the money we need. 

Eric: Oh, amazing! Well done, I’m so proud of you all.

Isadora sits down next to him and exhales. It’s been a long day. 

Isadora: I’ve been thinking about it a lot and I’ve decided to write a letter to Zachary. 

Eric: Tha --

Isadora, interrupting: I don’t know whether I’ll send it or not, but I do think it’ll help just to get my thoughts out there.

Eric nods his agreement, and reminds her that he’ll always be there for her. Just as she starts to ask for help on what to include in the correspondence, there’s a knock at the door. Eric goes to answer it, pleasantly surprised to find Jack waiting on the other side. Although he’s happy to see him, Jack seems stressed, so Isadora gets the hint that she should probably give them some space. She wishes Jack a good night and retreats to her room, leaving them alone.

Eric: Did you hear that they made the money to cover the auditorium damages? I’m honestly impressed, but I guess we should never doubt the A class.

Jack: Yeah… yeah, I did. From Lucas. It’s great.

Eric: … okay, what’s going on. You’ve got your thin voice going, how you get when something is wrong.

Jack doesn’t even bother to ask what that means -- Eric knows him well, it’s hardly a surprise at this point. He releases a strained sigh and explains what happened with Yancy, both about him sabotaging the scholarship fund from within the board and then the confrontation they had on the steps. Eric listens raptly, absorbing some of his dread with every word.

Eric: That sick… I always knew there was something off about him. He’s a corporate sellout through and through -- has been since he joined the board. And he has the gall to lecture you… we’ll get him for this, Jack. We just have to strategize --

Jack: No. No, we can’t do anything. Not right now. Not with so many things on the line.

Jack mentions the other piece of Yancy’s threat -- that he might be put on probation for real and potentially let go. Eric scoffs at this, disbelieving. Jack is well-known in the community… no way he’d get ousted. It’s an empty threat.

Eric: What’ll probably happen is that if anything, they put you off contract, and the position would reopen for applicants. So all you’d have to do is apply again, and Evelyn would hand it back to you without question. Yancy is just reaching, he can’t --

Jack: But Evelyn isn’t the only vote that matters, Eric. If they can flip a decision on something like the scholarships… that affects the students… and I don’t think he’s bluffing. I mean, he brought up Lucas, he mentioned… he mentioned you and me…

Eric shrinks a bit at this. It’s uncomfortable that someone is using their relationship as leverage, implying it’s a bad thing, but he’s also nervous about the way Jack is taking it. He knows how much he cares about AAA. He’d do anything to keep it afloat, to do what’s right for the school.

Eric: So… [ with a deep breath ] What do you want to do?

Jack, softly: Right now… I just think we need to… we need to step back. Put things on hold until the dust settles. My examination period should be over soon, and when this is all sorted, then… then maybe we can…

But for now, they can’t. There’s too much at stake… things both of them care about more than themselves. Although Eric is reluctant, he does his best to keep his emotions in check and nods along. He places a hand on Jack’s shoulder, letting it rest there for a moment. Stroking with his thumb, soaking in the touch for all it’s worth. Who knows when he’ll comfortably get to do it again.

Eric: Whatever you need, Jack. I understand. [ with difficulty ] I’m with you.

Jack nods, grateful. More grateful than he’ll ever know. He holds his gaze for a long moment, then leans forward and presses his lips softly to the corner of his mouth. So close, yet so far… Eric closes his eyes, trying his best not to crack.

Jack pulls back, swallowing hard. He clears his throat and nods, back to a fragile shell of professionalism.

Jack: I’ll see you at school.

Eric returns the nod, but he can’t meet his eyes. Jack hesitates for a moment longer, wishing it wasn’t this way, wishing he could stay… then steps back into the hall, shutting the door behind him.

Like he was never there.

INT. YINDRA’S CHURCH - DAY

Charlie and Nigel are in one of the pews amidst the usual congregation of Yindra’s church, waiting for the choir following the service to begin. Charlie seems excited but nervous, liking the high spirits and jovial energy but worried he’s an imposter just like he is everywhere else. He leans over to Nigel.

Charlie: I stick out like a sore thumb, don’t I?

Nigel: Mm, yeah. But it’s okay, [ patting his arm ] you can’t help that you’re skim milk.

Thank you for that, Nigel. Charlie opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out, so it’s a relief when Yindra steps down front and center in her church choir robes to address the congregation. She cheerfully greets them and explains that she got to choose the song for this week, which she used to also fulfill the requirement for her art school lesson. Two birds, one stone, am I right?

Either way, she wants to dedicate the heart of this performance to her peers at school and in attendance this afternoon. She knows they’re all going through stuff, and even though it feels like the end of the world right now, it’ll all be water under the bridge one day. All they can do is take it day by day, and by the grace of God, everything will end up the way it’s meant to be.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Bridge Over Troubled Water” as performed by Glee Cast || Performed by Yindra Amino

If anyone could deliver soulful, impressive vocals to rival and honor Mercedes Jones (for those of us who did watch Glee, unlike the Havies), it would be Yindra Amino. And deliver she does, both in the church and on the atrium steps at AAA where she splits this performance. The rest of her choir backing her up gospel style really does add a certain something something, but the true emphasis of the number is the meaning.

Your time has come to shine All your dreams are on their way See how they shine, oh, if you need a friend I'm sailing right behind

When she makes it to the latter half and the gospel kicks off clapping to the beat, the entire congregation leaps to their feet and eagerly joins in. Charlie and Nigel are right there with them -- as is the A class in the atrium intercut of the performance.

Yindra brings it home with a spectacular vocal run, and you have to wonder if she really could make it out there in L.A. on her vocal chops alone. The church erupts into gleeful applause as she wraps up and takes a bow with the choir, beaming bright.

Charlie mirrors her smile, enthusiastically clapping along. Experiencing for an instant what it’s like to feel comfortable in church -- allowed to just be himself.

INT. CHUBBIES - DAY

Lucas is anxiously sitting opposite Riley in the usual booth, watching as she carefully reads over his personal essays. She’s doing her best to maintain a professional and neutral expression while she goes, but it’s impossible to hold back the slightest smile on her lips as she reaches the conclusion. When she lifts her gaze to meet his, but purposefully builds suspense by not saying anything, he cracks.

Lucas: Well? They’re terrible, aren’t they? You can just say it if they are.

Riley: … [ breaking into a grin ] They’re great, Lucas. Brilliant, honestly. Not that I ever had any doubt you could pull it off.

What a relief. Lucas exhales a sigh, thanking her for taking the time to read them. Then he continues, softly apologizing for not telling her about what happened with Brandon. Even though he had good intentions, he knows it doesn’t matter. And if he wanted so much not for her to know, then obviously it was never a good idea to begin with.

Riley: You know it’s fine for you to mess up. I just don’t get why you didn’t tell me.

Lucas: [ after a beat ] I guess I didn’t… it’s like the stupid personal essays. I know that… I’m not a shining example of a good person. I don’t think that’s exactly a secret.

Riley: I don’t think that.

Lucas: I know. I know you don’t, and I think that’s why I didn’t want you to know. Because it’s like every thing I do that shows you that, the more you realize that I’m… less than ideal, then…

Riley tilts her head, giving him a sympathetic look. Then she gets up and comes to join him on his side of the booth, sliding in next to him and leaning forward a bit so he’ll meet her gaze.

Riley: I told you that I wanted a relationship with you, and I meant it. And that’s all of you -- everything, the good and the bad. Even if you make a mistake, or I get disappointed, it doesn’t change that. We’ll find a way to work it out. I want you.

Her way with words makes everything sound so easy, so simple… and maybe it is. Maybe it can be just as simple as wanting each other, loving each other, and making it work. Lucas absorbs the sentiment, smiling shyly and thanking her again.

Hard part out of the way, Riley asks him how he managed to break his writer’s block and write those killer essays. What was his secret? Lucas hums, thinking about it.

Lucas: It was kind of what you said. You know, changing my perspective. When I was trying to write it from my lens, it was… well, you know. But then I just tried to think… what would Riley say? If someone asked you about me. And when I thought about it like that, I don’t know… suddenly, it was easy.

Riley chews her lip, smile blossoming on her face. She pulls him into a gentle kiss, one that he returns before swiftly stealing another one. She nudges her forehead against his, fondness shining in her eyes as she looks at him.

It’s no mystery how thinking like her made for some unbeatable work.

Billy, pre-lap: I knew it. I knew he wasn’t loyal.

INT. HAVERFORD PREP - SENIOR LOUNGE - DAY

Dweezil’s phone is sitting on the tabletop, open to the Adams social media page. Displayed are a handful of photos Yogi took during the ‘70s dance… including one clearly featuring Charlie, dancing with Haley and Clarissa. Although it looks like he’s having a swell time, Billy and Dweezil don’t seem happy for their classmate at all.

Dweezil: He’s never really jumped ship. We know he’s always hanging out with Riley anyway. This is just definitive proof.

Billy: Showdown is in a week. If he’s still this comfortable with his old chums, who knows how much shit he’s telling them.

Dweezil: And what if he finds out about the plan? No way he’s going to let us do it.

Billy: I say we take care of this now. Before it interferes with our performance.

Dweezil: He might blow everything.

Billy: Brandon. You have to have an opinion on this shit.

Opposite them and seated at the table, Brandon is examining the photograph for himself. He’s unperturbed as usual, thoughtful and contemplative. He doesn’t comment until Billy and Dweezil basically demand input from him, at which point he offers a calm smile.

Brandon: It’s nice to see him enjoying himself, isn’t it? I like Charles. He’s a nice kid. [ a beat, then suavely ] And a coward.

Brandon gingerly places Dweezil’s phone back on the desk, reclining back in his chair.

Brandon: I’m not worried about him.

Billy: Man, you’re kidding --

Dweezil: And what if he decides to --

Brandon: Don’t you get it? He’s not going to do anything. If there’s one thing you can count on with Charles, it’s that he’s spineless. He’s not feeding them information, and even if he does take offense to something we do, he isn’t going to do shit. Gardner is soft, and he’s the least of our worries. But in a week it’s not even going to matter. Especially not when we’ve got this.

Brandon retrieves the flash drive from his blazer pocket, placing it on the table between them. Billy and Dweezil eye it with interest -- they all clearly know what it contains.

Brandon: Once we crack into this, it’s over. We’re going to crush Adams like we do every year -- whether Charles helps or not.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

Ah, to be back in the warm embrace of the auditorium -- even if it’s still a bit banged up. It’ll take a little while longer to get the auditorium back in tip-top shape, but the A class can at least come home to roost in it again, which is where they gather for the kick off the next week.

All of them give a round of applause to Harley for his assistance in repairing their mistakes, and hope that he enjoyed the performances of the last few days. He assures them he did, though as he understands it, the week isn’t quite over yet. He steps back and allows Jade to take front and center.

She thanks all of them for being patient with her while she finished up her portfolio materials, and at this point she only has one more request. Behind her, Dave and Dylan roll out the racks with her ‘70s portfolio costumes, and she explains that she needs models to pose for the photographs she’s going to include in her application of all her hard work. Now hm… where on Earth is she going to find suitable, available models for free who she just happened to know all the measurements of and would fit perfectly into these custom costumes…

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Shake Your Booty” as performed by Forever In Your Mind || Performed by AAA Seniors

Riley beams, claiming she thinks she knows where they could find a few volunteers. The A class launches to their feet, rushing the stage to see what Jade has in store.

INT. AAA - BOYS DRESSING ROOM - DAY

The boys kick off this energetic, bopping closing number, changing into their Jade ‘70s ensembles and grooving in the dressing room. Sliding through the wall --

INT. AAA - GIRLS DRESSING ROOM - DAY

The girls are doing the same, fluffing their hair and doing each other’s make up as they sing into the mirrors. Once they’re all set, Yindra leads the way out into the dressing room hall…

INT. AAA - DRESSING ROOM HALL - DAY

Where they meet up with the boys, strutting in their fierce, authentically ‘70s looks. They make a mad dash for the auditorium --

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

And reclaim their stage, breaking into disco grooves as they toss around solo lines and show off their outfits. Jade stands with Yogi and helps him direct the costume shoot, both of them dressed up as well with Jade sporting the stereotypical but Jade-infused bohemian flower power girl look with a flowy white dress with puffy sleeves and a leather headband laced with wildflowers.

On the bridge, we get a montage of all of the A class posing in their outfits as they dance to get their pictures taken. This highlights not only how much we love this silly crop of seniors, but also how fantastic and individualized Jade’s costumes truly are. Paired with the earnest and jubilant performance, it’s a truly lovable showing.

Then they bring it on home with a disco line dance, all breaking into the same groovy choreography and all in their ‘70s garb. Zay watches from the audience with Lucas and the faculty, for once seemingly not in despair over being benched and still getting a custom outfit of his own. Dylan and Asher are front and center, and they pull Jade into it on the last few lines, so she also gets her boogie in before the day is done.

If one thing is clear, it’s that disco is far from dead, thank you very much! And while the A class has a lot on their plates -- and insurmountable stakes ahead -- it’s hard not to feel hopeful when they’ve got each other.

Whether that’s enough, well, soon we’ll find out.

END OF EPISODE.

[fuckofffuckofffuckoffloveme]

Runaway - Part Seventeen

~Masterlist~

Concept: Hazel Richards is a twenty-year-old woman living in London. When she meets a mysterious time-travelling alien known only as the Hunter, she’s thrust into a world of wonder she could only have imagined.

Warnings: swearing, follows S1 of Doctor Who.

The Hunter blinked as she woke, finding herself in a cupboard that seemed to be spinning dangerously. She made for a wall to lean against, then yelped as it gave way and she fell out into a brightly-carpeted corridor. "What's happening?" she demanded, struggling to get to her feet.

"Oh my God!" a high-pitched voice squeaked, making her wince. "I don't believe it! Why'd they put you in there? They never said you were coming."

"What happened? I was -" She cut herself off as she lurched sideways, the woman rushing to support her.

"Careful now. Oh! Oh, mind yourself!" she exclaimed as the Hunter hit her head on the wall behind her. "Oh, that's the transmat. It scrambles your head. I was sick for days. All right?" She let her stand for herself, leaning heavily against the wall. "So, what's your name then, sweetheart?"

"Art- no, no, that's not right. The Hunter, I think. I was, er - I don't know. What happened? How -?"

"You got chosen," the blonde woman stated.

The Hunter blinked, holding her head. "Chosen for what?"

"You're a housemate," the woman told her, grinning. "You're in the house. Isn't that brilliant?!"

"That's not fair!" a young man exclaimed. "We've got eviction in five minutes! I've been here for all nine weeks, I've followed the rules, I haven't had a single warning, and then she comes swanning in."

Another woman joined in. "If they keep changing the rules, I'm going to protest, I am. You watch me, I'm going to paint the walls."

A tannoy rang out across the room. "Would the Hunter please come to the Diary Room?" The blonde woman showed the Hunter through a door with a stylised eye on it, and the Time Lady sat in a comfy chair, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. "You are live on channel forty four thousand. Please do not swear."

"You have got to be kidding me," the Hunter rolled her eyes as she finally recognised where she was.

***

Hazel groaned a little as she stirred, blinking when she saw a dark-skinned young man watching over her. "What happened?" she asked, her voice croaky from lack of use.

"It's all right," the man assured her. "It's the transmat. Does your head in. Get a bit of amnesia. What's your name?"

"Hazel. But where's the Hunter?"

"Just remember, do what the android says," the man advised. "Don't provoke it. The android's word is law."

Hazel frowned. "What do you mean, android? Like a robot?"

A woman called out instructions from about twenty yards away. "Positions, everyone! Thank you!"

"Come on, hurry up," the man said, helping Hazel to her feet and supporting her when she stumbled. "Steady, steady."

"I was travelling," Hazel remembered, "with the Hunter and a man called Captain Jack. The Hunter wouldn't just leave me."

"That's enough chat! Positions! Final call! Good luck!"

Hazel blinked, clutching onto the podium for balance. "But I'm not supposed to be here."

"It says Hazel on the podium," the man stated, shrugging. Judging by his podium, he was called Rodrick. "Come on."

"Hold on, I must be going mad," Hazel frowned, looking around at the set-up of the place. "It can't be... This looks like the -"

"Android activated!" the floor manager called.

Hazel's eyes widened as the robot came into view. "Oh my God, the android. The Anne Droid."

"Welcome to The Weakest Link!" the Anne Droid announced.

***

"Here we go again," a female voice sighed. "We've got our work cut out for us."

"I don't know," another stated. "He's sort of handsome. Has a good lantern jaw."

"Lantern jaws are so last year," the first scoffed.

Jack opened his eyes blearily to see a pair of droids - one tall and thin, the other short and curvy - looking down at him. He appeared to be lying on an examination couch, and a quick glance around showed not much more than some mirrors and a few racks of clothes. He grinned nervously. "Sorry, but - nice to meet you, ladies - but where exactly am I?"

"We're giving you a brand new image," one of the droids said. According to the badge on her front, her name was Trine-E.

"Hold on, I was with Queenie and Jules," Jack remembered. Then, what the droid had said caught up to him, and he frowned, standing. "Why, is there something wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"It's all very twentieth century," the other droid, Zu-Zana, complained. "Where did you get that denim?" She was eyeing his jeans suggestively.

"A little place in Cardiff," Jack replied. "It was called the Top Shop."

"Ah!" Zu-Zana clearly knew of it. "Design classic."

"But we're going to have to find you some new colours," Trine-E decided. "Maybe get rid of that Oklahoma Farm Boy thing you've got going on."

"Just stand still and let the Defabricator work its magic," Zu-Zana advised.

Jack frowned. "What's a defabricator?" Trine-E didn't answer, just activated it. Jack looked down at himself as his clothes vanished. "Okay. Defabricator. Does exactly what it says on the tin. Am I naked in front of millions of viewers?"

"Absolutely!" Trine-E and Zu-Zana cried simultaneously.

Jack grinned confidently. "Ladies, your viewing figures just went up."

***

The Hunter had left the Diary Room to investigate the house. She hadn't got her jacket with her, but thankfully, she'd been using her sonic screwdriver as a decorative piece in her simple up-do, so she was able to use it to try and open the door out of the house. She swore when the door refused to budge. "I can't open it."

"It's got a deadlock seal, ever since Big Brother five hundred and four when they all walked out. You must remember that," the blonde woman told her.

"What about this?" the Hunter asked, indicating what looked like a darkened window.

"Oh, that's exoglass," the woman supplied. "You'd need a nuclear bomb to get through."

The Hunter rolled her eyes, biting her lip as she worried about where Hazel and Jack were. "Don't tempt me."

"I know you're not supposed to talk about the outside world, but you must've been watching," the woman said, looking nervous. "Do people like me? Lynda. Lynda with a Y, not Linda with an I. She got forcibly evicted because she damaged the camera. Am I popular?"

"I don't remember," the Hunter shrugged, trying to brush it off as she searched for a possible exit.

Lynda's eyes widened. "Oh, but does than mean I'm nothing. Some people get this far just because they're insignificant. Doesn't anybody notice me?"

The Hunter sighed. "No, you're, you're nice. You're sweet. Everybody thinks you're sweet."

"Oh, is that right?" Lynda's face had lit up. "Is that what I am? Oh, no one's ever told me that before. Am I sweet? Really?"

"Yeah," the Hunter flashed a grin. "Dead sweet."

"Thank you," Lynda smiled sincerely.

The Hunter frowned as she came to the other end of the house. "It's a wall." She remembered times she'd seen it on TV at Jace's flat. "Isn't there supposed to be a garden out there or something?"

Lynda snorted. "Don't be daft. No one's got a garden anymore. Who's got a garden? Don't tell me you've got a garden."

"No, I've just got the TARDIS." The Hunter's eyes widened. "I remember!"

"That's the amnesia," Lynda nodded, grinning. So what happened? Where did they get you?"

"We'd just left Raxacoricofallapatorius," the Hunter remembered. "Then we went to Kyoto. That's right, Japan in 1336, and we only just escaped. We were together, we were laughing, and then there was this light. This white light coming through the walls, and then - and then I woke up here."

"Yeah, that's the transmat beam," Lynda told her. "That's how they pick the housemates."

"Oh, Lynda with a Y. Sweet little Lynda," the Hunter sighed, shaking her head. "It's worse than that. I'm not just a passing traveller. No stupid little transmat gets inside my ship. That beam was fifteen million times more powerful, which means this isn't just a game. There's something else going on." She turned to one of the cameras and glared at it. "Well, here's the latest update from the Big Brother house. I'm getting out. I'm going to find my friends, and then I'm going to find you."

***

"Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen," the floor manager counted down. "Thank you, people. Transmitting in twelve, eleven, ten..."

"But I need to find the Hun-!" Hazel protested.

"Just shut up and play the game," Rodrick hissed. There was something in his voice that made her want to play, if only to kick his ass.

"All right, then," she shrugged. "What the hell. I'm going to play to win!"

"Three, and cue!"

The Anne Droid came to life suddenly. "Let's play The Weakest Link. Start the clock. Agorax, the name of which basic foodstuff is an anagram of the word 'beard'?"

"Bread," Agorax answered, looking scared.

"Correct. Fitch, in the Pan Traffic Calendar, which month comes after Hoob?"

"Is - Is it Clavadoe?" Fitch guessed.

"No, Pandoff. Hazel, in maths, what is 258 minus 158?"

"One hundred," Hazel answered confidently. This wasn't so hard.

"Correct. Rodrick -"

"Bank," he stated.

"Which letter of the alphabet appears in the word dangle but not in the word gland?"

