#in retrospect i suppose three/four years isn’t that much time but it feels like it’s been forever

[thisaintascenereviews]

Bring Me The Horizon - Post Human: Survival Horror

Bring Me The Horizon is one of the most popular bands in the world, and they can thank themselves for that, because they started experimenting with outside influences and styles outside of metalcore and deathcore. They started off as a deathcore band that a lot of people hated; I remember the disdain in full force, as I was a huge fan of them around 2008/2009, back when they dropped second album, Suicide Season. Even with that, they went into more of a metalcore sound with that album, but they were very heavy. During the early 2010s, when metalcore was at its most generic and derivative, Bring Me The Horizon released Sempiternal in 2013, and that record introduced alt-metal, nu-metal, and hard-rock into their sound, whereas 2015’s That’s The Spirit properly utilized those sounds and they didn’t have as many breakdowns and heavier moments. Things really changed with 2019’s Amo, in which the band doubled down their outside influences by including pop and electronic music. I really enjoyed that record, as it was the first time I enjoyed a BMTH album in years, but I wondered where they’d go from there.

Well, that’s where Post Human: Survival Horror comes into play. This was supposed to be the first of four EPs, so who knows if we’re getting the other three, but this came out around the start of the pandemic in 2020, and I remember listening to it a couple of times, but I didn’t think too much of it. Fast forward a few years later, and BMTH are not only one of the biggest bands in the world, they’ve been steadily dropping new songs, the latest of which being “Kool-Aid” just a couple of weeks ago, I thought I’d go ahead and revisit this album. It’s not quite an album, I guess, but it’s 32 minutes, so I don’t know. I figured I’d revisit this, and spend some time with it, because I didn’t have anything else to sink my teeth into. I also think it would be worth looking at in retrospect, just to see how well it’s aged, or if it hasn’t.

Thankfully, though, this record has aged quite well, but that’s kind of because Survival Horror seems to be at a crossroads for them. This album reintroduces some elements of metalcore, surprisingly. If you’re a fan of their older material, you’ll like a few tracks here, especially the opener, “Dear Diary,” which is some of the heaviest stuff they’ve done in awhile, but they’re still moving forward in their sound with songs like the Babymetal-assisted “Kingslayer,” or “1X1” with alt-metal / nu-metal duo Nova Twins. Songs like these are both heavy and catchy all at once, but you do have some softer moments, too, such as “Obey” with Yungblud, where it does have some heavier stuff in it, but the backbone of the song is very pop-focused. I’m not personally a huge fan of Yungblud, and I’d say that’s the song that probably works the least for me, but its hook is still really solid.

Closing track “One Day The Only Butterflies Left Will Be In Your Chest” not only has a song title that sounds like it would have been in the mid-00s, but Evanescence’s Amy Lee is featured on this ballad, and my god, it’s gorgeous. This song sounds beautiful. Her angelic vocals add a level of gravitas that makes it work really well, but it’s such a great closer. It’s a great ending for a half hour record, and it never feels as though it’s too long or dragging. This record has the distinction of having songs that are memorable and are distinguished from each other, but they all flow together, nonetheless. Frontman Oliver Sykes is a good reason for that, too, and I haven’t mentioned him much here so far, but wow, he’s so good. His voice has gotten better over the years, and he has a good range within his clean vocals and harsh vocals, but the addition of harsher vocals on this record is a good one, because he handles it well.

The rest of the band is good, too, and the instrumentation is a good complement to him. This record isn’t all just pop hooks and breakdowns, either, but to be fair, the hooks are really good. Sykes and company are one of the best bands in this style that utilize hooks, and Sykes has a way with writing catchy hooks, and this record is no exception. I hadn’t listened to this album in a few years, and I remembered it quite well. There are a handful of really cool riffs and solos, too, and it’s surprising coming from this band, but I perked my ears up every time I heard something interesting and that did something cool, such as a solo, a really unique breakdown, or something interesting, but I enjoy this quite a lot. If you’re like me, and you jumped ship after a certain point with these guys, or you still like them and just want to see them go back to a heavier sound, you’ll probably like this. The best thing about this record is that it doesn’t feel as though they’re trying to pander, but they’re just trying to incorporate older sounds, and it works very well. If anything, and from the new songs they’ve put out, too, I’m excited for another record from these guys.

[dragonprincequotesimadeup]

Question and answers from the Offical Q&A's in The Dragon Prince Discord Server: Series Questions

Q: "How many seasons are there going to be of the dragon prince? It is a really good story.”

AE: The Dragon Prince saga = seven seasons!

Q: “I wanted to know if this season of the dragon prince was more like ground work to set up other seasons?”

JR: Season 4 does pull forward many of the plotlines and questions from the first three seasons, but it also lays new ground that Seasons 5, 6, and 7 are being built upon. After the Battle of the Storm Spire, the world of Xadia has had some large changes! Humans and elves are having more contact with one another, in some cases even living in the same city or getting married. That doesn’t wipe out all those years of war and mistrust, so there is much to unpack for our gang, as well as Xadia at large. Book Four: Earth is about both playing out where we were headed as well as pointing the story in new directions for the future.

AE: Season 4 = Earth = “ground work” haha

Q: "Why calling the Season "Mystery of Aavaros" instead of "Where is Aavaros?" or - will we see a lot more of him in he next season? Biggest disappointment of the whole season, that the most interesting character had not even 5 minutes of screen time (and you know, the fans want him!). Especially after advertising so much with him."

SJ: “Mystery of Aaravos” isn’t the name of Season 4! Instead, it’s the name of the larger story we’ll be telling over the course of Seasons 4, 5, 6, and 7. This means two things: One, you’ll continue to see the “Mystery of Aaravos” logo and subtitle used for future seasons. And, two, you definitely haven’t seen the last of Aaravos. There will be plenty of opportunities for you to not only properly discover what exactly is so mysterious about the Midnight Star, but also enjoy a lot more screen time with your favorite Startouch elf. (With that said: Can we all just agree those five minutes were absolutely murderous? His verbal smackdown, heretofore known as the Aara-roast, was just [claudia emoji].)

Q: "Love the new season but now i can’t wait [for] it to continue. Is Season 5 in [the] works already?”

SJ: We’re so glad to hear that you enjoyed Season 4 of The Dragon Prince! (And, like you, we can’t wait to dig deeper into the “Mystery of Aaravos” and for you to see how that story unravels.) To answer your question, though: Yes! Seasons 5 is currently in development—as are Seasons 6 and 7. We’ve been working on this set of seasons for some time now, which means the gap between Season 4 and Season 5 will be much shorter than the gap between Season 3 and Season 4. In fact, we’re looking to release Season 5 later next year!

Q: "Honest question, which of the writers had the obsession with fart jokes this season, and why was an entire scene dedicated to Terry’s farts intercut with the scene of Viren having a panic attack? Many viewers including myself felt those jokes were in rather poor taste, especially with previous statements of the series supposedly being more mature in terms of tone and story elements”

AE: So, first, I will offer a learning, and then an explanation. First, the learning: I think we went too far with fart jokes this season! To be clear, we have done jokes like this in the past, but Episode 402 (“Fallen Stars”) had too many too close. I think that threw a segment of our audience and made them feel the show was too young. In retrospect, I would have gotten rid of some and toned some down. But, second, an explanation: The exchanges between Claudia and Terry in front of Viren were sort of MEANT to be awkward and cringe. Claudia is trying to show off her new boyfriend, and how great their relationship is—and she's excitedly sharing lots of inside jokes with her dad because of how proud she is, also because she's just happy to have him back. Like the fact that they call their high fives a “high four-and-a-half,” and then asks: “Isn’t that hilarious?” "The petrichor exchange was supposed to be an example of Claudia oversharing, so it was supposed to be wildly inappropriate, which it was, and make Viren uncomfortable, which is did. But, explanation aside, our goal was never to make our fans uncomfortable. I think we missed the mark in this case because obviously there's been a strong reaction. So, lesson learned. We're keeping an eye on things for future seasons and will pull back anywhere we think goes too far again.

Q: "will the following seasons have a more mature tone? while s4 definitely had its dark moments the overall tone of the season didn't feel any more mature than before, and arguably quite the opposite more often than not (many moments which i personally think should've been handled more seriously ended up with jokes inbetween). i wonder if this will be the case for the remaining seasons or if there will be a "full commitment" to darker stuff at some point. like maybe by the end of the series?"

AE: We see now how, for some people, some of this season’s jokes may seem to contradict the more mature tone of the story, and we own that. But the truth is there is always going to be a balance. The show will go deeper and darker with each new season, but there will always be humor as well. Certainly, we don’t want that humor to step on or overshadow emotional moments, and we are as mindful of that as we can be (and will be even more mindful moving forward)… but sometimes Soren, being Soren, is going to say something silly during a deep moment and that’s just who he is! In addition to tackling more serious subjects, that’s also what The Dragon Prince is. And that playfulness isn’t going to change or go away, no matter how high the stakes may get.

Q: "the lack of subtitles for amaya’s sign language is intentional? i know gren does the interpretation most of the time, but there are several scenes (especially during seasons 2-3) in which amaya is alone. it’s a way to make a statement about the general public not knowing sign language?"

SJ: We wanted all of Amaya’s scenes to feel very intimate, but also authentic for the audience who may or may not know ASL, so we made an intentional choice to not subtitle her lines unless a translator (like Gren) was present.

[jisungsplatforms]

[Chapter I: Let’s Party!]

Pairing: Producer/Music Major! Han Jisung x Photographer! fem! reader

Genre: NSFW! Smut; non idol au, college au, strangers to lovers

Warnings: strong language, use of alcoholic beverages, drunken antics, ?? jackson wang is throwing a party?? (jk he’s not aljsks. changbin is tho), nothing filthy in this chapter, unfortunately :/ just plot build up

Chapter word count: 2.6k words

Taglist: @hyunjeongins @seungstarss @es-kay-zee @hyunjinsplaything @formidxble @freckledquokka (want to be added? send an ask or a dm! <3)

Haven University; school of the elite. From the academically inclined to the artistically blessed, only those who were gifted with such talents are accepted to augment their potential. The perfect school for the sensational.

...And like every other school with young hormonal adults, also the perfect school for a good fuck.

“Another outstanding submission, Y/n! Keep up the great work!”

You smiled at your photography teacher, Mr. Kim, bowing humbly as you thanked him. You were proud. Praise after praise for your picture taking skills only heightened your motivation to be the best even more. Photography has always been your passion. Ever since you were given your very first camera at the age of 5 years old- which, in retrospect, was actually a toy camera, you already knew that it is something you would want to pursue.

In the middle of your teacher’s praises with another student, the bell rang. “Looks like we ran out of time, folks. Great job again, Seungmin. Everyone, class dismissed,” he said, jokingly using shooing gestures. “Now hurry up and get out of my face, you delinquents. Lunch time awaits. Go replenish your life force.”

You began gathering your belongings, slinging your precious DSLR camera around your neck. “Outstanding submission, young photographer.” You heard someone say. You turned around to see Seungmin grinning at you.

You snort out a laugh. “Thanks. Great job to you too, Seungmo.” Seungmin was about to respond when your instructor’s voice interrupted.

“Oh. Except Y/n. Please stay a little bit after class, for me, dear.” You and Seungmin shared a glance, nodding for him to go ahead without you. He pats your shoulder, bidding you goodbye. You continued packing your things into your bag. As the rest of the students left the room, you walked towards Mr. Kim’s desk, waiting for his word. “Hello, Y/n.”

“Hello, sir. You wanted to talk to me?”

“Ah yes. I wanted to ask you this,” your instructor paused, sitting on his desk. “How much do you love photography?”

You paused, wanting to convey the exact feelings you wanted to express. “Photography is an escape for me,” you answered. “It’s another form of art that helps people convey the emotions and stories people want to tell. Some people express their emotions through music and lyrics, others through paintings, and others through dance. For me, personally, I’m not all that good in any of those aspects, sir. That is why I work so hard when it comes to this class, and in photography in general.” You unconsciously caressed the camera slung around your neck. “And to me, the stories behind a photo is a lot more intimate in a way that I just can’t explain.”

“Because...this is the only way for you to express yourself? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” You nodded. Mr. Kim hummed in thought. “I see.” He stood up and walked to you, placing his warm hands on your shoulder. “I admire you, kid.”

“You...admire me?” You were confused. The teacher admires his student? Isn’t it usually the other way around?

“Oh yeah. Is that hard to believe?”

“Uhm...Kinda, yeah.”

Mr. Kim laughed mirthfully, amused by your bewilderment and doubt. “Well, believe it. You have spunk. Soul. Your work impart emotions I have never seen from my other students before. You’re passionate about what you do, and I like that. You take digital arts very seriously.”

You laughed awkwardly, the amount of praise your instructor was giving you made you happy. “I do, sir. Kinda a shame not a lot of people even consider it an art.”

“Indeed,” he replied, sitting down on his desk. “Which is why I wanted to give you an impromptu assignment. I want to assign you a story telling type of assignment; to write a story using your photography skills, if that makes sense.”

“Hm, yes? I think I get a jist of what you're trying to tell me.”

“Excellent. I just want to use this to monitor your skills, Y/n. You’re a very talented person, the most talented I’ve ever had even. I just want to see how much of that potential you really have so I can help you blossom it into something greater.”

“Oh,” you draw out, somewhat understanding why he picked you. “I see, sir. I’m honored that you’ve picked me.”

“You should,” he joked. “Now, I want you to photograph the following- write or type this down before you forget.” You hastily whipped out your phone from your pocket. “Ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. I want you to capture the perfect scenes. Give me something that gives you joy. Something that makes you emotional, good or bad or even both, if you can. Something you fear, and finally, something that you love unconditionally. These are all supposed to be different photos, by the way. Got that?”

You finished typing a few seconds later. “And...got it.”

“Awesome!” he smiled. “Just know that I’ll be giving you only 3 months to complete the assignment. I hope that this isn’t too much to ask of you, but I’m sure someone as ambitious as you doesn’t mind, right?”

“Nope, sir! Everything will be a-okay!”

“I’m glad! Now move along and get to the canteen already. I’m sure you’re just as hungry as I am.”

You giggled, making your way to the door. “Thank you sir! I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“Oh, finally! There you are! We were starving waiting for you!” You rolled your eyes at Minho, who immediately decided to pick on you the second you entered his field of sight.

“Shut up, you could’ve eaten without me you know?”

“Nah, cause what kind of friends would we be if you ate without you?”

“You just want to steal some of my food, don’t you?”

Minho scoffed and went quiet, prompting Hyunjin, Seungmin, and Jeongin to laugh. “Caught you red-handed, Hyung,” Hyunjin teased, which backfired immediately causing him to chant an apology after Minho gave him a look.

“So why did you take so long, Y/n?” Jeongin asked.

“Oh, Mr. Kim wanted to give me an extra assignment.”

“Extra assignment?” Seungmin questioned. “What for?”

You shrugged, sitting down. “Uh, to test me? I’m not sure but I honestly think that there’s something more behind it. Not in like a bad way, just to clarify. I mean, he did acknowledge that I’m the best in his class after all.”

Seungmin snorted. “I just know you meant that unironically.” You jokingly blew a raspberry at him.

“Of course Y/n is the best!” Hyunjin stuck his chin up. “Let’s be honest, anyone could be the best if they use me as their model!”

“Hey, Hyunjin? You wanna eat this straw?” Minho threatened, making Hyunjin shut up.

“No...?”

“Good. Get off your high horse, prince charming.”

The three of you laughed. “Poor Hyunjin,” Jeongin sympathized sardonically.

“Hyunjin please stick to dancing and uh- not dying,” you said. “I still need you alive for some more upcoming projects.”

“For me too,” said Seungmin. “I might start using you as my model as well.”

Hyunjin fake cried, “Y’all just like me for my looks!”

“I mean, there’s no denying you are incredibly handsome but we like your personality too, Hyunie, don’t worry,” you cheered him up, then turned to Jeongin. “What about you, Yeni? How’re you holding up now that Lix is gone?”

Jeongin gasped. “I miss him! I’m so lonely now, especially when I have theatre! I feel so awkward now that girls swarm up to me instead- and you know I’m a shy boy!”

“Hey! At least you’re more popular now!” Minho laughed.

“Well, now we have no choice but to remember Felix in our hearts,” Seungmin replied.

“I’m not fucking dead. I just switched majors!” the four of you turned to see Felix pouting at you all.

“Well, you’re dead to me!” Jeongin wailed. “Going from a theatre major to a dance major. How could you?!”

Felix chuckled, sitting down between Seungmin and Jeongin. “I’m sorry! You know I’ll still see you though, buddy!”

“Why don’t you just switch to a regular vocal major next semester, Yeni?” you asked.

“Nah. I originally did want to go for just regular vocal studies but, you know, even if I did accidently sign up for the class, I ended up finding something else I wanna do. Plus, theatre is surprisingly fun! You know, find something new that’ll change your life every day.”

“Yup! Especially since they often collab with the dance majors so we get to see each other a lot!” Hyunjin beamed while Minho nodded in acknowledgment.

“Oh, speaking of dancing,” Minho chimed in. “You guys wanna go to a party I was invited to?”

“No,” Seungmin immediately responded.

“No, not you, I knew you would say no. I meant the others.”

Hyunjin nodded, “I was invited to the same party you’re talking about, so yeah.”

“Can’t,” Felix replied. “I’m still getting used to my new major and I still have a few assignments to catch up on.”

Jeongin hummed in agreement. “Same here. We have a play coming up soon and I’m a lead this time, so I gotta stay home to rehearse as much as I can.”

Minho made a stank face, “Aww. Lame.” He turned to you. “What about you, Y/n? You down?”

You thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“Really?” All 5 boys looked at you incredulously.

“Yeah. I might find some inspiration while I’m there. Besides you know I’ll just be leeching off of Hyunie and Min the whole time.”

Minho and Hyunjin high-fived, cheering a quiet ‘yes!’ Hyunjin giggled. “This is great cause we might need a designated back up driver in case I get drunk and Minho-hyung abandons me!”

“Now that you’ve said that, I might seriously consider that,” Minho grinned. “We’ll pick you up at 8 sharp! Y/n!”

‘8:53pm’ You wanted to go home already.

The boys, true to their word, picked you up at 8:00pm. With little to no traffic- and the fact that Hyunjin actually got ready early so that they wouldn’t be an hour late- the three of you made it to the party around 8:20pm. Even then there were already a lot of people there.

“What the fuck. This house is huge!” you gawked. “Can you even consider this a house still?!”

Hyunjin shrugged. “I’d say this more of a mansion at this point.” All you do mutter a constant chant of ‘what the fuck. what the fuck’ over and over again. “Who’s house is this again, Minho?”

“Changbin’s, remember? Jisung said they’re celebrating in his house,” Minho replied.

“Well this Changbin dude is LOADED,” you mused. Even in the dim lighting, you could see the elegance of the house, which most likely costs more than your entire tuition. “I’d hate to be the one who has to clean up the place.” The boys lead you to the kitchen, helping you avoid the crowd cause, in your words, ‘ew yucky people’. There, they brought you to two men wearing all black, who were hanging out on the island counter. Their names were Changbin- the handsome rich boy who owns the house, the lucky bastard- and Chan- another handsome rich boy with the cutest laugh and dimples, both really sweet and hilarious men, whom you very much enjoyed talking to...

That was the last memory you had before it went downhill.

It took 33 minutes and 4 soju bottles later for Hyunjin to get drunk. Chan and Changbin were back at the booth, manning the song list for the night while Minho was somewhere with some guy in a red beanie doing absolutely nothing, so here you were: stuck babysitting your best friend. “Y/n! Y/n!”

You sighed hearing Hyunjin drunkenly call you. Again. “Yes, Hyunie?”

“I looove you~!” he sang while giving you finger hearts, rocking on the balls of his feet. You sighed again, rubbing your temple.

“Yeah yeah. I know. Love you too.”

“Y/n!” Your left eye twitched. You whipped out your phone from your bra to text Minho.

Me: You bitch.

Help me

Minho ho ho 😼: Hi

No

You glowered. You quickly glanced up to check Hyunjin, who was now sitting on the carpeted floor in front of you, counting his luscious black hair.

Me: He’s-he’s counting his hair… Please get him. It’s like watching a bird repeatedly hitting glass

Minho ho ho 😼: At least he’s not making any trouble now, is he?

He fucking jinxed it. Hyunjin stood up with a shocked look on his face. “What’s wrong, Hyunjin?”

“It’s my favorite song!” he cheered, starting to dance along. You have to admit, even when he’s drunk, he’s still an exceptional dancer. Texting Minho a quick ‘fuck you’. You put your phone back between your breasts to go back to monitoring him, preparing yourself in case you needed to tackle Hyunjin down.

“Heyyy, Y/n!” Minho suddenly draped his arm around your shoulder. Taking your eyes off of Hyunjin, you glared at your lazy, backstabbing friend, shoving his arm off of you.

“Asshole, you’re ten minutes late.”

“Oh I'm not here for Hyunjin. I need your phone.” You look at him audaciously.

“What the- why?”

“My-uh-phone died?” he said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. Your eyes briefly flickered towards Minho’s friend, who, in return, looked down bashfully, red faced. Hm. Weird. You rolled your eyes, nonchalantly reaching into your shirt to get your phone. Minho didn’t even hide his grimace. He cringed, “It’s warm...and wet?”

“Shut up. I’m sweating, okay? And I don’t have any pockets on me.”

Minho nodded, going back to his little friend. Before you could scold him, you heard Hyunjin screaming. You turned around to find him running to the front door. Oh shit. You started pushing people to run after him

You groaned in disgust, wanting nothing more than to get the hell out of here. You pushed your way out of the crowd, cringing at the feeling of touching numerous dirty, unknown people. Where in the world is the fucking exit? In the midst of the sweaty, drunken bodies, your eyes met. It was like time had stopped; no one within the vicinity seemed to not have mattered anymore. With just a smirk and a flirty wink from the chubby-cheeked boy in the red beanie, you knew…

...you just had to fuck him

Hold on, Y/n. Your friend might get fucking ran over! You snapped out of it. With a flustered face, you continued shoving your way through, wrangling Minho on the way. “Come on, fucker. You’re helping me. Let’s go,” you sneered while Minho complained.

After 30 minutes of chasing and wrestling, the drunken beast was tamed. The night ended with Minho driving you all home instead while you and Hyunjin cuddled in the backseat against your will. Minho took great pleasure in knowing that he wasn’t Hyunjin’s cuddle buddy, laughing every time you tried unlatching yourself from him, which made the long haired boy cry. Your sadistic friend dropped you home first, apologizing for not being much of a help tonight. “To make it up to you, I have something for you,” he suspiciously said, wiggling his eyebrows, before giving your phone back and driving off.

You relaxed on your bed, happy that you were rid of those dirty, smelly clothes. You grabbed your phone to text Minho. Assuming that the messages app was left on your conversation with him, you started texting, not paying any mind to the fact that the chat was blank.

Me: Thanks for taking me I guess. I didn’t get anything other than unwanted kisses from Hyunjin ew but it’s aight.

Speaking of aight…Do you think you can give me your friend’s number? 👁👁 The one with the red beanie.

Cause sir, not to be nsfw or anything but he is one fine ass man that I’d like to fuck

Almost immediately, the three bubbles appeared. You were surprised that Minho would reply that fast, thinking we was still on the road with Hyunjin. The reply you got, however, made your heart drop.