"E," Rodrick answered.

"Correct. Colleen, in social security, what D is the name of the payment given to Martian Drones?"

"Default," she answered.

"Correct, Broff, the Great Cobalt Pyramid is built on the remains of which famous Old Earth Institute?"

"Er, Touchdown," he guessed, trying to sound confident.

"No, Torchwood. Agorax, in language, all five examples of which type of letter appear in the word facetious?"

"Vowels," Agorax answered.

"Correct. Fitch, in biology, which blood cells contain iron? Red or white?"

"White," Fitch tried.

"No, red. Hazel, in the holovid series 'Jupiter Rising', the Grexnik is married to whom?"

Hazel laughed, shrugging. "How should I know?"

"No, the correct answer is Lord Drayvole. Rodrick, in maths, what is nine squared?"

"Eighty one," he answered.

***

Jack was posing in front of the mirror, not looking convinced about his new outfit.

"It's the buccaneer look," Trine-E assured him. "Little dash pirate and just a tweak of President Schwarzenegger."

"Er, not sure about the vest," Jack confessed. "What about a little bit of colour to lift it?"

"Absolutely not," Zu-Zana admonished. "Never wear black with colour. It makes the colour look cheap and the black look boring. Now, let's talk jackets."

"I kind of like the first one," Jack suggested, his mind too busy trying to figure out a plan to focus on the jackets.

"No, that's a bit too much Hell's Angel," Zu-Zana told him. "I think I like the shorter one. Look, waist length, nice and slimming, shows off the bum."

Jack shrugged as she slapped his ass. "Works for me," he smirked.

"Once we've got an outfit, we can look at the face. Ever thought about cosmetic surgery?" Trine-E asked.

"I've considered it, yeah," he nodded. "A little lift around the eyes, tighten up the jaw line. What do you think?"

"Oh, let's have a bit more ambition," Trine-E stated. "Let's go something cutting edge." Her forearm detached to reveal a spinning chainsaw. Jack gulped.

***

"So, Hazel, what do you actually do?" the Anne Droid questioned.

"I just travel around a bit," Hazel shrugged. "Bit of a tourist, I suppose."

"Another way of saying unemployed," the Anne Droid stated.

Hazel narrowed her eyes. "No."

"Have you got a job?"

She blinked. "Well, not really, no, but -"

"Then you are unemployed. And yet, you've still got enough money to buy peroxide," the Anne Droid noted. Hazel frowned. She was a natural blonde! "Why Fitch?"

"Er, I think she got a few of the questions wrong, that's all," Hazel bit her lip.

"Oh, you'd know all about that."

Hazel glared. "Well, yeah, but I can't vote for myself, so it had to be Fitch." She blinked as Fitch burst into tears. "I'm sorry, that's the game. That's how it works. I had to vote for someone."

"Let me try again!" Fitch begged, tears streaming down her cheeks. "It was the lights and everything. I couldn't think."

"In fact, with three answers wrong, Broff was the weakest link in that round, but it's votes that count," the Anne Droid reported.

"I'm sorry!" Fitch cried. "Please! Oh God, help me!"

"Fitch, you are the weakest link. Goodbye!" A gun came out of the Anne Droid's mouth and the beam it shot disintegrated Fitch.

"And we've gone to the adverts," the floor manager announced. "Back in three minutes."

"What's that?" Hazel demanded, staring in horror at where Fitch had stood, a small pile of dust being all that remained of her. "What just happened?"

"She was the weakest link, she gets disintegrated," Rodrick shrugged. "Blasted into atoms."

"But I voted for her," Hazel whispered, feeling nauseous. "Oh my God. This is sick. All of you, you're just sick! I'm not playing this."

"I'm not playing!" Broff shouted suddenly, drowning her out. "I can't do it! I'm not - Please, somebody let me out of here." He started running across the studio.

"You are the weakest link," the Anne Droid announced, and disintegrated him. "Goodbye."

"Don't try to escape," Rodrick advised a pale Hazel. "It's play or die."

***

"Hunter, they said all the housemates must gather on the sofa," Lynda called. "You've got to."

"I'm busy getting out, thanks," the Hunter told her, sonicing the door to no effect.

"But if you don't obey, then all the housemates get punished," Lynda reasoned.

She shrugged. "Well, maybe I'll be voted out, then."

"How stupid are you?" the man, Strood, demanded. "You've only just joined, you're not eligible."

"Don't try anything clever or we all get it in the neck," Lynda warned as the Hunter sighed, coming over and sitting on the sofa.

The TV in front of them came to life suddenly. "Big Brother House, this is Davina Droid. Crosbie, Lynda, and Strood, you have all been nominated for eviction. And the eighth person to be evicted from the Big Brother House is..." There was a long, drawn-out pause, making the Hunter roll her eyes, lean back and put her feet up on the table. "Crosbie!"

Lynda gasped. "I'm sorry! Oh, I'm sorry! Sorry!"

"Oh, it should've been me," Strood said, hugging Crosbie. "Oh, that's not fair, Crosbie love."

"Crosbie, you have ten seconds to make your farewells, and then we're going to get you."

"I won't forget you," Lynda promised.

"I'm sorry I stole your soap," Crosbie apologised tearfully.

"I don't mind, honestly," Lynda assured her.

"Thanks for the food," Strood said. "You're a smashing cook. Bless you."

"Crosbie, please leave the Big Brother House," Davina Droid ordered. A door opened into a short white corridor, with another door at the far end.

"Bye then," Crosbie whispered. "Bye, Lynda."

"Bye," Lynda sniffed. She and Strood made an arch with their arms and Crosbie walked through into the corridor. The door shut behind her, and she appeared on the TV screen. "I don't believe it. Crosbie."

"It's only a game show," the Hunter pointed out, rolling her eyes. "She'll make a fortune on the outside. Sell her story, release a record, fitness video, all of that. She'll be laughing."

"What do you mean, on the outside?" Lynda asked, staring at her tearfully.

"Here we go," Strood muttered, and the pair of them ran to see Crosbie onscreen.

"What are they waiting for?" the Hunter frowned. "Why don't they just let her go?"

"Stop it, it's not funny!"

"Eviction in five, four, three, two one." A beam came from the ceiling and hit Crosbie. She disappeared in a puff of smoke.

The Hunter, who up until this point had only been half-watching, shot up, her eyes widening. "What was that?"

"Disintegrator beam," Strood replied.

"She's been evicted. From life," Lynda added.

"Are you insane?" the Hunter demanded angrily. "You just step right into the disintegrator? Is it that important, getting your face on the telly? Is it worth dying for?"

"You're talking like we've got a choice!" Lynda shot back.

Now the Time Lady was confused. "But I thought you had to apply."

"Don't be so stupid," Strood scowled. "That's how they played it centuries back."

"You get chosen whether you like it or not," Lynda explained. "Everyone on Earth is a potential contestant. The transmat beam picks you out at random. And it's non-stop. There are sixty Big Brother houses running all at once."

"How many? Sixty?" the Hunter asked, paling.

"They've had to cut back," Strood nodded. "It's not what it was."

"It's a charnel house!" the Hunter retorted. "What about the winners? What do they get?"

"They get to live," Lynda stated.

"Is that it?"

"Well, isn't that enough?"

"Hazel's out there," the Hunter realised. "She and Jack got caught in the transmat. They're contestants. Time I got out." She got up. "That other contestant, uh, Linda with an I. She was forcibly evicted for what?"

"Damage to property," Lynda supplied.

"What, like this?" the Hunter asked, crushing a camera telekinetically.

***

Now Jack was in tennis whites. "No, I'm just not getting this," he sighed, keeping an eye on the droids behind him. "It's just too safe. Too decent. And you'd never keep it clean."

"Stage two, ready and waiting," Zu-Zana announced.

"Bring it on, girls." They disintegrated his clothes again.

"And now it's time for the face off!" Trine-E cheered.

"What does that mean?" Jack asked warily. "Do I get to compete with someone else?"

"No. Like I said, face off." Trine-E started up her chainsaw.

"I think you'd look good with a dog's head," Zu-Zana suggested, snipping a pair of large scizzors menacingly.

"Or maybe no head at all," Trine-E countered. "That would be so outrageous."

"And we could stitch your legs to the middle of your chest," Zu-Zana added.

"Nothing is too extreme," Trine-E declared. "It's to die for."

Jack sighed. "Now, hold on, ladies. I don't want to have to shoot either one of you."

"But you're unarmed!" Trine-E pointed out.

"You're naked!" Zu-Zana added. Jack grabbed a small gun from behind him. "But that's a Compact Laser Deluxe!"

"Where were you hiding that?" Trine-E questioned.

"You really don't want to know," Jack chuckled.

"Give me that accessory," Trine-E ordered, moving forwards with Zu-Zana. Jack shot their heads off.

***

"You are the weakest link. Goodbye!" Colleen was atomised.

"Going to the break!" the floor manager called. "Two minutes on the clock. Just a reminder we've got solar flare activity coming up in ten. Thanks, everyone."

"Colleen was clever," Hazel hissed. "She banked all our money. Why'd you vote for her?"

"Because I want to keep you in," Rodrick told her. "You're stupid! You don't even know the Princess Vossaheen's surname. When it comes to the final, I want to be up against you, so that you get disintegrated and I get a stack load of credits courtesy of the Bad Wolf Corporation."

Hazel had blanched, but not at the disintegration thing. "What do you mean? Who's Bad Wolf?"

"They're in charge," Rodrick shrugged. "They run the Game Station."

"Why are they called Bad Wolf?" Hazel questioned.

"I don't know," he frowned. "It's just a name. It's like an Old Earth nursery rhyme sort of thing - what does it matter?"

"I keep hearing those words everywhere we go," Hazel remembered. "Bad Wolf."

"The things you've seen. The darkness. The big bad wolf."

"Attention all personnel. Bad Wolf One descending."

"Blaidd Drwg."

"What's it mean?"

"Bad Wolf."

She smiled, remembering the little boy that had graffitied Bad Wolf on the TARDIS at the Powell Estate. "Different times, different places, like it's written all over the universe."

"What're you going on about?" Rodrick frowned, confused.

"If the Bad Wolf is in charge of this quiz, then maybe I'm not here by mistake. Someone's been planning this," Hazel realised, seeing a tiny glimmer of hope.

***

"Hunter, you've broken the House Rules. Big Brother has no choice but to evict you. You have ten seconds to make your farewells, and then we're going to get you!"

"That's more like it!" the Hunter grinned, banging on the door. "Come on, then. Open up!"

"You're mad!" Lynda shook her head. "It's like you want to die!"

"I reckon she's a plant," Strood decided. "She was only brought in to stir things up."

"The Hunter, please leave the Big Brother house."

The Hunter grinned, running into the corridor, then smiled for the camera. "Come on, then, disintegrate me! Come on, what're you waiting for? Disintegrate me! What are you waiting for?"

"Eviction in five, four, three, two, one." The machine shut down.

"See! I knew it!" the Hunter grinned victoriously. "You see, someone brought me into this game. If they'd wanted me dead, they could've transmatted me into a volcano. They want me alive." She turned to the door that lead outside. "Maybe security isn't as tight this end. Are you following this? I'm getting out!" She soniced the door, opening it. Lynda opened the other door. "Come with me."

"We're not allowed!" Strood protested.

"Stay in there, you've got a fifty fifty chance of disintegration," the Hunter pointed out. "Stay with me, I promise I'll get you out alive. Come on!"

"No, I can't. I can't," Lynda hesitated.

"Lynda, you're sweet," the Hunter sighed. "From what I've seen of your world, do you think anyone votes for sweet?" She held out her hand. Lynda took it and they left the house. The Hunter frowned as they entered a long, familiar-looking corridor. "Hold on. I've been here before. This is Satellite Five. No guards," she noticed. "That makes a change. You'd think a big business like Satellite Five would be armed to the teeth."

Lynda frowned. "No one's called it Satellite Five in ages. It's the Game Station now. Hasn't been Satellite Five in about a hundred years."

"A hundred years exactly," the Hunter confirmed. "It's the year two zero zero one zero zero. I was here before, Floor One Thirty Nine. The Satellite was broadcasting news channels back then. Had a bit of trouble upstairs. Nothing too serious. Easy. Gave them a hand, home in time for tea."

"A hundred years ago?" Lynda echoed. "What, you were here a hundred years ago?"

"Yep."

"You're looking good on it," she mentioned.

The Hunter flashed her a grin, getting out her sonic screwdriver. "I moisturise. Funny sorts of readings. All kinds of energy. The place is humming. It's weird. This goes way beyond normal transmissions. What would they need all that power for?"

"I don't know," Lynda shrugged. "I think we're the first ever contestants to get outside."

"I had two friends travelling with me," the Hunter stated. "They must've got caught in the same transmat. Where would they be?"

Lynda shrugged again. "I don't know. They could've been allocated anywhere. There's a hundred different games."

"Like what?"

"Well, there's ten floors of Big Brother. There's a different House behind each of those doors. And then beyond that, there's all sorts of shows. It's non-stop. There's Call My Bluff, with real guns. Countdown, where you've got thirty seconds to stop the bomb going off. Ground Force, which is a nasty one. You get turned into compost. Uh, Wipeout, speaks for itself. Oh, and Stars In Their Eyes. Literally, stars in their eyes. If you don't sing, you get blinded."

The Hunter raised her eyebrows. "And you watch this stuff?"

"Everyone does," Lynda told her. "How come you don't?"

"Never paid for my licence," the Hunter shrugged.

"Oh my God!" Lynda gasped, her eyes wide. "You get executed for that."

The Hunter snorted. "I'd like to see them try."

"You keep saying things that don't make sense. Who are you though, Hunter, really?" Lynda asked.

"It doesn't matter," the Time Lady dismissed.

"Well, it does to me. I've just put my life in your hands," Lynda pointed out.

The Hunter smiled briefly. "I'm just a traveller, wandering past. Believe it or not, all I'm after is a quiet life."

"So, if we get out of here, what're you going to do?" Lynda wondered. "Just wander off again?"

"Fast as I can," the Hunter nodded.

"So, I could come with you?" Lynda suggested casually.

"Maybe you could."

"I wouldn't get in the way."

The Hunter smirked. "Yeah, but first, we've got to concentrate on the getting out part. And to do that, you've got to know your enemy. Who's controlling it? Who's in charge of the satellite now?"

"Hold on," Lynda muttered. She ran over to a breaker lever and pulled it, lighting up a sign behind the Hunter. "Your lords and masters." The Hunter turned and blanched when she saw the name - Bad Wolf Corporation.

***

Jack had found himself some decent clothes before starting to take apart the Defabricator for parts. "Compatible systems," he muttered. "Just align the wave signature... Attaboy! Got myself a gun. Well, ladies, the pleasure was all mine. Which is the only thing that matters in the end." He ran out onto Floor Two Ninety Nine, called the lift, then checked his vortex manipulator, scanning the space station. "Two hearts, that's her. Which floor?" He smirked, getting into the lift.

***

"Blimey!" Lynda breathed, looking out of a large observation window to the planet below. "I've never seen it for real before. Not from orbit. Planet Earth."

The Hunter frowned, her brow furrowing at the sight before her. "What's happened to it?"

"Well, it's always been like that," Lynda shrugged. "Ever since I was born. See that there? That's the Great Atlantic Smog Storm. It's been going twenty years. We get newsflashes telling us when it's safe to breath outside."

"So the population just sits there?" the Hunter asked. "Half the world's too fat, and half the world's too thin, and you lot just watch telly?"

"Ten thousand channels, all beaming down from here," Lynda confirmed.

"The Human Race. Brainless sheep being fed on a diet of -" She paused, distracted. "Mind you, have they still got that programme with three people have to live with a bear?"

"Oh, Bear With Me!" Lynda grinned. "I love that one!"

"And me," the Hunter grinned. "The celebrity edition where the bear got in the bath."

"Got in the bath!" Lynda exclaimed at the same time, laughing.

"But it's all gone wrong," the Hunter shook her head, suddenly serious again. "I mean, history's gone wrong again. This should be the Fourth Great and Bountiful Human Empire. I don't understand. Last time I was here I put it right."

"No, but that's when it first went wrong," Lynda stated. "A hundred years ago, like you said. All the news channels, they just shut down overnight."

"But that was me," the Hunter blinked. "I did that."

"There was nothing in their place," Lynda explained. "No information. The whole planet just froze. The government, the economy, they collapsed. That was the start of it. One hundred years of hell."

The Hunter had blanched, staring down at the ruin of a planet below. "I made this world," she realised.

***

Agorax screamed as he was disintegrated, and Hazel bit her lip, closing her eyes.

"That leaves Hazel and Rodrick," the Anne Droid announced. "You're going head to head. Let's play The Weakest Link."

Rodrick nodded. "Right, that's the end of tactical voting. You're on your own now."

***

"Hey, gorgeous!" The Hunter whipped round and ran to hug Jack as he stepped out of the lift. "Good to see you too, Queenie. Any sign of Jules?"

"Can't you track her down?" she asked, indicating his vortex manipulator.

He shook his head. "She must still be inside the games. All the rooms are shielded."

"If I can just get inside this computer," she sighed, returning to it. Lynda eyed Jack curiously. "She's got to be here somewhere."

"Well, you'd better hurry up. These games don't have a happy ending," Jack stated.

She bristled. "Do you think I don't know that?"

Jack squeezed her shoulder, handing over his vortex manipulator. "There you go, patch that in. It's programmed to find her."

"Thanks," she muttered, and he turned to Lynda.

"Hey, there."

"Hello," Lynda smiled.

"Captain Jack Harkness."

"Lynda Moss."

Jack winked. "Nice to meet you, Lynda Moss."

The Hunter rolled her eyes. "Do you mind flirting outside?"

"I was just saying hello!" Jack protested, grinning.

"For you, that's flirting," the Hunter reminded him.

"I'm not complaining," Lynda blushed.

"Muchas gracias," Jack grinned.

The Hunter growled. "It's not compatible. This stupid system doesn't make sense!" Jack took off the front plate and started working inside the computer. "This place should be a basic broadcaster, but the systems are twice as complicated. It's more than just television. This station's transmitting something else."

"Like what?" Jack asked.

"I don't know," the Hunter sighed. "This whole Bad Wolf thing's tied up with me. Someone's manipulated my entire life. It's some sort of trap and Hazel is stuck inside it."

***

"Hazel, in geography, the Grand Central Ravine is named after which ancient British city?"

"Is it York?" Hazel guessed.

"No, the correct answer is Sheffield."

***

"Found her," the Hunter exclaimed victoriously. "Floor Four Oh Seven."

Lynda blanched. "Oh my God. She's with the Anne Droid. You've got to get her out of there."

***

"Rodrick, in literature, the author Lucky was Jackie who?"

"Stewart," Rodrick answered.

"No, the correct answer is Collins. Hazel, the oldest inhabitant of Isop Galaxy is the Face of what?"

"Boe!" Hazel exclaimed, ignoring Rodrick's surprised expression. "The Face of Boe!"

"That is the correct answer."

***

"Come on, come on!" the Hunter muttered, bouncing on her toes impatiently in the lift.

***

"Rodrick, in history, who was the President of the Red Velvets?"

"Hoshbin Frane," Rodrick replied.

"That is the correct answer. Hazel, in food, the dish Gaffabeque originated on which planet?"

Hazel bit her lip. "Uh, is it Mars?"

"No, the correct answer is Lucifer. Rodrick, which measurement of length is said to have been defined by the Emperor Jate as the distance from his nose to his fingertip?"

"Would that be a goffle?" Rodrick guessed.

"No, the correct answer is a paab. Hazel, in fashion, Stella Pok Baint is famous for what?"

"Shoes," Hazel replied, shrugging.

"No, the correct answer is hats. Rodrick, in physics, who discovered the Fifteen Dash Ten Barric Fields?"

***

"Game Room Six, which one is it?" the Hunter demanded as they ran out of the lift on Four Oh Seven.

"Over here!" Lynda called.

***

"San Hazeldine," Rodrick stated.

"No, the correct answer is San Chen."

***

"Stand back, let me blast it open," Jack ordered.

The Hunter shook her head, pulling out her sonic screwdriver. "You can't. It's made of Hydra combination."

***

"Hazel, in history, which Icelandic city hosted Murder Spree Twenty?"

"Reykjavik?" Hazel guessed, her heart thumping.

"No, the correct is Pola Ventura." Hazel's heart sank.

"Oh my God! I've done it! You've lost!" Rodrick exclaimed.

***

"Come on, come on, come on," the Hunter muttered under her breath as she worked on the lock.

***

"But I'm not meant to be here!" Hazel protested, close to tears, fighting to keep it together. "I need to find the Hunter, she's got to be here somewhere, she's always here! She wouldn't just leave me!"

"Rodrick, you are the strongest link, you will be transported home with one thousand six hundred credits."

"Oh, thank you, thank you so much!" Rodrick was crying in relief.

"This game is illegal!" Hazel insisted. "I'm telling you to stop!"

The Hunter burst through the door. "Haze! Stop this game!"

"Hazel, you leave this life with nothing."

"Stop this game!" Jack shouted.

"I order you to stop this game!" the Hunter yelled.

"You are the weakest link."

"Look out for the Anne Droid, it's armed!" Hazel cried. She ran towards the Hunter and Jack, and the Anne Droid shot her, the beam disintegrating her instantly. The Hunter ran to where she'd been, kneeling next to the pile of dust.

"Back off!" Jack shouted as guards flooded in, keeping them away from the Hunter. "Don't you touch her! Leave her alone!"