Min’s hoe: uh...hi? 👋🏻

this is minho’s “fine ass friend with the red beanie” 👁👁

Shitshitshitshit SHIT

[NEXT CHAPTER]

A/n: Sorry no smut in this chapter just plot build up :(( (which i’m a sucker for) and a lot of dialogue. But Trust me. Everything written in this chapter will fall into place with the future chapters. And who know, next chapter might be 🥵

[lovelylogans]

honey, you’re familiar (like my mirror)

see other chapters, notes, and warnings here!

chapter four: symbiosis

symbiosis: interaction between two different organisms living in close physical association, typically to the advantage of both.

VIRGIL

“Uh,” Virgil says, scrambling in the face of his mother—hair wrapped for the night, blinking the sleep out of her eyes, her arms crossed, “My—myself?”

Technically true, he guesses, according to some of the sensate’s personal beliefs about the connections they share with their clusters, according to Logan according to Dot. Like having other selves scattered across the world.

Andisiwe frowns. “At this time of night?”

Virgil shrugs weakly.

She frowns deeper. Then:

“You know,” she says, looking at him very intently, “your grandmother used to talk to herself at all times of day, too.”

Virgil stays silent. His mother crouches to sit with him on the floor, settling with a long sigh.

“About anything at all,” she continues. “She’d talk about the snow when this country hadn’t seen snow for ten years. She’d laugh when no one told a joke, cried when nothing sad had happened. She’d make recipes I’d never heard of before. You remember her pitha?”

Virgil nods, confused. Of course he remembers her pitha. They’d have it at every large family gathering.

“That’s an Indian dessert. She’d never left South Africa in all her life, but she knew how to make pitha and speak Tamil like she was born in Bangalore. Just like you were speaking a language other than Xhosa or English just now.”

Oh, Virgil thinks, then, oh.

“So unless you started taking language lessons while studying for your doctorate,” she says, staring at him.

Virgil chews at the inside of his cheek.

“No,” he says hoarsely. “No, I didn’t.”

She nods, accepting this. “How long…?”

“I don’t know,” Virgil admits. “A week and a half? Two weeks?”

“Not long at all,” she murmurs. “ I suppose it might skip a generation. She told me once it started when she was a child. A horrible headache struck her, and once it let up she had seven new friends all around the world. When they were all ten, maybe.”

Ten, Virgil thinks, mind whirling. God, to deal with all this at the age of ten?

“Sensates,” Virgil croaks. “We’re called sensates.”

His mother offers him a smile. 

“I know,” she says. “Tell me about them.”

“One’s here,” Virgil says, and he looks at the big, tall, tattooed man. “I don’t think I got your name last time.”

The man walks from his plush apartment rug to sit on the hardwood floor. 

“Patton Taumata,” he says with Virgil’s mouth, offering a bright smile to Virgil’s mother, sitting beside him. “Māori, New Zealander.”

And then Virgil feels what Patton does next—pull seems too strong a word, but it’s the closest he has.

Sitting across from him, looking vaguely disgruntled to find himself on the ground, yet still sitting at his desk in his home office.

“Janus Slange,” he says. “London.”

He slides out of Virgil’s body to find a spot to sit that’s a bit more refined.

Patton turns his head, and Virgil turns his gaze to follow.

“Roman Regio,” the actor says, looking up from his script to gesture beside him. “And my brother, Remus. Who is currently on his way to Mexico City, which he should have done as soon as he got accused.”

“This is such a dumb plan,” Remus groans, resting his head simultaneously against the bus window and Virgil’s bed. “I want all of you batshit hallucinations to know that I don’t come up with plans this stupid. My plans are refined in the way they cause utter chaos.”

Sitting in his bed in the barracks and beside Virgil, so close their thighs almost touch, giving Virgil a thrill that shoots all the way to his fingertips—

“Logan Zieliński,” he says to Virgil’s mother, careful to sound respectful. “I was just here. I’m Polish, but I’m currently studying in Antarctica. Space research.”

They’re here. All of them here. But Virgil sees Patton reach again—

EMILE

—and Emile beams at the sight before him. Patton turns to grin at him.

“Well done!” Emile says, filled to bursting with pride. 

Patton! Reliably being able to pull them all in to visit together! That kind of skill—coupled with the fact that Patton, back in his apartment in Auckland, is peaceably planning lessons with a sitcom in the background—can take other sensates months of practice to truly achieve. 

“Is this your mother?” He asks Virgil.

Virgil says, “Um, Mom, my—cluster parent?”

Emile makes an eh handwavey gesture followed by a thumbs-up. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, I’m comfortable with!”

“—is here right now. His name’s—”

He speaks at the same time as Emile does.

“Dr. Emile Picani, hi there—!”

“—and he’s American.”

Virgil’s mother’s brow wrinkles in distaste, but she does a good show of trying to hide it.

“That’s fair,” Emile says. “Americans are—well, y’know. You’ve seen the news.”

“This is my mother, Dr. Andisiwe Nkosi. My grandmother was a sensate too, apparently.”

“Oh, that’s lovely!” Emile exclaims. “There are sensates within biological families, of course—” he gestures to Roman and Remus, “—but things are still up in the air about if and how being homo sensorium passes down.”

“Dot said the number of sensates is rising due to epigenetic factors,” Logan says.

“Oh, you’ve met Dot!” Emile says delightedly. 

“She answered many of the questions I have,” Logan says, and for a blip, they’re all sitting in the barracks in Antarctica as Logan reaches for a notebook and pen. “But I still have many questions.”

“Entirely understandable,” Emile says.

“Wait, you got your questions answered?” Roman demands, and they’re all sitting on Roman’s apartment’s massive balcony overlooking Mexico City. “I just got this one—” he points accusingly at Janus, “telling me hey, surprise, you’re not actually losing your shit!”

Janus shrugs, and they’re all surrounded by monitors, blinking with so many different points of data it makes Emile a little dizzy. “He just showed up in the mirror while I was shaving.”

“Well,” Emile says, and they’re all in Emile’s apartment at home. Emile puts a kettle on the stove. “I’m here now. So what questions can I help you answer? Or, at least, activate the Archipelago to get some kind of answer for you. If you can think of some kind of subject, there’s probably a sensate that knows something about it, but I suppose we should probably start with the sensate-specific questions.”

Remus puts up a hand and asks, loudly, “Can I use the psychic connection with other sensates to have some kind of insane worldwide orgy?”

ROMAN

Sasha is out for a key art photoshoot, so Roman has the whole apartment to himself. Which is good, because he got a bit busy last night with the whole explanation of what exactly it is that’s been happening to him, and then yelling in disgust when Remus asked gross questions about it.

Roman’s considering if he wants to paint his nails—it’s not like he can keep it, if solely for movie continuity—just to have something to do with his hands when the door cracks open.

And in steps Remus—absolutely filthy, staring at Roman incredulously, a fake mustache plastered above his real mustache that he immediately rips off.

“It worked,” Roman says gleefully. “It worked!”

“First of all, cops ain’t shit, I probably should have expected literally every police officer to sleep on the job when seeing someone suspicious board a bus, but Jesus fuckin’ Christ, your security munches ass,” Remus declares, “They let a murderer get into your apartment.” 

Roman bursts out laughing.

“It’s not funny!” Remus says, pulling off the fake beard he’d donned. “It took five pesos of stolen fake beard and mustache to fool everyone, are you fucking kidding me—?!”

Roman slides off the couch, gripping his stomach, he’s laughing so hard.

“What?!” Remus demands, throwing off the overly large trench coat he’d been huddling under.

“You,” Roman wheezes, then, “you said the plan was stupid and it wouldn’t work—!”

“It is stupid! I come up with way better plans than this, you’re telling me that you came up with the stupid kid movie plan and I didn’t?! And it shouldn’t have worked—Roman, stop laughing, your fangirls are fucking batshit crazy, could you imagine what kind of weird Wattpad shit they’d get up to if they knew how easy it was to break in here?!”

Roman is screaming with laughter, because literally all they needed was a fake mustache and beard, and ooh Roman can tell that Remus is pissed that Roman came up with this plan first because it’s such a perfectly Remus plan. He isn’t sure how much of it is a sensate thing versus a twin brother thing, but all the same, Roman knows that Remus is absolutely fuming, which makes it even funnier.

Remus storms off, shouting, “Just for this, I’m going to use up all your fancy shampoo! I’m going to take the biggest, nastiest shit in your bathroom! I’m—I’m going to eat all your soap! I will! I’ll do it! I’m eating all your soap!”

LOGAN

It’s still a little startling to look over at his notebook and suddenly find himself in South Africa, but he’s gotten a little more accustomed to it since the night before. He’s been feeling a pull to South Africa all day, like an ache deep in his chest. He isn’t entirely sure why.

Virgil glances over at him and smiles, just a little. Logan smiles back. Virgil clears his throat and returns his attention to the textbook before him.

“Roman’s plan worked,” he says. 

Logan huffs, shaking his head. Honestly. It’s like those American movies when three children stack on top of each other and wear a large trenchcoat and a fake beard to gain access to the movies, but it actually worked. 

In retrospect, Logan’s sure that Remus would have foregone his escape into the wilderness if he’d known that donning a disguise and having his rich brother pay away the arrest troubles and their psychically connected lawyer argue before the court would have worked so neatly.

However, considering that nearly every aspect of that plan is absolutely off the rails ridiculous, the escape into the wilderness must have seemed like a prudent measure to take at the time.

“How’s your research?” Logan asks, sitting down on Virgil’s bed. 

“Pretty good,” Virgil says, his tone very casual. “I think the fact that abrus precatorius—”

“The scientific name for rosary peas,” Logan assumes. He is rewarded by a nod from Virgil.

“—isn’t native to Mexico and the fact that Remus hasn’t traveled for years on end is a pretty good basis for Janus to go on. Plus, abrin—”

“The toxin?” Logan clarifies and receives a nod.

“—is incredibly toxic, to the point where anyone ordering rosary peas would probably get pinged under some kind of monitoring system. So there wouldn’t really be a way for Remus himself to get them. Miguel Contreras, on the other hand—”

“The murder victim?” Logan says, startled.

“Yes—on the other hand, he went to Florida very recently. He got back three days before his death, in fact.”

“I thought they were native to Asia and Australia?”

“Yeah, they are, but rosary peas are an invasive species, and they’ve been clocked in the pine rocklands there,” Virgil says. “Symptoms usually occur pretty quick, but it can take up to five days to show up, depending on the method of ingestion. And considering the seed of just one pea could be fatal…”

“Then the cause of death could very well be found in Florida!” Logan says. “And the only thing they have on Remus—”

“—Are threats, exactly,” Virgil says enthusiastically. “And considering the way Remus is as a person, Janus could probably get those hand-waved away as being under jest, rather than an actual threat to kill him.”

They smile at each other again, Virgil’s lips twisting wryly. 

“I’ve been wanting to visit you all day,” he says abruptly, and Logan feels that flutter in his stomach again, the one he’s been feeling since they first met; he’s willing to admit to himself that it most certainly isn’t unease, now. It is a near antonym of unease.

“I have too,” Logan admits, trying his very best to keep his voice informal.

Virgil’s smile softens, a little. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Logan affirms, and the flutter in his stomach intensifies.

They stare at each other. Virgil’s eyes, Logan notices abruptly, are objectively beautiful. Framed by long lashes, his eyes are so dark a shade of brown they’re practically black, so easy to stare at, admiring the way a sudden shift in the lighting would illuminate the subtle honeyed depths of them. 

For a moment, Logan gets a flicker; he’s looking at his own eyes, blue and framed by his glasses, but the emotion in him doesn’t change, the fleeting thought of look how gorgeous, and suddenly he is back to looking at Virgil, and, as one, they look away.

Virgil coughs awkwardly. “This sensate thing—weird, huh?”

For the first time, Logan wonders if the feeling in his stomach is not entirely his own. If it is something shared.

But, Logan thinks, sneaking a look at Virgil taking notes, twirling his pen idly over the backs of his long fingers, he supposes that neither of them would be able to tell that, anyways.

REMUS

Remus is bouncing his leg so much that the cop near him is giving him a disdainful look.

Or maybe the look is because the cop thinks he’s a murderer. Whatever.

“Are you sure this is gonna work,” Remus mutters out of the corner of his mouth because he hasn’t gotten the hang of visiting someone in his cluster and going about day-to-day life like a normal person, the way more experienced sensates can. 

“Positive,” Janus says. He’s sitting crossed-legged beside Remus in his holding cell, where they’re waiting to be transported to the courtroom. Remus is pretty sure most lawyers shouldn’t turn up to court in pajamas, but considering that to the rest of the courtroom Remus is going to play at being his own lawyer, it’s all fine. 

“All they have on you is proximity and threats,” Janus continues. “And considering the voice in your novels, along with the parts in your dust jackets’ where you literally threaten your readers, I can get that set aside no problem.”

Remus inhales heavily and exhales just as noisily.

“Right,” he says. “Right.”

Roman flickers into sight just long enough to shoot Remus a thumbs up, and as Janus resumes spitting legal jargon, Remus feels his shoulders relax.

PATTON

“Be careful with our bezzie Buzzy Bee!” Patton says brightly. He’s crouched before Sophie, having helped untangle the string. “Let’s make sure we don’t tangle him up again, eh?”

“I will, Mr. T!” Sophie shouts, already on the run with the toy, and Patton huffs ruefully. It’ll probably be tangled up again by the end of the day.

A brief chill across his skin, and Patton shivers before he refocuses on the sunny afternoon, here, in Auckland.

By the time he’s stood upright, Logan’s beside him, in a white lab coat.

“Do you really need that much air conditioning down there?” Patton says. “Seems a bit overkill, mate.”

Logan shrugs, closing a door, hiding away some kind of equipment that looks very finicky and complex. “I’m not the one in charge of the facility.”

“Fair enough,” Patton says. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be asked to join in on some kind of game, soon. You like rugby?”

“It’s not exactly popular in Poland.”

“Hm. Guess not,” Patton says. “Probably should’ve known that already.”

“The whole sharing knowledge aspect of this does seem to be rather dependent on a variety of factors,” Logan says thoughtfully. “I don’t think I automatically know the minutiae of New Zealand history and culture just because you might; I think we have to be doing something to trigger that sharing of knowledge.” 

Patton huhs thoughtfully.

“If you didn’t know how to drive a car, for instance,” Logan theorizes, “and I did, and you sat behind a wheel and needed to drive somewhere, I would probably be able to impart that knowledge to you.”

“I can ask Emile,” Patton says, ready to turn and look in on Florida, but he’s stopped by Logan’s frustrated, “how do you do that?”

“Hm?” Patton says, turning to look at him.

“This seems to come so effortlessly to you,” Logan says. “You drop in and seem totally at ease, you could control if we all came to see Virgil a couple nights ago, and by the reactions of those around you, you don’t seem to be talking to thin air—”

“Well, we’re mostly, surrounded by five-year-olds, they wouldn’t be too phased by the concept of me having an imaginary friend,” Patton points out. Logan doesn’t seem particularly amused by this.

“I don’t know,” Patton admits. “Emile thought I was just very communicative, for a sensate. That might be it; I’ve always been pretty chatty. It also might be because Māori have beliefs about how we are all connected—people, nature, all living things—so maybe I was a little more prepared to accept that I was literally connected to other people because I grew up with that as a sacred ideal.”

They watch children run and play for a few minutes; Manaia, diving to catch a football in the game of rugby that had assembled; Sophie, racing between everyone with her Buzzy Bee clack-clack-clacking behind her; Oliver, shyly joining in on a game of hopscotch.

The grass sways in the light breeze, the sun had peeked out from behind its clouds, leaving the entire playground awash in light and warmth. The laughter of children carries on the wind. Patton’s coworkers occasionally look up from their tiny charges to smile and wish him a good day.

“It’s really rather nice here,” Logan says quietly. “I’ve never been remotely near this continent. Coming to research in Antarctica is the most travel I’ve ever really done.”

“Do you miss home?” Patton asks.

Logan considers this.

“Some things,” he says. “Kluski, makowiec, honey mead. Newspapers written in my native language. The coffee shop I studied in throughout all of university. Proper herbata góralska. My mentors. The ability to go to a grocery store. My mother.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“But I love the research I do here,” Logan says firmly. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be able to study down here.”

“It sure seems like it,” Patton says, his admiration clear in his voice. 

“This whole situation threw a bit of a wrench in the works,” he says.

“I think it did for all of us,” Patton says. “Not all bad, though. Remus would probably still be on the run if he hadn’t connected with Janus.”

“No,” Logan muses, a soft flush touching his cheeks. “Certainly not all bad.”

Unbidden, images flash in his mind; black coffee, an expanse of wide sunny road, the sensation of dirt under his fingernails, purple jacaranda blossoms.

Patton tries his hardest not to grin. But—

“What,” Logan says defensively.

“Nothing,” Patton says, not hiding his smile, and Logan huffs irritably.

“You know,” Patton says, “Emile’s been dating someone in-cluster for, like, nine years? They were the first people that they saw, of the people in-cluster. In-cluster relationships are apparently pretty common, which I guess makes sense. Sharing feelings, knowledge, everything—it sure can bond two people together.”

Logan’s flush deepens. 

“Just sayin’,” Patton offers cheerfully, and he goes off to join a game of hopscotch, leaving Logan with his thoughts.

JANUS

The language is different. The procedure is different. The situation is, most definitely, different. 

He’s used to English, English law, English crimes. He’s been a barrister for years, jumping from one firm to another because the latter had seen partner potential in him; it paid much better, too, which certainly hadn’t been a negative. Janus had become a well-polished lawyer, a viper in the courtroom, a boomslang to his rivals. 

He’s good at it, is his point. He’s always been good at it.

He stands, surveying the judge. A different uniform, but a similar dime-a-dozen judge. He’s seen this type dozens of times. He could debate them in his sleep.

But as he looks to the side—Remus sitting, Roman beside him, the rest of the cluster in a line past them, just peeks of their profiles past the twins—he remembers why he started to study law, too.

Because he wanted to be able to get himself and his brother out of any and every sticky situation they could ever stumble into.

Janus stands when he is bid to. He takes the oath, Remus’s mother language tripping off his tongue like it’s his own. It is now, Janus supposes. 

Roman reaches over and grips Remus’s hand. Remus pinches Roman as hard as he possibly can, but Roman doesn’t flinch.

Janus begins smoothly, “Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the court...”

[octalove]

V: Letting Lie

(Batgirl/Red Hood)

Description: There’s a breakthrough in the case, and Reader takes things into her own hands. Part one, two, three, and four.

The hospital was white. All white. Like a dream. White walls, white floors, white curtains, white stretchers, white papers fluttering around on clipboards, doctors in white coats. Mr. Wayne’s suit was black, so I focused on him. Black suit, blue tie. Black hair, blue eyes. He was filling out whatever paper the nurse had given him. Something about seeing it all play out, despite the face he had put on for me, made my eyes well up with tears. He was afraid, so I was afraid.

“Mr. Wayne?” His eyes shot up as he looked desperately at the nurse. He was so helplessly at the mercy of whatever news they brought us. We both were. “Will you come with us? We’ll have a nurse stay with the girl.” The nurse looked down at me with a warm smile. White teeth.

“We need to borrow Mr. Wayne for just a second. That okay, baby?” I just nodded, not really considering it something I could say no to. No, please, I want him to stay. I’m scared and I want him to stay. A male nurse came and sat by me. He talked to me about school, my favorite subjects- science, math. He asked me what I wanted to be, and I shrugged.

“People who like science and math make good doctors.” He said. I shrugged again, but then considered it more.

“Is it hard?” I asked.

“It’s very hard. Not a lot of people can do it.”

“…”

“But it’s worth it. You help people, you know?”

Mr. Wayne appeared from around the corridor. The look on his face made all the papers stop fluttering. Made all the doctors stop rushing. Made the world stop where it was. Somewhere, maybe, in retrospect, I knew before he said it. I kept my eyes trained on his face, even though I wanted to look away.

“Y/N…” He said, taking a seat beside me. “Listen to me, sweetpea. Your parents-” His voice was cautious, considerate as he tried again. “Your moms got hurt really badly tonight… They- they’re both…“ A tear landed on my hand as the memory grew into a reality, which was bigger than I was. White sheets, red blood. He took my hand, and wiped it away.

“They’re gone now.”

*

They didn’t talk about Jason Todd.

And since they were the only people in his life at the time he died, nobody talked about Jason Todd. We met a couple of times, before Bruce took me in. I hated my expensive gowns, and he hated his expensive obligations, and we hid together at parties, all the while Dick insisted we’d get married. He lived, albeit briefly, as a smart, capable boy, and died as a smart, capable Robin. I had trouble looking at his face- pictures and old year books. When I did, I was looking into the face of a boy who died an untimely, tragic death. That was it. That was his story. Jason Todd died alone, afraid, and probably in a lot of pain. I went to his funeral.

If at all he came up (I could only think of one or two occasions), Bruce would tense, his eyes falling away, and Alfred’s gaze would cloud with memory. Dick, at least, could share a story or two, coveting the fondness and pride he had for his brother without dismissing the whole subject. Tim and Damian didn’t ask. They just tried not to die with the uniform on.

So walking into the cave and seeing Jason Todd’s face plastered on the central monitor seemed like the single most unlikely thing to occur in the Wayne household. I would’ve placed Bruce adopting another child before digging up and displaying dead ones.

Tim, Dick, and Babs were huddled close, faces wound and tight, while Bruce looked distracted, fascinated with his W.E. ballpoint pen. I dragged my feet a little to alert them all of my entry, but only Babs looked up.

“Y/N.” She said.

“Hey. What’s going on?”

Everyone just sort of concluded that someone else would explain, or take the lead, but no one made any attempt to do so. Finally, Bruce sighed.

“Come here. Sit down.” Okay. If there was anything in the world that could make your intestines feel like they were getting turned to ramen noodles by a paper shredder, it was Bruce Wayne telling you to come here, sit down. I searched the others’ faces as I did so.

“What happened?” I asked quietly, trying to fill the chasmic silence.

“I’m going to go over everything. Do you remember…” He trailed off- just for a second. It wasn’t often I saw him battle with something like that. His face was tired, and his eyes revealed a struggle as he fought whatever emotion he was grappling with. “Do you remember Jason?”

I nodded. “Sort of.” An echoing memory passed. Lacy table cloth curtains and chocolate covered strawberries as we camped under gala snack tables, whispering and laughing. Bruce watching me when my parents went out of town, and Jason giving me a tour of the library. The red roses on his burial. Sure, sort of. His blurry picture was on the monitor, anyway.

“Okay. Very good.” Bruce began again, perhaps relieved he would have to go into detail to refresh my memory.

“We’ve been putting a lot of information together regarding the Red Hood. We’ve been able to deduce his origins were The Viper House, but before that, Arkham. He began working out of the Asylum, and contacts there had a lot of information about him.”

That, I didn’t know. I supposed I wasn’t the only one slinking around in shadows. He was addressing everyone now, going through visuals on the monitor.

“He began to placate what was left of Joker’s operations in Coventry before he started on general crime. Oracle was even able to get some information from Harley Quinn.” I looked at Babs with some surprise, and she just nodded along.

“The very first sighting of him- in Coventry- was April 27th, seven months ago. The fifth anniversary of…”

I nodded. I knew what April 27th was. A vapid, despairing day in the manor that Bruce spent in his office and Dick didn’t call. I didn’t follow, but if Bruce had linked Jason’s death to Red Hood, I knew he must have something big.

“All of the information we gathered, on top of his intimate knowledge of us, vigilante or otherwise, has lead us to a clear conclusion. The encounter in Crime Alley on the 21st was just another confirmation.”

I almost flinched as my eyes flew to Tim, but no one seemed particularly interested in me. I texted him quickly, careful to avoid Bruce’s eye.

You told him?

- I told him I was the one who saw it. It was important information.

Shit, Tim. Was he mad?

He didn’t answer, looking back up to the briefing. I slid my phone into my pocket, guilt weighing in my chest alongside the other myriad of emotions building.