A security guard took the Hunter's arm, trying to pull her away, while another dealt with Jack. "Sir, put down the gun or I'll have to shoot."

"You killed her!" Jack cried, his voice cracking. "Your stupid freaking game show killed her!"

"Ma'am, I'm arresting you under Private Legislation Sixteen of the Game Station Syndicate."

***

"Can you tell us the purpose of this device, ma'am?" A guard brandished the sonic screwdriver in front of the Hunter's emotionless face. "Can you tell us how you got on board?"

"Just leave her alone," Lynda scowled.

The guard glared at her. "I'm asking her. Ma'am? Can you tell us who you are?" He sighed, giving up. "You will be taken from this place to the Lunar Penal Colony, there to be held without trial. You may not appeal against this sentence. Is that understood?"

As a second guard unlocked the cage to let his colleague out, the Hunter glanced at Jack and said the first words she'd spoken since Hazel's death. "Let's do it."

Immediately, Jack kicked out the legs of the guard, before the Hunter telekinetically smashing the other man's head into a wall, then threw them both in the cell and locked the door. Jack grabbed his Defabricator gun, the Hunter took her sonic screwdriver, and Lynda stole the guards' weapons.

They ran to the lift. "Floor 500," the Hunter ordered.

***

"Okay, move away from the desk!" Jack ordered as he left the lift first, aiming his Defabricator gun at the staff. "Nobody try anything clever. Everybody clear. Stand to the side and stay there."

The Hunter came out next, Lynda following her. "Who's in charge of this place?" the Hunter demanded, walking towards a woman who was hooked up to the computers, the Controller.

"Nineteen, eighteen..." the Controller counted.

"This Satellite's more than a Game Station."

"Seventy nine, eighty..."

"Who killed Hazel Norton?"

"All staff are reminded that solar flares -"

"I want an answer!"

"Occur in delta point one -"

"She can't reply," one man exclaimed, then cowered as the Hunter turned to him. "Don't shoot."

"Oh, don't be so thick," the Hunter rolled her eyes. She threw the gun she'd commandeered to him, then glanced at a computer, seeing guards getting into the lifts on some kind of CCTV. "Captain, we've got more guards on the way up. Secure the exits."

Jack nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

The Hunter pointed at the man who now held her gun. "You. What were you saying?"

"But I've got your gun," he stammered.

She narrowed her eyes. "Okay, so shoot me. Why can't she answer?"

"She's uh... Can I put this down?"

"If you want, just hurry up."

"Thanks. Sorry. The Controller is linked to the transmissions. The entire output goes through her brain," the man explained. "You're not a member of staff so she doesn't recognise your existence."

"What's her name?" the Hunter questioned.

"I don't know. She was installed when she was five years old. That's the only life she's ever known."

"Door's sealed," Jack reported. "We should be safe for about ten minutes."

"Keep an eye on them," the Hunter called back, meeting his eyes for a second before looking away, swallowing.

"But that stuff you were saying about something going on with the Game Station," the man said. "I think you're right. I've kept a log. Unauthorised transmats, encrypted signals, it's been going on for years."

"Show me," the Hunter ordered.

***

Jack tried to open another door, seeing if it was an exit. A woman tried to stop him. "You're not allowed in there. Archive Six is out of bounds."

"Lady, I am holding a gun and my sister is dead because of you," Jack glared. "You really wanna tell me what I can and can't do?" She backed off, and he opened the door, grinning a little when he saw the TARDIS. He went inside and activated the monitor. "What the hell?"

***

"Solar flare activity in delta point zero fifteen," the Controller stated.

"If you're not holding us hostage, then open the door and let us out," a woman pleaded. "The staff are terrified."

"That's the same staff who execute hundreds of contestants every day, yes?" the Hunter checked, not looking up from the computer she was looking at.

"Yes, but - That's not out faults! We're just doing our jobs."

The Hunter looked up to give her a cold glare. "And with that sentence you just lost the right to even talk to me. Now back off!" She looked round as the power cut out.

"That's just the solar flares," the man - who'd introduced himself as Pavale - assured her. "They interfere with the broadcast signal, so this place automatically powers down. Planet Earth gets a few repeats. It's all quite normal."

"Hunter," the Controller whispered.

"Hunter?" the woman asked.

The Hunter just barely kept herself from screaming at her. "Whatever it is, you can wait."

"I think she wants you," the woman said, ignoring the Time Lady's anger.

"Hunter? Hunter? Where's the Hunter?"

"I'm here," the Hunter stated, moving to look up at her.

"Can't see. I'm blind. So blind. All my life, blind. All I can see is numbers, but I saw you."

"What do you want?" the Hunter questioned.

"Solar flares hiding me," the Controller muttered. "They can't hear me. My masters, they always listen but they can't hear me now. The sun, the sun is so bright."

"Who are your masters?"

"They wired my head. The name's forbidden. They control my thoughts. My masters. My masters, I had to be careful. They monitor transmissions but they don't watch the programmes. I could hide you inside the games. Knew that you would find me."

"My... my friend died inside your games," the Hunter said, narrowing her eyes.

"Doesn't matter."

The Hunter bristled. "Don't you dare tell me that!"

"They've been hiding. My masters hiding in the dark space, watching and shaping the Earth so, so, so many years. Always been there, guiding humanity, hundreds and hundreds of years."

"Who are they?" the Hunter asked.

"They wait and plan and grow in numbers. They're strong now. So strong, my masters."

"Who are they?"

"But they speak of you, my masters, they fear the Hunter."

"Tell me, who are they?" the Hunter demanded.

The power came back on. "Twenty one, twenty two," the Controller muttered.

"When's the next solar flare?" the Hunter asked.

"Two years time," Pavale stated quietly.

The Hunter swore. "Fat lot of good that is."

"Found the TARDIS," Jack announced, jogging out of Archive Six.

"We're not leaving now," the Hunter told him.

"No, but she worked it out," Jack grinned, moving to a nearby console. "You'll want to watch this. Lynda, could you stand over there for me please?"

"I just want to go home," Lynda mumbled.

"It'll only take a second," Jack promised, flashing that brilliant grin. "Could you stand in that spot, quick as you can. Everybody watching? Okay, three, two, one." He pressed a button. A beam came down, and Lynda vanished in a puff of smoke.

The Hunter blanched, staring at her friend in horror. "But you killed her!"

Jack grinned. "Oh, do you think?" Another button made another beam, and Lynda reappeared.

"What the hell was that?" she asked, looking dazed.

"It's a transmat beam," Jack replied, and the Hunter's eyes widened in hope. "Not a disintegrator, a secondary transmat system. People don't get killed in the games, they get transported across space. Queenie, Jules is still alive!" She hugged him, crying in relief, him laughing happily.

***

Hazel stirred, feeling the ground below her humming. Her eyes widened when she saw a very familiar enemy approaching her. "No, it can't be. You're dead. I saw you die!"

***

"She's out there somewhere," the Hunter whispered, grinning as she worked at a console, trying to figure out where she'd been taken to.

"Hunter," the Controller called, making the Time Lady look up. "Co-ordinates five point six point one -"

The Hunter quickly typed them in. "Don't! The solar flare's gone. They'll hear you."

"Point four three four. No, my masters, no! I defy you! Stigma seven seven -" She disappeared with a scream and a puff of smoke.

"They took her," the Hunter sighed, inputting the co-ordinates. They weren't done yet.

"Look, use that," Pavale said, offering them a disc. "It might contain the final numbers. I kept a log of all the unscheduled transmissions."

"Nice, thanks," Jack smiled. "Captain Jack Harkness, by the way."

"I'm Davitch Pavale."

"Nice to meet you, Davitch Pavale," Jack grinned.

"Time and place, Jack," the Hunter admonished, but it was in much better spirits than it had been earlier.

"Are you saying this entire set-up's been a disguise all along?" a woman asked.

"Going way back," the Hunter confirmed. "Installing the Jagrafess a hundred years ago. Someone's been playing a long game, controlling the human race from behind the scenes for generations."

Jack grinned as he found the co-ordinates. "Click on this. The transmat delivers to that point, right on the edge of the solar system." A hologram screen showed a blank bit of space.

"There's nothing there," the woman pointed out.

The Hunter shook her head. "It looks like nothing because that's what this satellite does. Underneath the transmission there's another signal."

"Doing what?" Pavale asked.

"Hiding whatever's out there," the Hunter replied. "Hiding it from sonar, radar, scanner. There's something sitting right on top of planet Earth, but it's completely invisible. If I cancel the signal..." She typed at the computer, then looked up as she heard Jack's gasp.

He'd blanched at the sight of a familiar bronze saucer, the screen zooming out to show dozens more. "That's impossible. I know those ships. They were destroyed."

"Obviously they survived," the Hunter breathed, her own face paling in horror.

"Who did?" Lynda asked. "Who are they?"

"Two hundred ships," the Hunter whispered. "More than two thousand on board each one. That's just about half a million of them."

"Half a million what?" Pavale demanded.

The Hunter grabbed Jack's hand, squeezing it tight. "Daleks."

***

"Alert. Alert. We are detected."

"It is the Hunter! She has located us. Open communications channel."

"The female will stand. Stand!" Hazel stumbled to her feet amongst the hundreds of Daleks, seeing a viewscreen pop up, showing the Hunter and Jack, and some other people she didn't know.

"I will talk to the Hunter," one Dalek stated, moving forwards.

"Oh, will you?" the Hunter rolled her eyes. "That's nice. Hello!" She waved sarcastically.

"The Dalek stratagem nears completion. The fleet is almost ready. You will not intervene."

"Oh, really? Why's that, then?" the Hunter asked innocently.

"We have your associate. You will obey or she will be exterminated."

The Hunter snorted. "Yeah, no, I don't think so, love."

The Dalek shifted uneasily. "Explain yourself."

"I said, no."

"What is the meaning of this negative?" the Dalek demanded.

"Ooh, you skipped the queue for brains, didn't you? It means no, dumbass."

"But she will be destroyed," the Dalek threatened.

"Nope," the Hunter smiled sweetly. "Because this is what I'm going to do. I'm going to rescue her. I'm going to save Hazel Norton from the middle of the Dalek fleet and then I'm going to save the Earth, and then, just to finish off, I'm going to wipe every last bloody Dalek out of the sky!"

"But you have no weapons, no defences, no plan," the Dalek pointed out.

"Yeah," the Hunter agreed. "And doesn't that scare you to death. Haze?"

"Yes, Artie?" Hazel asked, grinning.

The Hunter flashed a quick, reassuring grin. "I'm coming to get you." She soniced the transmission, ending it.

"The Hunter is initiating hostile action."

"The stratagem must advance. Begin the invasion of Earth!"

"The Hunter will be exterminated!"