“He’s been around longer than seven months. Much longer. And it began with Jason’s death.”

I furrowed my brow, putting together a puzzle with with bent, broken edges, like trying to fit a triangle into a square-shaped hole- just one angle missing.

“Are you saying… Joker didn’t kill Jason? That this guy did?” My body felt cold.

Bruce looked at Dick, who didn’t return his gaze. Then, he turned back to me.

“I’m saying... that Jason is Red Hood.”

I let confusion twist on my face. “What? How? That’s not possible. You think he lived? We- I mean, we had a funeral.”

Dick shook his head, answering on Bruce’s behalf. “He did die, but… are you familiar with the Lazarus Pit?”

I went over my tangling thoughts. The crime scenes. The anger. The vigilante justice packaged in a case of blood and bullets, shipped right to Gotham’s largest looming criminals. The warehouse, the alley. The button. The leather on his gloves as he ran his fingers along my face and pressed it, leaving me all alone.

Tell Batman,

It was all falling in line; bubbling up and searing together like hot, melding flesh pulled together in the burning waters of the Lazarus.

I’m getting impatient.

“So… what are you going to do?” I asked.

Dick’s face was pained. Solemn. “I… we want to try to talk to him. There’s a reason he’s doing all this, and there’s a reason he chose now. If we want to figure it out, we have to find him.”

I swallowed. “I can help.”

“No.” Bruce declared swiftly. “Absolutely not. The only thing we know about him is that he’s dangerous. Red Hood may have Jason’s DNA, but we need to work under the assumption that he isn’t the same person.”

I could answer that. He wasn’t.

“Do not look for him. Do not engage him. Is that clear?” He was talking to me, Tim, and Damian. We all nodded.

“Any unapproved interaction could jeopardize the case, and give him more insight into our movements. We want to try and remain one step ahead. That is all.” The explanation was for Damian, who operated on bargains, not orders. Again, we all nodded. After a moment, I sighed.

“Well… I have school in the morning. Will you tell me if you learn anything else?” I asked. The three of them nodded, and Dick muttered a ‘goodnight’. I turned, mind working against the grain of what I should do and what I wanted to do.

Just go to bed, I willed myself.

Just go.

*

Night fell, black and smoggy. The sea was hissing and writhing, unsettled with the gale of a promised storm. I wasn’t entirely certain what would catch Red Hood’s attention. It seemed that our history comprised of him finding us, and not the other way around. Gotham Docks seemed like a good place to start. Ever since Kuznetsov was found in his watery grave, his men belonged to Hood. They moved drug imports that came to Port Adams- actual drugs- pharmaceuticals, over-the-counters, hydrocodone, acetaminophen; all legal things. But Gotham City taxed the living hell out of medicine imports, so people like Kuznetsov (may he rest in peace) smuggled them in fishing vessels for cheap, and got them into the hands of big pharma and medicare companies for a lot of money.

I’d picked a cozy spot on the roof of a bait shop that made me feel safely invisible as my eyes swept over the docks. Batman didn’t typically prioritize crime of this caliber; over the counter meds weren’t going to blow anyone’s heads off the way crazy clowns and mafia bosses were. It made the busy henchmen on the boardwalks nice and blatant. It wasn’t hard to find tonight’s operation.

I needed to make a scene. Make some noise, throw out some names- one name in particular. Wherever he was, I hoped it’d be enough to make it worth dropping in. I was used to making quick, efficient work of criminals, not stalling. Making a scene meant no disappearing in shadows, or quieting the sound of my breath.

There were a couple of men dollying crates in and out of a packaging plant. Disguised as fishermen, naturally. As they approached the building, several feet from the propped-open door, I dropped. Embracing the momentum, my weight striking the old wood made a salient sound, and sent the startled men gasping and staggering backward.

“Holy shit!”

“B-Batma-

“B-B-Batgirl?” I clipped. “Were you gonna say Batgirl?” It didn’t really matter which bat they thought it was. The fear all worked to the necessary effect.

“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” The man muttered, scooting backward along the wood as I let my step fall heavy against it.

“Where is he?” I asked, drumming up my vicious, raspy voice, like smoke on the sea.

“Where-where’s who?” He stuttered. The other man was taking advantage of my focus and scrambling to his feet. Any second, he would bolt into the building. Perfect.

“Red. Hood.” I said, loud enough that the fleeing man would hear.

“I don’t know! Hand to god, I don’t know!” The man on the ground pleaded. I looked down at him, letting the fear and shadow distort my face.

“I don’t believe you.” I kicked him in the chest, sufficiently knocking the wind out of him, but left him there, turning my attention to the packaging plant.

Adrenaline was in my limbs, pushing and pulling with the running blood under my skin. When was the last time I had a good fight? Carjackings and bank robberies felt so small, and predictable. Everything was always stable. Batman always had it under control, watching dutifully from rooftops, appearing in split second if I needed help.

Tonight, Batman wasn’t here. I felt no eyes on my back, no voices in my ear. It was under control, but it was my control.

The men inside had already sufficiently scattered. I didn’t bother to hush my footsteps as I entered. The icy breeze from the open door made my cape flutter, despite its weight- and that was the only sound.

Suddenly, boots on concrete, and a man let out a defiant cry as he shot toward me, with a rusted tire iron raised above his head. I moved on practiced instinct, side stepping and leaving him stumbling, before delivering a hard, well-aimed kick that he wasn’t getting up from. Two other men concluded (incorrectly) if they went together, they could take me.

It was a blur of fists and make-shift weapons comprised of packaging tools, but they were easy to parry and subdue. I kicked the second one back with enough force to send him through a thin wooden partition, which cracked and splintered under his weight. I swung my eyes around the scene.

“Anyone else?” I knew they were there. Tucked behind conveyor belts and crouched low, using fish barrels for cover. No one answered the call of duty.

“I’ll ask again,” I called. “Where. Is. Red. Hood?”

Suddenly, a flash of color, and I went backward and downward, catching myself enough that my arm slid across the concrete instead of my face. I let out a sharp breath just in time to dodge another blow.

“All this,” The computerized tilt of his voice couldn’t smother the anger in it. “For little old me?”

I kept my eyes trained on his hands, because I could entertain close combat, but knew I’d need to bolt if he drew his guns. That didn’t appear to be his intention. I dipped away from one of his swings, but he swiped at the fabric of my cape, grip closing, and used it to heave me into a barrel. I gasped at the force of it as I reckoned with shattered wood. Barely recovering, I rolled out of the way as he swung low. I went for the door, figuring I could use a little more space, since he had a hundred pounds and a few feet on me.

Outside, a frigid wind was cascading across the docks, biting my skin and casting droplets of salt water all around. Red Hood moved imposingly slow-paced, attending the cuff of his jacket sleeve, while I put a hand on the railing and tried to find my footing again.

“There are easier ways to get my attention, sweet thing.” Drawing to a halt, he didn’t look like he was going to attack me again, so I wiped the blood from my lip and straightened.

“Sorry. You forgot..” I was still breathing heavily. “To give me.. your number… last time.”

He laughed; a terrible, beautiful thing. “I guess I did, didn’t I?”

I fought to remember why I was here, and consequently, tried to pull together Jason Todd with the faceless man before me. They seemed to foil one another- a triangle through a square-shaped hole.

“So what do you want?” He asked, more serious this time. Though a reasonable question, it almost sounded rhetorical for the sheer lack of curiosity in it. I swallowed.

“Show me your face.” I said. It was so quiet, so hushed by the jeering sea that I was surprised when he tilted his head in response.

“Liked our little game that much? Had to crack a few skulls just to play it again?” I was frustrated, wishing he would come close, like he had in the alley, and let me touch him. Let me push away the helmet and know.

I tried to convey my seriousness with a look, but he just rolled his shoulders.

“Is that all, little bird?” He seemed annoyed; like I’d dragged him here only to concern myself with the small matter of his secret identity. The secret identity of Gotham’s most prolific crimelord. I wanted to make him understand, but I didn’t know what to say. He didn’t say anything else, either. He didn’t say “no” or “whatever” or “goodbye”. He just started walking away.

Jason.

Suddenly, I stopped myself. What if he wasn’t? What if Bruce was wrong? I’d throw out a name- an accusation- at a monstrous stranger who had no connection to me or my family. He’d laugh his terrible laugh and know that the world’s greatest detectives weren’t so great after all. Nervousness consumed me, tightening around my throat, placating me while I watched his form get smaller as he walked away, the darkness threatening to swallow him up.

“Jason!”

He stopped. His boots dragged to a jarring halt on the wood. Slowly, then, he turned around. The shadows were long and cast over him, turning his helm the color of old blood.

“Come back.” I said. “Please.”

His body language was unreadable, a mix between relaxed and hesitant that left him standing there, looming, and left me unsure as to whether he was going to leave, or pull a glock on me. Then, he lifted his hands. His thumbs dragged beneath his jaw methodically, until there came a hiss from his helmet, and he pulled it off.

“Jason.” I repeated. My voice was tight. It shook. His gaze followed me in the dark before he approached, gate slow and heavy, and sat down on a fishing crate.

“What? Do I look different? Put on a little weight?” Maybe he was joking- I couldn’t tell. The soft rasping of his voice startlingly contrasted the voice scrambler, and blended with the bubbling waters below our feet. But something eerie laced it. It was still foreign to me. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

I had previously thought I might be able to do this; face him. After all- I should be happy to see him again, alive after five years of Bruce’s grief and wretched hollowness. Years of operating in the long, dark shadow cast by his headstone. But somehow, the man before me was instead a confirmation. A walking death certificate. Jason Todd- the other Jason Todd- was still gone. Bronze skin, of which small, light colored scars adorned. Midnight hair mussed from his helmet, leaving a couple strands to fall over his dark eyes; eyes that used to hold warmth, and now held a malefic coldness. When I drank in the features of his face, I found my chalice empty. He didn’t approach me this time- didn’t draw near enough to feel his heat. Just sat there, elbows resting on his thighs, leaning forward and looking at me. I had trouble holding his gaze, but I did. Then, he gave me a chilling grin.

“Did you miss me?”

His voice knocked something loose, as my mind placed him as a memory. Someone I’d actually known. I had a million burning questions. “How? What happened?”

He pulled out a cigarette, shrugging. “I’ve been busy. Dying’s a lotta work.”

“Why- why are doing this?” This being spending seven months as the most prolific crimelord in Gotham. There was a spark of his lighter. Using his hand to shield the flame from the winds and misting water, it nurtured an orange glow on his face, bathing his skin in auburn light for just a moment. I blinked, and it was extinguished, replaced, again, by the blue darkness. He took a deep drag.

“Know how I died, dollface?” He asked. I did, so I nodded.

“Remember what happened to the bastard who killed me? After.” I studied him, still reeling a bit from accepting the man before me as the boy he’d been. I remembered there was another attack after Jason’s death. Joker took forty pounds of C4 to a shopping center in Fashion district at the beginning of May. Amidst the rubble were Robin: Missing posters. Bruce didn’t make them. Joker kept up his streak thereafter. He didn’t stop until his death, last year.

“Nothin’.” Jason supplied the answer. A hard, bitter, sorrowful nothing. It burned cold, like an inverse flame.

“Batman doesn’t kill. He doesn’t kill, and killers do. So they walk, and keep killing, and he calls it justice.”

I let it all sink in. Batman was the only thing standing between Gotham and complete corruption. I saw, in my memory, all the people I’d helped. All the victims who’d ever clung to me or thanked me through tears. All the pride I’d ever felt carrying the mantle. Batman didn’t kill because you can’t go back from killing. If he did, it wouldn’t be vigilantes against criminals- it’d be dogs eating dogs. Domestic war. Jason had been Robin. Surely he understood the philosophy of it?

But, then, what did it get him? He took those philosophies to the grave. When he finally crawled back out, he did what anyone with a vendetta might do. He overcorrected.

“Tell me somethin’, little bird.” His eyes leveled steadily on mine as I looked back up. “You call that justice?” I swayed under the intensity of it. I was afraid to disagree with him, but I didn’t even know if I wanted to. There were a lot of times I watched Joker slip through Batman’s hands, free to blow up another shopping center, when he could’ve stopped him if he just-

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

He got up, cigarette hanging from his lips, gaunt eyes burning through the blue dark.

“I think you do.”

The sea hissed, and the wind writhed, and I watched as the night swallowed him up.

[adenei]

Endings and Beginnings (In Three Parts)

And now, for my Hinny Incognito Elf fic! This was written for eevylynn, and tells the tale of the lead-up of Harry and Ginny’s relationship during HBP from Ginny’s perspective :) Side Romione included 

Please like/reblog and/or leave kudos on Ao3

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The Break-Up

Ginny couldn’t sleep. She was having trouble calming her mind, as she couldn’t stop thinking about the events of the night. It hadn’t been what she’d planned on, but in retrospect, Ginny supposed it had been coming for a while. She tried to tell Dean multiple times that she didn’t need his help with certain things, like being guided by the small of her back through the portrait hole. 

If she was being honest, something had started to feel off between them at the beginning of March. Right around the time when Ron was poisoned. Ginny had started spending more time while he was in the hospital wing with Harry and Hermione, and Dean had expressed his displeasure, which ended in their first huge row. She told him he didn’t have the right to tell her who she chose to spend her time with, and that her brother had almost died! Dean had tried to come back with the argument that he had Harry and Hermione, which sent Ginny off the deep end. ‘I’m his sister!’ she’d shouted at him in the halls, as she told him he’d need a better reason than that. To which he’d muttered something unintelligible about Harry. Ginny stormed off after that, unwilling to hear any more.

Dean did apologize eventually, but then she started getting bored when they’d go off to snog. He didn’t give her the same thrill he used to at the start of their relationship. Plus, what had once been kind gestures became mild annoyances that began to fester. At least this was what she was trying to tell herself. It would have been easier if he’d accepted the breakup easily. If he’d felt the same way, that the breakup was imminent. But instead he’d acted blindsided. He’d even tried to plead with her in the common room. ‘I won’t do it again, I promise, Gin. Let’s not be rash and end things over that.’ 

But it wasn’t just that and she’d told him as much before storming off up the girl’s staircase to her dormitory. Ginny felt bad that she didn’t give him more of an explanation, but she couldn’t. It’d break him even more than the lame excuse she’d used to end things already. Plus, it’d probably have confirmed whatever he’d muttered back in March, and she was too stubborn to admit he was right. 

She’d taken Hermione’s advice, and tried to date around a bit to forget her crush on Harry, but then last summer happened. They’d become closer than before, and Ginny loved the idea that they could be friends. Except that her heart still leapt any time he’d flash a grin at her, or when they’d go for a fly and she’d see the carefree side of Harry that he rarely showed anyone. Dare she even admit that there was the slightest banter of innocent flirting between them. 

Ginny knew she’d made the right decision when she felt her heart flutter at the mere thought of Harry. Yet she still sighed as she flopped back, her head hitting the pillow in the continued frustration of being unable to shake her feelings for him. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when there was a knock on the door.

“Ginny?” Hermione popped her head in the doorway.

“Over here,” Ginny said, happy to have a distraction and some company.

Hermione walked over and sat on her bed. “I heard what happened...I’m sorry,” she offered.

“Yeah, you and everyone else in the common room.” Ginny rolled her eyes as she sat up. “Don’t be sorry. I’m glad it’s over.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, you weren’t the only breakup tonight, and yours was much tamer than what came after.” Hermione was having trouble hiding the smile that was creeping across her face.

“Oh?” She could have guessed, but figured she’d let Hermione say it. 

“Ron and Lavender broke up!” Hermione said with glee. 

“It’s about time,” Ginny said as she smiled. “How’d it happen?”

“Oh, well, we were upstairs in the boy’s dorm with Harry, and-” Hermione looked around to make sure they were alone, but then cast muffliato just in case, “he put on the cloak because he was going to sneak out of the common room for, er-” 

“Lesson with Dumbledore?” Ginny asked.

“Y-yes. Yes! Anyways, because he was under the cloak, Ron and I came down and it looked like we’d been alone up there, and Lavender was not happy. I almost felt bad for Ron. People halfway across the castle probably could have heard her shouts,” Hermione said.

“Eh, he probably deserved it. Should have broken up with her a while ago,” Ginny commented. 

“Kind of like you and Dean?” Hermione raised her eyebrows in question.

“What?” Ginny countered, but Hermione only responded with a knowing look. “Yeah, alright. It was overdue, but sometimes it’s hard to break something that’s comfortable for something that’s never going to happen.”

“I wouldn’t count your chickens before they hatch..” Hermione said pensively.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Ginny questioned.

“It’s just a muggle expression,” Hermione said smugly. “Well, I’m going to go up to bed, but I think Harry’s still down in the common room. Said something about attempting to catch up on his homework for McGonagall.”

Ginny eyed her suspiciously as she hopped off the bed and left for her own dorm room. She sat there for a bit, considering what Hermione had said. Should she go down there? She was bored, having been cooped up here all evening, avoiding Dean. But she was also comfortable. 

Then, as if fate was interfering, her dorm mates came in the room giggling about something, and Romilda had this smug look on her face. A surge of jealousy flowed through her system. Romilda had been after Harry all year, with no success luckily, but it still annoyed Ginny to think that she could get her bloody paws on him. 

That was all it took for Ginny to stand up, and head down to the common room. Sure enough, Harry was sitting in his favorite spot on the couch, but his homework lay abandoned on the table in front of him as he was staring at the fire. Ginny walked over and sat on the opposite side of the couch. The common room was all but deserted at this point.

“Last I checked, the fireplace isn’t going to help you finish that essay,” Ginny said wittily, grabbing Harry’s attention.

“Oh, hey Gin,” he said. “I, er, heard about you and Dean. Sorry…” 

“Are you really, though?” Ginny asked him, one of her eyebrows had arched in question.

“Do you really want the answer to that?”

“Answering a question with a question. That’s clever, Potter,” Ginny smirked at him.

“Well, it sidetracked you, didn’t it?” Harry laughed.

“It did, but your strategy just failed because you reminded me again. And yes, I would like the answer to that.” Ha, take that, Ginny thought.

She could tell Harry was contemplating his answer, and wondered why. Did it have to do with something that Hermione had said? “No, ‘m not sorry. You can do better than Dean.”

“Oh? Like who? Careful about your answer though, Potter. Wouldn’t want to pull a Ron on me,” Ginny warned. She had to remind herself to breathe when she realized she was holding her breath as she waited for his answer.

“Well, not Seamus, that’s for sure,” Harry laughed as Ginny rolled her eyes. Of course he’d suggest another person who wasn’t good enough for her. 

“I guess I’ll let that one slide, but if you do have a suggestion regarding my love life, I’d love to hear. You must be doing something right, yourself,” Ginny grinned as she made an innocent dig at him.

“Oi! Here I am, trying to be a supportive friend, and you just go for the low blow.” Harry feigned offense. 

Ginny laughed. She loved how easy it was to talk to Harry, which was a far cry from her preteen self. Her mood had vastly improved since coming down to the common room, and she was secretly thanking Hermione for the tip to come downstairs. Which reminded her, “So...Lavender and Ron?”

“About time, isn’t it?” Harry said.

“Hermione seemed quite happy about it,” Ginny said as they shared a look. “You don’t suppose they’ll finally sort things out, do you?”

“Anything will be better than what happened over the last four months,” Harry muttered.

Ginny watched him carefully. They’d joked about Ron and Hermione’s constant bickering and how they thought it was flirting, taking bets about when one would finally make a move on the other. He’d seemed okay with it last summer, so why was he close-lipped about it now? “How would you feel if those two got together?”

“Dunno,” he said simply. 

A thought crossed Ginny’s mind. “Harry, you don’t- you don’t fancy Hermione, do you?”

“What? No! No way. She’s like my sister,” Harry defended himself quickly. “Why would you even suggest that?”

“You’re acting weird about it,” Ginny told him. “Not like this summer, when we were having a laugh over it.”

Harry just shrugged. “I’m just happy they’re talking again. Maybe the four of us could hang around more, you know, like the summer.”

Ginny could tell when he didn’t want to talk about something, so she didn’t push it. Instead, she thought about what he’d said about the summer. She tried to hide the excitement about Harry wanting to spend more time with her. 

In an attempt at playing it cool she said, “Only if you help me with revising for Defense. O.W.L.s are coming up, you know.”

“Er, yeah, sure! I may be able to help with potions, too. Everything else, you’re better off asking Hermione for help,” Harry said as he flashed her a smile.

“I’m sure you could help just fine,” Ginny returned his smile with one of her own. “You did manage E’s in everything else, didn’t you?” She watched him shrug as the faint hint of a blush tinged his cheeks. “Anyways, it is late, and we do have class in the morning. Unlike you, some of us have class during the first hour tomorrow,” she teased.

“Yeah, you’re right. See you tomorrow?” he asked as they both stood up and headed to their respective staircases.

“Not if I see you first,” Ginny said as she laughed. It was one of the twins favorite things to say that she’d taken a liking to as well. It had become one of her signature flirting lines. She froze, but it didn’t seem as though Harry had heard anything out of the ordinary. “Night, Harry,” Ginny said as she turned and climbed up the staircase.

The Insinuation

“Harry, we’re going to be fine, don’t worry,” Ginny reassured him for what seemed like the millionth time. 

Everyone had been on form during their last few practices. They were pulling through in spite of the broken morale after Harry’s incident a few weeks back. Luckily, Harry had still been permitted to attend practices and coach the team even though he couldn’t play in the final match due to Snape’s detentions. This gave Ginny the opportunity to focus on her seeker skills, and Dean, Demelza and Katie could get used to working together as chasers.

“I know, I know,” Harry said.

Ginny leaned in and nudged his side with her shoulder. “Then why do you still have that worried look on your face?” She looked up at him through her lashes. 

They’d been spending a fair amount of time together both on and off the quidditch pitch. Ginny had started to drop subtle hints here and there, but Harry seemed to remain oblivious. There were times when she was about ready to give up her pursuit, thinking that maybe Hermione’s subtle nudging was just for a laugh. But then it was always Harry who would ask if she wanted to go to the library in the evening, and Harry who would make Ron and Hermione wait for her to go down to breakfast in the mornings.

“Because it doesn’t matter how on form you all play tomorrow, I’m still letting you all down by not being there! I’ve never hated Snape more in my life,” Harry muttered as he kicked at the ground.

“Harry, you know I agree with you on the whole Snape thing, but you did almost kill Malfoy. It’s just a shame he couldn’t push this one detention to a different time. I promise I’ll give you the whole rundown after the match.”

Harry looked to her as he said, “Thanks, Gin. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

Ginny had to force herself to keep moving and to play it cool despite the breath that hitched in her throat and the sudden fast beating of her heart at Harry’s comment. She was thankful for her quick wit, which allowed her to comment without Harry knowing that her insides were about to explode from excitement. 

“Probably something stupidly noble or nobly stupid,” she said giving him a look. They both erupted into laughter. 

They continued walking up the corridor when Ginny recognized one of the Fat Lady’s friends watching them interestedly. She nudged Harry with her elbow and nodded with her head. “Is it just me? Or are they watching and possibly gossiping about us?” she said under her breath.

Harry looked up at what she was referring to. “Er, I dunno, Gin, can’t say I really notice what the portraits do on a regular basis.”

Ginny rolled her eyes in exasperation as she heard one of the portrait ladies giggle and say, “Oh don’t mind us, dear!”

“So you are staring, then!” Ginny said in triumph. 

“No, no! Just watching carefully. We like to be current with the state of relationships! If I may offer some advice,” she was addressing Harry now, “I’m sure the lovely lady would appreciate some hand holding at the very least,” the lady on the right said.

“Relationships? What are you on about?” Harry asked. 