"Exterminate! Exterminate! Exterminate!"

~~~

If you enjoyed, please like and/or reblog, and consider helping me out by donating to my Kofi! Thanks for reading :)

[missjosie27]

Better Luck Next Time

My submission for the @hphmbang2020! It was definitely intense to write. So @nikyiscreepy I really hope you like it!

Fair warning, this gets pretty violent. 

Penny Haywood considered herself a fairly happy person- upbeat, engaging, and always ready to lend a hug or helping hand when someone required it. “A bright little ball of sunshine you are” her dad would often say. While some would suggest it was disingenuous (“No one’s that happy,” Merula would often sass behind her back) the thirteen year old Hufflepuff had come to be proud of the fact she embodied the traits of her house: hard work, loyalty, and above all, kindness.

Though only in third year, it was no secret to anyone how well liked she was. Adventuring with David Grant certainly played a factor in that equation. Though the sibling of an ex-student once thought to be mad, the bravery displayed earned the mutual respect and liking of the student body. But her accomplishments stood out in her own right. Among other things she was a brilliant potioneer, so talented in the subject that even the perpetually miserable Professor Snape tolerated her presence. The kindly demeanor exhibited daily created a sense of trust among her peers that they could tell her anything. So while she enjoyed gossip, none of it carried any malicious intent. Another factor was involved, one unspoken of mostly but certainly whispered by many of the boys in her year: Penny Haywood was extraordinarily beautiful, the radiant personally only matched by soft, shiny blonde hair and bright blue eyes that sparkled like sapphires in a fountain. To the untrained eye or those who did not know her, the young Hufflepuff was the envy of just about everyone in Hogwarts.

However, even the brightest angels have inner demons. Some unexpected.

It happened rather suddenly at the end of a standard Herbology class. It was a lovely September day, the kind one aches for during the harsh winter of the Scottish Highlands, and Professor Sprout was instructing the class on Valerian root. Though not always the best at managing plants as many of her house peers were, this class held particular interest to Penny as Valerian was a common ingredient in many potions. As head of Hufflepuff, the young teen hoped that Sprout might allow her to take home some spare leaves, something that had often occurred in the past. As a result, she remained on her best behavior.

“Gather round, everyone!” Sprout called out. “Too much water on the Valerian root will kill it within moments. I will demonstrate the proper amount to use. Miss Haywood, will you fetch me that pail on the shelf?”

Practically bouncing with joy, the Hufflepuff did as told with gusto. Approaching the closet where the pails were kept she could overhear Tonks discussing a possible prank with David on Madam Pince, the latter of whom seemed skeptical.

“Which of these plants do you think would work best for bothering a certain, irritable librarian?”

“Tonks, just how many detentions do you plan on getting this year?”

Those two, she thought with a silent laugh while simultaneously opening the closet door.

From out of the wild blue an enormous, shaggy beast popped out and began roaring with vicious snarls. Penny recognized right away what it was and it practically paralyzed her with fear: a werewolf.

No sooner than this happened she unleashed a blood curdling scream causing everyone to look in her general direction. The situation might have turned into absolute bedlam were it not for the cool, timely intervention of Professor Sprout.

“Everyone remain calm!” she ordered. “There is nothing to fear. Please stand back, Miss Haywood.”

She didn’t need to be told twice, diving under the table and didn’t move, barely registering the command ‘Riddikulus’ issued from her head of house or the muffled voices above. It wasn’t until Professor Sprout peered underneath the table Penny came back to her senses.

“Miss Haywood, you may come out now. You do not need to be afraid any longer.”

She did so, but trembled so badly it was a wonder she was able to stand at all.

“Oh, you poor, dear. I think a trip to Madam Pomfrey might be in order just to be safe.”

“I’ll take her,” her roommate Chiara Lobosca immediately volunteered. “I have some experience helping in the Hospital Wing. It’s the least I can do.”

The platinum blonde Hufflepuff hooked her arm into hers, placing a soothing hand on her shoulder, though Penny was still traumatized to the point of being shell shocked.

“That is very kind of you Miss Lobosca,” Professor Sprout nodded. “I think we’ve all had enough for one day. I will also be forced to report this to the Headmaster; to my knowledge this is the first time a boggart has ever been seen inside the greenhouses. Class dismissed.”

She allowed herself to be led away by Chiara, vaguely remembering the concern etched on the faces of David and Tonks. But that was not the worst part of this horrifying debacle. No for Penny Haywood, the scars ran much deeper.

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

The domain of Madam Pomfrey was about as safe it could get for any student that roamed the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry especially given the fact that unexpected danger was a constant at the institution. However, Penny could not have felt any less secure at the moment.

She was given a calming draught and a bar of Honeydukes chocolate to soothe her nerves, but the delicious treat had no appeal at the moment and so remained untouched. Something far more sinister lay at the heart of her fear.

‘It was only a boggart, dear. Not the real thing. You were never in real danger.’

But for Penny, it was small comfort. As far as she was concerned, any werewolf, real or fake, was a monster...a cancerous disease and certainly something to be afraid of. That Chiara showcased the classic virtues of Hufflepuff and assisted her also caused a source of conflict. Tossing to the side of the soft hospital bed, a surge of horrible guilt threatened to engulf her, nearly erupting into tears.

Chiara’s your friend...she’d never….you know she’s not….

Chastising herself for even entertaining the thought of her dorm mate even being remotely dangerous, she had to summon a reminder that Chiara fought against Fenrir Greyback in their first year. Though discovering her secret by accident, the young teenage girl eventually came around to see Chiara as a kindred soul rather than an enemy. The two were friends. So why the anger? Why the fear?

Cursing her own prejudice, images of David popped into her mind.

‘Chiara isn’t a killer. She’s nothing like Greyback or any of the other werewolves that try to hurt people.’

This statement led to Penny explaining the full story of what happened in the past. Unpleasant as it was, the memories came flooding back as though an old dam finally broke through. Much as the happy go lucky girl had tried to bury them...they were very much alive.

Flashback

A warm summer’s night in June was one of Penny’s most favorite times of the year. She simply loved the warmth and all the splendor that came with it. Most of the time in England one had to wear a jumper, trousers, or stockings during soggy, wet, and cold cloudy months on the island every Briton called home. But for a few measley months of the year, better weather could be found.

It was all the more important for the young girl to witness some kind of sunshine and freedom. The world was a very dangerous place as her mother kept reminding her. ‘You Know Who’ may have been gone but those who served him were still everywhere and not at all favorable to those they deemed inferior to them. It was an unfortunate reality for the thirteen year old who had many friends within the area of their vacation home directly north of London. Being on holiday might have caused some to relax but not the Haywoods. Her mother was muggle born and had also married a ‘muggle’, deeming their daughter a half blood, a controversial status in the magical world.

“Penny, sweetheart. Please don’t venture too far. There’s so much you don’t understand just yet, but we live in an unforgiving society and I cannot afford to lose you or your sister. Listen to daddy and mummy whenever possible and do not stray too far.”

By and large, the blonde girl obeyed her parents, whom she knew loved her and her little sister Beatrice. By the same token no child can stand being locked up for too long and it wasn’t long until she practically begged to be let outside.

“Please, mummy! I wanna go outside!”

“Penny, don’t argue with me right now…”

“But it’s so light outside and it’s not even eight o’clock yet. Why can’t I see Scarlet?”

“You know the reasons why. I’ve explained many times.”

“You Know Who is dead isn’t he? What do we have to be afraid of? Please, mummy I can’t stay inside all summer. I’ll go positively mad before I go back to Hogwarts.”

The blonde woman, so alike in appearance to her daughter sighed and finally relented.

“Alright, Penny. But be back before the sun sets. Promise me.”

But the thirteen year old barely acknowledged her mother’s words, too excited to pay them much mind.

“Yes, mum. I’ll be back soon.”

Tying on her favorite sneakers and adjusting her favorite yellow top, she practically sprinted out the door and into the street where it didn’t take long for her best friend to greet her.

Scarlet Wilson was a long time friend since childhood, a vivacious long haired brunette who wore a red head band, with an adventurous streak that rivaled even David Grant and his inner circle. Had she been born with the gift of magic, Penny was almost certain she’d have been sorted into Gryffindor which almost brought a streak of irony into their relationship: despite being best friends, she was forbidden from telling her anything about the magical world or the prospective status of being a witch. That being said, her wand stayed in her back pocket just in case.

“There you are!” Scarlet exclaimed excitedly, giving her a huge hug.

“I’m sorry it took me so long. Convincing mum is always annoying.”

“I don’t get why she’s always so skittish. It’s the best time of year to go outside and do something.”

Scarlet was wearing a light orange dress, with a white collar, ankle socks, and Mary Janes. She liked to dress up even more than Penny did, though her spirit still retained its tomboyishness.

“She’s just weird like that,” Penny tried to dismiss casually. “What do you want to do tonight?”

“I found this cool forest down the road. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been inside it for years but I already went in today and it’s great. Let’s go!”

“Brilliant!”

And so the girls locked pinky to pinky, something they did since they were eight, and skipped down the sidewalk to the left until they reached the end of concrete gravel which marked the beginning of a sloping, downhill path taking them past several remote more rural homes.

“Scarlet just so you know, I have to be back before sundown.”

“Aww, come on Penny. We have plenty of time.”

“I know but she made me promise and I can’t break that rule. She’s already making Bea stay inside.”

“Your sister is also seven,” Scarlet laughed. “We’re thirteen. We can handle being out this late.”

Penny allowed herself a degree of carefree excitement as she realized her friend was right. There was no use worrying over danger that wasn’t going to happen. She was older after all...though part of her still felt guilty over not being able to tell Scarlet the true nature of the powers she possessed, that was quickly set aside as they came upon the forest, it’s trees tall and bushes thick with greenery with an old forgotten path at the center.

“See? I told you it was cool!” Scarlet said excitedly while they traversed along the narrow way.

Both girls giggled as they began chatting and telling each other stories. Who said boys were the only ones who could enjoy physical activity? The feeling of adventuring was as exhilarating as anything in the world; the light breeze blowing her plaits, the touch of warmth that brought great comfort to her soul, the fact that the sun didn’t set until past nine thirty...it was truly a perfect day to a perfect start of summer. Of course, no summer day, no matter how long lasts forever and soon enough the track of time was lost.

“Come on let’s keep exploring!” Scarlet pushed as Penny began to grow weary. By now the sun had melted behind the backdrop of the underbrush which consisted of numerous trees and bushes. In fact the light was rapidly giving away to darkness.

“Scarlet...it’s getting a bit late.”

“Your mum said be back after sundown. We still have some time left!”

“But…”

It was too late, however. Scarlet had already run further into the brush. Penny was ready to relent to the enthusiasm of her best friend until the crack of a twig in the distance caught her attention.

Peering a little closer, Penny took one cautious step to see what was the matter though her thought process was interrupted by Scarlet.

“Hey, Penny! You gotta see this!”

“What?” she called ahead.

There was nothing to indicate something was off. The tall trees were silent as the grave and gave no indication of hidden evils within. Just...a normal summer’s night with normal undergrowth and vegetation.

But that turned out not to be the case. Penny caught up to her friend and about ten or fifteen feet away was a creature that to the untrained eye resembled a cross between a gray wolf and an emaciated bear. But the young witch knew better. It was a werewolf. Apparently the sun had set and the full moon already rising. Given her ignorance of the danger, Scarlet appeared fascinated.

“Isn’t it cool? I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“Scarlet…” Penny tried to warn in a whisper. “We need to go.”

But she was interrupted again by her friend’s fearlessness.

“Come on, let’s check it out. Maybe we can report it to the local paper!”

This particular werewolf, an extreme danger to humans in most situations, appeared to be quite meek and so retreated into the bushes at the sight of the two newcomers with Scarlet heading towards it. For her part, Penny knew that was beyond a bad idea but was so paralyzed with fear herself she suddenly froze as her body did not allow itself to go any further. What was she to do? Risk both of their lives? Draw her wand despite being prohibited from using magic outside of Hogwarts? Her mind was racing so badly and yet there was no will to move or act.

‘Take out your wand. Take it out now!’ her instincts told her, yet she did not. A tiny fraction of her psyche hesitated still despite the warning signs. Palms became sweaty and her heart practically pounded out of her chest.

And then it all came to a head so fast, Penny barely had time to process it. A growl issued forth followed by the snapping of jaws, ripping of flesh and a high pitched scream.

“Scarlet!”

It was too late. By the time she reached their location, the wolf was standing over her friend, its muzzle dipped in blood, Scarlet’s unmoving body prone on the ground.

“NO!!!” Penny screeched. All sense of hiding her abilities finally dropped. Rushing forward, wand in hand, she sent the most lethal spell she knew of to get the beast away from her friend.

‘Diffindo!’

The spell hit the werewolf on the back, causing a nasty wound to appear and a howl of pain. Penny didn’t stop there and sent two more cutting hexes, one of which gashed the wolf over the shoulder and down across its chest.

That did the trick in bringing its attention away from Scarlet but it created a new problem in that its vicious sights were now set on her. Gulping, the blonde was suddenly paralyzed by fear and froze for want of a new solution.

‘Come on, you have to get to Scarlet somehow!’

But she barely had time to think as the wolf bull rushed her, bloody sharp teeth brought to bear in an image of gore and horror. Thankfully, Penny was able to jump out of the way just in time and was thus spared lycanthropy or worse. But counting on a lucky maneuver a second time would have been foolish reasoning. Scarlet was likely seriously injured and they both were all alone in the countryside of England.

What she did next was purely instinctual and memory of what she was taught during the first British Civil War. Though a tricky spell for young witches and wizards, the blonde had been shown how to produce red sparks in the event of an emergency.

Raising her wand, Penny issued the sparks at least thirty feet in the air which had a simultaneous effect. Within seconds, her mother had apparated to the scene while the werewolf became spooked by animal instinct. Though it tried to run away, it did not stop Mrs. Haywood from sending a bone breaking curse, partially crippling the beast in a yelp of immense pain, though it continued to limp away.

“Penny, stay behind me!”

But she was no longer preoccupied with the werewolf or even her mother. The only thought on her mind was Scarlet and getting to her in time.

‘We can get her to St. Mungo’s! They treat muggles in emergency situations. It’ll be okay….’

But upon reaching her best friend she found her attempt too little too late. The sight was nothing short of horrific: Scarlet had been scratched across the face, bitten on her right arm, left leg, and torso. But as Penny tried to lift her up she discovered the worst injury of all, a deep seated bite mark around her side near the hip. Placing a hand there, she withdrew it to see it soaked in blood which formed a pool on the ground.

Gazing into the face of her best friend, the final blow was hammered home. Pupils were no longer seeing, the whites glazed over completely. She was dead.

“N-no! Scarlet! Wake up! Please….w-wake up!”

Her stammering pleas drowned out all other sounds. Penny barely felt her mother trying to pull her away from the carnage or the *pops of numerous Aurors arriving on the scene. She didn’t want to leave her best friend. And amidst the full moon hovering in the sky, tears mixed with blood that marked the grass on a tragic summer’s night.

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

“Are you alright, Miss Haywood?”

Madam Pomfrey’s kindly tone interrupted her flashback causing the Hufflepuff teen to crash back to earth.

“Oh uh...yes. I’m sorry.”

The nurse did not at all look convinced, cocking an eyebrow at the distractedness of her patient.

“Miss Haywood, though it was only a boggart, seeing a werewolf that realistic would be enough to frighten anyone out of their wits. I would prefer you to stay longer but in this case I will leave the decision up to you.”

Penny didn’t think twice.

“I’d like to go to lunch, please.”

“My dear I don’t know that-”

“If it’s my choice, I’d like to leave.”

Oftentimes it wasn’t a student’s choice to leave, not if Madam Pomfrey insisted. But given the circumstances, the hospital warden relented.

“Alright, Miss Haywood you are free to go. But promise me you will eat that entire bar of chocolate, before anything else.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The blonde hopped down from her bed, grabbed her bag and thanked Madam Pomfrey once more. But she couldn’t have exited the premises fast enough for once doing so, the emotional tidal wave barely held back earlier unleashed in a torrent of tears. Throwing her back against the wall, Penny wept as silently as she could wishing dearly for her friend back.

Wishing she could have acted sooner.

Wishing it wasn’t her fault.

Wishing she could somehow forget the unbearable pain.

Wondering why luck had favored her to live but Scarlet to die.

Better luck next time.

[quadraphonictypewriter]

An article from the June 1975 edition of Yugoslavia’s Dzuboks [Jukebox] magazine. The first four pages of the article talks about the Deep Purple concert there on March 16, 1975 in Belgrade, and also mentions the second Yugoslavian concert in Zagreb, and the press conference beforehand. The last two are an interview with Jon Lord.

Below the cut is the complete transcript of the article (which I got by typing the whole thing out and doing a translate-and-refine process).

Setlist of the Belgrade concert

THE ARTICLE:

Rock business knocked on our door • No more old and new "Deep Purple": it's just Richie, Jon, David, Glenn and lan • Surrounded by the irresistible pressure of a powerful sound

Five of Mercedes' limousines drove away on Tuesday, March 18, in the early afternoon, selected the members of Deep Purple to the Zagreb airport, from there they move on to Scandinavia (some joked, "Eurovision Song Contest"), and thus ended the beginning of their European tour, and the entire course of the Yugoslavian tour. Two cities, 12,000 people at concerts, big money circulation… the rock business has knocked on our door as well. 

The predecessor of the band, whose exact number we could not find out (but there were over two dozen people), was in Belgrade as early as Friday to prepare the ground for the arrival of the stars. A day later, in the morning, the sports hall, "Pionir", began to take on the appearance of an exhibition hall - electronic equipment: from huge trucks, metal structures moved slowly to the stage, and on Sunday evening they rumbled so that your face cramps into a painful grimace.

The equipment, of course, needs its own attendants: there were so many that an uninformed passerby would surely think that every sound box was in the hands of some man.

But one should not exaggerate: the bulky guys in t-shirts with the inscription, “Deep Purple European Tour 1975," among whom the uninitiated tried to find the familiar faces of the musicians, are earning their bread honestly. It is a routine team so far in the service of many world groups, for which the foreplay of a rock concert means routine, while for the spectators in Belgrade everything looked quite spectacular.

HAPPY PRESS CONFERENCE

Our first meeting with Deep Purple took place on Saturday night, at the Hotel Yugoslavia, under the patronage of Jugoton. The Zagreb record company sold just over 100,000 copies of the album in Yugoslavia, so it decided to present the band with gold plates as a token of gratitude, at a special prepared press conference. Instead of the agreed 8 PM, the boys arrived two hours later: by that time, not all members were allegedly at the hotel. Some colleagues, however, had already sniffed out guitarist Blackmore, which later proved to be a successful catch, as the gloomy guy Ritchie didn't attend the press conference at all and completely distanced himself from the crowd forming around his colleagues.

While a large number of media representatives patiently waited for the conference to begin, many became bored and left. At 10 PM, David Coverdale, Glenn Hughes, and Ian Paice arrive. They sit behind the plush-covered table and look around the room, with the photographer pit and journalists looking at them with interest. At the very moment we begin to ask questions, Jon Lord appears to welcome applause. In the Deep Purple quintet, he seems to be the most familiar phenomenon.

UNIQUE DEEP PURPLE

During the conversation, Jon Lord often mentioned the names of Hughes and Coverdale, still considered newcomers to the group: “We have been together for about twenty months, actually two years, and we can't call them newcomers anymore. They are an integral part of Deep Purple. The change in lineup came naturally, as, after all, in all the periods of our career, all the ups and downs were natural. I doubt we ever did anything hastily. In that sense, Glenn and David come as an expected sequence of developments, events in our career." 

"I guess we brought fresh blood to the group," Hughes interjects. "Like when charging a discharged battery. No more old and new; Deep Purple: it's just Ritchie, Jon, David, Glenn, and Ian!" 

Jon Lord: “Seven years is a long period in this business. Whoever endures becomes an institution, and that implies the fact that you are domesticated everywhere. However, we cannot allow ourselves to constantly repeat things that have already been done. It would bore me, and the audience as well! At the same time, if we do things that we enjoy as creators, our audience will also enjoy it. 

Success is a beautiful thing, but when it comes, the challenge disappears. With the arrival of Glenn and David, this desire to challenge with new achievements has returned to us and now I want to keep it…”

On the other side of the table, where Paice and Coverdale sit, the conversation unfolds in all directions. The members also mention too many (unimportant) things for us to follow. The conference has long since lost its atmosphere of formality. In fact, everyone is having fun as best they can, especially since the hall is now mostly filled with people who are neither journalists nor musicians: there are staff from the escort team, girls, observers, the organizer…. Five plates of sweets, arranged on a stand behind the table at which the conversation takes place, are moved to the other end of the hall to be handed out as a show for photo-reporters. Eventually, the foursome receive commemorative plaques, but instead of Blackmore, the fifth copy comes into the hands of the group’s personal manager.

A PIONEERING ROCK CONCERT

Belgrade's Pionir venue was allegedly not filled to the last seat, although the atmosphere in the hall has given the impression of a sold-out audience. Kragujevac's Smak has just done its task of warming up the audience, and now there is a break that, in fact, should not have happened, but in such circumstances, the audience should be given the opportunity to get excited while waiting for the stars.

They are located in a safe area, in the hallway below the stands, which are a bit shaky. Judging by the sounds coming from the locker rooms, the men are obviously having a good time, and I hear Jon Lord playing some kind of boogie-woogie on the electric piano. Only one photo-reporter manages to reach them: he ignores the ban from the corpulent bodyguard.

Then, at the invitation of the so-called "stage manager", Deep Purple leaves the room behind the escort, as he makes his way to the stage with a bit of unnecessary nervousness. In the almost complete darkness, no one notices them taking their places behind their instruments. It is only when the spotlights flash, as the group moves into “Burn” that it roars terribly and excitement overflows the masses. In the fog that covers the stage, David Coverdale plays with the microphone stand, Paice changes the sides of his drum set, and Hughes jumps around joining Coverdale as two voices. My first impression seems to be to move away from the incredible pressure of a powerful sound. 

Everyone around me seems to be experiencing the same torture of "Heavy Metal!"

LORD: HEAVY METAL - A FICTIONAL TERM

And while the band begins "Stormbringer,” the second song of the set, it only amplifies the intensity of the sound and I remember Lord's statement from 24 hours ago: “I don't even know roughly what it means, heavy metal. The term was coined in the American press, and if you ask any English or American musician, everyone will tell you they don't know what it means. I don't like that label, in fact, I don't much like it. I understand that “heavy metal” means noisy music that hits you here, there, everywhere. But I always called it rock and roll. "Led Zeppelin," they were always just a rock band, we were always just a rock band."

But, in practice, when a man who is only at a distance of ten centimeters has to shout in your ear to be understood, such a statement does not seem at all convincing. Although Lord is partly right when he says, "The idea of a rock band, I suppose, is to affect the masses, but not on an intellectual, but on an emotional level."

That's just about the point of a "Deep Purple" concert. It provided an opportunity for an authentic experience of a rock event. You can listen to how much you like a live rock band, but there is an invisible line between the unacceptability of music that leaves you at a distance and the seemingly same stage event that you automatically get involved in, whether the process is due to simply belonging to a gathered audience, shouting, or trying to escape. 

Deep Purple, meanwhile, goes from song to song from the albums Stormbringer and Burn. When you take a closer look at them individually, perhaps the most interesting is the withdrawn Blackmore, who prefers to play rather than present. He is a good, and more importantly, convincing guitarist, although he often uses effects of which, however, the most spectacular, i.e. breaking the instrument, he did not have the honor to present. At one point it seemed to me that he was ready for it too, but he wasn’t - or he simply refrained.

And Paice impresses with surety. Deep Purple in general are great instrumentalists, no doubt about it. Only, they do not perform a type of music that exhibits instrumental skills, so you become aware of this skill only with such direct contact. On the other hand, they are not a typical show-group, and keep their stage effects to the level of the standard mood of rock performers.

ZAGREB - AND GOODBYE

The Purple concert lasts approximately two hours. If in the first part the program remains more or less easily recognizable, over time it takes on a freer form of rock jam-session, with occasional solos by Lord, Paice and Blackmore. Hughes leads the conversation, Coverdale supports the temperament of the hall, as if he wants to give the audience signs to stay in an equally frenetic mood until the end.

In Belgrade, and especially under the roof of the great Zagreb sports hall, the audience, by the way, should not be encouraged to be in a good mood. And that the mixed enjoyment of the audience at the front of the stage should not take on a dimension of excess, the ready family of Purple's bodyguards, who will intervene only in extremely dangerous situations, are also worried.