They ignored Harry’s question as the lady on the left chimed in with, “I think the corridor up ahead is vacant if you’re looking for a place, too! Don’t worry, we won’t tell anyone,” she said innocently. 

Ginny stared incredulously at the portrait. “Oi! What in the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“Aww, look how shy they’re being, Violet! It’s quite clear you two are the newest couple in Hogwarts!”

“It’s about time,” Violet agreed.

“What?!” Harry and Ginny both said at the same time. 

“We’re not-” Harry said.

“Why would you-” Ginny added. 

Neither finished their sentence before Ginny looked at Harry and said, “C’mon Harry, let’s get out of here. Clearly, the portraits have lost touch with reality, as they don’t know how friends act anymore.” She gave the ladies in the portrait a dirty look as they continued walking without looking back.

What was once a comfortable conversation had now been replaced with an awkward air. After what felt like an eternity of walking towards the Gryffindor common room, Harry broke the silence with an apology that wasn’t his to give. “Er, sorry…” he said, looking anywhere but at Ginny.

“Sorry for what? Last I checked you weren’t one of those old batty women in the portraits,” Ginny commented.

“Er, no, but we have been spending more time together. If it’s too much-”

“It’s not,” Ginny said, perhaps a little too quickly.

She noticed a wave of relief fall over him at her words. “I mean, if the portraits think we’re together, then maybe we should at least give them something worthwhile to talk about,” Ginny laughed at the thought of messing with the portraits. 

Harry didn’t answer her, and he looked seemingly lost in another thought. “Are we really acting like that?”

“Like what?” Ginny asked for clarification.

“Like a...couple?” Harry choked out.

Ginny thought about his words. They were spending quite a bit of time together, about the same that she’d spent with Dean on any given day, at least. And sure, maybe there had been some innocent flirtation, but neither was any the wiser on how the other person felt. 

“Um, not that I was aware of,” she lied. “We’re just two friends enjoying each other’s company, and sometimes taking the piss on each other, now and then. Maybe even in the form of innocent flirting” Ginny chanced.

Harry chuckled at her words. “Yeah, you’re right,” he agreed.

Wait, did Harry just agree to the idea of flirting? She really wanted to ask, but by that point they’d entered the common room and Hermione was waving him over. She probably wanted to know how Ron had performed tonight to get a better idea of his mood.

“Well, I’m going to turn in early for the night,” Ginny told him. “I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”

“Er, yeah,” Harry said awkwardly as Ginny took off for the girl’s staircase. 

It was all Ginny could do to avoid thinking about their conversation in the corridor. Maybe she’d convince him to mess with the portraits some more after the match tomorrow and see where things would lead. At the very least, it could be fun to take the piss out of the Fat Lady’s drunken friends. But for now, she had to focus on the match tomorrow, which meant giving herself a little space from Harry for the night, both mentally and physically. 

The Kiss

There was a deafening rush of sound that flooded Ginny’s ears after she’d caught the snitch. She looked at the magical scoreboard. They’d won. They actually pulled it off! Ginny flew down to the pitch where she joined the rest of the team in a huddle/hug and she looked at the stands where the Gryffindors were losing their minds.

Yet the only thought she could focus on was Harry. She couldn’t wait to tell him! She hoped his detention wouldn’t last all day because she was already bursting at the seams with excitement. He’d trusted her to lead them in his absence, and she did. Ginny saw Professor McGonagall’s satisfied smile. Maybe she’d be in the running for Captain next year, not that she’d want to take that away from Harry, but it would be nice. 

She found herself in the locker room, putting her broom away and changing out of her sweaty gear. She waited for the rest of the team, so they could make their victory march back up to the school. Ginny decided to wait outside the locker room for the rest of the team members and saw Hermione waiting there, a beaming smile on her face. They waited together as the rest of her teammates filed out. Finally, the last members emerged; Ron was walking out with Dean.

Things were less awkward than they had been. At least they were until Hermione ran up to Ron and hugged him in congratulations, leaving Ginny standing awkwardly next to Dean. “Oi! Is everyone ready to head back up to the common room, then?” The team members all nodded as they began their walk back to the castle. 

The party was already raging in the common room by the time they made it through the portrait hole, and the Gryffindor’s cheers could probably be heard throughout the entire castle when the team entered. They were all handed butterbeers as Ron was holding the Cup in his arms, Hermione at his side. More rounds of ‘Weasley is our King’ could be heard as Ginny decided to hang out near the doorway with Ron and Hermione. 

If they didn’t think that was at all normal, neither said anything. After all, Ginny had been spending more time with them lately. Ginny downed her butterbeer in an attempt to calm her nerves, and looked around for a second one. She found them by the fireplace, but as she made her way over, she heard someone shout, “He’s back!” 

Ginny turned around and froze, waiting to see if it was true. Sure enough, she saw a black mess of hair appear through the portrait hole and heard Ron shout, “We did it! We won!” 

She watched as Harry looked at Ron, who was holding the cup, but then his eyes were searching for something else, someone else. He scanned the room, and her heart stopped briefly when his eyes met hers and he froze. She nodded, solidifying Ron’s words with one motion, and then she watched him move toward her and her feet stepped forward to meet him somewhere in the middle.

He had this wild look in his eye, and she was just about to ask him what was wrong when he closed the gap between them and kissed her. Harry freaking Potter was kissing her! And not in private. In front of the whole bloody lot of Gryffindors! Speaking of...she pulled away slightly. She needed to make sure this was real. 

But in typical Harry fashion, he looked not at her, but at her brother. She hoped Colin had his camera and was able to capture the look on Ron’s face. Hermione was holding his arm, and looking between the two. Her worried look turned into a bright smile when Ron cocked his head to the side and grunted what Ginny assumed was his ‘blessing.’ Not that she needed it, but she appreciated it nonetheless.

She saw Harry’s own face break out into a more relaxed grin as the rest of the common room erupted once more. He finally looked back at her and gestured toward the portrait hole. He may have said something, but there was no way she could have heard anything. Ginny nodded as he took her hand and led her back out from where he’d just entered. 

She heard the Fat Lady laugh and say, “It’s about time, you two,” as they headed down the corridor and found an empty classroom. The door had barely shut behind them before their lips locked for a second time. She felt Harry’s hands wrap around her waist as hers wrapped around his neck. 

They’d barely started snogging before Harry pulled away abruptly. “Wait, is this- this is okay, right?”

Ginny smirked at him. “Well, your form is a bit off, but I’m sure I could teach you a few things,” she said suggestively.

“Very funny,” Harry said as he rolled his eyes. “I’m serious, Gin.”

“If it wasn’t okay, you would know already, Harry,” she finally said sincerely.

“Brilliant,” he said. Ginny leaned in, finding his lips with hers as they fell into an easy rhythm. 

Some time later, they broke apart. Ginny was impressed at how quickly Harry had improved, picking up on the art of snogging. “Should we take a walk? It’s rather beautiful out today to be stuck in a stuffy classroom.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to go back to the party?”

“I’d much rather do this,” Ginny told him as they exited the classroom. They turned in the opposite direction of the common room as they made their way out to the grounds.

Harry and Ginny stopped by the large oak tree that shaded the Black Lake and sat down, guarded by the privacy from any onlookers.  “So…” Harry said.

“I’m listening,” Ginny said through a smirk. 

“Are we, er…” Harry stuttered.

“I don’t know, do you want to be?” Ginny knew it was cheeky to be teasing him about this, but she just couldn’t help it. Harry Potter, the boy who had defeated You Know Who once and fought him another three times, the boy who had saved her from death in the Chamber of Secrets, was having trouble asking her out. 

“Y-yeah, but only if you want that,” Harry said. 

“I think me kissing you back is a good indication,” Ginny smiled. She supposed she could have just been up front and given him an easy yes or no, but she knew he could handle her sarcasm. It was part of their easy banter, what made their friendship so special and unique. They tended not to take each other’s shite.

“That’s what I was hoping for,” he said as he leaned in and kissed her again. If Ginny wasn’t sure about her decision to break things off with Dean before, those doubts had disappeared. Now, a new chapter was beginning. One that had only been in her dreams for far too long. But now it was a reality. The best reality she could have ever hoped for as she melted into Harry’s arms and enjoyed their day together in the bright May sunshine. 

[popculturebuffet]

House of Mouse review: “The Three Caballeros” or State of Your Outfit Donald

The Ride of the Three Caballeros continues, and with reviewed paid for up until legend, we’re fueled up and ready to ride on for some time now. This admittedly has taken a bit longer than I like to get back on the ride, due to a  number of reasons, but i’m back on the ride and these next two were both a pleasure to get to and cover a show that was LONG overdue to show up here: It’s the House of Mouse! For those of you who haven’t heard of it House of Mouse was a Disney show in 2000 that ran on it’s one Saturday morning block, the follow up to the Disney afternoon. It also holds a close place in my heart as these are the versions of Mickey and Co I grew up with, as I had Disney Channel as a kid and they reaired it a LOT, so the show is sorta soaked into my DNA, and is likely the reason why I like Donald and Goofy so much, as their shorts here and their personalities outside them really drew me in. I’ll still be objective mind, but the show means a lot to me and i’m not going to hide that. 

The show has a really amazing setup: Mickey and Co run a club for Disney characters. While no tv characters showed up, anyone who had been in the movies was fair game, and everyone from Hades to both forms of Simba somehow to the horned freaking king showed up. The only exceptions were as I said Tv characters, though Pepper Ann makes a cameo in the pilot, and the Pixar characters.. which is more fair than you think. Keep in mind at the time of this series, there were only three Pixar Movies: Toy Story, a Bug’s LIfe and Toy Story 2, which came out the same year as house of mouse. Not only that Pixar wasn’t owned by Disney at the time, so there was likely a fear they could loose the rights to use the characters at some point and thus didn’t want to chance it.  But yeah this setting is used for great jokes, it’s the source of the “No one does X like gaston!” meme and it’s funny every time they do that gag. Though the main stars of the show are still mickey and co with each having a fitting position in the club’s hierachy: MIckey and Donald, being equal stars, co-own the club, though Donald sometimes feels overshadowed. Mickey, with his people skills and cheer is the MC and host. Donald, given his jack of all trades nature and butt monkey status, is guest services, in charge of taking care of the club’s featured guests and naturally having it backfire, as well as sometimes envying Mickey’s spot and trying to take it over. Minnie, being level headed, keeps things running, planning the show and managing finaces as well as calming Mickey when he gets panicky. Daisy runs guest services while trying to break out on her own and is somewhat of a ditz in this series, though not overly dumb or incompetent, just a bit of an air head is all, and her sweet bubbly nature makes her very likeable. That and outside the shorts at least, she’s very nice to Donald here and their realtionship is very sweet, hence it being one of the four versions of it I like.  Goofy is head waiter, which fits him because.. I dunno they needed one. But he does the job well even if he naturally screws up a bunch because Goofy. Pluto is also around as a personal assitant because eh why not.  But what really stood out abotu the show to me, even more so as an adult, was  the supporting cast. As a kid, I was introduced to a lot of the disney side characters i’d never heard of before, all of whom get a decent amount of screen time over the series, while as an adult, I find it heartwarming they brought these characters back and fleshed them out after not being used on screen for so long, with one big exception that was still nice of them to use and helps bridge the generation gap. 

The rest of the HOM crew consisted of Hoarce, Mickey’s friend who was used a lot early on and who works as the club’s engineer and handyman, Clarabelle, also often forgotten but thoroughly defined here as a loveable gossip and acted wonderfully by the incomparable April Winchell. I credit this show for making me love both characters especially Clarabelle and wanting to see them more. 

We also have Gus, a far more obscure on screen character. Gus is Donald’s Cousin, and as of this writing is the ONLY one of Donald’s three majorly used Cousins to have not shown up in the Ducktales reboot. Gus is also the only one whose not a comics original, to my shock, instead showing up in the short “Donald’s Cousin Gus”, communicating only through honks and eating all of Donald’s food. He was naturally adapted for the comics, where while still having a huge appetite became more bossed with being a lazy while working with Grandma Duck, his and Donald’s Grandma. He’s so different between mediums I genuinely forgot he was in this show and didn’t realize he and the chef from this show were the same person. Still it’s nice to see him and hopefully he’ll make the reboot before it ends.  Finally rounding out the supporitng cast we have Huey Dewey and Louie, who mostly show up as the quackstreet boys to dance and are kind of inbetween their classic designs and their quack pack versions: They have the hair from quack pack, but seem more like their 12-13, a bit older than standard, but sitll not as old as they are in Quack Pack. They also don’t talk which is a vast improvement over Quack Pack. And finally, and more prominently, we have Max, who as I said bridges the gap between generations and I think was an amazing inclusion. He not only gave younger viewers like me a character they knew better, but allowed the character’s story to continue a bit, clearly taking place after xtreme but having him actually go on a date with Roxanne. Thank you House of Mouse Writers. your doing Golb’s work.  Antagonist wise we have Pete, as usual trying to muck things up and presumibly flush with post divorce cash. He’s the club landlord, and wants Mickey out for reasons that are never explained, but as long as the show goes on and Mickey pays rent on time, the show goes on. Being Pete, he naturally tries to sabotage things. It’s a good device. The other is Mortimer, probably the series deepest cut alongside Gus as he only shwoed up in one short but the series easily made him one of my faviorites: A Sleazy asshole who tries to pick up on Minnie (who thankfully this go round is not at all receiptve), tries to get on the card, and constnatly says Ha-Cha-Cha. Maurice LaMarche, this show had a REALLY talented voice cast can you tell?, really owned the character and has been his voice since and really took him from a one dimensional douche to a LOVEABLE asshole. 

Granted most of this.. really isn’t relevant as only the main cast show up, but it’s an aspect of the show I like so I went into it anyway. Plus i’ll defintely be coverng the show again so this saves me time for later.  Back on point though, the show’s format was a problem of the week, ranging from guest troubles to pete shenigans to internal strife in the club to just general sitcom shenanigans, going on at the club, with shorts inserted in from a previous Mickey Show, Mickey MouseWorks. MouseWorks was a short lived, pun intended, show that didn’t do so good, so they had a bunch of these shorts sitting around including some that never aired on the show, and thus inserted them as cartoons being played for the club patrons. It was a great device and the shorts, while varying in quality , are mostly pretty good and were the first Disney Shorts I saw. It was a good format, allowing the main stories to have plenty of time, but not have to overpad them or anything and with so many shorts on hand they could simply write the story to be as long as they needed and then insert however many shorts were needed. It worked well. 

So yeah as you can tell I truly love this show and it introduced a lot of stuff to me. And naturally.. that includes the Three Caballeros here, with their song here being stuck in my head for years and this being the first time they’d shown up in decades... which is ironically how long it took for me to see their movie but regardless. The boys were back, and you can see how the show did with them, under the cut. 

Something to note, No Disney Plus this time.. because BAFFLINGNLY the show is not on there, despite no rights issues holding it up I’m aware of, and the show having every other mouse and duck related animated series on there. I know, I’ve talked about this before, even in this very retrospective.. but I keep bringing it up because it’s something you easily forget about. Something that may slip away. But don’t let it. Let them know, and get our shows on there already. Christ.  Anyways, due to the show’s format of sliding the shorts in, and to make thing easier on me for house of mouse reviews i’m simply going to do the shorts first, then the main plot. Good? Good. 

This one only had two, though it varied on how many they used, and some were just super short shorts anyway, so it all balances out and as I said, i’ts better they just told as much story as was there than tried to rush it. So without further adue...

Donald’s Fish Fry: Poor Poor Humphrey  Yeah I didn’t like this one. The premise is using the old character Humphrey the Bear.. only here instead of being the antagonist the ranger present basically bullies the poor bear, while the other bears constnatly get more fish than him when it’s their registered time to fish. It’s just agrvating.. and when the poor boy finally GETS a fish, Donald snatches it.  Donald isn’t unsympathetic here, he found the fish fairly.. but it’s hard to tell who we’re supposed to root for here. Humphrey, who just wants what’s his, or Donald whose oblivious but technically in the wrong. This kind of slapstick just.. dosen’t work as well with both sides being sympathetic. It can work with say bugs and daffy, because both are equal, but there’s clearly an antagonistc force in elmer fudd. But this type of shenanigan just dosen’t work when neither side deserves the punishment, and Humphrey did nothing wrong. I felt like this for supporting him the whole time. 

And it ends with the ranger getting the fish. Because he wasn’t unlikeable enough clearly. Though Humphrey does get some beans so yay? Also the house segment after has Ranger Dickhead stealing Humphrey’s dinner, which given he’s at the club he CLEARLY paid for because it’s too fatty. Fuck you dude. I hope Goofy threw you out for that one. Just not a fun sit. I’ve seen this kind of shenanigan done better, in disney classic shorts even. I’ve seen Don as the villian better, See Trick or Treat for a good example> There’s just.. nothing here and it goes on forever. This is a good chunk of the episode! Lordy! Just a genuinely bad short. Thankfully the next one while not as word inducing is also not as headache inducing How to Be Smart: Now THESE were my faviorites as a kid. I loved goofy, so shorts about him were no brainer but even now.. these are still funny. Basically a narrator would follow Goofy around while he tries to learn how to do something, in this case how to get smarter after loosing on a gameshow .. and owing the show three milion dollars. There’s not much ot go into, it’s basically a series of jokes about Goofy going to school from elementary to college and learning his way up while Dealing with Ludvig’s bratty nephew and his own stupidity. It’s a funny short and really well done and these are easily some of the show’s best shorts and this is no exception. Unlike  the Humphrey short, where this essentially happened. 

My soul and I gladly enjoyed How to Be Smart. Dare to NOT be stupid and check this short out. 

The Wraparound: And I”m Donald Duck! As for the main segment it’s pretty good. We open with Mickey hyping up tonight’s act, which is naturally the Three Caballeros! But trouble sets in as Donald, while proud at first, is rightfully annoyed that a man on the street segment shows NO ONE remembers he was in the group. Including his best friend goofy. Only Pumba does, somehow. I dunno maybe he dated Panchito once before meating timon. Point is Donald dosen’t take this well, even if we get a nice moment of Daisy swooning over the fact.. even if being  HOM Daisy, she can’t get the name right. But given i’ve had trouble spelling it right, I’m one to talk. 

So being Donald he overreacts, which I like as.. well it’s Donald. Of course when given a very resonable reason to get upset he takes it a step too far. In this case he’s gotten an army of lawers, refuses to speak to mickey and has put ... THIS on. I showed it at the top of the page but.. well it bears repeating. 

It’s like every bad thing about the early 2000′s, from the douchey shades, to the rings, to the golden knuckles, to the hat that looks like a penis, to the no donald logo. There should be all the donalds, ALL OF THEM. He also has an army of lawyers, and naturally resorts to hot doggin and grandstanding: Signing autographs during the show, putting a giant poster of himself up. It works okay, as it makes him unsympathetic for the next part to work and is really funny which is the point. Even if again he looks like the feces that’s produced when shame eats too much stupidity. 

Instead of just getting Dale Gribble in there, Mickey is at a loss for a solution till the boys show up and.. it’s a mixed bag. Carlos  Alazraqui is excellent as Panchito, slipping into the roll well. Unlike last time the character showed up, they did NOT get a mexican actor, but Carols is still Latino, so it’s still better than what they did for Jose, and still big of them to actually bother to get a Latino actor to play a latino role.  Jose on the other hand.. is played, and not very good, by Rob Paulson. And before anyone throws stuff at me, I love Rob. I will  be gushing about him when I get around to reviewing the animaniacs reboot. He’s a god among voice actors and I love him. But his voice, at least in this ep dosen’t really .. FIT Jose, and he dosen’t really match the characters energy which is VERY weird given Animaniacs was right before this. The guy can DO energy and it’s one of his best talents. He STILL can as evidenced by both TMNT 2012 and the Animaniacs revival. It’s just not one of his better performances. I love the guy but even gods have off days.  And of course there’s the bigger issue of the very white Rob shouldn’t be playing the very Brazilian Jose. Not matching nationatlies is one thing, it sucks, but The Three Cablleros had a much bigger budget than HOM likely did. HOWEVER, it couldn’t of been that hard to find two latino voice actors in 2000, especially when you found at least one. I get this wasn’t as big a thing but when the 1940′s did better than you, you know you screwed up. 

But it probably dosen’t help the two.. barely do anything. Despite the episode being named after them, they only show up towards the end and just sorta say hi to mickey, get cool entrances, and then seeing Donald being a dick and Mickeya sking for their help, humble him with their musical number.  And the Musical Number IS really good, it’s been in my head for years and is just as catchy as the classic “Three Cabllero’s Song”.. why they didn’t sing that I don’t know, but this original one, a light knockoff of la bamba is still really fun and bouncy and the gags are good. It’s a really good climax and Donald deserves his punishment.  The only really issue is the ending, as.. no one leaned anything. No one acknowledges how forgotten Donald felt, Mickey dosen’t seem to get the issue as his “promoting Donald” at the end to make sure he’s not forgotten.. just has a bunch of jabs at his expense, and Donald dosen’t apologize..t hougH daisy is really sweet to him so we got some Donsy at least. It’s just a weak ending to an otherwise excellent wraparound.  Final Thoughts: This one was.. okay. Shorts aside, i’ve said my peace about them, the wraparound is a lot of fun, as is the musical number, even if the “artist formerly known as” joke was played out even in 2000. I mean yeas Prince changing his name to a symbol was insane, I get that.. but by then everyone had clowned on that decision and given he did so in a bizarre act of defiance towards his label, at a time where we now know how scummy record labels can be, it hasn’t aged well. It’s just the weak climax, song not included, really drags things down. The Cabs are just.. a cameo in their own damn episode, even with the full musical number and could’ve been around more. They don’t get to show off personalities or really do anything but teach Donald a lesson and are basically one indivdiual here. It sticks out even more because Rosa had both be utterly distinct and showed the utmost care while here.. their just sorta tossed in so they could have Donald be a primadona.. which itself is funny but on the whole this episode was just.. disappointing to revisit. It was disheartening to learn one of my favorite episodes as a kid wasn’t that good. It is worth checking out if you like Donald or the cabs, provided you skip the first short. Trust me, trust me, but is far from the best the house of mouse has to offer and hopefully the next one will show that.  Next time when the Ride continues, my gig at the house of mouse gets held over another night as Jose teaches Goofy manners and Panchito helps deprogram him from that. Before that I hope to get to the next chapter of life and times and some other stuff i’ve had hanging, including the next loud house and the next part of the tomtropsective, as well as some new things that have come up like said review of the animaniacs reboot and a review of Adventure Time: Distant Lands, Obsidan. Until then if you liked this review, please check out my other pages for more, follow me to see them, and if you’d like to comission your own, just hit me up in my ask box for my discord or personal message me here on tumblr. Until then, ther’es always another rainbow. I’m out. 

[sabraeal]

Clean Cut

All Tangled Up

Obiyuki AU Bingo Rapunzel AU

“Are you ready to be rescued?”

In retrospect, it’s a stupid question to ask. He’d meant it to be rhetorical; most women in her situation-- not that Obi goes around rescuing women from towers, but he assumes-- would jump at the opportunity. They would squeal, falling into his arms, eyes wide and limpid, and thank him profusely. They would throw their arms around his neck and tell him how strong and impressive he was, how handsome, how clever. After all, flattery could get you anywhere-- he would know.

Instead, barely missing a beat, this girl says, “No.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Oh, not that-- yes to the rescue!” she clarifies, screwing the lid back on the ointment. “But I’m not nearly ready! Can I have a few minutes?”

He should have said no. He should have tossed her over his shoulder and hauled her out the window like the brigand Sir thinks he is.

Instead, he says, “Don’t see why not.”

Oh, but now-- now he does.