I doubt that the Zagreb concert was significantly different from the Belgrade one, except that I gained an interesting experience, i.e. that the loudspeaker was louder in areas further away from the stage than directly in front of it. The function of this equipment seems to have been exhausted in maintaining the volume intensity, while the effort to tint the sound spectrum has shifted into the background. No wonder, then, that tinnitus has become an infection that will - if nothing else - remain the most memorable memory of this occasion.

Dražen Vrdoljak

Darko Glavan talks to Jon Lord, organist of the group “Deep Purple,” which recently visited Belgrade and Zagreb, showing us what a concert of real "hard rock" masters looks like.

The Deep Purple concert was one of the rare opportunities to feel the ritual of a real rock concert in Zagreb. The Deep Purple rockers, routine masters of "hard rock" have shown an excellent knowledge of the mechanics of arousing rock fans, consciously choosing the marginal area between music and stylized stage effects. The emphasis on movement and visual spectacle to some extent limited the members of the ensemble in more fully expressing the art of mastering instruments, which was expressed only in shorter instrumental sections.

The successful concert of Deep Purple argues two theses that I have been advocating for a long time.

The first of them, which could be seen without the performance of Deep Purple, is the expressed need of the domestic audience for performances of top world rock groups and their willingness to spontaneously, without any inhibitions, join as equal participants in such events. Deep Purple's performance confirmed that a significant section of rock music primarily relies on multimedia effects, in which one of the essential aspects of a creative act is an event in which the audience participates at the instigation of the performers. Such manifestations should not be seen as some kind of music or perhaps "applied" or "instructed" music, but as a special form of artistic activity that requires specific models of critical approach.

Before the performance, Deep Purple held a press conference at the Hotel Yugoslavia in Belgrade, where they were presented with commemorative plates handed to them by "Jugoton" for the 100,000 albums sold in Yugoslavia. On that occasion, we spoke with Jon Lord, the unofficial boss of Deep Purple. The author of the text, Drazen Vrdoljak, also took part in the discussion

ONLY ROCK AND ROLL - OTHER NAMES DO NOT FIT

Youth Weekly - Many critics term your style commitment as heavy metal music. Do you agree with such classifications and did you consciously initiate such a style of rock music?

Jon Lord - Let's face it, it's not a term we accept, or like... We actually hate it... I don't even have a rough idea of what the label "heavy metal" should mean... We've always been a rock band, “Led Zeppelin” have always been a rock band. I want to devalue that term, because I don't like it... it was invented by an American journalist, but I don't know a musician who could explain its exact meaning. I guess it’s kind of synonymous with the noise that haunts you here, there, everywhere. But we call it rock and roll, I've always called it rock and roll..

Youth Weekly - So the main goal of your ensemble was the creation of original excitement, early rock and roll, in the conditions of a more developed electro-acoustic technology?

Jon Lord - Yes ... it's rock music. It affects the masses on a level that is not intellectual but emotional. It's not just for our band - that's the essence of all rock bands.

Youth Weekly - The album Deep Purple in Rock is the biggest success of your career. How do you rate it today?

Jon Lord - That album matured in the band members for about two years ... it was a very significant album, it definitely established the band. Honestly, although I run the risk of sounding immodest, overpowering, I think Deep Purple In Rock is a masterpiece within the framework of rock. I think we said a lot about rock at the time and with that album.

Youth Weekly - On your first albums you performed many successful versions of songs by various composers, such as Donovan’s "Lalena", "Help" by Lennon and McCartney, "Hey Joe" and "River Deep, Mountain High," not to mention the first hits like "Hush" and “Kentucky Woman." Is it possible to include another such song in your repertoire even today?

Jon Lord - If you want to record someone else's song, then you have to add a new dimension to it, elaborate it musically in terms of your own taste and expression ... if that doesn't work for you, then it's better to record your own material.

Youth Weekly - So, at the moment, there is no more pronounced possibility to edit a composition by another author?

Jon Lord - In fact ... on the new album we will include another song ... I can't remember exactly which song it was, it was Ritchie's idea ... but it's not certain because if we don't succeed in properly performing a song, we would rather use our own. Take the Beatles for example .... their songs are very difficult to perform; after their performance you get the impression that they got the most out of it.

THE ROLE OF ROCK CRITICISM

Youth Weekly - What kind of music do you listen to in your free time?

Jon Lord - Diverse music, everything I can hear ... if you are an architect by profession then you are always trying to find out how your competitors build houses, if you are a musician then you have to constantly monitor how other musicians play music .... that is, after all, your job. Music is not heavenly, ethereal, it is something earthly just like building houses. Music is a craft in which you constantly have to improve and that is why it is very important to respect the work of other musicians.

Youth Weekly - Could you single out a few favorites?

Jon Lord - There are many of them, but most often it is not a specific soloist, composer or ensemble, but usually a few songs from a single album .... I rarely like a complete album, I usually single out something that later possibly affects my work ... .I like, for example, some numbers of Yes, and Led Zeppelin... but I don't have a favorite band. But, let's say, if I say I don't like a certain album, it doesn't automatically mean I think it's bad. This mistake is often made by critics - they attack an album because they didn't like it and thus declare it a loser and a failure. They should be more careful and thoughtful in such articles.

Youth Weekly - We in Yugoslavia have taken a large part of our knowledge about rock music from the English or American rock press. What is your attitude towards rock criticism?

Jon Lord - I'm not against criticism ... but there are many critics I can't trust anymore. I'm not saying this because of possible bad reviews from my group or my solo projects - I knew a lot of honest groups, which created and played great music and which were ruined due to the negative evaluations of some critics. The critic has one advantage over the musician: he cannot be answered to at once. This bothers me because when I see an article in the newspaper that I do not agree with, all I have to do is write a protest, but the moment it is published - the essence of the discussion loses its meaning and relevance. Led Zeppelin are one of the world's leading rock bands. But for concerts on their American tour, which is just underway, they regularly get bad reviews, even though every ticket is sold out for their performance ... They work hard every night, play for a long time, and can't see the meaning of the critics' negative attitude. But there are also people I still trust, for example, Chris Welch from Melody Maker.

Youth Weekly - How do you think a critic should act?

Jon Lord - You should comment, express constructively and honestly your personal opinion instead of presenting your views to the audience as an undeniable fact; it is not a fact, it is only a judgement.

I AM NOT A MUSIC MACHINE BUT A MUSICIAN

Youth Weekly - In addition to working within Deep Purple, you have realized several independent projects. Why did you decide on such appearances?

Jon Lord - As a member of a group, I have been working professionally for a little over seven years. There is a danger that we will turn into an institution, and the institution implies that you are established at all levels, while I am constantly striving for new challenges. This, after all, made us change our line-up at one point - but now we have to avoid the mistakes we made in the past, and that makes us not feel overconfident about ourselves. Personally, I do not like everything to flow easily, I am ready to face difficulties. You can’t play forever what you played yesterday. You would get bored, and if you get bored, the audience gets bored too. You try to surprise the audience, you try to surprise yourself if possible, and I think it is. If you are excited about what you are playing, you will also excite the audience. I don’t think music has ever stepped forward if not experimented. So, one has to experiment. A conscious dream that my experiments are not vital to the musical life of the world, but for me personally they are, and unfortunately, people are not currently given the opportunity for that, which I will certainly accept

Youth Weekly - What does your latest album Stormbringer mean to you?

Jon Lord - Stormbringer was recorded last summer in Munich. It is our second album with bassist Glenn Hughes and singer David Coverdale. The songs are close to what we have always wanted to play, a bit softer and more moderate than our characteristic sound. After Burn we got closer, so we were more relaxed. I think, after Machine Head, it’s our most successful album.

Youth Weekly - Plans for the future?

Jon Lord - The next album will be a bit more rocking, we will start recording it on April 10, again in Munich. This year we will perform a little less and play mostly in countries we haven't visited so far - in South America, Malaysia, Indonesia, etc. We are preparing for an English tour, but this year we are not planning a tour of the USA ... we need a vacation, we don’t want to be musical machines rather than musicians.

Darko Glavan

Recording: Vican Vicanović

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/29/2020: FEMMINE CARNIVORE aka DIE WEIBCHEN aka THE FEMALES

Before I begin, I have to give credit where it is due. I was guided to this film by Dr. Kate Robertson's excellent lecture for the indispensable Miskatonic Institute: "Man-Eater: Cannibal Women in Film". Her talk, which is to be the basis of a book I can't wait to read, focused on the taboo that plagues women's relationship to food, and what happens when that taboo is exploded by visions of women as self-serving consumers, rather than providers and calorie-counters. As a glutton for cannibal media and portraits of psychotic women myself, I found myself frantically scribbling down titles in the dark as Dr. Robertson unspooled a list of films I hadn't seen, some of which I hadn't even heard of. Of the long list I came up with, the movie that most jumped off the page at me was FEMMINE CARNIVORE aka DIE WEIBCHEN aka simply THE FEMALES. Its plot, about a luxury health clinic run by a feminist murder cult, set my expectations quite high, although I was still very surprised by what it is actually like.

Prolific czech director Zbynek Brynych and writer Manfred Purzer, about whom I wish I could tell you more, cooked up this blackly comic allegory for the women's liberation movement in 1970. The french-italian-west german-czech production plays like an especially eccentric giallo, with outrageous mod fashions, swingin' sounds, and freaky freudian insinuations whose ultimate message never becomes entirely clear. Whatever you make of it, it is highly entertaining. Our heroine Eve (Uschi Glas), a secretary suffering from nervous exhaustion, arrives at the exclusive health resort Van Maren--a sprawling estate full of space age furniture and neurotic babes. The domineering Dr. Barbara (Gisela Fischer) throws Eve right in the stirrups and asks her if she's been ground down by her boss's advances. Eve has a rough first night, immersed in the interpersonal drama of patients with various gender issues: desperation for motherhood, addiction to porn, obsession with intellectual masturbation--like the sneering Astrid (Françoise Fabian), who is always toting around a copy of Valerie Solanas' SCUM Manifesto. Eve ducks out on the night's festivities, which spin into a veritable orgy between the women and a group of horny guys who have been conveniently stranded at Van Maren by a car crash; but later, on a nocturnal stroll, she stumbles upon one of the men with a knife in his back. The clinic's leather mamma chauffeur ferries Eve to the police station, where she encounters the Commissar (the wonderfully funny Hans Korte)--a useless authority figure who spends his days getting wasted and building dirty playing card castles. He casually dismisses Eve's concerns with the remark that Van Maren generates "an average of three murders a day," meaning her discovery will have to wait.

Eve digs deeper into the mystery of Van Maren on her own, leading to dangerous encounters with Adam the gardener (ahem), a disfigured ogre with one mysterious beastly, clawed mitt. Although she's sure Adam (the monumental Fred Coplan) has something to do with the progressive disappearance of the stranded men, she happens upon the clinic's most shocking secret while sneaking around behind him. In Van Maren's cactus garden, she discovers a collection of praying mantises, and witnesses their macabre mating rite. Eve pieces together the horrifying fact that the clinic is a recruitment center for Dr. Barbara's feminist cult, in which arrogant men are murdered and consumed; the table scraps are either turned into cat food, or included in a "museum of stupid men"--an anatomical catalog of select pieces of the victims. Eve tries to convince the surviving males of what's to happen to them, but they refuse to listen, as Dr. Barbara has convinced them of something men tend to believe anyway: that troublesome women are simply traumatized by bad sexual experiences, which need to be replaced by good ones at the hands of a competent lover. Fed up (as it were), Eve joins the cult, and leaves the future victims to their gruesome fates.

FEMMINE CARNIVORE is enormously satisfying as a fashion piece, coming as close to looking like a live action Guido Crepax comic as anything I've ever seen--moreso even than perfectly serviceable adaptations like VALENTINA and BABA YAGA. The text is a little more complicated, vacillating between vilification and vindication of its bloodthirsty femmes. In an especially baffling sequence, some of the ladies take time out to watch a bra-burning demonstration. The broadly comic scene (ahem) features hysterical women, clucking nuns, heckling men, and the cynical ladies of Van Maren who remark that this gesture of sexual liberation "wouldn't even frighten the animals." After all, they've discovered a superior means of establishing their freedom from men. But does the movie judge them for it? The answer may depend on the viewer. Eve is twice accused of being twisted by her experiences with men--by Dr. Barbara, who suggests that she's exhausted from the pressure to screw her boss, and then by the men who believe the doctor's story about Eve losing her virginity to rape--and in both cases, an intense introspection crosses her face, but she refuses to give a clear answer about the reality of these allegations. From here, we're unable to condemn Eve as a head case with “typical” female neuroses, and it remains possible--if not conclusive--that her eventual abandonment of the men who refuse to listen to women and save themselves is simply a rational conclusion.

Whatever you think FEMMINE CARNIVORE is ultimately getting at, you simply have to agree that it is an absolute party, proving that not all heady works of psychoanalytic horror have to be a test of the viewer's intellectual endurance. You can, in fact, opt to just have a great time, without yoking yourself to the task of making meaning of it all. Enjoy FEMMINE CARNIVORE today! Or become cat food tomorrow.

PS ???

[northernxstories]

Trading in Dignity

It was shocking how quickly it all came to an end. It started in the 2020s and within a decade, after the third global pandemic, they were faced with the worst yet. All the science deniers, those who refused to distance, wear masks and all of that ... well, most of them caught it. Some of them caught it without showing a single symptom. That didn’t matter because approximately eight months after you were infected, after you thought you were all well again, your lungs started to bleed. Nothing could make it stop. You drowned in your own bed, at night, sometimes in mere minutes. Most of the time, you just went to sleep and never woke again. It was grim.

The survivors were rare and the disease progressed so quickly, institutions fell almost overnight. Whole cities became ghost towns. Survivor teams started sweeping, looking for children, infants, pets trapped in houses and then supplies. Survivors came first. There were a lot of supplies. Not that many people.

She was rare and she knew it. Immune. How? No idea. Luck? Genetics? It didn’t matter at the end of the day. The world grieved and cities were abandoned for smaller communities. It wasn’t like in the horror movies or post-apocalypse fiction. No one ate people, bought and sold people, or any of that ridiculousness. For the most part people tried to help one another. Older people banded together to raise the children who survived. With the population reduced in the span of a decade to less than a third, it became very clear that every single human was a necessary addition. Funny how prejudice and differences in sexuality mattered a whole lot less when the end of the human race was at stake. All that shit became real irrelevant real fast.

In a spate of particularly weird coincidence, some communities lost more of a certain type of people. The east coast of North America for example had nearly no men left. It was startling, You could travel for days, scout many towns and communities and find less than a dozen males. West of the Rocky mountains however, the opposite was true. The average was 1 self-identified female to 20 self-identified males (like people were checking - get real). Some communities the ratio was more like 100 to 1. In the mid-west, prairie region, well there was almost no people left there at all. No one knew why they were so hard hit but the coasts survived. Perhaps it was just population distribution. Scientists would be studying it long after she was dead.

So, in a world where you lived with almost 100 men in your community and the number of single women could be counted on one hand, and you wouldn’t need every finger? Yeah. This was fantastic. 

Again, it wasn’t like the books though. She wasn’t chained, or bound or really mistreated in any way. Nope. None of that.

She was a strong survivor. She had a thriving garden and a number of animals of her own. Her house was cute as hell and in really good shape. Her grandmother had taught her to sew and the rest she learned from books. The little town was powered by a local dam that kept the predatory animals such as the dog packs, at bay with electrified fencing in key areas, including around her goats whom the wolves thought looked super yum yum.

But even she needed supplies. I mean, was she going with a raiding party into a city to get tampons and advil? Ummm ... no obviously. That was terrible. That’s how people died! Those places were not safe. It took rigging and expertise she did not have to be on a scavenger team. Plus do you think they would be cool having one of the few women in town go out with them? You’re dreaming if you think that’s gonna happen buddy and no one went without a team. That was a fucking death wish.

So, she had to shop. She had to trade. Fact of life. They didn’t want her tasty preserves or baking. Nope. That they could do for themselves. She traded the one thing that few had around her - her pussy. Fucked up right? 

Prostitution was the oldest game in the book for a reason it turned out. So she went into the store and put in her order for supplies that she needed. Flour, tampons, books for example. There was a tally and a calculation conducted. She was a modest girl. It rarely went above two visits. Then there was a jar. Yup. A fucking jar, with names on it. Men who had paid into the credit system. 

“One” The merchant stated bluntly marking it in his book. 

“One?” She repeated, a little surprised by how light the requirement was. Her list had been pretty long.  

“Yeah, Bernice fell pregnant, she’s off the list until after and maybe permanently since the Bennett brothers are putting serious court to her. All remaining traders just had their value go up.” 

That’s what they called them - traders. Like she was wheeling a cart through town with little jars or something instead of letting men cum in a minimum of two holes per trade. It was awesome. By the way, that was sarcasm in case you can’t tell.

“Nice.” She replied with a nod, “I hope the baby is healthy.” That was the customary statement these days when anyone fell pregnant. You see, the virus didn’t exactly go away and infant mortality was high as fuck. It was depressing as hell. She didn’t know a single woman who didn’t half dread getting knocked up, even if they really wanted to be a mother. It was a huge risk and all too likely to end in just more painful loss. Yay for survival.

“We all do.” the merchant stated sincerely as he pushed the jar toward her. Sliding her hand in, she let slips of paper, card stock that was refreshed so often you couldn’t get a feel for any one particular person, just dance through her fingertips. You just had to stick your hand in and pray to whatever god you might actually believe in that you didn’t get one of the gross old coots who thought bathing was fucking optional. Last time she had one of those she had about forty baths and still felt disgusting.

She pulled out the card and took a deep breath before flipping it over. Both her and the merchant looked surprised. “Well good luck there. Didn’t even know he paid in.” The merchant marked his book and then nodded. “I’ll get your order in as soon as ... you have about four days before you’ll have had to pay up.” 

That was another thing, the man had to confirm you had ‘paid’. However, if that man lied, he was off the books permanently. Not only that but the other men in town usually paid you a visit and beat the holy hell out of you. It was an honour system true but most followed the rules, out of honour or out of necessity, it didn’t matter at the end of the day. Men who might only get one fuck a year with a ‘willing’ woman weren’t about to lose the privilege because you decided to get fucking cute about it.

“Thanks ... Have a good day now.” She replied with a sincere smile. The merchant was a good man after all. He never put his name in and if he found out one of the men was cruel or unkind even, he’d return their credits and tell them to start getting real used to the sweet feel of their left hand because that was about all they were getting from now on. 

She walked through town, that name flipping through her mind. It was just so unexpected. 

Well no time like the present she supposed. She had had a bath last night, given the old cunt a tidy and all that. She had a debt to pay and she just knew she wouldn’t sleep right until it was paid off good and proper. Yes, it was a little fucked up but that was the system and she had lived with it for a while now. Strangely you kinda got used to it. Most men were pretty appreciative about it. 

Walking down the main street, she noted the weird combination of old and new that had blended together in this world. Cars jerry-rigged with solar panels to charge the batteries travelled on the same road as horse-drawn carriages. Kids wore sneakers cause there were still plenty of those left in old stores but paired them with clearly homemade clothes and then spiked them with leather jackets kitted out with studs and chunks of cell phones used as artistic decoration.

She walked until she hit the slight outskirts of the main town area. She could see him now, his arm lifting as he pounded the steel into shape with a large hammer. Farriers, blacksmiths, knife-makers, welders and so on made a nice living in this new world. You could always tell who they were because they smelled like fire and had arms the size of her entire body it seemed. She licked her lips and straightened her back. For the first time in well over a year, she had to admit that she might just be looking forward to this one.

“Hey ...” She greeted. He put down the hammer and shifted up his eye protection, squinting at her in the bright light of day. “Hey.” He replied back, his voice a little gruff. “You looking for something?” He asked.

“Ummm ... pulled your name.” Turns out all the cool things she was saying in her head since pulling his name had just fallen right on out of her brain. Well I wasn’t cool before, she thought bleakly with a tinge of amusement, Guess I’m not now either. Maybe the next apocalypse.

He stopped, frowning lightly as if he wasn’t sure what she was talking about and then his expression cleared and his eyes grew wide. “Oh.” he said. It was actually more of a sound. He cleared his throat. “I ... I  ... yeah. Now?” he queried.

When she nodded, “If you have the time. Otherwise ... I can come back.” I can come back. What the hell, was she Uber Eats? What the fuck is wrong with her?

He shook his head, “Now is good.” He tipped his head toward the interior. “Let me shut this down a bit and then I’ll wash up and be in.” 

He seemed nervous. Why did she like that so much? Maybe she was bored of the older guys who just had you bend over or would just unzip when they saw you coming. No effort man. No fucking effort. Literally. Wham bam, you’ve paid for your groceries Ma’am.

Mr. Muscles here better put in some damn effort at least.

[strikethanatos]

Why I Left The Hypno/BDSM Basement

Many of you don’t know me. I apologize for that. I have a hard time being social in large groups, so I just don’t do it. My bad. If you do know me, it’s probably as a moderator of any of a number of hypnosis servers on Discord, including The Hypnotic Speakeasy, of which I am the proprietor, and for a short while The Hypno/BDSM Basement. I quit the mod team and left there recently, and I think you deserve to know why.

See, to me, power has a function: to protect. We who have power are bound by an inescapable duty use it to protect those who do not have it, and that is especially important in the hypnosis community, because the potential harms that arise from us falling down on the job are much more severe. Make no mistake. Hypnosis can absolutely ruin lives. We lie to ourselves that we can’t be made to do something we didn’t want to do in the first place, but famously, there was a hypnotist during the Cold War who hypnotized someone into robbing a bank, claiming that it was his duty to do so to fight Communism.

Because some hypnotists have that power to change more than we should, we have to constantly be on guard to make sure that we are doing what is in the best interests of our subjects, especially given that so few of us are trained therapists. However, we all fail. We all make mistakes. And when we do, it is our duty to ourselves and those whom we have wronged to apologize where possible, to right our wrongs where possible, and to learn from what we did. I am not saying that one bad mistake should necessarily get one exiled forever. What I am saying, however, is that forgiveness should not be given freely, but earned.

The decision to allow MindEraser, also known as NeuralNetsandPrettyPatterns, to remain in the Basement, fully cognizant of his abuses against the greater hypnosis community, is in a word inexcusable. He has not apologized. He has not admitted that anything he did was wrong, much less any specific thing. He just “wants the past to be the past.” No matter what he says, he has not learned. He is still trying to twist consent to mean what it doesn’t. He is still summoning internet mobs to attack people and coerce institutions he dislikes. He uses the same tools to try to get his way that he has always used in the past. Anyone remember when he got banned from every hypnosis convention in North America and Europe, and how he had people go to con committees to tell them what a swell guy he is? Or when he asked followers on Tumblr to appeal the decision to tag his account as being NSFW en masse? Or when he’s dragged people into the main chat of the Pattern Palace to have them explain to everyone why they questioned some decision of his? When he continues to use the same methods, why should you ever believe that he himself has changed?

Here is my issue with him. He has proven time and time again to be predatory and vindictive. He denies responsibility for the consequences of his actions, claiming that it is the responsibility of the subject to reject inappropriate suggestions. He says this, even though anyone with even a basic knowledge of the hypnosis community knows that some people are more suggestible than others, that some people respond more to suggestions than others do, and that some people are less able to reject suggestions than others. Knowing this, he’s released a file that told listeners things like, “You’re gonna forget those other women (men)”, “They are never as good as me”, “They are never as good as me”. (Source: https://kallie-den.tumblr.com/post/171704815843/thesecretsubject-kallie-den-hypdom-this)

That was inexcusable.