“We do need to to get a move on,” he reminds her, watching her disappear behind the wardrobe door. “This is a rescue, Miss.”

“Oh!” She peeps back around, those bright eyes all wide and glittering. “Just one more minute! I’m almost finished.”

Obi strangles a sigh, hand rubbing at his shoulder. When His High and Mighty told him that he’d have to rescue a girl in a tower, he’d imagined a crooked, vine-covered thing, its stone crumbling and its wide-eyed ingenue dressed in rags, her sweet voice trembling as she asks, are you a man?

Needless to say, this is a bit of a let down.

Or it would be, if the waifish ingenue hadn’t turned out to be-- well, entirely different.

This place is a far cry from a dismal prison. There’s no choking vines; instead the room is awash in green, plants creeping out of pots or suspended from the ceiling above, every single one fresh and healthy. The girl’s never been outside, oh no, but it seems she found a way for the outside to be brought to her.

And that’s not even talking about this furniture. Someone could have swiped it all straight from some queen’s boudoir it’s so fancy, all dark carved woods with enamel inlays. She might be a prisoner, but this girl hasn’t suffered from lack.

“Take your time.” One finger plucks at the contraption on her table, something with steel balls hung from wooden dowels. He lets go of one, and it hits the other with a clack-clack, sending the last flying, and--

All right, he’s getting distracted. Leave him to underestimate the sort of clutter a girl could accumulate when she’s kept by a king.

“After all,” he mutters, “it’s not like we could be interrupted by your royal jailer--”

“He’s not my jailer.” The words come out, whip fast. “King Shenezard has kept me safe since I was a baby, and not once has he ever treated me poorly.”

Bold words, coming from a girl walled up in a tower. “Right, and that’s why you’re so eager to get rescued. Makes sense.”

There’s no impassioned protest to that, just an uneasy silence that settles in the air, setting him on edge. She’s second guessing all this; he can tell by her harsh rasp of breath, by the way she kneels, unmoving, in front of the wardrobe.

Well, that won’t do at all. He’s got a reputation to maintain.

“Hey,” he ventures, leaning just enough to peep around the door. “What’s taking so--”

For a solid minute, Obi forgets how to talk.

It’s a king’s ransom in there; gowns made velvet and brocade, kirtles of silk and paper-thin cotton, every bit laced and bejeweled with the sort of embroidery it takes a host of skilled seamstresses months to make. He could make a killing just selling one of those dresses, let alone a closet full. He’d have enough guilders to retire to a nice little island and sleep on a giant pile of money.

“Sorry!” she pipes, finally rolling back into action. “I have all I need from my plants, I just have to get clothes. Can’t walk around naked, after all!”

He just bites back, why not? Not the right crowd for that kind of talk. Not with Sir Stick-Up-His-Ass waiting for them back in the bushes.

Instead, he sits back. Her bag sits open at her feet, already almost full to the brim, and he can’t help but laugh thinking how she might fit those walking rob me signs into it, but--

But she doesn’t touch them. Instead, she reaches into the drawers beneath, pulling out humble muslin dresses, rolled with delicate care. One after another she compresses them tight, careful to stuff them over and around her samples. Soil smears on more than a few, but she pays it no mind, almost as if--

As if she did not care for them at all. As if all they were good for was to cushion her more precious treasures, sealed away in their paper envelopes.

“If you’re not going to take those,” he starts, left-footed and awkward, no longer sure how to speak to someone who doesn’t even know what fortune she’s sleeping on, “then I’ll take my finder’s fee in cl--”

Her skirt moves, skipping up over her ankles as she settles back on her heels, and--

And she’s not wearing shoes. Where he’d grown up, that would hardly raise a brow, and it’s not like this young miss has ever gone out to feel the grass under her feet but--

All these riches, and she’s barefoot, like some beggar girl. Even at a glance he can tell: there’s not a slipper’s toe to be found in that wardrobe, nor a boot’s lace. No point to keeping a girl in a tower if she could just walk away.

His stomach churns, his jaw clamping down before a single thought could slip from between his teeth. It’s not his business. The job is not for him to pity this girl. Besides, His Handsome Highness will see to it that she has more footwear than feet the moment she steps inside his castle.

At least, Obi hopes.

He settles back against her desk, the plants pricking at his coat. This isn’t his problem. He’s supposed to get her to her prince and go. Not--

“Aaagh?” squawks a little monster, squatting right by his elbow.

It’s been years since any man or beast has gotten the jump on him, but one look at this little hellion and Obi leaps sky high, scrambling to get back. He may even say some choice four-letter words.

The young miss peeks around the wardrobe, every inch of her frown steeped in disapproval. “Don’t yell at Ryuu! He’s very shy.”

Funny, it hadn’t felt very shy when it tried to put one of those funky little three-toed hands on him. Still, she’s looking pretty cross, and the little guy has turned terracotta, trying to hide behind one of her pots. “Ah, sorry.”

Her frown deepens. “Don’t tell me, tell Ryuu.”

Obi stares down at the beady-eyed thing. Right. Apologize the to hellbeast. That tracks. “Sorry, Ryuu.”

That pleases her, at least. She sweeps over to them, cradling the strange thing in her hands. It croaks when she brings it up to her shoulder, settling right by her neck.

“Ryuu understands,” she assures him, quite serious. “He surprised you.”

And it’s an unearthly creature that probably drinks blood or eats human flesh, but sure, Obi can go with that.

“He’s still very shy.” The young miss fixes him with a stern look, fists on her hips. “I don’t think he’ll be comfortable with you for a while.”

“That’s...” Fine by him. “...too bad.”

“Don’t take it personally.” She reaches at a finger, rubbing at the ridge between its bulbous eyes. “It took him forever to venture out of the plants and say hello! I’m sure he’ll like you once he gets to know you.”

That is generally not how the trajectory of his acquaintance goes, but thankfully he won’t be around long enough for her to know that. “Are you ready to go?”

She blinks, peering down at her bag as if she forgot she even held it. “Oh! Yes! Are you?”

He grins, enjoying the way her lips curve in reply. “Born ready. Now we just need some rope.”

Her brow furrows. “Rope? Can’t we do what you did on the way up?”

Obi shakes his head. “I can do that by myself, but with you...” He stares pointedly at the braid wrapped around both her feet and half the room. “You’re a bit of a heavy load for free climbing.”

Her mouth rumples thoughtfully. “I don’t have any rope.”

Right. That would go hand-in-hand with the whole no shoes thing. No point in locking a girl in a tower if she can just leave any time she wants. “How’d His Highness even--?”

His teeth snap shut over that question. He already knows the answer; he’s been trying his damnedest not to step on it since he got up here.

“Hm.” A light sparks in those eyes of hers, lips curling into a smile that fills him with an immediate, visceral bad feeling. “I have an idea.”

“Miss--”

“Can I borrow your knife?”

There are a host of appropriate answers to that question: no, hell no, absolutely not, are you crazy?

Too bad he picks none of them.

Her laugh is sweet when the blade pops from it’s handle, pleasantly surprised. That’s what paralyzes him; this small girl and her bubbling laugh, holding a knife that left red on the rag the last time he cleaned it. There’s no other reason for him stay still, not when she lifts it so close to her neck and slices.

Red pours over the blade now, slipping like silk down its sharp edge but--

“Oh,” she hums, displeased. “I thought this would be much easier.”

He blinks, staring at the severed braid. Or rather, a quarter of it; even with such a sharp edge, nothing could cut all the way through that in one go.

“You’ve got a lot of it,” he remarks helpfully. “Only makes sense you’d need a couple whacks.”

Miss’s mouth bows into a frown. “It sounds so much easier in stories.”

She raises the knife again, and this time her hair parts easily beneath the blade, sliding from her like a snake’s skin, making her a new creature entirely.

An even cuter one, unfortunately.

“Wow,” she murmurs, staring at the endless coil of plait at her feet. “My head...doesn’t hurt anymore.”

His jaw snaps shut, and he swallows, trying to bring back some wetness in his mouth. “I don’t see how that’s helping us get out.”

“Hm? Oh.” Her smile parts, rucking into a mischievous grin. “That.”

She heaves the braid into her arms and marches to the window, dropping in unceremoniously onto the sill.

“There,” she says, and with no fanfare at all, drives his knife through it.

Obi has lived an exciting life. He’s done several very intriguing things with some very improper ladies in his time, sometimes in some very dangerous places, and yet--

It all pales to the smack of desire that hits as he watches her arm arc down, catching the braid square in the middle of the plait. Not a single woman on her knees can satisfy him the way her eyes do in that moment; not a single pair of pouty lips have ever enticed him as much as her smile.

A terrible thing to realize, when her princely suitor is keeping her throne warm for her.

The young miss straightens, proudly surveying her work. “That’s as good as any rope.”

Obi saunters over, giving it a good tug. “Nice and sturdy. Well done.”

She beams at him, so bright it puts the sun to shame, and--

And he needs to get going. Now. With or without her. Before any of this gets worse.

“All right then, Miss.” He hops onto the sill, back toward her, wrapping the plait tight around his palm. It’s silky, softer than rope, pleasant against his skin.

She hesitates. “Erm?”

“I’ll see you down safe.” He tosses her a grin over his shoulder. “Just grab on.”

“This really isn’t what I meant,” Obi grunts, adjusting a pale arm so it’s less against his throat. “You don’t need to hold so tight, Miss.”

“It’s a long way down,” she mentions conversationally, gasping as his grip slips along the rope, dropping them down another few inches. “I think I need to hold on as tight as I can.”

“Yes, but if you choke me, then I’ll pass out, and we all fall to our deaths.” He grits his teeth as a tiny hellbeast tongue darts out against his cheek. “You said these things don’t drink blood, right?”

“Ryuu would never!” That’s not the question he asked, but she plows on, “He wouldn’t hurt a fly if he didn’t have to eat them!”

“Great,” he mutters. “Just what I wanted to hear.”

It’s a relief when he finally stretches out a toe and feel sweet, sweet solid ground beneath it.

“Here we are,” he huffs, dropping down to the flat of his feet. The young miss tightens her grip, arms nearly choking him as her thighs hug his hips and-- well, his head is getting all sorts of mixed reactions from that combination. “The great wide world.”

Her hand eases from his shoulders, dangling over his chest, and she hesitates, pressing her weight into his back.

“Didn’t you hear me?” He turns his head, brushing cheeks. “You’re free.”

He doesn’t expect the fear he sees there, the reluctance. She stares at the ground, the white nearly all around her eyes, her fingers trembling where they grip his shoulder.

“Oh,” she breathes, gathering herself. “Just-- just give me a moment.”

“Take your time, Miss.” The words come out too soft, too-- too much. He lets a grin slant his lips, and he ventures, “I’m getting real used to having your legs wrapped around--”

“Oh!” She drops off him with a gasp, cheeks pink, taking a few flailing steps away from him. “I didn’t mean-- ohhh.”

Her toes curl experimentally in the grass, and she looks up at him, smile too wide, too bright. “It tickles!”

He need to-- to be doing anything else right now, anything at all that isn’t staring dumbly at her, risking more-- more tender feelings. His Highness might be paying him a mint for this job, but things like that are still a luxury a man like him can’t afford.

“Hey.” He jerks a thumb back toward the tower. “You want the hair?”

Her gaze sweeps back at it, and her face sets, hard, determined. “No. If Raj likes it so much, he’s welcome to it.”

Another donkey kick of heat flashes through him, and oh, this job can not end fast enough.

“Shirayuki!” Tall, dark, and dutiful bursts from the brush, stampeding over to sweep the girl into a hug tight enough to kill an elephant.

“Mitsuhide,” she gasps, patting him hard on the back. “It’s so good to see you.”

Mister sets her down, hands eclipsing her small shoulders. “Are you all right? Did you get hurt? Shall I offer you assist--”

“I’m fine!” she assures him with a laugh. “Obi took good care of me.”

The knight straightens, mouth thinning as he remembers that Obi exists, that he’s standing right there probably thinking unlawful thoughts, or whatever paragons of virtue worry about. “Ah. Right. Obi. Of course.”

Begrudgingly, as if every word was a thorn dug into his side, he adds, “Thank you.”

It’s a sentiment immediately belied by the way he draws the shackles from his pouch, holding them out with an air of impatience that rankles.

“Aw, come on, Mister,” he wheedles, shuffling a step back, “haven’t I earned my freedom?”

The man stares, as imposing as a cliff face. “How.”

Obi bats his eyelashes, attempting his most winsome expression. “Good behavior?”

He hesitates. “Shirayuki, did he say anything untoward to you while you were alone in the tower?”

Wuh-oh.

“No!” The young miss draws herself up to her full height, a good foot shorter than her knightly companion. “Obi was a perfect gentleman.”

He nods, reluctantly removing the shackles from the conversation, stuffing them in--

“Well.” The girl taps a finger to her chin. “I don’t think so.”

To his everlasting horror, she adds, “What does--” she repeats some choice four-letter words-- “mean?”

Sir stares. The shackles jingle.

Obi holds out his hands with a sigh. “Yeah, all right. I deserve this.”

The knight sighs, iron closing with a clank around his wrists. “Let’s go, reprobate.”

[anexplanationofunfortunateevents]

supreme dysfunction

A lot of the politics around the Supreme Court has a kind of soft-focus, sepia-toned Before Times deceptiveness about it. The obfuscation is as thick and persistent as it is because the situation is extremely simple. Several decades ago, Republicans realized they could not win fair and square, so they put a lot of institutional focus and an obscene amount of money into rigging the courts. Cheating is the secret sauce. I realize that’s not a satisfying explanation for years of political dysfunction, but it is what it is.

And yet here we are, six weeks from Election Day, facing the prospect of a Trump-brand replacement for the irreplaceable Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

What you need to do is keep your head for the next few weeks. If that means putting this out of your mind as soon as possible, fine. All you need to know is that anyone this criminal would nominate to the court will be a disaster and anyone who would accept a nomination under these circumstances is wildly unfit to judge a dog and pony show. Republicans really did tell loud and insulting lies all throughout 2016 about why they wouldn’t confirm the replacement for a Supreme Court justice who passed away nearly a year before an election, and they really are out here now mocking the idea that anyone might have had to pretend to believe them then. They will probably succeed in pushing through a sentient garbage fire before the election, but we have to try to make it hurt. All you need to do is call your senators and tell them to honor Justice Ginsburg’s wish by refusing to confirm anyone Trump nominates. Either you’ll hear that they’re trying to do the right thing, which might make you feel better, or you’ll get an opportunity to call a Republican a fascist pig, which always makes me feel better.

If you are going to be following this farce, out of interest or because you can’t block it out, let me help you prepare for some of the bullshit that’s coming at you.

One of the foundational assumptions commentators make is that Democrats don’t “care” about the courts in the way Republicans do. Whenever you hit that assumption, think of this article:

Hillary Clinton Just Delivered the Strongest Speech of Her Campaign—and the Media Barely Noticed

Madison, Wisconsin—Hillary Clinton delivered the strongest speech of her 2016 campaign in Wisconsin this week, and the media barely noticed.

At the time (March 31, 2016) this article was just one of the many passive-aggressive subtweets from responsible commentators that their colleagues were ignoring policy for spectacle. After 2016, when Clinton’s supposed failure to go to Wisconsin has been waved like a talisman against any retrospective concern about whether the presidential election was even free (questionable) and fair (definitely not), it’s the fact that the press ignored a campaign event in Wisconsin which gives it that twist of dramatic irony. But it is also relevant because Clinton’s speech was about why anyone who truly cares about a progressive agenda must prioritize the federal courts as an issue. Since then, the press – who were called out AT THE TIME for ignoring substance generally and this speech specifically – have settled on “Republicans have seized the federal courts because Democrats don’t talk about the courts” as their new just-so rationalization for Moscow Mitch’s latest crime against democracy.

It’s bad enough that influential commentators ignore the substance of Democratic campaigns in favor of airing Trump’s empty podium and then use their own failures as an excuse to lie about whether or not Democratic politicians talk about the courts or any other issue. But the reality is even worse: in 2016 the Democratic candidate gave a brutally prescient speech about the courts, and our blue-check betters collectively decided to lie about WHETHER SHE WAS EVEN PRESENT AT HER OWN SPEECH. Then they used that lie to derail any chance of accountability for the MULTIPLE CRIMINAL CONSPIRACIES her opponent’s campaign committed, or even the slightest hint that they probably shouldn’t have allowed an autocratic regime that regularly murders actual journalists to be their assignment editor at the most important moment of their careers. “I wouldn’t have spent four months helping Russian intelligence dox Clinton campaign employees if only they’d gone to Wisconsin!” is a thing you can say without losing an ounce of standing in the pundit-industrial complex; of course lying about Democratic campaign messaging on the justice system carries even less of a penalty.

I’m ranting a little because RBG deserved to live three hundred years and these gaslighting bootlickers deserved to be flayed alive, boiled in oil, and fed to rabid vampire squirrels. But I also think people should absorb my point about just how rotten the information environment is. There is every political incentive for Democrats not to bother talking about they courts. They do it anyway because they know it’s important.

That terrible information environment has the predictable consequence of misinforming people. Even if you are trying to encourage people to act on this issue because you sincerely care about it, you end up saying ridiculous things sometimes.

Senate Democrats could have stopped Brett Kavanaugh’s confirmation by sacrificing a virgin basilisk under a harvest moon to summon the wrath of the Old Ones, but they didn’t even try!

This is, to put it kindly, rewriting history. Senate Democrats made a herculean effort against Kavanaugh. Even before Christine Blasey Ford’s and Deborah Ramirez’s stories came out, Democrats on the Senate Judiciary Committee made the best case possible for the Senate to reject his confirmation.* After Dr. Ford was outed against her wishes, Democrats used every tool they had to force as much of an investigation as they could get, which drew maximum blood from Republicans, who were always going to do the wrong thing no matter what. Because Democrats did the work, voters got the point in the 2018 midterms. The Kavanaugh spectacle kept Republicans from gaining too much ground in the Senate in a year they should have cleaned up, and it radicalized the educated suburban voters who gave Democrats an unprecedented victory in the House.

None of this worked because Senate Democrats are in the minority, but they did try everything they could possibly have done. It’s true that they did not invent time travel and go back to re-run the 2014 midterms or rewrite the laws of mathematics to make 48 more than 52, because those things are impossible.

When people do the thing you supposedly want them to do, and you respond by stubbornly insisting they never did it, you’re not motivating them to do a better job. You’re telling them they should ignore you because you don’t actually care what they do.

I’m using this tweet as an example of a problem I see a lot, but my point isn’t to dunk too hard on this rando. We’re all a little emotional right now and who amongst us has never responded to stress by being Wrong Online; more importantly, it’s not entirely this person’s fault that they’re misinformed. You’re not supposed to have to be a huge nerd that actually watches Senate committee hearings! You’re supposed to be able to rely on the news to give you a reliable idea of what’s happening!! That’s literally their job!!!

AAAArgh. Okay. I’m back.

So. Okay. There are pervasive failings in news coverage of the politics around the federal courts, which leads to a lot of silly misunderstandings in the public more generally. Even if you work your way through all that nonsense and get to a reasonable understanding, you will find a fairly persistent asymmetry. The Republican establishment really does put a wildly disproportionate amount of effort into building conservative movement infrastructure for right wing lawyers and judges, and until recently, Republican voters really were much more likely than Democratic voters to tell pollsters that they were highly motivated by judicial nominations. Taking these things on face value and saying “oh, well, Republicans care more about the courts” obscures some really important, though disturbing, underlying dynamics.

The professional and intellectual ecosystem behind the conservative legal establishment is one of those situations where you really have to apply the Trunchbull principle. There really are millions and millions of dollars pumped into think tanks which invent bizarre excuses for radical right-wing subversion of the public interest by judicial fiat, extravagant “retreats” where sitting judges are alternatively pampered and bombarded with the resulting propaganda, and clubs which indoctrinate young conservative law students and vet them for career advancement based on their fealty to right-wing dogma. Describing what the Republican establishment is doing sounds fevered, conspiratorial hyperbole. I wish it were! If you don’t want to take my word for it – and I really wouldn’t blame you – you can get a lot of gory details from Vox.com’s courts and justice editor Ian Millhiser and Senator Sheldon Whitehouse (D-RI).

Senator Whitehouse’s main thesis is that these radical right-wing interests understand that a hostile takeover of the federal judiciary is in their financial interests, and that’s definitely sufficient to explain it. My personal sense is that there’s a second, even more unsettling, dimension to this. Article III of the Constitution deliberately insulates the federal judiciary from political pressure as much as possible. Another way of saying that, of course, is that the federal judiciary is removed from democratic accountability. I don’t think it’s just that the economic policies they want are unpopular. I think the investment in this judicial takeover project is motivated in part by the American right wing’s dark authoritarian streak. They value the judiciary because it’s the most leverage they can get against the electorate. “Judges!” is anti-democratic and that’s why they like it. It’s not just that they want things the voters don’t want so they have to get creative; it’s that they resent the voters for even having the ability to get in their way.

It’s not just the dedication to getting judges they agree with on the courts. It’s also the degree to which they expect those judges to humiliate themselves. They’ve had ten years and roughly the GDP of a small country at their disposal to come up with a challenge to the Affordable Care Act which did not sound like unhinged gibberish. Instead, they came up with the legal equivalent of a drunk guy trying to write a sonnet in Dothraki with a yellow crayon. (Actually that might be an improvement, so NOBODY TELL THEM ABOUT DRUNK DOTHRAKI CRAYON SONNET GUY.) It’s such a stinker that you hav to wonder if it isn’t the same phenomenon as what drives Trump and other autocrats to tell such blatant and ridiculous lies: it’s a power trip that shows off how they don’t even have to care about what “is true” or “makes sense,” because fuck you, that’s why. So what if an overwhelming majority of the American people have successfully convinced their elected representatives that health care costs were too much of a driver of economic inequality and limits on that are a good thing? We can still wreck it, because [*long fart noise*].

And if you listen to what Republicans say about the Supreme Court with that in mind, it starts to make a lot more sense. Under cover of mainstream apathy or even approval, the court gives conservatives unearned victory after unearned victory. If you’re a conservative, you’ll want to avoid killing that golden goose by making the court’s bias toward you completely undeniable. But if you’re a fascist, your priority is getting the court to commit. Any concession to truth or democracy, even if it’s just lip service, seems like a crack in the wall that your enemies can exploit, because it is.** As funny as it is to watch their little Pravda knockoff cry about John Roberts, Leftist Judas, this is what they mean: sometimes he tries to preserve the fiction that he hasn’t turned the Supreme Court into an arm of the radical right, which means they don’t win 100% of what they want immediately. Even Neil Gorsuch – hack, sadist, full-time Mayor Wilkins impersonator – can actually be cajoled into doing the right thing occasionally by lawyers who can craft an argument that fits into his crimped, cherry-picked definition of logic.

Like I said. Dark. I don’t want to overwhelm and discourage you. I think their absolutism and desperation is because even they know the victories they’ve won can slip away fast. But deluding ourselves hasn’t been constructive.

For their part, rank-and-file Republicans say they care about the courts. Fine. Republicans say a lot of things. They don’t think saying true things is important; if they did, they wouldn’t be Trump voters. Years before Trump, Republican voters learned how to give reporters and pollsters certain buzzwords to make their worst views sound more palatable. People are starting to grasp this with the “pro-life” white evangelicals who say they care about abortion on religious grounds. They support Trump as strongly as ever, despite the babies in cages, forced hysterectomies, and hundreds of thousands of COVID-19 deaths proving that neither he nor his party are in any way “pro-life.” It’s because “abortion” is the way they can get away with saying they support white patriarchy. Trump isn’t their guy despite his sleaziness, it’s because “grab ‘em by the pussy” has always been their actual preferred policy. “Law and order” is their dogwhistle for anti-Black racism. “Immigration” is the world they use when they mean they want more racism generally; pre-Obama, the preferred code phrase was “national security” but we’ve all seen how much of a shit they give about that.

As code words go, “judges” is less direct. Some commentators who try to parse it say it’s really about Roe v. Wade, but as we just went over, they don’t actually give a shit about that either. For some of them, “judges” is a sufficiently abstract rationalization for supporting Republicans when they know it is morally indefensible. This was probably a more pronounced issue than usual in 2016, both because it was so much harder to defend a vote for Trump and because of his inconvenient habit of giving the game away on the usual shibboleths. For others, “judges” represents the same thing it does for Republican elites.

I don’t know how conscious any of this is. I’m sure plenty of them have convinced themselves of whatever rationalization they give. Because we’re pretty good at fooling ourselves, what people say in opinion polls doesn’t necessarily tell us more than what they do when they’re not being prompted by pollsters. When Justice Scalia died four years ago, you didn’t thousands of people coming out to grieve for days on end. Little kids don’t dress up on Halloween as Chief Justice Roberts. RBG didn’t inspire that devotion by being a warm and gracious soul, although by all accounts she was. Liberals and progressives developed our sincere admiration of her because of her work on the bench. That is to say, Democratic voters care a great deal about the court. We just have to get our act together and do something about it.

The bad news is that winning in November is going to be the easy part. The good news is, we are getting organized behind some reforms that have been needed for many years. It’s not just Extremely Online progressives who are pushing for this. Even cool-headed institutionalist Democrats are openly advocating radical action. Democratic leadership are unlikely to get too specific right now – and they probably shouldn’t – but if voters do our job in November, some big and important changes are on the table.

*Footnoted because it isn’t really relevant, but Senate Democrats flawlessly executed a precise and coordinated strategy against Kavanaugh. The first few members to question Kavanaugh each focused on a specific issue tailor-made to give one or two of their Republican colleagues a reason to do the right thing. Then, boom, sucker-punch, Cory Booker started releasing the embarrassing emails Republicans were abusing committee rules to hide. Then, bam, left hook, Kamala Harris tripped him up by making him try to deny having been asked for assurances on the Mueller investigation. They did a great job, which everyone forgot about when someone threw Dr. Ford to the wolves.

**This is also a big part of why conservatives feel so instinctively victimized by the existence of a “liberal media” no matter how hard the political press bends over backwards to pound both thumbs on the scale for them. A free press actually is necessary for the functioning of the whole post-Enlightenment idea that people should have some say in how they are governed. If you’re an authoritarian who genuinely does feel that might makes right, then a somewhat functioning news media does at least pose a hypothetical threat to your power and even your worldview.

[spiritofthetiger]

GW2 Community Retrospective

Another year has passed, full of new in game content, new fanfics, new characters, new drawings and edits... let’s celebrate our own adventures and those of others!

Tagged by @the-mystic-dragon!

1. Give yourself five compliments: I’m glad I got the bravery to do meta- events more often and interact with other players, which is a thing I usually avoid like the plague (seriously tho, my friend list have like 00 friends in it lol). I don’t think I’ll get into a guild or more group stuff before a long time but I suppose I’ll get to it eventually. I’m also glad all my stupid drawings helped me improve and give my ocs a head of their own. Rn it’s only headshot but I’lll get to a full body eventually lol.

2. Give your friends four compliments: I’m so sorry but I don’t think I’ll have much  to say since I play mainly alone

3. Say three things you’re proud of from this year: I’m pretty proud that I crafted Pharus, which was a bigger challenge than Kudzu, and a full ascended set for my main, and also getting to level 500 some other professions, which allowed me to starting Exordium (I can touch it now but I need the wvw things, and I don’t have the bravery for wvw right now). I also did a lot of meta events and doing stuff with other players was pretty cool! I’m also approaching 12k ap, which was a goal I set to myself a while ago, and seeing it almost “fullfilled” is nice!

4. Say two things you tried this year and never before: Crafting was a huge new step for me because I never really bothered looking into it, like I just had a level 500 in leatherworker and hunter but never bothered doing anything aside of legendary purpose. Participating in a gift exchange was also very new to me, and I’m very anxious over it because I don’t know if they’ll like it.

5. Say one thing to your future self: Hope you got past your massive anxiety and made a step toward meeting new people, I’m sure it isn’t bad but I just can’t lol I’m still pretty anxious at tagging someone, so if anyone come across this feel free to copy and paste with your own thing!

[mamthew]

Been playing the Final Fantasy: Crystal Chronicles remaster some since it dropped, and I have some thoughts on it. It’s been a…really long time since I last played the original, and I never was able to get too far in, since I was so new to video games that I was unable to intuit most of its mechanics. Despite this, I fell in love with the game. For quite some time, it was the only game with “Final Fantasy” in the title that I had played. I played, enjoyed, and beat its three sequels: Echoes of Time, Ring of Fates, and The Crystal Bearers (neither of the My Life As spinoffs, but eh).

This remaster is not a good remaster, but mostly not for the reasons I’ve seen put forth online. The developers didn’t do much to improve the visuals, sure, but honestly the art direction of the game was pretty enough anyway that it skates by on that alone. The load screens are not nearly as long as I’d been led to believe. The gameplay is unchanged from the original, and like…I like the gameplay of the original? That’s why I played the remaster? I want to play the game?

My biggest issue with the remaster is how the online is handled, but reviewers have straight up lied about problems with the online? Like…you have a permanent friend code you can give people. The temporary online codes you can generate are different from the permanent one. Why are reviewers saying your online code changes every 30 minutes and you can’t save permanent friends when that’s demonstrably false? Seems like a thing you maybe shouldn’t be writing in your official review.

I’m going to put my own issues with the online aside for a moment, though. I promise we’ll come back to it, but my issues with the remaster are only understood in the larger context of what the game did as a piece of art and what it no longer does now as a result of the changes. First, then, we’ve got to lay down what Crystal Chronicles did as a piece of art. Crystal Chronicles, I’ve come to realize during this playthrough, is a game about storytelling as collective memory, and much of the game’s mechanics work in service to this theme.

In the world of the game, something happened long ago that released poisonous miasma into the air and made much of the world uninhabitable to the four major races. The game follows the players’ customized characters as they take annual pilgrimages to collect enough “myrrh” from magical trees, which is used to maintain the barrier that keeps their town safe from the miasma. The game is broken up into years; it takes four drops of myrrh to maintain the barrier for a year, each dungeon’s tree only provides one drop of myrrh, and it takes several years for a tree to replenish that drop, pushing the characters’ caravan further and further out each year in search of trees that are not yet spent.

I’ve compared this setting to Death Stranding a few times in the past, and I think the comparison holds up. The game’s story has only gained something from the current moment, too. I go out and risk myself to get groceries, which I then bring back home so I can continue to hole up safe in quarantine until I run low again, and I think the game fairly accurately simulates the rise and fall of that pattern, the balance of risk and safety, and the way the dangerous unknown eventually becomes the mundane with time. Most of the locations in the game are old products of civilization that have been lost to nature, and walking through former farmland, abandoned roads, and empty towns in the game do remind me of walking down empty city streets back when coronavirus was still keeping people off city streets.

The game has several stories running in tandem, but the most central one is the ongoing story of the characters’ caravan, chronicled in a journal. After every new encounter, new area, or completed dungeon, a new entry is added to the journal, and at the end of the year, all the entries are incorporated into a cutscene, so the player can read them and relive the year’s events. The entries are very short and written in a simple style, but they still give the player an idea of how their character viewed the events. These end-of-year cutscenes are actually really enjoyable little rituals, and I’ve been avoiding reading the journal entries specifically so I can experience them for the first time in these retrospectives.

As the years progress, the character’s entries show that their memories of earlier years are fading. “Whenever I close my eyes, I vividly remember all my adventures,” says the entry at the end of the first year. By the end of the fourth year, however, “so many memories from my earlier adventures have dimmed, from the joys of chance encounters to the suspense of my first battles.” The entries also show the ways the annual pilgrimages have changed the player character. “It was an easy fight, so I spent a peaceful interlude over a light meal,” says an entry after revisiting an older dungeon. “I was a little surprised. I never considered myself a fighter.”

The written and oral records of the past permeate this game in so many ways. Before each dungeon, a narrator who is presumably another caravanner who went to the same places in the past introduces the location with either a history of the place or an anecdote about the place. The Mushroom Forest, to her, evokes a childhood memory of her mother. She introduces the Veo Lu Sluice by explaining the history of who built the sluice, what conditions allowed for its construction, and what its irrigation has done for the people since. After each dungeon, the player character receives a letter from a family member, telling them what has been happening in the town while they were away. At the beginning of each new year, the town’s patriarch tells your character a story about the previous caravanner, who mysteriously disappeared after announcing he had found a way to remove the miasma entirely.

It feels like history, generally, has been put on hold. The Lilty military once dominated most of the world, but had to shrink back into their capital city due to the miasma, and the city eventually diminished to a small trading post. The Yukes once were at war with the Lilties, but they’ve allowed trade between their towns again, so caravans can have safe havens to stay in while collecting the precious myrrh. The once-nomadic Selkies were unable to find a new homeland before the miasma spread, and now most are stuck on an island that was supposed to be a temporary stop. We hear much of this history throughout the game, but we don’t see any of it. It’s recorded and known but has little bearing on the culture or lived experiences of the inhabitants of a world where no one can leave their homes.

The moogle adventurer Stiltzkin asks the player character where memories go once they’ve been forgotten, and it’s a fair question in a world where everyone is as alienated from the past as they are from each other 

The problem is, this isn’t supposed to be a game about alienation, exactly. It’s supposed to be a game about shared experiences and the ways we experience and remember the same events differently, as different individuals. It’s supposed to be a game about combatting alienation through shared experience. This is supposed to be a game in which I share a screen with three other players even as we each also have our own personal screens providing us with different objectives and showing us different letters from our different families. In the original game, the multiplayer was devilishly difficult to actually set up, as each player had to have their own Gameboy Advance, attached to the Gamecube and used as a controller, to control their own character. The players’ characters lived in the same town and were on the same caravan together but competed over who unlocked which powerups and picked up which recipes, meaning everyone’s stat spread and armor was different. Players had slightly different experiences within the larger shared story, and the use of the Gameboy Advances were meant to highlight those differences.

Which leads to my issue with this remaster. In the original, characters were saved to the same file, and every player’s character lived together in the same town. Their families each had different houses in the towns and would eventually provide the party with different supplies, depending on their jobs and the responses they received to their letters. At the end of each dungeon, the player characters would sit together in a circle and each receive a letter from their families. At the end of each year, the retrospective cutscene showed the characters and their families celebrating their return together. Your characters explored towns together, and your fellow players watched the random encounter cutscenes with you.

In this game, you can’t play local multiplayer at all. You can only play online multiplayer in dungeons, and clearing a dungeon with other players only counts towards the host’s file. At the end of each dungeon, the characters sit in a circle as the mail moogle tells all but the host that there is no mail for them. At the end of each year, the retrospective cutscene shows an almost entirely empty town; the character and his immediate family dance alone. Certain secrets have now been relegated to the single-player experience only, and the minigames you could unlock and play with friends were removed entirely. Towns are also exclusively single-player. The game is no longer a shared multiplayer experience so much as a dungeon-crawler where friends and strangers can jump into dungeons to offer brief help.

This creates a strange two-minded state of play, where I see and remember the vestiges of the game that once was while playing a game that’s in thematic opposition to it. As my character explores Tida Village and sees signs of the population that once lived there, I play this remaster and see leftovers from now-removed game mechanics. It’s a deeply unsettling and alienating experience.

The online isn’t inherently bad, then. It reminds me of FFXIV, where dungeons and bosses are their own separate experiences, removed from the rest of the game. But this online is inherently unsuited to the game it is in. Crystal Chronicles is not FFXIV; the developers put together a system of online play for a different game than the one they were remastering.

It would have been possible to change the game to suit this online system, too! The journal entries for dungeons could have also included the names of players who joined them for those dungeons. The online players could have still received letters, but from the host character’s family, thanking them for keeping their loved one safe. New random encounters could have been added between different online caravans, allowing them to trade items or play minigames with one another. The party at the end of the year could have included the families of randomly selected online companions These changes could have could have given us a synthesis of the old and new, and helped to center the chronicles over the crystals.

Instead, though, we have this incredibly flawed remaster, after almost a year of delays, that serves more as an empty reminder of what the game once was instead of actually allowing us to experience that game, or instead of, god forbid, actually building on that game’s premises and promises. I’m still enjoying the game a lot, but the experience is hella soured by my knowledge of how the game used to play. I’m not sure how enjoyable this remaster would even be to someone unfamiliar with the original.

This remaster feels like a purposeful nail in the coffin of Crystal Chronicles; an excuse to show that the franchise is no longer a potential seller. Whether that’s its actual intent doesn’t really matter, though, since I fear that will be its ultimate effect either way.

[the-overgrowth]

Retrospective: “Faybane” #1

This is where it all started, on July 8th, 2016. Although probably a bit earlier than that, but this is the earliest thing I can find that’s actually written down, so that’s what counts. And back in the day I didn’t let ideas marinate the way I do now, I just started writing pretty much as soon as I got the idea.

Anyway, the document was created at this point in time according to Google Docs, and was last modified in October 3rd, 2016. It’s only 3 chapters long, plus one incomplete fourth chapter, and the whole thing is about 17k words.

Which is a lot for 3 chapters. I would say something about how I’m less wordy now, but the latest draft is like 107k words long, so, like, I will always struggle with shutting the fuck up, methinks.

Also, the reason this is called “Faybane” is because that was the working title I used, and the name of this document. I thought it’d be the proper title but like. It’s bad lmao.

Anywhomst, let’s get into it!

Some background info for those who are new or need a refresher: this WIP became a thing after I read and was disappointed by A Court of Thorns and Roses by SJM, as well as The Iron King by Julie Kagawa and some book by Holly Black, was it Tithe?

ACOTAR was the biggest culprit. I feel that this is important to keep in mind as we go through this mess.

We open on Sidra in the forest with a bunch of men she calls a hunting party. It’s clear she doesn’t want to be there, but since she’s the only decent hunter among them and it’s her sister’s wedding today, she has to make the kill to feed the people attending said wedding.

This is, as the kids say, big stupid, and seems like a very ill-prepared celebration? I guess it makes some sense for them to want fresh meat, but this fresh? What if they didn’t find anything? What if they didn’t manage to kill anything? Is the whole thing cancelled? Stupid.

We find out they’ve been hunting a boar and that this dude named Liam, our Gaston replacement, previously wounded the animal but didn’t kill it, causing it to flee and force the hunting party to follow. It’s up to Sidra to make the killing blow, which she does with an arrow straight into its head. This was back when Sidra was still YA Heroine Extraordinaire and the time period was Vaguely Medieval, I guess.

They begin taking their quarry back home and Sidra thinks about how she normally doesn’t hunt this close to the “Faewilds” because animals closer to the border are said to be bigger and more violent. There isn’t an actual border, people just had to rely on intuition and not wander too far into the forest.

She also mentions a girl named Wilda, who disappeared fairly recently and everyone suspects it was the fae. This isn’t relevant now, but Wilda will return in later drafts, I think.

Everybody, especially my family, knew that I was one of the best archers in town, whether I used a bow or a crossbow.

Shut up, Not!Feyre. Nobody likes you.

I should mention that at this point I didn’t bother googling how big wild boars get and just assumed they were the size of like, a thick medium dog. Which is, if you know how big boars are, very incorrect. Four men pulling the animal seems realistic enough, but then Liam just lifts it up on his own? Not buying it.

Sidra laments how much she hates Liam and we find out that he apparently tried to assault her and she stabbed him? And apparently she’s not happy about his marriage to Sinéad but can’t do anything about it because “Father’s word is law” and Sinéad herself laughed it off when Sidra tried to warn her?

Yeah, gonna call bullshit on that one. No idea why this was here or what purpose it serves, the reason Liam doesn’t exist in the latest draft is because I never figured out what his purpose was so I axed him entirely. 

Current!Sidra would just kill him the moment he showed an interest in Sinéad, and Current!Sinéad would 100% believe her sister about something like that.

Some bloke named Connor strikes up a conversation with Sidra, seemingly worried about being this far away from human civilization. Liam teases him about it and calls the fae “knife-ears”, because I still had brainrot back then and liked Dragon Age and had zero original ideas in my head.

The men make jokes about having sex with fae women and Sidra seems so disturbed by this that she nocks an arrow. This isn’t the first time she makes references to feeling unsafe around these men, I have no idea why I wrote it this way aside from being edgy, I guess.

My village was mostly populated by men, and even though I wasn’t one of the pretty girls there, I knew these men weren’t picky, even with all their talk about beautiful fae women. I’d heard that fae women would kill their men after sleeping with them. I had no way of know it was true, but a part of me hoped it was and that Liam would some day soon get “lucky” and encounter a female fae, so she could end his misery.

Edgy, dude.

They eventually arrive and Sidra goes inside her house, which is a simple cottage with three rooms. I think her family are all farmers? It’s kind of confusing. She goes into her and Sinéad’s bedroom, where Sinéad is preparing for her wedding. Also, she’s blonde.

“Sid! There you are!” she said cheerily. “Killed a boar, huh? Good on Liam for taking all the credit.”

If you know your man is trash, why are you marrying him?

Apparently Liam seduced Sinéad with sweets and baked goods. I mean ... fair enough. Considering how Sidra complains about being hungry and skinny and going without food if she doesn’t kill the boar because this year’s harvest was minimal, I’m assuming y’all are starving.

We find out Sinéad’s mother doesn���t let her do anything around the house or farm, to preserve her “soft and white” hands and pale complexion so she could be married off easily. This makes zero sense, you’d think these medieval men wouldn’t have the same beauty standards as Victorian England, plus having a mouth to feed that doesn’t even help feeding itself is just nuts. 

But remember, this isn’t Sidra, this is Not!Feyre. She needs to be sad and put-upon and a victim. She explains how she was never pretty to begin with and thus nobody considered her to be worthy of marrying off, which then meant she was put to work and became even less attractive because now she was so cool and badass that all the men were intimidated by her.

Yeah, in a village that already doesn’t have a lot of young women? I’m not buying this, lmao. But go off, Not!Feyre.

I’d been the one helping around, instead. Hunting, mostly. Sometimes I’d chop wood or work the farm. Marrying out of the house seemed impossible. Marrying up was practically a dream you forgot upon waking. Had I been pretty from the start there would’ve been a foundation to work from, but I was a lost cause even before my skin became tan and my hands grew veined and calloused. I had freckles which people mistook for mud and dull brown eyes, a long nose that had been broken one time too many and a mouth that made it look like I constantly felt a bad smell no matter what facial expression I made. I’d always been of rather short stature and had brown hair and thick eyebrows, which in combination with everything else made my parents call me their “little goblin”. The scar on my face didn’t help me either: men didn’t like it when their women were more battle-hardened than they were.

Oh god please, don’t go off! We don’t care! Stop going off!

Also what fucking parents call their poor kid a goblin? Yikes.

Sinéad convinces Sidra to get prettied up and Sidra is all “oh I bet all the men will just fall over themselves for my favor now huh” which is just the most annoying fucking thing, prompting Sinéad to respond:

“Well, winter is coming and game is scarce. If they want to survive, marrying the best hunter in the village might be a good bet.”

Yeah! This is correct! I refuse to believe people wouldn’t be into Sidra! Not only does everyone apparently know she’s the best hunter in town, but Sidra herself confirmed the men here outnumber the women and aren’t very picky.

This is fucking stupid. I’m glad I axed it. In my defense, I was very much trying to emulate the YA shit I’d read so far.

Sidra’s grandmother enters the stage. She’s very old in this draft, but otherwise unchanged.

She was a short and wrinkled old lady with extremely bad vision and an even worse grasp on reality. Or maybe an extremely acute grasp on reality, depending on whether you believed her stories or not.

Sidra changes out of the dress again to go out and help her father prepare the boar, all while sulking.

I didn’t envy Sinead, nor any other bride. Despite what most people thought of me, I wasn’t some poor ugly girl longing for the love of a man and the security of marriage. Did I enjoy the idea of having somebody care for me? Sure. But it wasn’t on my list of priorities. I was still trying to figure out what actually was on that list. Not that it mattered. The prospects for a poor village girl were very finite.

Womp womp.

We get some confusing and barely related stuff about Sidra possibly becoming a royal hunter for the king and also about where the village is located in relation to the Faewilds. She speculates that maybe the fae aren’t real, but the way she and everyone else talks about them makes it pretty obvious that they are? This was supposed to build mystery, I guess.

We skip forward to the wedding and Sidra is moping again.

“How are you feeling?” Father asked and squeezed my shoulder. 

I wasn’t sure why he was doing that. I assumed it had something to do with the wedding and the fact that despite there being fewer women than men here, I was still not asked to dance. Though this didn’t really bother me, so I just shrugged.

“It doesn’t bother me. Anyway I will continue to mope and feel bitter about this thing that doesn’t bother me.” Hunny ...

At least Current!Sidra has the self-awareness to admit she’s sad and lonely.

 [Father’s] marriage to Sinead’s mother was never out of love, more out of necessity. It was easier when you had a big family.

Except for when this “big family” is 3 people who work and 2 people who are just being fed, right? See, I knew back then that having a big family helps when you have a farm, but I also needed to make Sidra Special so Sinéad had to sit on her ass to highlight how pretty and feminine she was or whatnot.

Bleh.

They talk a bit about Sidra’s mother, who passed away five years ago, and Sidra reminisces about how she used to tell amazing stories. It’s all very ... whatever, and serves only to make this point for the hundredth time:

I wasn’t like Mother. I wasn’t full of life and spirit like her. I wasn’t loved and respected by the entire village like her. I was just her disappointing child whose existence they’d rather forget except when they wanted something killed.

Right after this there’s a really abrupt scene transition. Nothing about the wedding coming to an end, nothing about her going to bed, it’s just ... some while later?

Sidra’s father comes back home from ??? and tells Sidra he saw a stag somewhere, but it was hours ago so she better get a move on.

I’m not sure what either of them thinks this will accomplish? Like ... what is she gonna do with it when she kills it ... Carry it home? On her little boney ass? Hmm? I guess I didn’t think of that because I had meta knowledge that she wouldn’t get it home either way, so who cares about logic, right?

Sidra kills two rabbits while stalking the deer, and despite telling us earlier that she doesn’t venture far away from human civilization and the boar hunting being the farthest she’d been and that she wouldn’t go this far alone, she has no issue dwelling very deep into the forest this time.

Like. Henlo? Can we have one logic please and thanks you? Granted, she keeps stopping every now and then to Feel Things Out, but this really goes against how careful she was before and at no point do we get an explanation to her sudden boldness. Plot reasons, I guess.

She nearly stumbles into fae territories and finally decides to head back, except when she starts returning, she sees the stag she’s been tracking. It’s abnormally huge and has a “dark brown” coat that she finds odd, but of course she’s too stupid to connect the dots.

She sneaks up on it and honestly? This chapter ending still slaps.

A scream of pain left the creature and I saw it topple. But though my arrow hit a deer, a man fell to the ground.

DUN DUN DUN.

And yeah, the ACOTAR roots rear their ugly heads again. I liked the idea of the protagonist shooting a fae disguised as an animal, but I decided to cut out the middleman and just have her obliterate Val right in chapter one. Don’t worry, he doesn’t die.