And what was his response? To call anyone who was concerned about this a “white knight with something to gain”, to deflect any and all blame, to deny responsibility for what happens to subjects who listen to his files. (Source: https://thesecretsubject.tumblr.com/post/171650964672/note-to-the-hypnosis-community) That is inexcusable.

By that ethical standard, it is impossible to blame hypnotists for harm caused by their suggestions to subjects. And yet, we all know, that as artists, that as creators, that as hypnotists, when we make something we take responsibility for what it does. We ought to warn people about its’ serious consequences. And when we fail to uphold these simple, basic expectations, then we ought to take personal responsibility for these actions.

Neither has happened.

What followed has been a year and a half of witch hunting of any and all people who show basic human decency and concern for their subjects, and the result was that he rebranded himself as MindEraser on Discord and other platforms to distance himself from the controversy.

So, yeah, when he showed up in the Basement, I had concerns. I relayed them to the owner, and spoke to others. He was banned, for a few hours.

But then I was told that he just wanted to “let the past be past.” That I should be “neutral” and “impartial”.

That is not my duty as a moderator, on any platform. My duty is a firm and unwavering responsibility to the community as a whole. To seek out and eliminate predators and those whose actions hurt the health of the community. To, in this era of finally questioning the reign of cultures that tolerate and encourage sexual harassment and exploitation, believing victims. To listen to people seeking justice, and acting on their behalf.

My duty is not to ignore such infamous abusers. In fact, the night before this came up, we collectively yeeted a predator on far less well documented grounds than these. So, where, in the name of justice, is it writ that we are obligated to forgive anyone who seeks it? What responsibility do I have, as a hypnotist, as a creator, as a moderator, as a man, do I have to forgive abusers who have hurt my friends and levied bizarre and false accusations against me?

Presented with this false choice, I came to the conclusion that I had no moral choice but to leave the Basement behind, and furthermore, that I have to remove the moderator who made that choice to tell me to be “impartial” from the Speakeasy.

I’ll be taking care of myself and my server. In the mean time, if you want me, find me at the Hypnotic Speakeasy. I’ll be around. https://discord.gg/dtdTHUJ

[tisthenightofthewitch]

The sexy face of Satanism. We talk to the leader of  Ghost.

(translated from Polish - sorry for errors!)

Tobias Forge, the founder of the Ghost band, has only recently been talking to the press without an anonymous mask. For years, he only showed himself publicly as Papa Emeritus, a devilish priest whose purpose was to free the world from the oppression of government and religion. Now, remaining true to his intentions, he is known as Cardinal Copia.

Bartek Czartoryski: You've been playing concerts almost continuously for a year. Tired?

Tobias Forge : Oh yes, and I already feel that when I go home on December 20, I will fall dead.

You played in Spodek, and it's almost an iconic place for us. Here, for example, Metallica gave their first Polish concerts, with which you recently shared the stage.

I am very happy that we played here. Until now, we went to Warsaw Stodola, where we played probably three times and always thought that it was damn unfair for the Polish audience, because it got a smaller spectacle than everyone else. And now, finally, we could present our entire arsenal, with all the effects, pyrotechnics and so on.

Poland is, after all, a conservative and Catholic country, and Ghost has always been against organized religion. You don't feel like on hostile territory because of that?

No, we have never experienced any form of resentment, which is why I am a bit surprised at why Nergal is so often abused here. However, I explain it to myself that he comes from this country and is widely known here, which is why the attention of the press and public opinion is focused on him every day. We encounter no resistance here, and Polish institutions are not trying to censor us.

And I point this out, among other things, because I am aware of the problems Adam sometimes has. I am anonymous. People may know Ghost, but not me personally. In turn, probably every person accidentally encountered on the street although heard about Nergal. He's the walking advertisement of the devil's alliance here, whatever you call it.

It's good that you mentioned the devil because you are the sexy face of Satanism.

I hope so! But, seriously, I didn't realize it until we started touring more often, especially in America. There I noticed that more and more women come to our performances. And then I had to confront my idea of ​​what Ghost would ever become with what was actually happening.

Already on the first album, when the audience's reactions to my songs were quite good, I thought that something really cool could be born from it. But it wasn't until we went on the road to America and saw all these girls that I started to connect the dots, that maybe there was something in it that I didn't notice, which I didn't take into account.

I will not hide that one of the inspirations behind Ghost is the "The Phantom of the Opera" that I saw as a child, which seemed to me a romantic spectacle, but not necessarily charged with sexual energy. Except that soon my mother, with whom we flew to London, took me for "Cats." And that's pure sex. The whole scene is filled with attractive people in tight cat costumes. I was thirteen then and I fell in love with all the kittens one by one.

And when, playing overseas, I felt that corporeality was part of our performance, it enlightened me: since the audience has no idea what we look like, we can be anyone they want. They could have imagined me as George Clooney. However, this was not something I had planned. At first, our image was a bit clumsy, but when I noticed what we were talking about, I even thought that everyone would wear pants and move more around the stage. I put more emphasis on corporeality.

Speaking of concepts, I am curious about how the fusion of the musical and textual part looks with graphics, for which the Polish artist, Zbyszek Bielak, is responsible.

We have known Zbigniew for many years and we have learned to work with each other. When I compose and write lyrics, I like to have a clear outline of what the album will be about. That is why I need some starting points, such as cover and title, quite quickly. I don't want to lie, but I think we've already prepared everything before the recordings. Therefore, I hope that when I finish the tour after the tour, the cover will be ready and I will hang a large print on the wall. Only then will I be sure of the course I have chosen.

And as for the whole graphic design, because we plan to draw for virtually every song, it's organic work. I have now probably more than twenty invented songs, but these can change during further work. And it happens that I rewrite the text, change the title and then it may turn out that the graphics we have are better in line with the previous concept. But sometimes the opposite happens and I compose for drawing. So I am asking Zbigniew to come up with something that is consistent with the outline of my idea, not having a ready text, and then write, looking at the graphic. We do not have a predetermined work system, as I said, a living process.

You've come a long way with Ghost, breaking through the rungs of the rock career and wondering where you would now place yourself and the band? Far to the glass ceiling?

We are evolving, we have probably not reached the ceiling yet. It seems to me that only the next step will decide where we are going. We are getting used to the concept that we are becoming a band playing on large stages and the next, fifth album, which will start the next cycle of this evolution, will show whether we really deserve it or not.

Historically, many rock bands made a huge leap forward on the fifth album, such as Metallica or Iron Maiden. We at Prequelle have not done anything like this yet, but no one is surprised that we are playing here on the Spodek stage, that we fit here. And, going to our concert, you are aware that for the price of the ticket you will get everything you expect, I can guarantee it. Once you get out of the club into the hall, you have to give the audience something more, you can't go on looking and play like a small band that is lucky and that can't cope on the big stage. Then you have to do more and not stand out from bands that have been practicing it for years.

Just like Behemoth, who booked the largest halls for the recent tour in Poland.

You still have to. Believe that you can, that you can. For years, there has been an opinion that there is no one to replace old rock scene stunts who are slowly retiring. Because it doesn't work that suddenly the little ones become big. Or, on the other hand, that those who have been on stage for thirty years deserve the best place on the festival poster just because they have a long experience. And it's not the years of playing that are a measure of whether you are good or not. I remember the outrage over Avenged Sevenfold who were supposed to play Download after well-deserved bands that have been operating for decades. But so what if they play better concerts? This is how it should look like.

Tell me, do you feel relieved that after so many years you can take off the mask and officially perform during, even our conversation, under your real name?

To be honest, I feel completely detached from my stage character, and today even more than before. Maybe I'm not an abstainer, but I won't go to the club after the concert to pour a whole bottle of something stronger, and that probably would be expected from what I do on stage. Sometimes I also feel like I'm stuck in a limbo, because people expect a set of specific behaviors from me, observed at the concert, which sometimes is a bit tiring. That is why I insist that when material about me or the band appears, that it should be accompanied by photos of the band or Cardinal or Papa, not mine.

Because you, Tobias Forge, are not a member of the band.

Exactly. I don't want myself on posters, just like George Lucas does not appear on Star Wars advertising materials. I created a world, but I'm not part of it.

You've roughly thought of the band's mythology around a decade ago, but I guess the various circumstances and realities of the music industry require you to constantly change.

I couldn't think of all this ten years ago. I cut and developed individual ideas on a regular basis. Today, our mythology is also created by fans. Ghost is not just mine anymore. Maybe I came up with this and supervises the whole undertaking, but I don't expect that everyone involved, especially the audience, will follow me blindly. That is why what I do requires due attention from me.

GWIAZDY.wp.pl

(LOVED the support for Nergal!!)

[wri0thesley]

what are your headcanons for sorlato's backstory? you talk a lot about prosciutto's so i was curious!

dfnvjfnbf i’ve got a lot of them

warnings for: sexual abuse, violence, murder, crime, suicide, homophobia

long and short of it: gelato as a former military man turned rogue hitman for hire and then eventually for passione. sorbet is a former priest who was embittered by something he saw and turned vigilante serial killer. two meet, have mutual interests and attraction, and become a couple. by that time gelato is working under a handler in passione and he demands his boyfriend also become a worker to the Powers That Be. 

slightly more in depth:

Conscripted to the army at nineteen, Gelato was quickly noted as a good shot and moved up ranks fairly quickly. He is a natural with a weapon in his hands and eventually he garnered rather a reputation for it. He fell in love with a fellow private, but as he was moved around and shifted around and worked up the ranks (his work also becoming more secretive by default), it was harder and harder for him to remain in contact - and there came a point where the only information he could find was that his lover had died. He became unstable in his work - but, unwilling to lose a fine shot and someone so suited for the work as Gelato, his commanding officers ordered him to forget about his lost love. Gelato ensured that this was not to be.

With the blood on his hands of military men in a country that deeply valued them, Gelato fled and lived as a fugitive for a while, until he was approached with the shady offer to do a few murders in return for some money. The way he had dispatched those commanding officers had been impressive, after all, and considering how wanted he was he was flying under the radar remarkably well … Things escalated until he was head-hunted by Passione - and it’s on one his hits for Passione that he met Sorbet.

Gelato had a loving family and a fairly privileged upbringing - and was promptly villified and disowned from his family (who were thoroughly nationalistic and had been utterly proud of their only child) after what he did. Especially when it became clear, from whispers and rumours, why else he did it. They were not exactly the most accepting of families. He was lucky to be able to empty a healthy bank account before they caught up with him and could cut them off, and though he pawned most of his possessions to unscrupulous places who would not recognise him and who kept their mouths shut, he keeps the dainty gold earrings that his mother had given him despite his father insisting it would not be the Done Thing. 

Despite his manic manner and insistent eyes, he is very clever. He has turned most of his cleverness to murder, of course, and takes great pleasure in it - but he has picked up plenty of other cleverness from his time on the streets and in the army. He’s also incredibly soft for Sorbet, with whom he sees a kindred spirit. I headcanon both of them as bisexual; Gelato can appreciate beauty whether femme or masculine (he’s got an affinity for classical art pieces and gothic literature); but in his line of work, he meets few people, and fewer people still who interest him. 

Sorbet, at eighteen, was clever and eloquent and good with words and utterly devoted to becoming a priest. He was a ward of the church’s school, having been orphaned at a young age, and thanking God he had the good fortune to be taken in and cared for and wishing to give back to the community. He was well-liked by the younger boys, especially those who found him a comforting presence (being low-voiced and soothing and knowing what it is like to be alone). He idolised the priests. Of course, at twenty, as he began to be given over to more and more duties, truths are bound to come out - and upon witnessing three of the boys in the choir being corralled into one of the other priest’s private rooms by three of those whomst he had idolised, Sorbet saw red and didn’t realise he’d done anything until he was washing blood off of his hands and tuning out the cries of panic from the boys. Sorbet, too, fled.

As a whole, he cannot stand organised religion of any kind. He garnered rather a reputation for himself, moving among the small country parishes of Italy. They gave him a serial killer name, even (for Sorbet has always been clever and methodical and his murders, after the first, were neat and orderly), though Sorbet prefers to forget it. He has an affinity for children. He taught himself, after the first murder, to take people apart slowly with a medical kit from the church school’s first aid room, looking for where the rot must be setting in inside them.

He met Gelato in one of these little towns. The two sized each other up; Sorbet could see a similar frustration and anger in Gelato’s eyes, and Gelato could see there were dried bloodstains on Sorbet’s shoes and that Sorbet’s fingers had cuts on he recognised as being from a scalpel and a callous in the same place one who often held such an instrument would. They bought one another a drink and sat in a quaint family pub. Upon parting, they expected to never see one another again-

Imagine their surprise, then, to find that Sorbet’s passion project and Gelato’s employment had overlapped. A drug racketeering ring being held under the guise of a church - and Sorbet, who had long since hated anyone in the institution of religion but hated terrible things being done under it even more, was only too happy to show Gelato exactly how to hurt someone in a more restrained and even more painful way.

They travelled together. Gelato was only too happy to entertain Sorbet’s predilections (finding the rush of murder filled him in a way few things since his army days had). And when Gelato was back in Naples, he got in contact with his Passione handler - the one who subleased his services - and renegotiated terms as a couple.

They then murdered the handler, of course, and demanded they be handed jobs directly. After a test of loyalty for Passione to ensure that they could be trusted (both of them were agitated to be tested separately; Gelato went first, but upon immediately closing the lighter and shrugging that Polpo had no way to tell, told Sorbet exactly what happened and to simply allow the creature to pierce him). And, with their Stand powers activated, they were even more dangerous, and Passione were glad to have the hit men on their side instead of any others.

Like Gelato, I headcanon Sorbet as bisexual in Theory although in practice Gelato is his only lover ever. He finds people who are exuberant and bright exciting and interesting and beautiful because it’s always been in his nature to be taciturn, and quietness and studiousness was rewarded at the church school. He is amazed that Gelato’s cleverness comes so easily and naturally. . 

Sorbet’s stand is JUDAS PRIEST. It essentially breaks people up into neat jigsaw puzzles; Sorbet can pull them apart looking for the rot inside them as much as he wants. If he’s feeling cruel, he can rearrange them entirely - up to and including their organs, and watch as their body struggled to pump blood around where a heart should be but is actually a lung and where intestines have clogged up a throat. 

Gelato’s stand is MOTORHEAD. Arguably, it’s a defensive stand more than a combative stand - Gelato is perfectly capable of doing the actual killing himself. Fundamentally, it fills the senses of whoever is in a certain square footage of Gelato with a buzzing, frustrating, ‘motor-like’ sensation. Revving in your ears. Buzzing in your tongue. Static in your vision. Gelato can’t control who it affects, but if he and another person are touching he can ‘share’ the immunity. If he leaves it activated for too long, the person can begin to hallucinate horrible, horrible things - the hallucinations and the revving of the motors has, in the past, drove people to suicide when Gelato is feeling particularly sadistic. 

[theliberaltony]

via Politics – FiveThirtyEight

Welcome to a special edition of FiveThirtyEight’s politics chat. The transcript below has been lightly edited.

sarah (Sarah Frostenson, politics editor): Earlier today, President Trump tweeted that the 2020 election should be delayed “until people can properly, securely and safely vote.”

Postponing the election, of course, is not something the president can legally do. But it’s also kind of besides the point. Trump has already been fighting to delegitimize the results come November, claiming that voting by mail can lead to mass voter fraud.

So let’s dive into that. How would you describe Trump’s efforts to throw November’s results into question? He did something similar in 2016 when facing Hillary Clinton. How is this different?

clare.malone (Clare Malone, senior political writer): Well, in many ways it’s exactly what Trump was doing in 2016. It’s just that he’s president now. And thus, his words are even more damaging (and they were already very damaging in 2016).

geoffrey.skelley (Geoffrey Skelley, elections analyst): There’s also a very important distinction here. Before, Trump was just a candidate casting doubt on the election, but now he’s a sitting president doing that.

julia_azari (Julia Azari, political science professor at Marquette University and FiveThirtyEight contributor): I’d characterize this as an exercise in control and influence over his party and the news cycle. Everyone is forced to respond to what he says, even if they’re not responding positively. Trump isn’t effective at that many aspects of the job, but he’s pretty effective at agenda control.

clare.malone: I would also say that calling for the delay of the actual vote feels VERY dictatorial in nature. Like, we’ve perversely gotten used to the “fake votes,” “fake news” stuff. But encouraging a change in the election date feels sort of explicitly over a line.

sarah: And to ask a somewhat obvious question — but one that has to be asked — this is another unprecedented, norm-defying and democratic-value jeopardizing moment, right? To put it another way, has another sitting president ever done this?

julia_azari: I’m always nervous about the “never” question with past presidents, but yeah, most presidents have not been willing to take on all the formal rules, the legal system and other branches of government while in office. Congress — which has the power to change the date of an election — used to be stronger, too, and there was no Twitter. My go-to example for this is we still had a presidential election in 1864, during the Civil War.

geoffrey.skelley: And in modern times, incumbents who have lost reelection have exited office without too much of a fuss. Take George H.W. Bush and Jimmy Carter, or if we go further back, Herbert Hoover. Granted, incumbents don’t often lose. So it’s important to note that each of those incumbents lost decisively, meaning there wasn’t much to stand on even if they had wanted to fight the result. But it’s not like Gerald Ford created a stir in 1976 when he lost narrowly.

julia_azari: Candidates have also conceded even when the election was a mess. See Al Gore in 2000, Samuel Tilden in 1876.1

sarah: But on this question of actually changing the election date. How much power does Trump have to do that?

clare.malone: He does not have the power to change the date of the election.

julia_azari: None. It’s up to Congress, and elections are administered by the states.

clare.malone: Here’s my question, though: What happens if Trump refuses to leave the White House on Jan. 20, and there are no official election results at that point?

Like, in that dire scenario (Trump not leaving, no clear winner) does House Speaker Nancy Pelosi become president and someone has to haul him out of the building?

geoffrey.skelley: If for some reason the Electoral College hasn’t acted or the electoral votes haven’t been certified by Congress, Trump’s term ends on Jan. 20, according to the 20th Amendment. So there’d be an acting president, who would be the Speaker of the House per the order set out by the Presidential Succession Act — assuming congressional elections occurred.

But of course, that’s how it’s written, not how it might go.

sarah: Did someone mention

the 20th amendment

?

julia_azari: I keep imagining this scenario, and I have to say, I have a hard time imagining that Trump refuses to leave office. I don’t want to be complacent, but like a lot of people on Twitter, Trump seems to be comfortable tweeting out bold ideas and not as great at standing firm under political pressure.

So as I see it, there would be a couple of components needed for this to actually happen. There would be the political pressure — what are advisors, including Jared and Ivanka, telling him to do? This would help us understand if there are people who have influence over Trump who have some interest in seeing the system remain intact and legitimate.

The second thing would be the actual formal power — does the Secret Service force him out? Does the military gets involved? These are wild scenarios.

I would be surprised if these institutions don’t have plans for this somewhere, even if they are not publicly known.

geoffrey.skelley: Not to take things down an even darker road, but in this scenario, I think it’s important to consider how other institutions like the military act and how the president’s supporters behave in the face of attempts to delegitimize the election results.

clare.malone: Totally. I think that’s where many people’s minds go, too. And as a country, I think we are deeply uncomfortable (and rightly so) with the military being involved with a power transition. I mean, I personally find it incredibly chilling to consider.

geoffrey.skelley: I’ve seen Seven Days In May. Great movie but, uh yeah, disturbing.

But it’s a sign of the times when you have Biden actually saying he thinks the military would escort Trump out of the White House if he refused to leave.

sarah: Because that’s the thing, as you’re all saying, there are mechanisms via the 20th amendment to ensure Trump leaves office. But there’s still a very real question of how some of this would actually be enforced if it came to this, right?

julia_azari: Exactly. The 20th amendment was ratified to shorten the period between the presidential election in November and the inauguration, which had been in March. There was growing instability around the time it was ratified, after the 1932 election, and that’s some of what it intended to deal with, but it wasn’t really designed with this problem in mind.

I’m trying to stake out the ground that acknowledges a lot of people won’t have much incentive to let Trump violate the rules in this way.

clare.malone: Julia, when you say that a lot of people won’t have incentive to let Trump act contrary to the rules, whom are you thinking of?

julia_azari: I guess I’m thinking of people who might want to run for president later.

clare.malone: Republicans?

julia_azari: Or make money off the Trump brand. This includes his kids, and yeah, other Republicans.

clare.malone: That is, people with sway over him. Got it.

julia_azari: Military leaders, too, as we saw many of them push back after the D.C. protesters incident in June.

sarah: So let’s talk about the other big doomsday scenario here: The results aren’t considered legitimate. What are the signs that that idea is already taking root?

julia_azari: That’s a good way to frame that, but I’m not sure there are signs that it’s taking root any more than it’s sorta been lurking in the conversation since 2016 — and even before.

geoffrey.skelley: In the face of COVID-19, states are expanding absentee voting and, in some cases, vote-by-mail. But the president is making the case that mailed ballots are illegitimate and highly vulnerable to fraud — this is not true, of course, but by casting aspersions, he’s setting up the potential for delegitimizing the results as they come in, on and after Election Day. And the after part is probably what really matters, especially if the election is close.

clare.malone: Yeah, I was going to say, we’ve spent the past 4 to 5 years conditioning a certain segment of the population to distrust most everything in American life, unless it comes from the president’s mouth.

Someone shared this 2017 survey that found that around half of Republicans would be ok with delaying the 2020 election. Granted, the question was framed around whether people would support delaying the election to make sure people weren’t voting illegally (a big claim of Trump’s in 2016). But I still thought that was surprising.

It’s especially striking when you get to 2020, and the questions revolve around the pandemic. I was shocked to see, for instance, the share of Republicans and Democrats who were willing to delay the election because of the pandemic (roughly 39 percent of Americans supported delaying the election, according to that survey from April).

sarah: Yeah … it is mind boggling. That finding is also at least somewhat corroborated in this paper FiveThirtyEight contributor Lee Drutman published with the Voter Study Group earlier this year. In an examination of democracy in the U.S., Drutman and his coauthors found that both Republicans and Democrats were open to their preferred presidential candidate “rejecting the legitimacy of the election if they claim credible evidence of illegal voting or foreign interference.” And in that vein, 29 percent of Republicans said it would be appropriate for Trump “to refuse to leave office because he claims that he has credible evidence of illegal voting.”

julia_azari: One quibble with that study, though, knowing I have the utmost respect for Lee and his coauthors, is that each scenario lays out a justification for delaying the election, which I think makes it harder to say no. And I think people’s willingness to tolerate this in practice is conditional on their evaluation of that evidence, the credibility of the claims and the person making the claims. (E.g., Trump, who isn’t very popular.)

clare.malone: Totally fair.

I was pretty shocked in general to see how amenable people were to changing this very foundational thing! Even with the reasonings the survey questions provided them.

julia_azari: I was, too, but I think it’s not unreasonable for people to have limits on how much they trust elections if they think those elections were not administered fairly.

geoffrey.skelley: And if the election is close and a state or two is in doubt, any questions about administration could become explosive. See: the 2000 election.

julia_azari: Right. It’s actually amazing how explosive that wasn’t. But things are different now — I wonder how this plays out if we flip it around.

Let’s say Trump wins.

(I mean, this sorta already happened in 2016. Trump won, yet he went right ahead and tried to delegitimize parts of an election he had won.)

But let’s say it happens again, and he wins narrowly once again? Who questions the results? And would that be the right thing to do?

geoffrey.skelley: Yes, I wanted to bring this up! Trump said there were at least 3 million illegal votes in an election he won — conveniently undoing Clinton’s popular vote margin. And then he set up a task force to investigate fraud after he took office. It found nothing.

julia_azari: But there will likely be this question of “credible evidence,” as they cite in that Voter Study group paper. What if Trump wins, and people were standing in hours-long lines in Black neighborhoods in Ohio?

In other words, I think there will be a question of how much skepticism about elections is reasonable, and how much is chaos?

clare.malone: I think there is just going to be skepticism about this election, full stop.

geoffrey.skelley: I would not discount opponents of Trump taking to the streets in that scenario. A recent simulation by a group of experts about what could happen in these sorts of scenarios did not bring me much comfort. They found that every scenario — Trump winning or losing but someone defying the result — ended in street-level violence and political gridlock.

sarah: Oof. It’s interesting to me, though, that the desire to delegitimize results isn’t purely a Republican thing, as that Voter Study paper found. Democrats also showed signs of also being willing to reject the legitimacy of the election if it helps their preferred candidate.

clare.malone: Stacey Abrams’s non-concession concession speech in 2018 provided an interesting template for a potential Biden response (in case of a loss to Trump).

Though I do think Biden is such a conventional politician and institutionalist that he wouldn’t respond in the same way Abrams did, justified or not.

sarah: Yeah and Biden obviously isn’t waging a campaign of disinformation in the way that Trump is either. But perhaps one unintended effect of all this is, to Clare’s point, that skepticism of the election (depending on its margin) is going to be rampant.

julia_azari: Although Biden seems like … truly angry at times about the Trump presidency. It’s not obvious what the institutionalist move is in that scenario, IMO.

clare.malone: A good point!

julia_azari: I think there’s a strong possibility that skepticism is persistent and embedded in Trumpist ideology and among his followers, but not that widespread if the election is not close.

clare.malone: I mean, let’s go back to 2016.

If Trump had lost, we were all preparing for the launch of Trump TV, a perch from which he would rail for the impeachment of President Clinton.

I can sort of see something similar happening if Trump loses (unless, of course, he’s too tired to start the Trump TV experiment!)

geoffrey.skelley: OANN would love to have him.

julia_azari: Again, I don’t want to be complacent. I spend way too much time on politics Twitter. I spend all my time on politics Twitter.

But if Biden wins by a lot and Trump tweets a bunch, most Americans will just go on about their lives. That’s sorta how 2000 played out, and that was obviously really close and subject to questions, too.

geoffrey.skelley: Thing is, I can’t imagine Trump conceding in a 2000-esque situation in the way Gore eventually did.

clare.malone: Of course, 2000 is the election that a lot of people point to as the start of mistrust in elections as institutions. And like, the era of “voter fraud” alarmism really ramped up under George W. Bush.

julia_azari: But the angry minority has demonstrated that it can drive politics and policy to a great degree. So I don’t want to be complacent, but I do want to be specific in my fears.

clare.malone: So you could say people went on with their lives, but there were corrosive effects.

julia_azari: If he loses, I sometimes imagine that people around Trump will say, “People will say nice things about you if you do a good concession speech,” and so he does. But it’s not encouraging that that’s what it might come to.

clare.malone: Right, the integrity of democratic institutions might come down to a pep talk from “Javanka?”

sarah: So at the outset of this chat, I asked how Trump’s tweet to postpone the election was different from what he’s already done to try and delegitimize November’s result. And we’ve also pointed out that there have been prior points in American history where voters have mistrusted election results.

But I think given the abnormal aspects of Trump’s presidency, it’s easy to point to historical comparisons without really probing whether the moment we’re in doesn’t have a historical comparison, as historian Rick Perlstein did in his tweet, telling the media he didn’t want to do more interviews on how this moment might compare to 1968.

julia_azari: I think Perlstein is right, but I also think that we should be precise about how abnormal politics interacts with normal politics, because that has been the story of the Trump presidency IMO.

clare.malone: So, I mean, I take Rick’s point in this tweet; there’s this instinct that we have to comfort ourselves with history (i.e., American democracy has weathered much worse) but I do think that we sometimes dwell a bit in history without facing the new challenges that Trump presents us.

We sort of have to respect the new paradigm that’s been created and understand that there are limits to what history can teach us in this particular case; i.e., Twitter, plus Trump, plus 20 years of diminishing electoral trust.

geoffrey.skelley: It’s interesting that people would comfort themselves with history — I take little comfort from it. We’ve been on the brink before with the 1876 election, for instance.

julia_azari: I think that’s absolutely true. I don’t see history as a comfort but rather as a guide to how much luck and skill it takes to maneuver through this stuff.

I also think history is helpful because it shows what’s not normal. (And what shouldn’t be, but is.)

[verycleverboy]

Here’s another one you’re not gonna read...

(...because it’s excruciatingly long, not because it isn’t necessary.)

One of my most faithful followers (unless I’m confusing him with someone else, because what little blowback I get from the other side of the street tends to bleed together these days) checked in about a different post I made for this story, which I entitled (checks notes) ”Geriatric toddler threatens to dismiss a branch of the government during a national emergency unless he gets the toys that he wants”:

First of all, hope you’re doing well in the current situation, and thank you for your thoughtful analysis of the first two words of a joke headline.

The Washington Post article that joke was attached to goes into the president’s threat last week to dismiss Congress under the never-used Article II, Section 3 of the Constitution, with the goal of making recess appointments that bypassed the hearings that have tripped up several high-profile nominees.

Like a lot of things that literally every other POTUS before the current one never attempted, there’s a pretty spirited debate as to what conditions would have to be fulfilled for Trump to successfully pull this maneuver off, assuming it’s not all bluster and no muster. One major condition that would have to exist is that the Senate and the House would have to be in disagreement on adjournment, and according to the National Law Journal, there is no disagreement between the chambers at the moment. The current session officially adjourns on January 3, 2021. So until circumstances prove otherwise, we have to operate under the assumption that he can, in fact, exercise this extraordinary Constitutional power...under a narrow set of conditions which don’t exist right now.

The reason he’s making this threat, and why his supplemental threat to “take it to the courts” is toothless, is that the last man in his current position tried to make a recess appointment between the type of pro forma sessions we’re dealing with now and was shot down by a unanimous Supreme Court decision, one which reaffirmed that Congress is done when Congress says it’s done. 

But one justice went a little bit further in his concurring opinion, issuing a warning about any court decision that “transforms the recess-appointment power from a tool carefully designed to fill a narrow and specific need into a weapon to be wielded by future presidents against future Senates.”

“The Recess Appointments Clause therefore is, or rather, should be, an anachronism—’essentially an historic relic, something whose original purpose has disappeared,’” the justice wrote. “The need it was designed to fill no longer exists, and its only remaining use is the ignoble one of enabling the president to circumvent the Senate’s role in the appointment process.” 

Antonin Scalia, ladies and gentlemen.

Here’s where things get interesting, though, because the statement that came from Mitch McConnell’s office, at least if you squint hard enough, signals “I feel ya, bro, but focus.”:  “The Leader pledged to find ways to confirm nominees considered mission-critical to the COVID-19 pandemic, but under Senate rules will take consent from Leader Schumer.”

Which brings us back to our article up there...

What qualifies as “mission-critical to the COVID-19 pandemic”? There are a few nominees that are cooling their heels at the moment, but for the Voice of America (and yes, now is when we finally get to the linked article), one of them strikes pretty close to home.

U.S. President Donald Trump is threatening to adjourn Congress because lawmakers have not approved his candidates for senior posts in his administration, including his nominee to run the independent agency overseeing the Voice of America.[...]

Documentary filmmaker Michael Pack, whom Trump has selected to run the U.S. Agency for Global Media, is one of 15 key nominees awaiting confirmation by the Senate. Trump cited Pack by name (but erroneously identified the body he would head as USAGM’s predecessor agency, the Broadcasting Board of Governors). 

Michael Pack is a self-described conservative documentary filmmaker, one who has done work with Trump’s ex-chief strategist Steve Bannon. And there’s a pretty damn good reason why the confirmation committee pumped the brakes on his nomination (per CNBC).:

The “problematic revelations” that Menendez says he discovered just before Pack’s confirmation hearing in 2019 include “whether Mr. Pack engaged in inappropriate or unlawful activity related to transactions between his business (Manifold Productions) and his non-profit (Public Media Lab)” and “whether Mr. Pack engaged in self-dealing while in a leadership position at the Claremont Institute through the awarding of a contract to Manifold” even though that company doesn’t appear to have any qualifications to act as a vendor to the conservative think tank.

The letter to Meadows also sheds light on another aspect of Pack’s confirmation, which is that the Democratic committee leader has asked Pack to provide documents and answers to a variety of questions that could clear up these issues, only for Trump’s nominee to respond in a “perfunctory and inadequate” way.

“More than seven months have gone by since my initial questions. Mr. Pack has yet to provide the Committee with the requested information or to engage in a good-faith and serious effort to do so,” Menendez said.

So when confronted with his unethical, possibly illegal wrongdoing, Pack stonewalled, the way all this president’s men do. Sounds like a great guy to trust with public funds.

But seriously, why is this “mission critical to the COVID-19 pandemic”? 

Back to VOA:

Pack’s nomination has “been stuck in committee for two years, preventing us from managing the Voice of America — very important,” the president said. “And if you heard what’s coming out of the Voice of America, it’s disgusting. The things they say are disgusting toward our country. And Michael Pack would get in and do a great job, but he’s been waiting for two years — can’t get him approved.”   

Disgusting, you say? Let’s settle into that accusation for a hot minute.

Here’s the deal about the VOA: It went on the air on February 9, 1942, a little over two months after America found itself pulled into a global conflict of a massive scale with the actual, non-metaphorical Nazi government which had steamrolled over the European continent. That first broadcast came from a small studio in New York City, directed at an aggressor nation which had developed a robust system of delivering misinformation to its enemies. 

So how do you combat lies? Double down on honesty.

“This is a voice speaking from America, a voice from America at war. Our voices are coming to you from New York, across the Atlantic Ocean to London, from where they are relayed to you in Germany. Today, America has been at war for 79 days. Daily at this time, we shall speak to you about America and the war. The news may be good or bad. We shall tell you the truth.“

“The news may be good or bad. We shall tell you the truth.” I’ve never been a journalist, but the first time I read those words I was thunderstruck. In the simplest language possible, there’s the Platonic ideal of what news reporting is supposed to be. It also sets a high bar for how the United States presents itself to the world. We could argue all day on how many American organizations live up to those words, how many American administrations live up to those words, or if any configuration of the American government is equipped to be honest and forthright in every imaginable situation. But that’s the resolution, the goal for all the world to see.

So what is the “disgusting” VOA coverage that President Trump is complaining about? If we look at some recent headlines, we might get a hint.:

US Nowhere Near Ready for Business as Usual, Former CDC Head Says

Fauci: US Economy Won’t Recover Until Coronavirus Controlled

WHO Chief: Worst on Coronavirus Pandemic Yet to Come

WHO Fears US Funding Cuts Will Roll Back Health Gains in Africa

If you actually read these, they’re nothing more than articles recounting expert assessments of the potential consequences of federal actions (or, just as often, inactions) connected to our coronavirus response. Addressing these things in the public square is usually meant to be a corrective, especially when your chief executive pays more attention to the media than his own advisors, and that a broadcast outlet funded by the US government isn’t afraid to publicize criticism of government decisions gives our entire system a much-needed shot of credibility.

But Trump has never been able to take even constructive criticism as anything other than a personal insult, an attitude which he magnifies by using the power of the highest office in the country to scream “FAKE! FAKE! FAKE! FAKE!” at the top of his lungs whenever he sees or hears something that hurts his feelings. 

The only conclusion I can draw is that he wants the Voice of America to be more like the Voice of Korea, and the “mission critical” part of this gambit is that the VOA’s editorial independence distracts and confuses him. Do I seriously think the beacon of the Cold War era, the organization whose current director proudly proclaims “We export the First Amendment,” is going to be converted into a shoddy simulation of the old Eastern bloc broadcasters? Of course not. Would I put it past the current chief executive to at least try, destroying the VOA’s credibility to redesign it into yet another monument to himself? Not a shadow of a doubt.

“The news may be good or bad. We shall tell you the truth.” It’s a core element of America’s self-image, and the image we project to friends and foes alike. And the 45th President of the United States thinks that’s disgusting. 

Because he doesn’t want the truth. He wants to be soothed and coddled. He wants a cookie and a story before bedtime. You know, like a toddler.

(PS: For the record, the “very clever boy” in this account’s original title was always intended to be Donald Trump, because, as you probably figured out a long time ago, I don’t view him as very clever, nor has he been a boy for quite some time. I changed the official name of the blog to Trump Happens because some people don’t get sarcasm.)

[wackygoofball]

Moodboard: Jaime x Brienne - Shadowhunters AU

Brienne of Tarth has been quite busy at the King’s Landing Institute. The Clave assigned the young Shadowhunter a new case to investigate. Mundanes were murdered in odd fashion, a mixture of signatures one would associate with demons, warlocks and the like. Brienne travels to the latest crime scene, surprised to see someone already examining it, the infamous Jaime Lannister, the only honorably discharged Shadowhunter. He killed the former head of the King’s Landing Institute, Aerys Targaryen, and as a result was thrown out.

“Go to hell, Lannister. You are not allowed anywhere near Clave operations.”

“Have already been there, don’t fancy revisiting it. Thanks a lot.”

“Why are you here anyway?”

“Interest? And I am of interest to you because I may happen to have some valuable information, though you will have to ask me for it, nicely, I may add.”

“I think I can handle on my own.”

“I’ll be here once you realize that you need me… what was your name again?”

“None of your business.”

“Odd name. Is it Braavosi?”

“None of you business.”

“You can call me Jaime, just Jaime.”

Brienne just leaves the man standing where he is to investigate for herself. However, to her great dismay, the latest victim does no give her any new clues. When she walks back she is not really surprised but still irritated by the fact that the Kingslayer still lurks around the crime scene, looking at her oh so smugly. Begrudgingly, she asks him for the information he claimed to have. If he has some valuable intel, it is her obligation to obtain it, after all. Her opinion of him should not stand in the way of that.

“There’s one trademark achingly absent from this, wouldn’t you agree?”

“… No Seelie signature.”

“Would seem odd to me that if someone were to pain all Downworlders as bad, that someone would conveniently leave out those nasty always-telling-the-truth-though-not-really Seelies.”

“And do you have anything to support your hypothesis?”

“I may.”

“And you won’t share?”

“I don’t think you have asked me nicely yet.”

“I am fairly sure I did not, because I had no intention to.”

“But you want that intel, don’t you?”

“If you can’t give it, I doubt you even have it, in which case you still remain a waste of my valuable time.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“An educated guess.”

Brienne remains irritated by the man, but against many, many odds, he apparently has some valuable information that may prove vital to the case, leading all the way back to Seelie King Jaqen H’ghar.

Dutifully, Brienne reports back to the ops, leaving a very disappointed Jaime behind as he was hoping she’d at least treat him a coffee for his troubles, but no such luck. Head of the Institute Ned Stark is pleased to hear about the progress on the case she’s made but shows little enthusiasm once she tells him about the unexpected help she received from the Kingslayer.

“He’s up to no good,” he warns her.

“I am aware, but he helped me find evidence I needed to put things together. And I honestly thinks we are on to something bigger than the involvement of the Seelies in the latest attacks.”

“If you know what’s good for you, you will stay away from him in the future, though. That man cannot be trusted, and he has any reason to have something against us, against the Clave. We don’t know what his motivation is.”

“I have any intention to stay clear of him, but if meeting the Kingslayer again serves the Law, I will do what it takes to uphold it, Sir.”

With that, Brienne leaves the office to continue putting her report into writing. She runs into Ned’s daughters Arya and Sansa.

They grey on her by now, and Brienne started to feel responsible for them after their father was gone for a long time, having left everyone, his children included, under the belief that he died like his wife and son and his son’s wife did. Warlock Petyr Baelish collaborated against Ned after Robert’s demise, and it was owed to Varys’s quick thinking and passing him off as dead that bought them the necessary time to get Ned out of the dangerzone and find the people behind the plot. Ever since, things have been strained between the last of the Starks, to say the least, as the girls did not take kindly to the loss of their father and his sudden, unexpected return. While he was gone, Arya in particular joined a dark path, ran away and spent far too much time with the Seelies instead of fellow Shadowhunters. Sansa barely speaks to her father and retreated into herself, focusing most of her attention on handling the administrative duties she was assigned. Brienne took care of the girls after Arya returned to the Institute, for reasons unknown, and while the girls struggle, they grew to have some trust the tall, mannish woman. However, as much as they may have grown to trust Brienne they learned to mistrust their father. Ned, ever since, failed to reconnect with his children. And the fact that he became head of the Institute does not necessarily help the matter as he has little time to spend with his family even though all are in desperate need for just that. Brienne continues to push him, but to no avail.

The man is even more stubborn than she is, and that surely means something.

The blonde Shadowhunter goes back to her usual routines thereafter, but strange occurrences drive her out of the office out into the streets sooner rather than later, as evidence keeps suggesting to her that there is an uprising that may connect to the Night King whom all thought was defeated during the last Long Night. However, that was such a long time ago that people only see it as legend now, though Brienne is afraid that this legend may come to haunt them again if they don’t do something.

And as much as she hates it, this is damn well close to what the Kingslayer suggested to her back when he offered some intel during the Seelie case. He was the only one she ran into until now who had a similar suspicion.

Not knowing where else to turn with her theories, as authorities remain indifferent to her suspicions, Brienne tracks down the Kingslayer. However, disappointment soon overtakes her surge of enthusiasm as she finds Jaime drunk and miserable about himself after a rough night of “memories, too many memories,” as he lulls at her. Brienne isn’t having it and tells the man to get himself together if he means to stay true what he told her, wanting to solve that mystery as much as she. Jaime sobers up somewhat once he realizes just how serious the woman is, not just bothering to track him down but now also expecting better of him.

He didn’t have people put faith in him in a long, long time, after all.

“We have a common goal and the Clave won’t give the orders to further investigate unless I bring the evidence needed. If what you and I came up with turns out to be true, even to the smallest degree, then we may have the second Long Night on our hands and we have to stop it. It may well be that there may be a new uprising of the living dead we banished beyond the Wall. And as much as I hate to admit, you got further down the road than I did with my methods.”

“So that means you trust me?”

“I am willing to have a truce with you.”

“A truce.”

“We both have a common goal, which is to figure out what is going on with the murders, what’s the reason behind it all,” she tells him. “A truce would allow us to work together for this case only.”

“A truce… it does have a nice ring to it.”

“If you think so, meet me tomorrow and sleep off your hangover because I am here for business, not to become your personal nanny.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jaime keeps true to his word and shows up at his most presentable the next day, quick to suggest to Brienne that if they want to get to the bottom of this, they have to reach beyond “familiar turfs and venture through the neighbors’ gardens,” which is his way of telling her that they should consult with Downworlders. Brienne is not particularly pleased about that as she was taught to stay clear of them the best she can but tags along anyway.

The Kingslayer brings her to the Dwarf Warlock of King’s Landing. It is only once she sees the two together that Brienne pieces together that this warlock is Tyrion and that Tyrion is Jaime’s brother. As they explain to her, Tyrion was abandoned after his warlock mark was discovered. Tywin had Jaime believe that Tyrion passed away from sickness but actually had him brought away to be with the warlocks instead.

“I am a thing of curiosity in all worlds there are. To the mundanes, I am a simple dwarf with a drinking problem. To my father and sister, I am a monster. To the Shadowhunters I am a warlock with dangerous abilities… and to the warlocks I am a danger all the same as I am the only warlock born from the union of two Shadowhunters, which is a thing of impossibility.”

“Which is why he started getting drunk to cope. I don’t think you’ve ever been sober since you came of age.”

“And I have no intention to start now.”

Jaime found him on a mission when he was younger and still a Shadowhunter out of the handbook when he was working a case. The two agreed to keep it a secret that they are brothers because they would not want to risk Tywin learning that Jaime and he got back together. After all, the man was willing to abandon Tyrion and tell Jaime that he died only just to know them apart.

“And Father won’t ever manage that again, we’ll see to that.”

After Jaime broke with the Clave, he spent most of his time doing nothing, waiting for the end of the Shadow World because he believes it is meant to go down, was always meant to be: “It started with Aerys and it ends with another bad guy. Fire or ice, all the same. In the end, the Shadow World is fucked and I am just here to watch the fireworks.”

Brienne calls him out on that because he came to the scene on his own. “Seems like you give a damn after all.”

“How daring of you to accuse me of caring for anyone but myself, wench.”

“An educated guess.”

Tyrion starts to take interest in not just the case his brother got himself into but also the female Shadowhunter who came to them for help. A little bit of digging around reveals some interesting information about her, namely that she is also known as the Kingslayer, a title both brothers thought was quite unique to Jaime’s case only.

When the leads keep them off the tracks and frustration starts to spread, Jaime and Brienne get into a heated argument, which soon ebbs into Jaime revealing Tyrion’s research about her and asking the really uncomfortable questions of why she is called that and why she never told him that they are “one and the same” after all.

“I am called Kingslayer still even though my case was cleared. We are not the same. I was accused of having murdered Renly Baratheon, but the charges were dropped because of a lack of evidence.”

“Which means they didn’t actually prove your innocence but just didn’t have enough against you to take your runes away.”

“I didn’t do it. Stannis did, but I don’t have the evidence to prove it and bring him to justice before the Law.”

Brienne always dreamed about becoming Renly's parabatai and hoped that he would choose her once it was time, but before Renly could even choose a partner of that sort, he was murdered. Her father wanted her to take over the Institute on Tarth as his successor, but she declined and instead went to King's Landing to stick to Cat after she helped her through the Renly trial and was supportive of her when no one else was. To repay the debt, Brienne felt all the more compelled to take care of Sansa and Arya when Catelyn passed away and they didn’t yet know that their father was still alive.

She wasn’t ready to become head of an Institute, and in Brienne’s mind, that moment won’t ever come as she doesn’t believe herself to be made of the stuff it takes to run an institute: “I don't have charisma, I don't know how to deliver great speeches to inspire people. I know how to fight. I know how to be a Shadowhunter. That is all I will ever be, and that is fine with me. That means I can devote myself to protecting the people I love.”

After that fight, the two feel a closer connection since ever as they now trust one another with their darkest secrets, even more so when Jaime reveals some of the circumstances behind his act of treason that got him dispelled.

And soon, feelings of distrust and misgiving become increasingly replaced by care and… something much stronger, something both actually gave up on long time ago, until they found it again – just with one another.

However, trouble is only ever just a step away as evidence keeps suggesting they are on the right track and they are running out of time to prevent the Long Night. Both have to face some inner demons as they have to confront their past and present, Jaime having to face up against Ned Stark and Brienne having to come to terms with the circumstances of Renly’s death.

When the two discover what has to be done in order to save not just their world but of all others, mundanes and Downworlders alike, and how much sacrifice that may mean not just for themselves but for them together, it puts not just their devotion to the cause to the test but also forces them into the tough choice of how far they are willing to go for duty, if love the price for it.

[puawarriors-production]

Week 17 – Alex – I Told You I’d See You Later

My previous post was a little anti-climactic if you ask me, and I didn’t get to recap what I did so here we gooo.

----------------------FIRST, MAJOR DISCLAIMER---------------

     As you can see, this post is pretty dang long, so I’m just gonna put evaluation stuff for the class here first, and if you feel like reading on afterward that’s cool, but it’s just personal reflections and final send-off stuff. 