[bltngames]

SAGE 2020: Indie Games

SAGE may closed more than a day ago, but thankfully, the website remains up for those who still want to download its games. So even though this article is technically very late, nothing listed here is out of date. The event may be over, but the games live on! Which is honestly a relief, because I think doing ten games per article is taking its toll on me. Normally, when I’d write for TSSZ, I’d do somewhere in the realm of 5-7 games per article, and even that would eventually burn me out. After writing about 20 games this year, I was clearly starting to feel like I was running out of steam. Oh well. We live and learn. Here’s another ten games!

There’s one more article left after this, a sort of “honorable mentions” round-up that will feature much shorter blurbs as I blow through way more games way faster. If I didn’t talk about your game here in these three articles, now’s your chance to let me know so I can say something about it in the final article.

Anyway, onwards to our ten indie games.

Victory Heat Rally

I’m all for any game channeling the spirit of Sega’s old SuperScaler arcade technology, and Victory Heat Rally is all about that. Everything about this game seems so MY AESTHETIC that my only complaint is that I’m hungry for more. A lot more. This demo is a simple time trial on one race track and I’m itching to sink my teeth into literally anything else this game has to offer. There is an older demo from back in April with more content, but it’s running on a different version of the code base -- this newest demo is significantly improved both in terms of visuals and control. I really don’t have anything else to say about it. There’s not much here, but what’s here is charmingly retro in the style of Sega’s Power Drift, but cuter and even more colorful.

  Sondro Gomez: A Sunova Story

I had been interested to revisit Sondro Gomez after playing the first demo last year, but I don’t know if I just wasn’t in the right mood for it this year or what, but I kind of bounced off the game this time. To my memory, Sondro Gomez is a kinda-sorta side game in the Kyle & Lucy universe. You may remember Kyle & Lucy as one of a growing number of games coming out of the Sonic fan gaming community trying to break out as an original title. A while ago, the developers announced a partnership with Stealth to use the Headcannon engine to make the game with, something that extended to Sondro Gomez here. The problem is, it feels kind of weird now, and I can’t quite put my finger on why. I think it’s the little stuff -- you don’t get a lot of positive feedback when attacking using your whip (the sound is a bit quiet), and the difficulty balancing errs on the side of caution. I died a couple times in my time playing this newest demo, but I wouldn’t characterize Sondro Gomez as a game that feels challenging. Some of that probably has to do with the fact this is still just a demo, which means you spend a long time fighting the same four enemy types in every single level. There’s a lot of charm to the story and the characters it involves, but that only takes you so far when it feels like you’re doing the same things over and over in the actual levels, you know? Either way, the touched up visuals and the new boss fights are welcome. Interested in seeing what the full release looks like next year.

  Delta Gal

In retrospect, a Mega Man Legends fan game seems like a no-brainer, doesn’t it? Where Delta Gal has a leg up is in controls. Even considering the era Mega Man Legends was released in, it had very awkward controls. Delta Gal’s response is to embrace standard third person action game controls with a mouse and a keyboard. Now, there is controller support, but even once you get it set up, you have button layout presets like “Bad” and “Almost Good.” Honestly, if you can, just play it with a keyboard and mouse. The demo offers about 30-40 minutes of gameplay, with a bit of the town, a forest section, a cave, and one whole dungeon. Visuals nail the best parts of the Mega Man Legends low-fi aesthetic, colors are vibrant, and the pixel art textures look very good. The town is full of characters with lots of personality, too. A particular favorite being the guy who runs the junkyard who likes to show off by flexing his muscles but then ultimately chickens out when it comes to exploring the cave he discovers. The only downside I’d say is the sound design. The game sounds okay, but some of the music is a little bland, and certain sound effects lack the right kind of punch. Granted, this style of sound design isn’t easy, so I can empathize with the developers in that respect. Honestly, it doesn’t really detract from anything at all, so maybe it’s not even worth bringing up. Either way, good stuff, and I’m looking forward to the full release.

  Bun n’ Gun

Here’s a cute little game about a bunny in the old west. I’m absolutely in love with the visuals and the music here, but the gameplay is… interesting. Bun isn’t a typical shooter or platformer, thanks to the fact that he appears to only have one arm, which is occupied by his gun. Now you wouldn’t think this would matter, as it’s pretty easy to design a game around only having to jump and shoot, and that’s fair enough. But there’s a strange heft to this character. It takes them a little bit to pick up speed, and it takes them a bit to slow down, and there’s an unmistakable, split-second delay between pushing the jump button and actually jumping. I know enough about this kind of game development that a delay between pushing a button and actually jumping has to be a deliberate design decision, and I split on whether or not I like it. I don’t think I hate it, because it’s pretty easy to get used to the way it feels, but it does mean you’re working with a handicap when it comes to split-second movements. Given the bunny seems to only have one arm, though, perhaps that’s the point. Either way, it’s cute. Give it a look.

  Shield Cat

I feel like I’ve been over-using the word “charming” to describe games at SAGE this year, but you know what? Shield Cat is charming as heck. People also tend to think it’s reductive to describe things by comparing them to something that already exists, but I say nuts to that, too. Saying “It’s like…” is an easy shorthand, and besides, if somebody is saying your project is like one of their favorite games, it just means they’re giving you praise and might lack the words to accurately describe that praise. Thing is, that’s actually kind of hard to do with Shield Cat. The nearest relative to this game would be The Legend of Zelda, but Shield Cat honestly plays very little like Zelda, beyond having a top-down perspective. Secret of Mana, maybe, with the stamina meters? I don’t know. Regardless, this is a charming (!!!) top down action game where you roam around exploring an overworld and solve light puzzles. It controls well and the aesthetics are nice. Can’t really get much better than that, though I do have to wonder what it is you’re supposed to be doing in this game. It took me about 30 minutes to see everything available in this demo, but there’s no story setup and only the smallest pieces of what could be considered a dungeon. What’s on offer here is interesting enough that I find myself wanting to know more about this world. For example, it’s called Shield Cat, but clearly you’re some kind of ferret. What’s that about? Guess we’ll have to wait and see.

  Prototype N

I’ve sat here staring into the void wondering what to write about for this game for a long time, because it’s one of those demos that’s just… a solid and fun game that nails exactly what it’s going for. I would say that Prototype N leans a little too far towards the easy side of things, but the third level provided in the demo ramps the challenge up enough to be just about perfect. And, really, that’s it. That’s the game. You get two softer introductory levels to get you acclimated to the controls (which are similar to Mega Man, but different enough not to be a direct clone) and one “real” level to actually give you a bit of a work out. There’s nothing else to really say. This has the vibe of a 1993 or 1994 Capcom game, or maybe something from Data East. Every single part of this game’s presentation is laser-focused on that aesthetic, and it pulls it off flawlessly. Sound design, music, visuals, it’s a bullseye. This game fell out of a time machine in the best way possible. Definitely give it a look.

  Yan’s World

From a game that nails the SNES aesthetic to this, a game which pays tribute to the Virtual Boy… but not really? I actually became aware of Yan’s World many years ago through a mutual Discord, and it always looked interesting, but simultaneously a little confusing, something that still mostly holds true to this day. Per the game’s own Kickstarter sales pitch, Yan’s World is “stylized as a lost title for Nintendo's Virtual Boy.” I can get down with that, but the game almost instantly breaks its own rule because Yan’s primary method of attack is to shoot a missile from his head that can only be aimed using the mouse. As such, Yan’s World doesn’t have controller support, even though one of the stretch goals currently listed on their Kickstarter page is to make a version that can be played on real Virtual Boy hardware. And, honestly, what’s the deal with this game’s whole… everything else? Why is this kid an onion? Why are the platforms made out of clocks? Why does all of Yan’s dialog make him seem like he’s sort of pissed off when he’s got such a big happy smile? There’s a bit of a hand-wave to suggest the entire game takes place inside of a dream, and for once that actually means throwing logic out the window, I guess. Oh, the missile is a pillow? Fine, whatever. Use it to blast this demonic apple, and then threaten to kill an innocent NPC. It’s a dream! Despite how little sense that makes, it… kind of works? The sprites are big and lovely, the game controls well, and the level design is plenty creative. I can’t fault the game for that, it’s just trying to figure out everything wrapped around the game that feels so bizarre.

  Cosmic Boll

I don’t know if I really understand what’s going on in Cosmic Boll, but I love to play it just the same. This plays like if Treasure made Dragon Ball Advance Adventure while strung out on cocaine. The end result is pure hyperactive chaos. There is a whole complicated combat system at play here, and a very lengthy in-depth tutorial when you first start the game, but you can figure out a lot of it by just skipping the tutorial and playing the game for real. You can get by pretty easily by just mashing buttons and seeing what happens, and that’s not a complaint, because a lot happens in this game. Like, constantly. It never stops, it never really slows down. You’re always zipping around, spinning and flipping and punching soldiers, explosions everywhere, collectibles everywhere, just utter madness. It’s Sonic the Hedgehog plus Devil May Cry plus Gunstar Heroes and all of it is mixed up in ways you probably don’t expect. All of this is to say that Cosmic Boll is messy and cool and fun and you should probably play it.

  Brock Crocodile

This is a game I’ve seen a lot of around social media, and it’s nice to finally be able to try it. Weirdly enough, this is the first game all SAGE that has flat out refused to see my controller. For the last few years at SAGE, I’ve been using a Playstation DualShock 4, which typically causes me all kinds of headaches with games expecting an Xbox controller. This year, I’ve been using an 8bitdo SN30+. These things are designed primarily to be used on the Switch, but using a controller macro, you can change it to Xbox or Playstation modes. The “Xbox” mode has served me well so far, but Brock here fails to let me use the controller at all. Fortunately, with only three buttons, Brock manages to be mostly playable on a keyboard. That being said, a lot of this game feels a little bit off. The camera is kind of swimmy, as it's almost constantly in motion trying to get a better angle on what's around you. Brock himself doesn't have a smooth acceleration curve either -- it's more like shifting gears in a car, where you reach one top speed and then click up into the next highest speed. That can work, but Brock changes gears much too quickly and without much feedback, making it look like one jerky acceleration curve instead of two. And then there’s the visuals. Level art looks great, character portraits look great, but I’ve never been the biggest fan of the sprites I’ve seen in this game. Take Brock himself, for example: he’s got insanely thick thighs for some reason but the rest of his body looks thin and wispy, and he stands with kind of weird posture. The good news is, despite these complaints, Brock Crocodile is actually really fun to play. You eventually get used to the game’s control quirks, and the level design and included boss fight are excellent, striking that perfect balance where they aren’t too easy but don’t feel unfairly difficult, either. Plus, even though the cutscenes aren’t skippable (annoying as I was dealing with controller issues), the writing is snappy and the dialog is funny. It may not be perfect, but there’s still a lot to like here.

  Marble Launcher

Here’s one of those games where you can tell the creator is just starting out making games. And that’s great! These sorts of endlessly complex, winding mazes are exactly the kind of levels I started making when I first got into game development when I was 16 or 17 years old. One could spend hours searching every nook and cranny in these levels, which is simultaneously awesome and exhausting. Thankfully, near as I can tell, nothing FORCES you to go exploring, so if you’d rather just finish the game, it’s easy enough to head straight for the goal. Gameplay is extremely simple, otherwise. You’re a marble, you can attack enemies by bouncing off of their heads, and you have a slam move. That’s it. You might think that with this being a marble game, you’d get real rolling ball physics, but all you get is simple platformer controls. They’re good enough, especially considering how esoteric the shape of the levels can get, but it’s hard not to be a little disappointed. Still, it’s not a bad little game for what it is. Controls a bit better than some of my earliest attempts at game development, too.

Thirty games total! That’s a lot of games to talk about. And there’s still more to come, so stay tuned for that.

[rhosyn-du]

Title: A Wonderful Institution Artist: @bidnezz​​ Pairings: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, various background pairings Word Count: ~53k Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, discrimination against Downworlders, reference to rape, Clave-typical homophobia, implied character death, minor character death Summary: Magnus doesn’t have time for this bullshit. Warlocks are disappearing in New York City—five people in less than three months—and Magnus is determined to find them and protect the rest of his people from whatever took them. He doesn’t have time for politics, and he certainly doesn’t have time for whatever nonsense the Clave is proposing about marrying a Shadowhunter to a Downworlder as part of the new Accords. He doesn’t really have time for a pretty Shadowhunter who’s surprisingly kind to warlock children, either, but, well, he’s always been good at multitasking.

Alec always knew he couldn’t have what he wanted, but he’s spent the nearly four years since the newly-appointed Consul recalled his parents to Idris without explanation making the best of what he can have. When life suddenly offers up almost everything Alec actually wants on a silver platter, he can’t quite bring himself to trust it, especially when it comes with a million caveats and a side of impending disaster. But he knows how to handle disasters, even if the return of the Circle on top of Clave secrets that could destroy the Accords is way beyond the disasters he’s used to fielding. Hope, on the other hand? He doesn’t know what to do with that.

This fic was created for the @malecdiscordserver​ Mini Bang 2020.

Chapter Ten

“Tell me everything,” Magnus said, ushering Raphael into the loft. “What happened?” He could feel Alexander hovering behind him, the weight of their unfinished conversation trailing along with him, but he didn’t have time to worry about that right now. 

“We were supposed to meet up by Union Square Park two hours ago,” Raphael told him. “I was going to show Ragnor the Church of St. Francis Xavier. He’s never been, and I know he’d appreciate the stained glass.” 

“Have you tried calling him?” Magnus asked, looking for an explanation that didn’t require utter panic. “You know how he loses track of time.” 

Raphael gave him a look that told him exactly how stupid a question that was. “Of course I did. And before you say it, Ragnor always picks up my calls.” 

“All right,” Magnus said. “He said something about meeting up with Cat earlier for help on that counter-potion, so we’ll start there. If we can figure out where he disappeared from, that will give us a place to start.” 

“And if it’s like the other disappearances?” Raphael asked. “There might not be anything to find.” 

“Then at least we’ll have that,” Magnus said. It wasn’t exactly a comfort, but it was something. 

“I’ll call Jace and Izzy,” Alec offered. “It can’t hurt to have more people looking.” 

According to Catarina, she’d left Ragnor half an hour before he was supposed to meet up with Raphael. They’d figured out what was missing from the counter-potion, and Ragnor had been planning to pick up the final ingredient before meeting Raphael so he could start brewing the potion in the morning. 

“Do you know where he was planning to get the missing ingredient?” Magnus wanted to know. 

Catarina shook her head. “He said he knew a guy. You know how Ragnor is.” 

Magnus did, indeed, know how Ragnor was. 

“Since we don’t know where he was between, we should start our search at his last known location and at the place he was supposed to be,” Alec said. 

“I can take you to where we were working on the potion,” Catarina offered. “Ragnor has multiple lairs, and I think this one is new. I’d never been there before, at least.” 

“And I can help search around Union Square Park,” Raphael said, “since I know the area.” 

They agreed that each search party should have a warlock, for ease of portaling, and after some bickering that mostly amounted to Magnus not feeling comfortable letting anyone he cared about out of his sight just then, Magnus took Raphael and Izzy with him to search the area around Union Square Park, and Alec and Jace went with Catarina to look for clues at Ragnor’s lair. 

As it turned out, having more people did not help, because there were no clues to find. 

“This isn’t your fault, you know,” Raphael said quietly as they searched the east side of the park. 

“I know that,” Magnus lied. “I’m just concerned about what this might mean. Dorothea knew that Jocelyn got the potion from Ragnor, which means that could be why he was taken. And now that Ragnor knows how to brew the counter-potion, it’s only a matter of time before Valentine is able to wake Jocelyn.” 

“Which sucks,” Izzy said, “but she can’t tell him where the Cup is anymore. At least we know that it’s safe.” 

“I wish that gave me as much confidence as it seems to give you,” Magnus told her. 

The fact was, this was his fault. He’d known that Ragnor was at risk, and he hadn’t done enough to convince his friend to protect himself. If Magnus had been a better friend, Ragnor never would have been alone to be kidnapped in the first place. Magnus would have been with him. He should have insisted on Ragnor staying at his loft and working on the potion there, should have insisted that he go with Ragnor to see Cat. Instead, he’d been at home, making out with Alexander while his friend had been taken by the Circle.

They searched for three hours before Magnus finally admitted defeat and returned to the loft. He’d gotten word from Alec over an hour earlier that they’d finished searching Ragnor’s lair but found nothing that gave any clue as to where or how the warlock had been taken. Alec had gone to the Institute to file an official report on the disappearance but promised to return as soon as he was finished. 

It was strange coming home to an empty loft. After only two weeks, Alexander’s presence seemed like such a natural part of the space, of Magnus’s life. He knew they were going to have to finish the conversation Raphael had interrupted, and he was in no way looking forward to it. He’d been dreading it the entire time he’d been keeping the secret, which was why he’d taken so long to come clean. He knew he should have told Alec before the wedding, should have given Alec the opportunity to back out the same way Alec had given him when he divulged the secret about the former Consul’s betrayal. But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to risk what they’d been building together. In retrospect, of course, it was obvious he’d just been putting it at greater risk. 

Magnus contemplated going to bed. He was tired, and it would give him an excuse to put off the conversation with Alec, but even knowing that things could go poorly, he couldn’t stand to be alone right now. And he needed to know, needed to see with his own eyes, that Alec was safe. It was a little ridiculous, he knew. Alexander was more than capable of taking care of himself, and even if he weren’t, they’d spoken on the phone just before Alec returned to the Institute. He knew Alec was fine, and it wasn’t like Valentine or the Circle had any interest in kidnapping Shadowhunters as far as they knew. But after everything, with Ragnor missing and knowing that Valentine had Dot, Magnus couldn’t help but worry. 

By the time Alec returned to the loft, Magnus had changed into his favorite pair of silk pajamas and was curled up on the couch with a fluffy blanket and a mug of hot buttered rum. 

“Hey,” Alec said, joining him on the couch, “I’m sorry I took so long. Things got a little messy back at the Institute.” 

“Clary?” Magnus guessed, forcing himself to uncurl his legs and sit on the couch like a grown adult who wasn’t in the throes of panic. 

“Partially,” Alec said. “And Lydia, and having to justify why I decided to pull two Shadowhunters who were supposed to be on patrol to help look for a missing warlock.” 

“But Ragnor was our best chance for finding Valentine,” Magnus said, frowning. And now that was lost, too, because Magnus hadn’t tried hard enough to protect his friend. 

“Which I told her,” Alec said leaning back into the couch. “And Lydia agreed, but still insisted that I write out a whole long explanation for the Clave so that no one could second-guess my decision, which I get, but...” 

“But you hate that you have to justify yourself,” Magnus finished for him. 

“Exactly,” Alec agreed. “But I shouldn’t be complaining about work right now. You must be so worried about your friend.” 

“I am,” Magnus agreed, “but honestly, it’s good to have a little distraction.” 

Alec put a hand on his knee and gave a gentle squeeze. “We already know the approximate area where Valentine is hiding, and you and Clary have gotten us a ton of intel with the portal shard. We’re going to find Valentine, and everyone that he’s taken.” 

“Thank you, Alexander,” Magnus said, putting his own hand over Alec’s. “I appreciate your confidence.” 

“But you don’t share it,” Alec guessed, flipping his hand over to thread their fingers together. 

Magnus closed his eyes, appreciating the gesture both for what it was and the reassurance that Alec wasn’t angry enough with him to avoid physical contact, at least. 

“I wish I could,” he said. “But Ragnor was our best chance of tracking Valentine. You and I both know that. And now he’s been taken, and I didn’t protect him.” 

“It’s not your job to protect him,” Alec said, “and Ragnor might have been our best chance of finding Valentine, but that doesn’t mean he was our only chance.” 

“He was a warlock and he was probably in New York when he was taken,” Magnus countered. “That makes protecting him my job. And,” he added more quietly, “he’s my friend. I knew he was in danger, but I let him convince me that he’d be safe on his own.” 

Alec didn’t say anything, simply leaned in and pulled Magnus into a hug. Magnus let himself be pulled, nuzzling his cheek against the soft fabric of Alec’s shirt. 

“We’ll find Ragnor,” Alec promised. “And Dot, and all of the other warlocks who’ve been taken. And we’ll capture Valentine and throw a goddamn party when the Clave executes him.” 

“I didn’t think you liked parties,” Magnus said, trying for some levity. By the way Alec held him tighter, he didn’t think he quite managed it. 

“I’ll make an exception.” 

Magnus took a deep breath, grateful for the support that Alec offered, and grateful also that Alec offered it without expecting Magnus to look at him while they had this conversation. Magnus didn’t like to hide from his problems, but some things were easier to say if you weren’t facing the person you had to say them to. 

“Alexander,” he said, face still firmly pressed against Alec’s shoulder. “About what we were discussing earlier—” 

“I don’t care,” Alec said firmly. “Well, I do a bit. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just a little bit flattered that I was the reason you volunteered, but I don’t actually care how we got here.” He pulled back so Magnus could see his face and all of the sincerity there. “All I care about is that we are here, together.”

Magnus managed a shaky smile. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that. I know it might not have sounded like it earlier, but I feel the same way. This isn’t how I would have chosen for us to get together, but now that we are, I can’t regret any of it.” 

“I just wish there were more I could do to help you find your friends,” Alec said. “I know how awful I would feel if something happened to Jace or Izzy.” He sighed. “I’m not good at stuff like this. Fighting demons, I can do. But I’ve never been great at this whole comfort thing.” 

“I think you’re very good at it,” Magnus told him. “There’s nothing more I could ask for than to have you with me right now. This is exactly what I need.” 

“I guess I’m pretty okay at existing,” Alec said with a small smile. 

“For which I am exceedingly glad,” Magnus told him. “Although, now that you mention it, there is one more thing you could do.” 

“Name it,” Alec said. 

Magnus bit his lip. “I don’t want you to feel obligated. It’s just, I think I’d feel better. But you can say no.” 

“Magnus,” Alec said, running his hands down Magnus’s arms, “just ask. If it’s too much, I’ll say so.” 

“Would you stay with me in my room tonight?” Magnus asked, all in a rush. “I think I’d sleep better if I weren’t alone.” 

“Of course,” Alec said, like it was nothing. “Anything you need. Besides, it’s not like sleeping next to you is any big hardship. In case you forgot,” he added with a shy smile, “that’s kind of where I was hoping I’d end up tonight to begin with.” 

“That’s a little bit different,” Magnus said, returning the smile. “I hardly think you were hoping for me to cry myself to sleep on your shoulder.” 

“No,” Alec agreed, “and I hate that you feel like crying at all, but Magnus, I’m here for you, however you need me.” 

“I wish I had the words to properly tell you how much that means to me,” Magnus told him. 

“How about you just let me get you to bed, instead?” Alec suggested. “You look as exhausted as I feel, and we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us tomorrow.” 

“I think that sounds like an excellent compromise,” Magnus told him. 

Hand in hand, they made their way to Magnus’s bedroom.

Morning came, as it always did, far too early for Alec’s liking.  This time, though, he woke more comfortable than he could ever remember being, the bed just the right amount of soft beneath him and gentle fingers carding through his hair.

“I’m leaving you for your bed,” he said, cracking open one eye. “We’ve formed an irrevocable bond, and we’re running away to elope as soon as I’m actually awake.”

“I’m pretty sure bigamy is illegal in New York,” Magnus told him.

“We’ll go to, I don’t know, Antarctica or something. Somewhere no one is going to judge us for our love.”

“Alternate proposal,” Magnus offered. “You stay here, and we can share my bed every night.”

“That’s a very compelling counteroffer,” Alec said.

“I was thinking pancakes for breakfast. Assuming you’re awake enough, of course.”

“Pancakes and coffee?” Alec asked hopefully.

Magnus sighed theatrically. “One night in my bed and already you’re getting spoiled and greedy.”