     So, shockingly, I was one of the main contributors to the rough animation which you can see in the animatic, and can track the progress of throughout this blog’s history. I finished 15 roughed shots in total. I also have 8 shots concurrently blocked (in other words, partial progress,) and 2 shots unstarted.       I also made the 3D environment models used for reference in making the backgrounds, as well as handling the editing side (video composition, timing, and sound edits) for the animatic up to this point. 

     Next, I worked closely with Sophia and our sound mixer Tim to get the voice actresses recorded, their clips edited, and finally integrated into the film. And also, while this hasn’t made it into the animatic yet, I have been creating some original sound design elements as well. Here’s a sample of some:

I’m focusing mostly on the characters’ Pua powers and transformations right now, and some sludge sounds. And in hand with that, I also did the voice clips/sound effects for the Sludge Monster. Aaand that’s pretty much it from me this semester! Super excited to keep up the work in the weeks to come! If you’re not sticking till the end of the post, then thanks for an awesome class, and awesome semester! 

------------------ The Feels Side of the Post -----------------

                                       The Pua Warriors Experience

     When I first heard about Pua Warriors, I thought the idea sounded awesome: Magical girls set in Hawai'i using flower powers and sparkles to save the day? Yeah I’m down for that. It felt… familiar to me, I suppose. But at the time I still knew relatively little about the characters, the story, and only had a vague idea of their designs.

     As time went on and the Capstone application deadline was approaching, I felt like I was a bit stuck, with the exhaustion of working on Midnight Showing holding me on one side, and having only a vague outline of a plot for my own film idea on the other. And with no crew to speak of, the decision not to make a Capstone of my own was … difficult… one of the most difficult in my time at ACM. Cause in my mind (at the time at least,) not making “your own” Capstone project felt like a failure somehow. But this whole Pua Warriors thing was sounding pretty nice, and I already knew everyone working on it. So I decided life’s better together, and far be it from me to not work on a project of some kind. So I hopped on-board for a little trip into the unknown. And well, here we are, still in the unknown. But that doesn’t mean we’re lost. Not yet.

     I have to say, Pua Warriors has grown on me. At a certain point it stopped feeling like a student film, and started feeling more like a potential series: a world with its own storyline, and indeed one that’s worth telling – yes, I would make a distinction between the two. Working on the project has just been the sweetest, most wonderful, enlightening, mild existential crisis inducing, and bizarrely friendly thing I’ve had the privilege of working on, all at once. It didn’t just change how I approach character design, animation, or working on a team – I feel it changed me for the better as a person, and at times I feel almost unworthy to be on this project.

     One thing I’ll never forget is the time we spent hanging out in the Keller lab, going to group meetings, and recording at MELE. What silly fun times those were. I admit, not being able to hang out with my friends after the virus shut the world down has truly been one of the most difficult parts of my whole “college era” of my life experience. To feel like something great was forming, only to be ripped away by something so crazy and completely over-the-top as this virus – words just can’t capture the feeling of melancholy. But even when we’re spread hundreds or thousands of miles apart, at times I can still feel near, even if it is only through a screen. And personally, I don’t want that to change just because the semester’s ending. That’s why, in a way, I’m sort of glad we have time to work on into the summer.

                                             Reflections on Life

     Some lessons this semester taught me: First is on fitting in. It’s never blending in for the sake of blending in, nor standing out for the sake of standing out. It’s being comfortably unique in your own talents and skills, strengths and weaknesses, styles and tastes - while being happy to share those things with others. Indeed, it’s not about being “good enough” to belong, but rather belonging, in order that may do good for others. Second is on wanting to help. For a long time I remained kind of a loner in ACM, sitting in “my” corner with “my” ideas. It wasn’t until last semester and especially during this semester I realized just how powerful, or perhaps rather how much more powerful the drive to help and serve others can be. That’s true not just for creative endeavors, but all areas of life. The Third lesson: doing things for the right reasons. We do things for a lot of different reasons, and often times we aren’t cognizant of why we act or feel the way we do. Having an understanding of who you truly are and what you really want is critical in exercising self-control, and you may come to realize your desires aren’t always what you think they are. And the Fourth lesson is on being assertive. We all want and feel things, and one of the greatest feelings is being in control. You may doubt yourself when you don’t know where your feelings and desires come from. You may think your mind is playing tricks on you. But the truth is, we’ll never go places in life if we don’t speak up and acknowledge our ideas. We may not always come to the right conclusions, but that doesn’t mean we’re wrong for trying. So try, try, and try again. It’s okay to fail, as long as you pick up something with you as you get up. Take risks, and understand that doubt is often our greatest enemy, so fight it!

     So now, at the end, I don’t really know what I feel: I don’t know if this is sadness or happiness? Courage or fear? Maybe it’s none of those things, but something I haven’t quite felt before. Until recently, I didn’t realize there’s an emotion that can make you feel so weak, yet feel strong at the same time. One thing’s for sure, I’m going to miss the project, the crew, and all of Hawai'i. To us, the future is a blank slate: nothing is written on it, yet it holds an infinite number of possibilities. 

                                          Honoring my Maker

     Now before I wrap up, I have a specific topic I’d like to address.

     While I  usually avoid discussing my religious life openly in a scholastic context, I will say here and now that God has been my greatest help throughout these past couple years. For the longest time, even before coming to Hawai'i, I struggled with feelings of not fitting in, of low self-esteem, and of self-doubt. There were a lot of recurring battles at my home growing up, and many of the wounds followed me into adulthood. And if nothing else, this semester has brought many of those to the forefront.

     As a child back in Washington, I would often just go with the flow of my friends at the time, because it was easier, and allowed me to avoid conflict. Yet I would be lead into instances where I would not speak up or act, even though I felt what we were doing, thinking, or saying was wrong. My family wasn’t particularly religious, or at least they certainly didn’t act like it. And for a while I think I didn’t believe in God. Maybe there was some higher power... maybe, perhaps, but not God. Yet still I felt a crushing weight on my conscience, for both the things I had done, and the things I had failed to do. So I watched TV shows and movies to help me feel safe, to distract myself, and indeed to feel as if I had more power than I actually did. 

     There came a time in middle school when a big storm came through my life, and when I was living in fear, I turned to God, and He helped me through it. And again in high school, God helped me. And in college, many times more. Through it all, God answered my prayers, and showed me there is a better way. And I came to understand that He gave me a way to life through His Son, long before I was even born. And because of that, I could find comfort and rest by trusting in Him through the afflictions I faced.      So the way I see it, God has lead my life in a way neither I, nor any human being could. I have found that He has a purpose for all things, and truly that nothing comes by accident. I may not say it aloud, but I observe it every day in the places He sets me in, and the people with whom He places me. Yes, even in the midst of this virus. So while family and friends may not always be there to support me, and while institutions may crumble and fall, and while I may move away and feel isolated from all I’ve known, my God was, is, and always will be with me. There is nothing more empowering or reassuring than that. And without coming off too preachy, my hope is that people might perhaps look at that reflected in my life - to see the work God has done, and to consider their own relationship with Him.

                                                       Roll Call

     Next, I have a few shout-outs I’d like to mention.

     First, to my wonderful film Director Sophia: What can I say? This project has been simply amazing to work on with you. I think back to the moment I first overheard you talking about Pua Warriors. You were so thrilled to do it, and that’s when I realized I might want to jump onboard as well. Since then, the only adjective that comes to mind describing this experience is “vibrant.” I know there have been a lot of ups and downs, but that’s part of what makes the experience worth remembering. And there may very well be more hills and valleys to go through, but I actually look forward to them every day with you, as we continue to make this film happen. You shine like a star with a brilliant, positive energy I’ve never seen before. And I think you have a much greater potential than perhaps even you yourself realize. Of course, everyone has room to grow, but that doesn’t reflect poorly on you at all. It’s the fact that you’ve been so supportive of your team, and that you didn’t give up on your vision, and indeed, you’ve made massive efforts to grow this semester – that’s what makes you a good director in my eyes. And to be honest, I wouldn’t have anybody else direct the film – certainly at least not this “episode” anyway. It’s been a lasting experience, and I hope you’ll take what you’ve learned from it with you. You have a bright future ahead of you Sophia – all you need to do is reach out to it!

     Next, to the Art Director and my good friend Gavin, wow what a ride this has been. Your artistic vision, your stamina, and your work ethic are so very remarkable. It’s been awesome these last few years getting to know you and work with you through all the late nights and long class periods. And especially through Midnight Showing and Pua Warriors. You basically set the standard that I and most other animation students aspire to, and you have such a unique way of looking at things too. Even when you’re feeling drained from all the work, your passion clearly shows, and you know how to communicate both very clearly, AND very, uh, sassily, which makes hanging around you hilarious. You’re also one of the only people on Earth that could get me to watch Clone Wars, and I don’t regret it. You give exceptional feedback in each critique, and though it can be tough to incorporate sometimes, you make listening to you a worthwhile endeavor. ACM simply would not be what it is without you, and I know you have many great things you’ll do with your skills moving forward.

     To our excellent Animation Supervisor Chandelle, this semester’s been a tough one, but even in the darkest times, the sun still rises! You’ve always been an awesome animator, an incredibly hard worker, and an exceptionally friendly and helpful member of the group. And what’s more, you never sought to put the spotlight on yourself for it. You do things simply because you care, and you do them with such a level of discipline and professionalism that few in the ACM department could match it. I’m sure I speak for the whole group when I say, we care about you so much, and we’re just thankful you’ve been with us on the project. Never sell yourself short Chandelle! You’ve conquered some major obstacles in the past, and I know you have it in you to overcome this one as well.The light will shine again someday, so hang in there, and thanks for all the help you’ve given!

     To my fellow animation friend Jared, man, have I got a lot of respect for you. You really know what it’s like to get down and dirty for the team, or feel stuck in a rut in the middle of a project. This last year has probably tested you the most, and yet you never fell apart. Sure, cracks may have formed at times, but you held together and pulled on through to the end. That proves you’ve got guts, and a great capacity for patience and accommodation especially in times of crisis. And that’s exactly what we need - that kind of boldness and passion, to be able to outlast our worries, especially when there are so many unknowns. I remember back to Midnight Showing; boy, that felt like a big time of unknowns too. We had no idea what was coming. And yet you outmatched it, and sure enough, things worked out in the end. And because you’ve been so humble and willing to improve yourself, I’ve seen you get so much better over these last few years, and frankly, it’s astonishing! You’re a great friend, and a hard worker Jared. Keep it up! You’ve got this!

     I’d also like mention my fellow animation friend Kalilinoe! Even though we’re not in the same team this semester, you’re still an awesome and inspiring animator to have in class! Working together on Midnight Showing last semester was a lot of work, but also so much fun! And I love your style of animation using rotoscoping. And I gotta say, the animation in Pua Ka Uahi looks sooo smooth and beautiful. Watching your progress on the film this semester has been super inspiring, and definitely keeps the other teams on their toes! I can’t wait to see the finished film!

     I’ll also make a brief mention of Jayme and Bobby from our 320/420 classes! You guys rock, and made the year all the better! I hope we’ll get to hang out again sometime! 

     PLUS, A big thanks to the whole Capstone class! Stay creative, and best wishes to you all!

     And finally, one last big shout-out to Lisette for making all of this possible! You’ve been an awesome teacher not just for this course, but for the last few years in general! You always bring such wisdom and expert film knowledge to us younglings. And you’re so willing to make yourself available to your students; always helpful and encouraging to everyone, and even more so now during this time. That’s just the kind of support we need! I’ll be missing your classes greatly! Thanks so much for all your care and help!

                                              A New Chapter Begins

Well, that pretty much wraps up my blog (for the school-production time anyway) of Pua Warriors. I’d like to once again thank each and every one of you for making the ACM experience so incredible. I think I like posting, so I’ll probably try to keep up with the blogs for the future, or at least make an update every once in a while. Thanks for reading through this epic conclusion of a post. 

Until next time my friends! This is Alex(is) Nelson, Ganitine, the Undercover Animator, uncovered! See you next time!

[anditendshowyoudexpect]

There remains a stigma attached to the word ‘breakdown’, when actually it’s a very legitimate response to life in the early twenty-first century. We are not designed for the non-stop world we live in, the pressures put upon us, and those we bring upon ourselves. For young people, especially, those pressures are becoming ever more intense. Social media, the battle for jobs, the speed with which we judge – it’s a lot easier for kids now to be made to feel inadequate in so many different ways. I worry about what any child picks up in their subconscious just through their daily interaction with the world. Societal pressure has got worse for children, and I hope my own experiences will make me better able to help my children tread that difficult path.

*

Billie was magnificent as Rose. I knew she was good at the time but looking back now I can see her absolute brilliance. It reminds me how much we loved working together, which is palpably obvious on screen. Actors work at chemistry; it doesn’t just come with a snap of the fingers, but we were fortunate enough to have something there from the start. We were also professionals and knew how to achieve on-screen banter. What truly amazes me is I know how nervous Billie was at the start. She thought I was some big serious performer and she didn’t have the belief in herself as an actor. She proved herself, of course, to be way better than any of the rest of us. Her luminosity on screen comes from herself, not those around her, and instinctively she made Rose exactly the person she should be. When Doctor Who won a BAFTA for Best Drama, it was Billie for whom I was truly delighted. The reception she got when the show was screened made any lingering reservations on her part about her ability evaporate. It was admirable in her that she had zero arrogance that she could do it. The work she has done since has shown her to be worthy of every accolade that comes her way.

Watching our characters now reinforces what I concluded at the time: Russell enjoys writing more for women than he does for men. If so, I’m glad – there’s been a lot of writing for men. Rose arrives on screen fully formed, one of the strongest female characters of any show of any year, painting a solid line leading directly to Jodie Whittaker. If you think about it, the relaunch in 2005 was actually the chance to create the first female Doctor. Why not do it then? Perhaps, really, we should be looking back on Billie Piper not as Rose but as the Doctor.

*

The attitude exists that, in the relationship between producer, director and actor, they are the adults and we are the children. I agree, actors can behave like children, they can be spoilt – but not this one, and not a lot of others I know. A working relationship can’t operate on a basis of master and servant. If a director, or anyone else on set, comes in and has bad manners, then chances are they’ll hear from me.

This idea that actors can be manipulated and pushed around to suit the agendas of others irritates me. On Shallow Grave, prior to the shoot, myself, Ewan McGregor and Kerry Fox lived in a flat together for a week. We rehearsed, read scenes, and got to know each other. I considered it to be a budgetary and practical arrangement, but after the film came out Danny talked about it as being a social experiment, which I objected to because to me it was like the director playing God. If Danny wanted to conduct an experiment to gauge our reaction and interaction to one another, he should have told us. Had I known, I would doubtless have gained something from the situation. Danny, I expect, would argue otherwise, that the actors wouldn’t get it. Well, I’m more intelligent than that. As it turned out, Danny’s plan was counterproductive because all it did was give myself, Kerry and Ewan a week to realise we didn’t like each other very much and didn’t get on. We had entirely different backgrounds, approaches to acting, and sensibilities. All three of us were also very, very ambitious and insecure with it. Danny would probably argue that that tension then manifested itself on screen. I think that’s bollocks. This idea of pitting one actor against another is dangerous, manipulative and patronising. The film would have been better without all that nonsense.

I’m not alone in feeling dismayed at misplaced directorial interference. Anthony Hopkins once arranged for the cast of Frankenstein to go for a Chinese meal during rehearsals. Anthony received a message from Francis Ford Coppola: ‘Francis doesn’t want you to go for a Chinese meal,’ it read, ‘because he feels it would break the atmosphere.’

Anthony Hopkins’ reaction was simple – ‘Bollocks, we’re going for a Chinese meal.’

*

In a way, Let Him Have It was an example of the British film industry bowing to American values. I hate Forrest Gump. I would like to burn every single copy of that film for the way it treats both mental health issues and women. A sexually free female character who ends up with AIDS? That tells you everything. I wanted to make an angrier, more polemical, more complicated film about a young man who deserved more than just to have the label ‘simple’ pinned to his lapel.

*

That presence, that intensity, that some people, not just Peter, have identified again comes from growing up, like most working class children, with the institutional message, ‘You’re stupid’, as did my father, as did my brothers. If you’re working class in this country, you may be able to shovel shit or push a trolley, but, ‘You are thick. You do not emote.’ ‘You are thick. You are not worthy of a decent education.’ Those central messages of unworthiness become so ingrained that they are self-perpetuating. Come up with a big word and not only are you mocked – ‘Oh, where did that come from?’ – but you mock yourself. So yes, I am intense, and that’s because there’s a lot of fierce concentration on trying to be articulate, rather than that laid-back public-school attitude to intellect that some people seem to have.

*

My dad had definitely shared with me a very visible masculinity. His appearance and actions shouted standard maleness, but the way I viewed him was different. It seemed obvious to me that, at his core, causing his outward behaviour, was a great femininity and vulnerability. My view of maleness was formed from how tyrannical my dad could be and yet how gentle. Through him, I learned to accept that the two things could coexist. I too have a masculinity allied to an intensely female side. Perhaps the difference is I’m aware of it. Dad, I think, found his sensitivity a source of conflict. For many years, I was the same. I resented it. I resented the part of me that made me different. If you are a late-twentieth-century male, traditional working-class, you are not going to like that side of yourself. I wanted to be black and white. I didn’t understand that it is the sensitive side that offers true insight in life – intuition and empathy.

*

Similarly, there’d be no bunches of flowers from Dad – none of that – and he didn’t like dancing – he was too self-conscious, too embarrassed – so Mum would always dance with somebody else.

I once went into my mum and dad’s room and saw a book, The Sun is my Tormentor, a Mandingo-esque novel of love and adventure, by Mum’s side of the bed. Seeing my mother in middle age and her desire for romance moved me deeply. It made me cry. I felt for her emptiness and also because I knew there were greater romantic novels that, because of her conditioning as being unworthy of such literature, she perhaps felt she couldn’t venture into.

*

We wrapped the production on Friday, had a party, and then on Saturday morning I’d arranged to go to Old Trafford with my dad. I was really looking forward to it – and he turned up with the season tickets from two years before. I’m disgusted with myself thinking about it now, but I gave him a bollocking. I was pissed off because I couldn’t go to the game. More than that, though, I was pissed off because he had dementia. That is shameful on my part, but genuinely that is the case. Maybe that shame is something others in the same position will recognise, an occasional presence of a selfish internal voice, one that so desperately craves ‘normality’.

I put my anger at his illness down to coming straight off the back of Flesh and Blood, with its fictional narrative so unflinchingly similar to my own non-fiction life. Amid that emotion, present as he always was whenever me and my dad knocked heads, was that little boy who was frightened of him. I definitely harboured residual anger towards him, a straight reflection of the anger he’d exhibited towards me. Sounds harsh, but he was getting back the temper he taught me. I was in control now. I’m not proud of that, and I’m not saying it’s right, but that’s how I justified it to myself.

I looked into his eyes and could see him trying to process what was going on. He was staring at the season tickets, semi-computing that they were the ones from two years ago, while trying to work out what the situation meant, and what should happen next. For ten seconds, my peripheral vision was blacked out, blinkered. All I saw was this big, fierce bird-like face looking around lost in confusion. I put Dad on the bus home, the route being familiar to him, and walked away. I rang later and explained to my mum what had happened. And then I started crying. I cried for four hours. That night I had a date with my girlfriend. I told her about it and cried all over again. I broke my heart like I’ve never broken my heart since. That moment of seeing his confusion had left a mark – not a bruise, but a deep, lasting weal. Until that point, I’d understood intellectually that my dad had dementia because we’d been told. But emotionally I hadn’t understood it at all. And then there, in the street outside Old Trafford, I’d been given a window into somebody going mad. Becoming demented. That’s the truth of it – demented. It’s a shocking word. We used to talk about demented dogs, and we shot them. When we say dementia, there’s no hiding the truth. It means people are demented. We can dress that up however we want, but there’s no denying the naked reality beneath. That day I had been presented with the stark vision of a man floundering in a maze of his mind’s own making. Not knowing who and where he was. And I’d just been horrible to him. And he was my dad.

*

Esme asked me the other day, ‘Daddy, do you like Mummy?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘when me and Mummy met, we fell in love and had you. Having two children very quickly is hard on parents in a relationship and then Mummy and Daddy started to not like each other. Now, Esme, as you’ve seen, we are trying to be friends.’

As a child, I would have liked that level of honesty and candidness with my parents, but it was no more part of Ronnie and Elsie than it had been their parents, and so on and so on before. I completely understand that the openness switch was neither at their fingertips nor was it socially reinforced. Emotion could hold a working-class child back, make them unready for what was to come – what they were for. I am thankful to have been given the opportunity to have a more grounded relationship with my children. Before Albert and Esme, playing football, wrestling, doing a crossword or mock-boxing with my own dad were the happiest things I could ever imagine in my life. They go right to the heart of me. Now, I have a new happiness with my own children. And it is a happiness born of honesty.

The blight on that happiness is that I don’t live with them. I know I’ve yet to come to terms with that fact. This book will help, the increasing distance from the hospitalisation will help, but it’s something that will always hurt inside. The legal system could certainly help deliver balance for parents and children involved in separation and divorce. Hopefully, we are in the dog days of the Victorian view of men and women and their role in their children’s lives, which has led to institutional and historic bias. In the twenty-first century, an authentic emotional relationship can come from a man as much as a woman.

*

I wanted to throw a spotlight on the generations, the millions and millions, for whom ‘success’, defined as anything other than the basic survival of themselves and their family, was a concept of which they were denied to the extent that they were chained, leg, wrist and neck, to an institutionally blessed mindset of zero expectation. To those in charge of those institutions, the working class is as it describes. A production line of workers, nothing more, nothing less. People? With character, hope, intelligence, ambition? Forget it. Get back in your box and shut up.

I was asked a few years ago to go on the BBC genealogy show Who Do You Think You Are? I agreed and they started looking into my family tree. It says everything that the project went nowhere. They tugged aside the leaves on those branches and concluded, ‘Nothing to see here.’ Generations of working-class people dismissed. Individuals with their own hopes, dreams and stories. Not army generals, industrialists, vaudeville singers, but factory workers, farm labourers, cleaners, nothing in any way ‘sexy’ enough for TV.

No doubt if someone like me had popped up in the dim and distant, all would have been good. But why? My father had all my abilities, linguistically, physically, and then some. So, no doubt, did generations before him. I get that my life has been far more fulfilled than my father’s and those before him, but for me that makes him the far more interesting story. What do I know of life? I’m not driving stacker trucks all day at Colgate-Palmolive and then going to Bulmers and driving stacker trucks there all night. I’m not cleaning floors in a launderette like Mum. And yet how often is the story of the working class ever told on TV? I don’t mean the dross that is soaps. I mean properly told? The answer is less and less. Working-class stories don’t fit in boxsets. They don’t make money. They don’t fit the business model of selling to global TV. And yet they are the lives that talk to me, define me. They are the lives I find endlessly fascinating.

Christopher Eccleston, I Love the Bones of You