“Is that really surprising?” Alec asked. “I’d think most people would be spoiled and greedy after a night in your bed.”

“Normally, I’d be flattered by a comment like that, but given that you woke up declaring your intention to leave me for my bed, I’m not sure how I feel about it.”

Alec pulled him into a quick, sleep-sloppy kiss. “Obviously, I prefer the option where I get to have you and the bed.”

“And the pancakes and the coffee?”

“Mmm,” Alec agreed.

“All right,” Magnus said, standing. “You finish waking up, I’ll get breakfast ready, and then we can get to work. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that Biscuit has already texted me with several new ideas for using the portal shard to find her mother.”

“Any of them actually any good?” Alec asked, forcing himself to sit up.

“No,” Magnus said, “but I can’t fault her enthusiasm.”

Alec thought he probably could. Alec certainly could. But he didn’t say so. Magnus seemed much more optimistic this morning than he had the night before, when he really had cried himself to sleep on Alec’s shoulder.

Alec got dressed quickly, feeling a little strange going back to his own room for clothes. He wondered as he did so if Magnus had been serious about him spending every night in Magnus’s bed, or if it had just been part of their banter. He wasn’t opposed to the idea at all, but the past twenty-four hours had been a bit intense, and he didn’t want to assume Magnus had been serious if it was just a joke. They didn’t need that kind of misunderstanding right now, not with as much stress as Magnus was under.

Of course, it wouldn’t be any better to assume Magnus had been joking if that weren’t the truth, either. Probably, he should just ask. They’d had enough trouble not saying what they meant already.

“I hope you like apple butter on your pancakes,” Magnus said as he entered the dining room. “There’s this orchard north of Seattle that sells the best apple butter this time of year, and I couldn’t resist.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had apple butter on pancakes,” Alec admitted. “But I love it on toast, and anyway I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to ruin pancakes.”

Magnus gave him a dubious look. “I’m suddenly questioning your taste in pancakes. It is definitely possible to ruin them. Maybe I should just be in charge of pancakes from now on.”

“I’m never going to complain about my husband conjuring me pancakes,” Alec said, taking his place at the table. “This looks amazing.”

It took Alec several seconds to realize that Magnus hadn’t moved. “What?” he asked, looking up to find Magnus staring at him.

“Nothing,” Magnus said, shaking his head and taking his own seat. “It’s just, I don’t think you’ve ever called me your husband before.”

“Oh,” Alec said. “I’m sorry?” he offered.

“No, don’t be,” Magnus said quickly. “I don’t dislike it. I was just surprised.”

Alec felt a small warmth bloom in his chest at the idea that Magnus liked being called his husband. It was still new and uncertain, this thing between them, but after the confessions of the previous night, he was more confident than ever that they were on the same page. Even if they apparently really hadn’t been to begin with.

It was still a strange thing to try to wrap his head around, that Magnus had volunteered to marry him not out of some long, well-thought out plan the way Alec had, but spur of the moment. And that Magnus had volunteered not just to marry for the Accords, but to marry him, even if he’d thought at first that it wasn’t going to happen. What he’d said, though, about not being able to stand the thought of Alec marrying someone else, that still floored Alec. He’d thought of the same thing, of course, what it would be like if he’d been rejected and he’d had to watch Magnus marry another Shadowhunter. He would have hated it. It was reassuring to hear that they were and had been so close in their feelings this whole time. It made Alec wonder if, had things been different and this marriage for the Accords had never come about, they might have ended up here anyway.

“What are you smiling about?” Magnus asked.

“Nothing,” Alec said around a mouthful of pancakes. “These are really good. The apple butter is amazing.”

“We should visit the orchard sometime,” Magnus told him. “It’s beautiful this time of year, with the trees all heavy from fruit.”

“You know, you never struck me as the kind of guy who was into farming,” Alec said.

“I wouldn’t say I’m into it,” Magnus said, “but it’s interesting to see where food comes from.”

“I’m more interested in eating food than seeing where it comes from,” Alec said.

“So I’ve noticed.”

“You know,” Alec said, “for a guy who conjures all of his food and was just besmirching my pancake-making skills despite never having tasted my pancakes, you’re awfully judgmental.”

“Not judgmental,” Magnus corrected. “Amused.”

“I’m glad I entertain you,” Alec said, stuffing another bite of pancakes into his mouth and washing it down a mouthful of truly amazing coffee.

“Cat is going to meet us at the Institute after breakfast,” Magnus told him. “She recorded everything she could remember from working with Ragnor yesterday, and she’s going to see how close she can get to recreating that counter-potion while we work on finding Valentine and the missing warlocks.”

Alec noticed that he spoke about “the missing warlocks” rather than Ragnor and Dot, and wondered if that was Magnus’s way of keeping himself focused on the job rather than his missing friends. It was something Alec might have done himself in a similar situation.

“That sounds like a good plan,” Alec told him. “Can you work with Clary to see how much more information you can get out of that portal shard?”

Magnus nodded. “That was the plan.”

“I’ve got extra patrols scouting the area Iris identified as the likely location of Valentine’s hideout, but no leads there so far. I’m thinking of taking Izzy and Jace down there and checking it out myself.”

“We could go together,” Magnus suggested.

Alec wanted to argue, to explain that, no, really, he could take care of himself, especially with Jace and Izzy as backup. But then he saw the soft, vulnerable look in Magnus’s eyes, the one he was trying to hide behind his own coffee cup. The same look he’d had when he asked Alec to stay with him last night.

“Sure,” he agreed. If it made Magnus feel better to stay together, he wasn’t going to argue. Not now. “It will be good to have a warlock with us if we find Valentine’s hideout so we can have someone to portal us back when we’re ready to make our move.”

“It might be a good idea to start sending warlocks out with your patrols in that area,” Magnus suggested. “If you think your Shadowhunters would be amenable.”

“Some of them would,” Alec assured him. “And I could make sure those Shadowhunters ended up on those patrols. How many warlocks do you think would be willing to partner with Shadowhunters like that?”

“I’ll have to ask,” Magnus told him, “but for the chance of finding Valentine? I’d wager at least a few.”

Alec was mentally putting together a list of Shadowhunters he knew he could trust to work well with warlocks, along with a secondary list of Shadowhunters he might be able to trust if they got desperate, when the world erupted into motion and sound. It only took him a few seconds to catch up to what was happening—he was a trained soldier after all—but those were seconds he didn’t have, not without his weapons, not as badly outnumbered as they were.

And, oh, they were outnumbered. Alec counted half a dozen warlocks, all sporting the distinctive dark veins Iris had explained were a symptom of Valentine’s serum, and twice that many Circle members pouring through a portal into the loft. He barely had time to recognize one of those warlocks as Ragnor, to see the dawning horror on Magnus’s face, before he threw himself at the closest Circle member.

It was an abysmally short fight. Alec did manage to take down two of the Circle members, despite being unarmed while they were armed to the teeth, but he simply wasn’t a match for so many. Especially not when one of the warlocks used magic to bind his movement.

Magnus managed to hold his own for a few minutes longer, but their attackers had clearly come prepared and with a plan. All too soon, Magnus was subdued, as well, sporting a pair of magic-blocking manacles that Alec recognized from his own Institute’s equipment room.

“Take the warlock back to our base.” Alec recognized Valentine Morgenstern from pictures, though he was far older now than any of the photos in the Clave’s files. “Secure him and heal his wounds. I need him undamaged.”

“You will regret this,” Magnus promised darkly. “I won’t be a party to whatever you’re planning, and I won’t—”

“And shut him up,” Valentine told a short, blonde warlock, otherwise ignoring Magnus completely.

Magnus’s voice cut off immediately, and Alec assumed he’d been magically silenced.

“The Clave will find you,” Alec told Valentine. “They know you’re alive and they will destroy you, and the Circle.”

“Spare me your little speech of defiance,” Valentine said, rolling his eyes. “The Circle has survived longer than you’ve been alive, and it will endure for years to come. Not that you’ll be around to see it, I’m afraid.”

Valentine turned to Ragnor. “Kill this one, and leave the body,” he told him. “Make it messy.”

Alec had barely enough time for Valentine’s words to sink in, to register the abject horror on Magnus’s face, before his world exploded into pain. Then, hours or maybe seconds later, went blessedly black.

[onlythehours]

On Hillary...

It seems to me that one of the most obvious statements of the 21st Century is that Hillary Rodham Clinton is a divisive figure. But to unpick this divisiveness raises many questions, and cracks open the tides of contradictions that swell within the Hillary discourse. Nanette Burstein’s new four-part documentary Hillary (available on Sky in the UK) goes a long way to capture what makes HRC such a compelling figure, someone who seems to be at once ‘ahead of her time’ and behind the times. The documentary is structured in a way that offers glimpses of her 2016 presidential campaign woven through a chronological telling of her early years; Bill Clintons’ gubernatorial and presidential campaigns; her role as First Lady; her tenures as senator for New York and Secretary of State; and, her ultimately unsuccessful presidential campaign.

I really should say that I have long been a fan of Hillary. I’m not objective (who is?). I find her inspiring, funny, charming, endearing, and yes, likeable. I know these statements alone will raise the ire of many, and perhaps justifiably so. Hillary, like many politicians, straddles a very tricky chasm – one’s personality and persona as a living feeling person, and their role(s) in global political decisions which adversely impact many people. Part of what makes Hillary such a complicated figure to explore is the way her life is a metaphor for so much. She is so many things to so many people: feminist hero, political maverick, betrayed wife, knowing accomplice, hard-nosed career woman, corrupt career politician, dedicated public servant, and the list goes on. The point I find interesting, that I really want to capture, and that Burstein’s film settles into is the fraught relationship between Hillarys’ role in history and her role in the present.

The ways in which we can observe generational, social, and historical changes through the stages of Hillary’s life (as well as observe how Hillary herself played an instrumental role in shaping American consensus, and dissent, on many of these very topics) reveals much of what makes Hillary’s legacy so complex. Hillary is in the unique position of being both one of the many women who lived these changes, as well as having the public notoriety and fame to be a ‘historical context map’ for these changes. Her persistence to not exist in history makes her very difficult to grapple with. We are used to exceptional woman who shaped history, remaining just that – figures in history. We are less accustomed to these women continuing to live their compelling lives publicly and presently, and with little regard for their detractors. It is often easier to view problematic figures more favourably in retrospect, one wonders if the temptations to view them more harshly in present tense is also true? Maybe not, but it’s an interesting thought in Hillary’s case. Whether said outright or not, I think a reason behind much of the venom directed at Hillary is a response to the ingrained, implicit bias we (read western, specifically American) as a culture have for women who demand to be heard, and not only that, but women who have the audacity to want to lead – to desire to build, shape, and remake the very apparatus through which voices are heard and decisions are made.

As Burstein’s documentary shows, Hillary did forge paths (alongside a sea of exceptional women). However, the course of Hillary’s life pushed her to the front line in terms of exposure. I am not blaming internet culture, social media, and advances in technology and news media for the problems Hillary faces. But I do think there is something to be said for the inadequate ways in which we can incorporate the past of someone’s life into their present endeavours. Burstein captures so clearly this tricky paradigm – Hillary spent the better part of two decades navigating attacks that painted her as ruthlessly politically liberal and radically feminist (effigies of her were burnt), to then have to spend the most recent tenure of public life proving herself as liberal enough, feminist enough. As the final episode suggests in its title “Be our champion, Go away”, Hillary faces a unique problem (possibly created through such a protracted time in the public eye, and a determination to continue to rise higher): she doesn’t fit well in the current media discourse. The vastness, and notoriousness, of her history seems too unwieldy to be handled in a consumable way that allows her to not just represent the past but also play a role in the future.

Burstein’s documentary highlighted another specific problem Hillary faces – the perception of herself as false, scripted and performed. For instance, at their rallies both Bernie Sanders and Trump scream, shout, their voices course and determined. The documentary, nor Hillary make this defence, but it is clear through so many micro-aggressions and misogynistic rebukes that Hillary (like so many female leaders) is not permitted the same performance of anger and frustration as her male political counterparts. Hillary has to moderate her performance in ways others simply don’t. It seems the consequence of this male/female double standard is the view of Hillary as false. Hillary’s own team highlight her apparent ‘lack’ with public speaking. Hillary herself remarks that her relationship with the press and public was inevitably worn down as a result of years of media controversies.[1] Her awareness that she will be attacked for a raised voice or spontaneously chosen word cannot not have an impact of her public performance, and as such its reception by the audience. In a scene from the documentary one of Clintons aides describes how one of Hillary’s biggest strengths is also her biggest weakness. He uses her vast knowledge of policy as both a pro and a con. He gives the example of healthcare. During debates when Bernie and Hillary are asked about healthcare, Bernie’s response may be ‘free for all” and “universal”, whereas Hillary’s response may be a twenty-sentence-long description of her healthcare policy that she knows inside and out. A policy formed with the knowledge of how difficult it is to pass legislation. But this doesn’t read as well.

This brings us to one of Hilary’s biggest problems, her pragmaticism. This pragmaticism is also noted when a young woman attending a rally asks Hillary if elected president would she ban fracking. Hillary replies ‘No I would not do that. A president can’t just ban fracking, that’s not how our system works”. These moments typify a problem with Hillary. In the current media landscape, adoration for leaders not always based on articulated policy comes a misunderstanding of how certain legislative systems work (which is not a defence of these systems). One could argue there isn’t much difference between Bernie Sanders blanket commitments to bans, and Donald Trump’s executive orders. Yes, their intentions, and ideological views, are entirely different, but the ideal that any political leader is the fixer of all is shared, it seems, by both the right and the left.  In 2020, and indeed 2016, Hillary’s pragmaticism was never a positive.  I am trying hard not to make this a Hillary vs Bernie debate. I’m not a fan of Bernie (and that’s fine), I think his 2016 and 2020 campaigns did a great deal of damage[2], not just to Hilary’s chances of beating Trump after she secured the democratic nomination, but also to political discourse in general. But that is a debate for another time.  

I think Hillary will be a difficult watch for people who feel they are aware of her political leanings and regard her as a war-monger, bought-and-paid-for corrupt politician and Wall Street conduit.  The documentary does defend some of these charges, but it doesn’t fully engage with Clinton’s political choices, especially on foreign policy and her tenure as Secretary of State under President Obama’s administration. Hillary’s ideologies, while not uncommon in the American political landscape, are observed with a different rigour, and tone, compared to her male counterparts (Obama, Bill Clinton, Joe Biden etc). Hillary, according to media discourse and online opinion is something of a war hawk[3]. Burstein’s documentary doesn’t spar with Clinton’s policy stances. It doesn’t explore her ideological viewpoints. It is focussed on her as a woman. It wants to paint as comprehensive a picture of Hillary as a woman, and how her life fits within a series of social and political changes throughout her more than three-decade role in public life, as possible. It of course goes without saying that politicians cannot be excused of their harmful decisions based on the fact we like them alone. I accept Hillary is a problematic figure. I also accept I am no expert. I have little comprehension of the global political challenges that underpin many political and military decisions. It is worth pointing out, not as a defence of Hillary per se, but rather as added context regarding the way gender is embedded in supposedly straightforward profiles, that decisions taken by President Obama are often laid at Clinton’s feet. The men who have supposed ‘good’ public images, like Obama, face less scrutiny than Hillary.[4] This brings us to a key point visited upon in Burstein’s documentary Hillary, and a woman’s, apparent need to defend, be complicit in, and take undue responsibility for, the actions of men.    

The baggage of Bill Clinton’s affairs is never far from discourse on Hillary. Burstein’s documentary explores this and offers some critical insight into the ways in which women are exploited in media discussion in ways men are not. The requirements are different. This leaves Hillary in a difficult situation – on one hand she is at times defined by the men in her life (the media and public demanding her response and rationale), and on the other the actions of men are used against her, or as representative of her. It is a lose/lose double standard.

I suppose the root of Hillary’s issues is that she has lived life so publicly and with such a period of time that she has gone from being a scary liberal, to a right-of-centre moderate, without her views necessarily changing that much. Her pragmatic approach may not have changed, but the contexts surrounding it undoubtedly has. I’m unaware of many other western political figures who have enjoyed (although Hillary may choose a different word) such a duration of not only public notoriety, but also political influence, and power. There is such a gulf between who many see Hillary as (split into vociferous ‘for’ and ‘against’ camps) and who Hillary sees herself as. Ultimately, I think these conflicting ideas of Hilary are so firmly built that many won’t go near this documentary. I suspect it won’t persuade Hillary detractors, and it certainly won’t dissuade Hillary fans. It may, however, provide extra context for this compelling and clearly trailblazing figure. It might remind many, or indeed show for the first time, the remarkable achievements HRC made (and continues to make) throughout a lifetime of work. Even if it doesn’t provide enlightenment, it could calm the choppy waters surrounding the brand of Hillary Rodham Clinton, allowing for a brief moment an acknowledgement of her and towering achievements, and the determination and resilience that accompany them.

[1] Her ‘Tea and Cookies’ scandal a prominent example. https://qz.com/762881/the-blatantly-sexist-cookie-bake-off-that-has-haunted-hillary-clinton-for-two-decades-is-back/

[2] https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/commentisfree/2017/apr/03/the-destruction-of-hillary-clinton-sexism-sanders-and-the-millennial-feminists

https://www.wsj.com/articles/the-damage-bernies-hillary-bashing-may-do-1460995155

[3] https://foreignpolicy.com/2016/07/27/hillary-the-hawk-a-history-clinton-2016-military-intervention-libya-iraq-syria/

[4] https://www.nytimes.com/2016/04/24/magazine/how-hillary-clinton-became-a-hawk.html

[theresa-of-liechtenstein]

3, 7, 19, 20 for the writer ask thing!

sure!! here you go <3

3. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

The incredibly cheesy ending scene to the epistolary novel I’ll never write (which I described here), which is the only scene that will be written in anything other than a text message, a handwritten note, or otherwise. i will not provide any context x but yes this is a coming-of-age story. it’s supposed to be a subversion of the usual archetypal american high school story tho

Seeing that her parents and Lucas’ were most likely gearing up to converse for the rest of Time itself, Lou decided to traipse around the field for the last time.

Excusing herself, she stepped away from the group. For a fleeting second, she watched Lucas in animated conversation with Martin. [nothing to do with cabin pressure martin, may i remark; it was just a conveniently two-syllable name] There would be time, at least in the next few months or so, for them to talk about what came next.

Tonight would not be that time.

Adjusting her mortarboard cap, she walked away, heading for the bleachers. She hadn’t spent time here for the last four years. As she climbed the metal steps and chose a seat high above the field, she realized just how far she’d come since then.

The thin yellow robe was no shield for the chill setting in. Gathering it about her as she sat, she sighed and propped her feet up on the metal seat in front of her.

Her thoughts flew over the past four years. Much had remained the same. She still saw herself in the mirror every day. Her integrity had never been compromised; for the most part, she was fundamentally the same.

But in others, she was not and never would be—and those changes would be difficult to quantify.

She sighed again.

“Thinking deep thoughts, Lou?”

Lou whipped her head up and gasped. “Otto Rhee!”

He stood next to her, silhouetted against the setting sun. He looked supremely awkward in an ill-fitting shirt and tie. Lou hadn’t seen him in about a year. To her great relief, her friend, had managed to stay just the same as before, as always. At least in appearance.

“Congratulations, Lou,” he said. “You’ve made it.” As he usually did, he sat next to her without asking. Lou made room for him on the bleacher, adjusting her voluminous outfit as she did so.

They looked out over the field in companionable silence, and somehow Lou knew that Otto—Otto who could have been a brother to her, Otto who was a brother to her in all the ways that mattered—was seeing the same things on that field. Four years of elongated snapshots, a moment stretched almost too long. UN conferences and dinners in fast-food joints, honors history class. Standing in the deserted road, where the weeds grew between the cracks, and screaming at the sky. And in every microcosm [it was literally midnight, i couldn’t be bothered to use that word properly] there they were. Always the three of them. Otto and Martin and Lou, racing down empty hallways, biking to Cassidy’s around the corner, scaring each other when they stayed too late at school, the lights gone out and everyone else gone. Significant looks, texts sent across the room.

The way all three of them—Otto to Lou to Martin and back around—when they had asked what they shared in common.

Lou looked sidelong and Otto, and Otto at her.

The spell broke, and they were sitting together again—just Lou and Otto, Otto and Lou.

They stared at each other once more before simultaneously saying, “Martin!”

And indeed, Martin was running up the bleachers towards them, his black robe billowing in the breeze. Lucas pounded up the steps, not far behind.

Lou and Otto rose to meet them, and they all smiled.

7. What do you think are the characteristics of your personal writing style? Would others agree?

Detail-oriented. I have to describe everything or it just doesn’t work. “Show not tell” was always my least favorite rule (though I have always tried my best to follow it!) because I’m telling you a story, not making a movie! Oral storytelling made up a lot of my childhood, and I should hope it shows in my style.

also my dialogue feels kind of punchy sometimes, I rarely have people talk in drawn out sentences bc im the only person i know who talks that way unless it’s important they do so.

i’m not making it up, people have told me these things in some form or another (mostly in the form of getting penalized for telling rather than showing)

19. Is there something you always find yourself repeating in your writing? (favourite verb, something you describe ‘too often’, trope you can’t get enough of?)

I have a habit of using fragments far too often. And em dashes. i also can never leave out the wind. if i don’t talk about the wind at some point, consider it a forgery /s

20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

i wrote a novel about power as a little project earlier this year to distract myself >.< and it was a lot of practice at negative character development; I mean where the character ends up becoming worse at the end of the narrative instead of better, but I don’t know if there’s an actual word for that haha. it didn’t cross my mind until after I’d written it, though!

that novel was about the price of selling off your soul in order to obtain power. it was set in a political setting to push that point. the protag started off with a humble beginning. but spoiler alert, the protag gets the power she desires at the end of the novel. the clincher is that she does so at a steep cost. nobody respects her anymore; they only fear her. her best friend, sister, and younger brother distance themselves from her and she’s basically alone at the end of the novel, except for the people who have the same thirst for power as she does. the methods that she’s used to gain that power are also INCREDIBLY ethically questionable, and the only way she managed to wiggle free of those was her privilege (as my favorite character pointed out while submitting a resignation letter, which is one of the more satisfying scenes I’ve ever written)

it’s also a cautionary tale because the protag and her closest cronies check all the boxes for what people of a certain ideological bent would consider an “inclusivity win.” sure, she ends up in a really high position of power, but it’s not really a win after all because of all the heads she had to step on to get there. again, i really didn’t think hard about it until i had finished and started re-reading (and even now it sounds like the novel is much cooler than it really is: it was written over the course of three months and it shows!) and once i sent it off to some of the people who asked me to read it, it was immensely obvious how echo-chamber-y the discussion of representation and power can get. for example, one person immediately assumed i was holding the protag up as the very inclusivity win she is not (this person literally asked me, “Did you base Aileen’s leadership off of yours?” HELL to the NO! i was literally bout to SCREAM. as a person aileen is pretty decent and i could vibe with her, but as a politican aileen is morally bereft!!) but that could just be the weakness of my writing in retrospect

but i want to close with two extracts from robert bolt’s A Man for All Seasons, which I couldn’t put in the epigraph because it isn’t in the public domain and it also might be too long.

MORE: In matters of conscience, the loyal subject is more bounden to be loyal to his conscience than to any other thing.

CROMWELL: And so provide a noble motive for his frivolous self-conceit!

MORE: It is not so, Master Cromwell—very and pure necessity for respect of my own soul.

CROMWELL: Your own self, you mean!

MORE: Yes, a man’s soul is his self! ...

MORE (Looking into Rich’s face, with pain and amusement): [...] Why Richard, it profits a man nothing to give his soul for the whole world... but for Wales!